Spyware

The living room was decorated with ducks. Mallards, mostly, in many forms. There were duck-images woven into the couch upholstery amid patterns of cattails and ponds. The wallpaper boasted of more ducks. Strewn about the room and the walls were the heads and bodies of more ducks: some were plastic, some porcelain, others were real, stuffed corpses. One green-headed corpse eyed him with black beads from its perch on top of the big-screen TV.

“Have a seat,” said Ingles, setting the teacups on either side of the coffee table. He placed cork coasters under each of the cups. In between them sat a porcelain coaster holder with a proud mallard’s head on it.

Ray remained standing. “I want to know where my son is. I want to know now. If you bullshit me, I’ll shoot you.”

“Well, well,” said Ingles, leaning back on the couch with his cup. He spooned in two cubes of white sugar from a jar on the table. The jar was hand-painted with a pond scene. “This stance is a trifle more aggressive than I had hoped for. Don’t you want to know what this is all about?”

“I only want to know about my kid.”

“No, no. You want more than that,” said Ingles, calmly stirring sugar into his tea. “You want to know about Sarah, and the fate of the internet.”

Ray thought about smashing the gun into his face. He almost did it. He held back, deciding that since Ingles was in a talking mood, he should let him talk.

“You always loved to talk, Ingles, so talk.”

“That little bit about Sarah surprised you, did it?”

“No,” said Ray in a dead voice. By now, he had figured she was involved somehow. He kept pushing that thought away. Justin came first. But it was hard not be curious.

Briefly, Ingles explained his love for Ray’s wife. It had been a lingering thing for him, Ray gathered. Ray stood silently the entire time. He was relieved to learn she had not been cheating on him. At least, not since they were married. It still hurt, somehow, despite everything.

“So for that, you burned down the net and pinned it on me?” asked Ray giving a bemused snort. “You are crazier than I would have believed.”

Ingles waved his words away. “No, no. I’m destroying the net because I hate it. I pinned it on you, however, because I hate you. Some people decide to go out by taking a gun to work. This is simply my way. I think if a man is going to make his mark on this world, he might as well make an impressive one. Don’t you agree?”

“So, why do you hate the net?”

Ingles frowned and steepled his fingers. “You remember that old joke about a million monkeys and a million typewriters eventually reproducing the works of Shakespeare?”

Ray nodded. He eyed the clock and wondered if Ingles was stalling. Could this all be bullshit to waste time? Justin wasn’t getting saved with all this. He had to either call the cops in, or get something useful out of Ingles. He checked the gun again, and it was loaded. The little button showed red, meaning the safety was off.

“That’s what the net is, Ray. Don’t you see? It is our new Tower of Babel. It’s destroying the works of real value by burying them in a billion videos of cats on toilets and nude women doing mirror-shots. If there is another Shakespeare out there today, no one will ever know it. That’s why I hate the net.”

“Okay, I get it, you are an elitist dick,” Ray said, “but I’m done listening. You are going to lead me to my kid. Now.”

“Look Ray,” began Ingles in the slightly patronizing voice that he reserved for students who complained about their poor grades. He put down his tea cup. “Let’s put our cards on the table. Or rather, I will, because you don’t have any.”

Ray breathed deeply, trying to clear the rage from his mind. Ingles simply wouldn’t give up on bantering. Ray believed that if he had simply shot him, the man would still be admonishing him even now.

With a smooth motion, Ray aimed the gun at the TV set and fired. It imploded nicely. Shards of glass and plastic shot out in a flash of sparks. A few of them sprayed far enough to leave glittering chips on the coffee table.

“I always wanted to do that,” Ray said, “and now I know that this thing works.” He leveled the gun on Ingles’ chest again. “Talk,” he repeated.

Ingles didn’t look up, but Ray could tell he was rattled. It felt great to do something the bastard hadn’t calculated an hour ago.

“You are trying to convince me that you will kill me if I don’t help you,” said Ingles. His tone was no longer patronizing, it had shifted into his reasoning, philosophizing mode. “But what if I can’t help you? What if I don’t care about dying? How will that help Justin? Another murder on the list?” he shook his head and took a sip. “No, another murder makes no sense.”

“You’re logic is flawed, Ingles,” said Ray, enjoying the raised eyebrows this evoked, “I didn’t say I would kill you. There are six more bullets in this gun. They will serve to cause a great deal of pain.”