|
Thanks to Angelfire, for offering the webspace, and being cool about it. |
Manufacturing RealityHeaven's_Credit_ServicesHouse Of JackalsUndertimeThe Trouble with CharlieQuasi-Literary Stories Store FrontDownload: Story GeneratorGuest Book |
The Trouble with CharlieChapter 1I strolled out of the store and into the parking lot of Lenny’s Television and appliance holding my purchase of four batteries. I looked out at the crowded lot until I spotted my car parked all the way in the back where I left it. It would be Christmas in four weeks and everyone in Phoenix seemed to be shopping. Halfway down one lane I noticed a shopping cart of computer components sitting behind a Lexus. It contained several boxes including a CPU and monitor. A woman stood hunched over the back seat. An old man crouched on the other side of the car instructing her on how to arrange their new Epson printer. “No, don’t put it over there,” the old man growled. “I told you to clean out the trunk. Do you want to lug this around? Be my guest,” the woman retorted. I stopped behind the car, pondering what to do. I looked at the cart of boxes beside me, especially the receipt taped to the top of the monitor. The old man and woman continued snarling at one another, paying no attention to me. So I plucked the receipt like a child might grab a cookie from the kitchen counter. By that afternoon, I too loaded boxes of computer equipment in the back of my Toyota, one identical to the system purchased by the old man and woman, complete with my slightly used sales receipt. I had never owned anything new, and shuddered with delight at the mere sight of shiny unopened package in the middle of my apartment. After looking at them for a while, I opened the boxes, propping the monitor and case on a wooden spool. I plugged them in and watched magical numbers countdown on the screen. It booted into Windows, and afterward I was too scared to touch the keyboard. I sat like a cat waiting for a mouse to stick its head through a crack. After a tense hour I gathered the courage to poke at the keys. My fear faded. Computers seemed as easy for me to understand as a bird grasping flight. As with math and science, I had a knack, like another guy might be good at art, or someone else might be good at writing. Over a period of a couple years I absorbed an amazing amount of information. I had no hope of college, but that didn’t mean I was stupid. No one in my life listened to me, so machines seemed as natural a fit as any. My mother died of AIDS on my twentieth birthday, and when I think about it, I suppose that if I had acted differently, she might still be alive. But I didn’t want to be around her, especially because she talked of how I had killed my little sister years ago. She died on the street while I slept in my warm apartment on McDowell Road. The computer fit as a family member, someone who would pay attention to what I said. Granted, the it wasn’t exactly alive, but it gave me a feeling of adequacy. Computers filled my void better than anything else in life. My infatuation grew in the same way fondness between two people might grow. Eventually it turned into something more than simple friendship. You might have even called it love. ### I walked down the halls of Ameri-Con looking much like the rest of the employees. I suppose an outsider wouldn’t have been able to distinguish me from the regular office personnel, unless they followed me around for a few minutes. My eyes darted compulsively, watching for unsecured doors or desks, sticky notes attached to CRT’s, pieces of scrap paper hanging off cases, small instances of security breaches that might lead me to discover a password or user name. Secretaries, assistants, supervisors and data entry personnel raised heads apprehensively. I represented the enemy. They didn’t just dislike me, they loathed my presence more than any other entity or person in the company. At one time or another, cracks always appeared in the wall of secret projects. I patched cracks for a living. Ameri-Con also had a regular security department operated by a man named Johnny Johnson, JJ. Of all the people in the firm who hated me, and that included practically everyone, JJ’s loathing surpassed them all. In a company of twenty thousand, five people reported to Raymond Tucker, CEO and President of Ameri-Con: Ronald Farnham, Senior VP Marketing, Dick Southerland, Senior VP Finance, Hal Unger, VP Operations, Johnny Johnson, Director of Security, and myself. As for JJ, he would dig a hole in the nice green park next to the underground parking garage and bury me alive if he had his choice. I made that observation not only because of the way he spoke to me, but because he told about his fantasy each week when I showed up to meet with Mr. Tucker. One Monday he stood in front of Tucker’s receptionist’s office door, waiting for the regular staff meeting. I didn’t attend those engagements. I met with Tucker separately every Thursday to determine if there would be any casualties for the week, which there often were. Today, however, I only needed supplies. I wanted a new hard drive for one of my three lab