Spyware

He had decided to go by Brenda’s on the way to Ingle’s place, which was out in the country beyond the city limits to the north. He wanted to go by Brenda’s on a hunch. Sure, the police might be there, but he doubted they would stay too long. At least, he hoped they wouldn’t. What he hoped to do was beat the police and run into Ingle’s. He was fairly sure that the bastard would try to plant something to further implicate him, the way he had planted disks related to the virus at his home. Maybe, just maybe, Ingle’s would be too smart for his own good this time. Maybe he would try a little too much finesse. Ray had always believed that the simplest plans were the best plans, and he was about to try and make the theory pay.

Besides his reasoning, he just didn’t know what else to do. He had identified the virus’ author and the man pulling the strings, but still had no clue as to Justin’s whereabouts. Except for one thing: Ingle’s knew the truth.

So, logically, Ingle’s knew he would come looking for him, and that Ray couldn’t afford to wait around. All he could hope was that Ingle’s expected him to drive straight to his quaint ranchette. He would be ready for that. But possibly, he wouldn’t be ready for a man on foot to visit Brenda’s. Ray’s only plan was to make fast, simple, unexpected moves from here on in.

He stopped at Raven Court. He looked down toward Brenda’s place. He saw no evidence of cops or Ingles. A few cars and people were about, mostly kids. It was Saturday, which meant that several children were out riding their bikes around in an endless circle at the end of the court. The rest were probably watching morning cartoons while their parents filled dishwashers and fired-up lawnmowers. It hurt him to see such a normal, painless neighborhood. It made him homesick.

Deciding not to stand there staring like a homeless drifter for too long, he walked across the court, but didn’t enter it. He went instead to the park at the end of Starling Lane. He crossed a line of chained cement posts and approached Brenda’s place from the park side. He had to count chimneys to make sure he had the right house.

Throwing caution to the wind, he vaulted the redwood fence. It hurt more than he thought it would. Ten years ago he would have sailed over it, but now, with his woozy head, it was all he could do to fall in a panting heap on the far side. His stomach went into the spin cycle on him, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything in more than twelve hours. He struggled up and checked the painful lump in his pocket. The gun was still there, and had yet to blow his nuts off by accident, a thought that now haunted him as he headed for the sliding glass door.

His mind felt as glassy as the door. Why was it that every California home built in the last century had at least one sliding glass door in the back? He wondered about it vaguely.

The slider was locked and had a broomstick in the track. Brenda had been security-conscious. A shitload of good it had done her last night, he thought.

He walked around the yard, checking the windows. He stopped when he got to the garage side door that led into the backyard. It was hanging open. Gouged wood showed where it had been forced open.

… 32 Hours and Counting…

There was someone inside the garage. Ray heard something go over, something big, like a box full of books, maybe. There was a whump, then a luffing, skittering sound. A muttered curse followed.

Taking a deep breath, Ray closed his eyes to the count of five, then pulled Ingles’ pistol out of his pocket. He half-hoped he would be forced to shoot the bastard, although he doubted that it would help his case any.

He stepped around the corner like a cop in any good crime movie. He stood with both hands on the gun, his legs spread apart. He had no more training with a gun than what he recalled from childhood, plinking endlessly at birds with his daisy. After the initial rush of victory, he had felt bad the few times he had actually hit one. He couldn’t help wondering at that moment how it would feel to kill a man.

The sight that greeted him was unexpected. Instead of cool, calm Ingles, his cigarette thrusting from his mouth, he saw Nog. Or rather, he saw Nog’s hindquarters. The man was doubled over, digging through boxes in the garage. There was an air of frantic energy about him that Ray had never seen before. He wore a striped tee-shirt, yellow rubber kitchen-gloves and a vast blue stretch of cloth that served him as shorts.

Brenda had always been something of a packrat. The garage, like much of her house, was stuffed with junk. Books, disks, dolls, paint cans, tools, broken furniture, garden implements and towering stacks of magazines were strewn about in wild profusion. Nog went through the disks more carefully, than the rest, but still, everything he touched was soon tossed aside as if in disgust.