computers, and Claire Porter,Tucker’s secretary always ordered my parts. It was Tucker’s rule. He wanted to know what I purchased. JJ leaned against the wall like a rake propped on a barn wall. He stroked his chin with long fingers while holding his elbow with his other hand. He spotted me out of the corner of his eye and his head wobbled in disapproval. I smiled. “Hello there, JJ.” He looked down at me accusingly. “Fired anyone this week?” “I don’t fire them, they fire themselves,” I announced. “If they follow procedure, they won’t have any trouble, and they won’t get fired.” Betty, the woman in question, had worked at Ameri-Con for eighteen years. “Don’t you feel any remorse? Don’t you feel anything at all?” JJ prodded. My smile continued as my head shook. “I haven’t lost any sleep. It’s not my policy. Don’t look at me. I’m just the cop. I can’t help it if the company decides to shoot speeders.” Again his head wagged. But I didn’t want to sound negative about the company, especially concerning Tucker’s policies. I knew who buttered my bread, and I knew what would happen if Tucker ever fell from grace with the board. A sound came from behind the door. JJ straightened out his long purple tie and tugged on the edges of his jacket. Then he turned to me. “Someday, Sanders, I’m going to bury you in that park out back. And if every swinging dick in this place is a witness, at least I don’t have to worry about going to jail. Not one son-of-a-bitch will say a word about it.” The door to Tucker’s office suites opened. Claire Porter, a thirty-something, plain faced, well dressed brunette shot a stern glance. She wore the look of disapproval, focused mainly at JJ, as if she heard his verbal abuse. “Good morning, gentlemen.” “Morning,” I replied. JJ offered a nod. Claire returned her glance to me. “Mr. Tucker wants to speak with you. I just called your office.” I cleared my throat. “Actually, I was just passing through and saw JJ.” I pulled a thumb in his direction. “Mr. Tucker wants to talk with you right away,” Claire repeated. “I’ll let him know you’re available.” JJ glared at me. “I’ve been waiting thirty minutes, and he wants to talk with you just like that. That’s bullshit.” I shrugged. “I’ll tell him you disapprove.” “Don’t do me any favors,” JJ added, his tone rising to a crescendo. I saw Claire’s back through the suites and a second doorway leading to Tucker’s office. He was talking to her, and her head nodded compliantly. She always acted stodgy and standoffish around most people, but I liked her anyway. Her plain face blended nicely with unglamorous hair tied in a tight black self contained braid. A long narrow nose came to a point as if a little sharpening might bring out the pencil lead. She didn’t have much of a body. It appeared flat, but her clothing accentuated seriousness, not breasts. She stood an inch over my own short stature of five-three. I enjoyed her much more than I would an alluring woman with big tits and no brain, as if I might have somehow attracted someone like that in the first place. She turned toward me, crooking her finger. I gave JJ one last smirk and followed her instructions. Raymond Tucker resided as the most prominent member of Ameri-Con Inc., a phenomenally successful engineering firm dedicated to any person or company with resources to pay hefty fees. Seven-hundred electrical, mechanical and civil engineers labored around the world to keep Ameri-Con Inc. at the absolute pinpoint of the technological cutting edge. I entered his office, stopping only to remove my shoes. Raymond Tucker kept a perfectly polished room, complete with brilliant cherry wood paneling, a comprehensive library across one wall and a conference table with ten leather chairs, offset by plush white carpeting. Anyone entering the chamber took off their shoes, even distinguished visitors and customers, even Tucker himself. I stared at him across his black maple desk. A backdrop of cloudy sky and of Phoenix Arizona dwindled ant-like from the thirtieth, and top floor of the building. I moved forward. Tucker’s large frame shifted fluently as he leaned forward to shake my hand. He smiled, a golden eyetooth glinted off the bankers lamp on his desk. He could have had a porcelain tooth, or uranium if he wanted, but gold suited him perfectly, matching his glamorous jacket, tie and impeccable silk shirt. I grasped his large hand and shook it firmly. “Hi, Raymond.” Tucker smiled, just as he always did. His balding head donned tufts of unsettled grayish hair, as if he’d been running his hands through it. An unusual situation. This authoritative leader seldom let his personal appearance dwindle. Raymond Tucker took control, regardless of the facts. Everyone kissed his butt, telling him all the tidbits of information exactly the way they believed he wanted to hear them. Lies or the truth never stopped Raymond Tucker from disposing of those who he believed didn’t measure up, for whatever reason. But like any good politician, he could escort a friend off the lot and be perfectly cheerful the next minute. “How can I help you, Ray?” I asked. He shook his head. “I am very distressed.” “Why, sir?” He sat down in the gargantuan leather chair behind him. “Have a seat, Charlie. We need to talk.” “What’s wrong?” I said, letting my body drop into a barrel-backed chair behind me. “Charlie, I know what I’ve told you about security. I realize that this firm, this company, has to remain undaunted by corporate espionage. We have secrets, plans and proposals that a million people would kill for. And I know that I’ve been damn hard-nose about people not following policy. Security violations must be met with unbending discipline. But, I have a problem.” I shook my head and lifted my shoulders, preparing for what I knew might happen. He wanted to talk about Betty. “What is it, Ray?” I asked. “Not everyone believes this story.” “About the virus? It’s not a story.” He nodded. “They’re saying she might have not been responsible.” I let out an indignant breath. “What does that mean?” “There’s talk, and plenty of it.” “What talk?” “Talk that you might have set her up.” “That’s ridiculous.” He patted the air with his hand. “I know, but it’s annoying. She claims she never placed a disk in her computer, and she-” I interrupted. “I’ve told you about the floppy drives. They should be removed. If there wasn’t a floppy drive, Betty wouldn’t be in trouble. Half our problems would disappear.” He nodded. “The policies are mine, I admit,” Tucker said, raising his voice. Indeed, the policy was his, just like the one that demanded immediate termination of any employee jeopardizing the firm’s computer network. And Betty’s computer had come up with a computer virus rendering the network useless. The system’s server backed up everyone’s PC on the network daily, otherwise, Ameri-Con might have lost over a billion dollars in research data. Thank God the backups were not infected. As it stood, the incident cost three days without the network. Anyone in research knew that three days without a computer was three days lost completely. Raymond shook his head. “She says she didn’t put a disk in the computer. She’s never lied.” “She’s never been caught in a lie. All computer users lie.” “You say they all lie,” Raymond argued. “I say that our policies and my diligence keep good employees good, and bad employees out of our company.” None of the firm’s 20,000 employees would have dreamed of speaking with Raymond Tucker as I just had. Tucker believed in absolute autocratic power, and although his smiling demeanor and white hair often inspired comparisons with Santa Claus, the smile was surface deep. It acted like a mask under which someone else lurked. Anybody ending up on the wrong side of Tucker quickly discovered this fact, usually to their dismay. But I rated different somehow. The reason for the privilege alluded me, although I did have a theory. I represented the bad-boy, and I could see that Tucker, in spite of his smiles, had a bit of bad-boy in him, too. My career with Ameri-Con began most dramatically. The FBI had delivered me to Raymond Tucker because I had broken into Ameri-Con’s computer system two years ago. This was no small feat. The server in which I snooped contained military as well as civilian secrets. Accidentally, the system had traced my intrusion because the Pentagon decided to have an audit at the exact time. I left a trail, one too hot to lose. Two weeks after the act, the FBI raided my apartment and confiscated ten computers, an ISDN modem, four external hard drives, four CD burners, six monitors, boxes of printouts, disks and miscellaneous pieces of hardware, as well as all my software. No one had ever breached Ameri-Con’s network, let alone dodged prosecution. When arrested, I had visions of spending years on jail. Instead, I found myself in a plea bargain. Raymond Tucker himself rescued me from prison for one simple reason: He wanted to know how I did it, broke into his castle and jeopardized his dreams. And more importantly, he had to know that no one would ever be able to do it again. Only I provided that comfort. Yancy, a female conservative judge offered five years probation on one condition: I would work under Raymond Tucker’s custody. He would be directly responsible for my behavior, and I would work for Ameri-Con as a consultant. [MH6] They set me up with a temp agency and a week later I began my career. Of course the computer personnel hated my guts. No one took me seriously. Finally, after the IS people failed to take an interest in my abilities, Tucker found a way to get everyone motivated. He placed me in a unique position. My simple task involved two responsibilities: Continue to try anything possible to breach security, and find all instances of employee shortcomings and report them directly to Tucker. This infuriated everyone, especially the VP’s and famed security personnel. There were several of these people with Ph.D. status. For me to acquire such power drove them wild with distress. Over the next twelve months I found inventive ways to get past every security barrier imaginable. This pissed off security and IS. They hated me worse than each other. Only Tucker stood between me and jail. But the barrier might as well have been a wall of solid granite. Tucker rules the firm like Stalin ruled the Soviets. Tucker grimaced at me from across the desk. “I’ve known Betty since she started. I haven’t minded firing any of the others. They deserved what I gave them. But she’s different.” I tilted my head in resignation. “No one say’s you have to fire her, certainly not me. You’re the boss.” “I’m asking you if there was any other way the virus might have gotten in her machine. And are you sure that’s where it came from? Are you certain?” I paused for effect. “It was on the original backup from her hard drive. It wasn’t on anyone else’s backup files for the same time period. It’s damn unlikely it came from anywhere else. But as to what happens to her, that’s strictly up to you.” “You know, Charlie.” Tucker cleared his throat. “More than a few people have made accusations about you.” “It doesn’t surprise you, does it, sir?” He grinned. “I’ve always depended on you to be honest with me, Charlie. We know all about your past, and I know what you’re capable of, and…” “You were just wondering if I might have set her up.” He nodded, looking sternly. “I promise you, if you level with me now I can find a way to absolve you.” I shook my head. “No chance in hell. I wouldn’t even consider it.” In truth, if I had been foolish enough set her up, I would have denied it to my grave. I knew that if I ever betrayed Raymond Tucker, I would end up in prison, my probation agreement broken. And for Tucker, promises he made while flushing out a rat wouldn’t count. Tucker smiled. “You said it was, ‘Damned unlikely,’ it happened. I like the way you put that. I like the term, ‘Damned unlikely.’ It’s perfect. If it’s ‘damned unlikely’ that Betty didn’t put an infected disk in her machine, then that means its damned possible that it came from somewhere else.” He wanted to keep her. Why should I argue? “That’s a fine way to put it,” I agreed. “I’ll tell Claire to give Betty a call and get her reinstated tomorrow.” I smiled. “I hated to see Betty like that too.” “Okay then, it’s settled.” I clutched the wooden arms of the chair and pulled myself up. Light shined down into the room, the result of a break in the unusually cloudy sky. My eyes met the 21” flat LCD computer monitor. It flashed colored fishes swimming around sublimely. Below the monitor, inside a cabinet resided my greatest challenge. I stared for a moment, in awe of what it represented. No one from Ameri-Con had ever touched it. I couldn’t see it physically. I imagined it mentally. I contemplated its secrets. What did Tucker do in his spare time? Did he watch the news? Maybe. Did he have secret bank accounts in the Bahamas? Did he look at porn? Did he play solitaire? On the corner of Tucker’s desk sat a smaller flat LCD monitor, one that was connected to a computer on the network, one that I had infiltrated long ago without ever saying a word. But the computer behind him was different from the one in front. I had never found a way to get into that machine. He never left it unattended, nor did he leave his office unlocked. In fact, he always made himself available when the cleaning crew worked. And he had a personalized security system installed so no one could enter without his knowledge. He simply didn’t want anyone fiddling with his toy. As I daydreamed, Raymond Tucker grimaced. “Is there anything wrong?” he asked, looking at the LCD. “No, not at all. Just admiring your screensaver.” A stupid reply. Every other computer in the world had fish swimming around. “Hmmm.” “Actually, it looks quite nice on that screen.” He stood up from the leather chair. “Yeah, I guess. Well, that’s all I wanted.” I nodded, then turned and walked from the room, stopping briefly to put on my shoes. But as I pushed my feet into the trappings, my mind wondered back to the challenge. No matter what happened, how many times I got arrested, how much trouble I got in, I knew that hacking into computers would be a lifelong fixation. Being an electronic Peeping Tom didn’t bother me, it inspired me. I couldn’t leave stones unturned. Something had to be on that system. Tucker wouldn’t be so protective unless he had reasons. I knew right then what I had to do, risk or no risk. Claire smiled as I passed her desk. It was then that I spotted her own infraction. I frowned, leaning over and removing a taped piece of paper. “What’s this?” “I have the most terrible time remembering my passwords when I have to change them.” Don’t tape them where people can see. It’s a terminable offence you know, per Mr. Tucker.” I handed the wrinkled paper back to her awaiting fingers. “Are you going to report me?” she asked, her grin widening. I shook my head. “Nah. But don’t leave stuff like that lying around. It’ll get you in trouble. I’m serious. People have been fired.” Her smile disappeared. “A little intense this morning, aren’t we,” she replied. JJ stood in the doorway. “Don’t trust him, Claire. He’d cut his own mother’s throat. He’ll sure as hell cut yours.” Chapter 2My opportunity came at the company Christmas party. I really hadn’t planned on attending, but I got stuck on a special project in my lab that Friday and by the time I finished, it was very late. I walked past Tucker’s office on the way out. I saw Claire’s open door and looked inside. Claire looked special that night. Her sheer black dress left the white skin of her back exposed. I leaned against the door jam. “Hello, Claire.” She jumped. “Oh, hi. Jeez, I didn’t see you.” I meandered inside. “If you’re here for the party, you’re kind of early aren’t you?” She gave me a yeah-so-I’m-a-slave, kind of smile. “Lots of preparation. You’re here early too.” “Oh, I’m not going to the party. I was working late.” “You’re already here. You might as well come,” she said. “Maybe,” I hedged, fumbling with some papers on her desk as if helping to arrange them. She looked at her watch then reached into the top drawer of her desk and grabbed a key. “I think you should come. It’s only an hour away.” “I guess I could keep busy for an hour.” I meandered around, trying not to be a nuisance. I liked talking with Claire, and I imagined she might even like talking to me. Then I spotted an object that would change my entire future. I looked at a box of software leaning against her inbox stack. Claire walked to Tucker’s office door, punched in some numbers on a security panel and then opened his door with the key from her desk. A moment later she walked out with rolled up posters. She re-locked the door and stood looking at me. “You should have a date, a single guy like you.” I shrugged, thinking about how foolish it was to keep a key in a desk drawer. “Don’t feel bad. I don’t have one either.” “I’m surprised,” I replied, positioning myself to pick up the software. It was funny. I could feel my mind reeling in some kind of plan, although I hadn’t thought of it yet. I squinted, trying to visualize the idea. “What’s this?” I said, picking up the box. “Nothing. Junk for Mr. Tucker’s PC.” “Not junk, it’s a program. Guardian. Keeps your cache cleaned out, gets rid of cookies, etc.” I continued reading the typical testimonials printed inside the front flap of every piece of software. “Junk,” Claire said, walking around me. In a flash the idea broke through. Like finding a diamond ring in the corner of a couch, I suddenly knew my fortune. I wouldn’t have another chance like this one. I flipped the box around, letting Claire know of my growing interest. “I’ve never seen this program.” She put the key back in her drawer. “Yeah, right,” she exclaimed. “I don’t think there’s a thing about computers you haven’t seen.” “Oh, I mean I’ve seen it, but not really seen it.” Claire walked to the door. “Enough of work already. Let’s go.” She crooked her finger as she always did. “I’ve got a few minutes. Let me read up on this.” She shook her head. “No one’s allowed in here. Not even you.” “I could install it for him. I got time.” She wagged her head. “You would have every cop in Phoenix bearing down on you in two minutes. I can’t get in his office.” I shrugged. “Well, let me look at it then.” I remained stubbornly in place next to her desk. She walked up to me. I smelled her perfume and felt a fleeting pang of desire. “Let’s go,” she said, playfully pulling my arm. “Let me borrow this until the Christmas party starts. I’ll put it in your mailbox when I’m done.” She shut her eyes as her head shook. “You are hopeless, absolutely hopeless. Can’t you spend time on something besides work?” I smiled. “Sure, but this isn’t work. This is fun.” She pulled me out the door, but never tried to take the box of software. My hands gripped it tightly. Shifting the posters in her arms, Claire pulled the office door shut and locked it. “If you lose that program, Mr. Tucker will not be happy. And guess who he’ll be unhappy with? Me, not you. So be careful.” “I won’t lose it. Do I look like an idiot?” We stood sheepishly in the hall for a moment staring at one another. Claire broke the silence. “I still have things to do. In fact, I have tons of stuff to do. The caterers aren’t even setup yet.” “I’ll be back when the party starts,” I said smiling. I turned and walked down the hall. I turned quickly into my office/lab where three computers sat, green lights blinking. This would be a feat of daring and strategy. I felt the adrenaline shoot through my veins. If I were caught, it would be a slaughter. Shunned and jobless, my probation officer, Arnie Alverez would inform the judge. I would be a fugitive or prisoner in minutes. But if all went as planned, I would have a look into the private life of Raymond Tucker, a place no one dared travel. I envisioned probing the depths of his most personal interests. It had been years since I had hacked like that. I could feel the addiction in my heart and soul, as a heroine addict feels the surge of poison in his veins. After flipping on the lights, I stood beside a waist high counter running the length of my lab. I opened the package carefully, minimizing evidence of tampering. Generally, people don’t notice whether packages are opened unless they’re bent or mutilated. I pulled out a manual and the plastic case of a CD-ROM which I immediately turned end over end. I popped the CD in my desk computer and began examining the files. Like most CDs it contained an executable file that would automatically run when the CD was placed in a drive. I had that feature turned off on my machine, but Tucker would undoubtedly have his computer set to default. When he placed the CD-Disk in his computer it would look at the command designated by the autorun file and install the program. All I had to do was tap into this process. I smiled. It would be easy. Anyone can tell a writeable CD from a mass manufactured CD by simply looking closely. But most people don’t look very close. While I copied the files from the original CD to a temporary folder on my computer, a job taking ten minutes, I worked on inserting a wee bit of computer code into a new autorun file to replace the original when I burned in a new CD. Within a few minutes I generated commands that would tell Tucker’s computer to first install a Trojan Horse, a computer program that would hide on the CD, and then install the purchased program. With the Trojan Horse installed, Tucker’s computer would blindly do my bidding. Tucker would never know the difference. But I would know. I would be able to access his machine from my apartment using another software program. Of course it wouldn’t be as good as sitting in front of his computer. It would be slow. I would have to wait for packets of data to transfer via the Internet, but it would still be a way to get a glimpse into someone else’s world. And this thrilled me. After copying the files, I pulled the original CD from my computer and laid it on the glass of my HP scanner. I closed the lid and watched light trickled past the edges of the plastic cover. Within a minute I looked at a high resolution copy of the colorful circular emblem of the original CD. I printed the picture onto a circular Memorex label that I would attach later--a perfect duplicate. Finally I coped the files from the temporary directory on my hard drive to a new writeable CD, along with my revised autorun file and the corresponding data instructions telling my program how to act. I pulled the now completed counterfeit CD from my computer and held it up using the ends of my fingers. I examined the surface in the soft light of my office. The gold color twinkled, unlike the original silver. Tucker wouldn’t notice. I could see the etching lines where the read/write heads had recorded the new data. I didn’t think he would know. “This’ll do just fine,” I said, assuring myself. Nestled at the end of my workbench sat a single computer, wires hanging from the back, a monitor sitting beside it and a keyboard leaning alongside the case with a mouse cord wrapped around it. This computer had a name. I called it Ducky, after lame duck or dead duck or maybe dumb duck. Ducky acted as my test computer. Anytime I wanted to test a theory or try and break into our computer network I used Ducky. I also used it to test hacker programs, Trojan Horses, contaminated files, active-x files and even macro viruses. Ducky was my guinea pig, having its own network and dial-out connections. It wasn’t directly connected to the rest of the system. “Okay, Ducky, let’s take this software for a drive.” I put the CD in the CD-ROM drive and shut the door. An installation icon popped onto the screen. I watched as a progress bar steadily filled an empty rectangle in deep blue. The text in the box read: Writing pre-installation files to your drive. This was a was simple diversion tactic, a piece of my own code keeping the casual observer from understanding all that was going on under the surface. A moment later the real progress bar emerged onto the screen. A little odd, but I knew that 999 out of 1000 people would not take a second glance. As far as I knew, Tucker’s machine did not have a direct connect to the company’s LAN. It was possible that I hadn’t been told, but unlikely. The software that would be unwittingly installed consisted as a hybrid code, written in Visual Basic by myself and friends over a period of years. It would take a course of action depending on what it found in Tucker’s machine. It would first try for a LAN connection, searching for an active IP address, then for a dialup connection. If no connection could be found, it could dial a predetermined phone number and do a direct connect to my apartment. But this seemed excessively risky so I did not activate that portion of the program. If Tucker’s computer had access through the LAN, I would be home-free. I could network with his computer at high speed and he would not know the better. I could remain connected even if he was working on the computer himself. My code was short and sweet, compact and utilitarian. It took few resources and didn’t slow things down much. If my code could connect to the Internet, I would have my computer at the apartment receive the beacon and send a reply ping for confirmation. If Tucker’s computer had no Internet connection, highly unlikely since the program he wanted to originally install was an Internet cleanup program, then I wouldn’t be able to connect to his machine. After one week my code would uninstall itself unless it received a confirmation from my home computer. In that case, Tucker would not know that electronic snooping had ever taken place. I walked through the double doors leading into the large conference room where the Christmas party now raged. People were standing around, drinks in their hands, chatting. Everyone seemed cheerful, smiling, nibbling on crackers and rolled up turkey or ham. There were mostly adults. It wasn’t a family type of get together, considering all the booze and loose talk, but not everyone could get sitters. So there were some children too. They were segregated in one corner, eight kids of various sizes ranging from age twelve to fifteen, ignored while their parents jockeyed for conversation. The kids played computer games setup on extra terminals and ate cake and drank eggnog. I walked into the crowd. Faces glanced irritably in my direction. My smile brought only sneers. They weren’t interested in being friendly. I had bullied them and kissed up to the boss. They despised me. With a martini glass in my hand, I sat next to the window overlooking twinkling lights below me, the city of Phoenix in all its urban glory buzzing like angry fireflies. I sipped. The guests talked. My mind wondered. “Well it’s about time!” I turned. Beside me stood Claire. She held champagne in her hand. “Nice party,” I replied. “Yeah, sure,” she said bitterly. Then she did something quite unexpected. She sat next to me and leaned up close, as if she were my date. I could tell she had consumed a bit too much alcohol. “You did a good job on the party. Are you done for the night? Or is he going to make you clean up too?” She shrugged. “Nah, I’m done. The caterers will do the rest.” We sat silently for a minute, then she leaned closer. “They hate me as much as they hate you,” she consoled. “What do you mean?” But I knew perfectly well what she meant. “Tucker’s such a great guy, just ask anyone. And why not. He has people like me to do the dirty work. I get to fire them.” “But it isn’t you,” I interjected. “It’s the company, and it’s just business. Why do people have to take things so personally?” She took a drink and nodded. A group of employees began to migrate toward the other end of the room. Everyone lifted their glasses, laughing and clapping. The children raised their heads like weary deer. Bursting into the crowd came Santa Claus, AKA the perfect person to play the part, Raymond William Tucker. He carried a bulky white sack behind his back, and after repeating, “Ho, ho, ho,” several times, he lowered it to the floor. I heard Claire laugh and then she turned to me. “Did you know Mr. Tucker had a daughter?” I wagged my head, keeping an eye on the happy children. “Actually, it was a stepdaughter, but she was like his own. He loved her more than anything in the world. The girl’s mother died. Tucker adopted her. But then the most terrible thing happened.” I felt uneasiness like a cold wind settle over me. “Okay, what?” “The daughter died too. It was sad. Most people change for the worse after a child dies, but not Raymond. He fell into despair for a while, but look at him. See how the children flock to him. He’s like a father to them.” “He’s dressed like Santa Clause. All kids like Santa.” The girl of about twelve unwrapped a colorful book-bag. I watched as she thanked Santa and then sprinted in our direction. She stopped in front of us and smiled blissfully at Claire. “Look, mama. It’s just what I needed. Mine got torn last week.” She held the pink flowered bag before us like a prize. “Very nice,” Claire said. “Isn’t that amazing, mama? Just what I needed.” “Amazing, Caroline. Just amazing.” Claire replied. Chapter 3Three months passed. I assumed something had gone wrong with my program. Maybe I mistyped some data, maybe the connection wasn’t able to traverse a server, maybe the code failed, or a virus protection program intercepted the transmission and shut me down. Either way, by March my plans to invade Raymond Tucker’s machine eroded to a faint wish. After the Christmas party, Claire and I became closer. She confided in me about personal issues, problems with her daughter, trouble with bills and when she felt depressed. She explained how her ex-husband abandoned her and her eleven year old daughter, Caroline. The weather turned warmer, the temperature close to ninety when Claire and I finally decided to graduate to a social event more significant than lunch. On a Wednesday night March we finally went to see a movie together. We would have gone on a weekend day, except Claire was taking Caroline for a school debate in Tucson and they were leaving Friday. She lived in a condo in North Phoenix, up around Peoria. I’ve never had terrific skills when handling women, so I left my apartment to pick her up at six, almost an hour early. It was Wednesday night, the only night Claire had available. When I arrived I sat in my car, staring at her door. Finally I rolled down the window, letting a faint breeze blow both cool and warm air through my 1983 Toyota pickup. It seemed a salute to my life, both soothing and yet somehow harsh. A face peeked through the condo’s door shades. Caroline. I didn’t mind snooping inside computer systems, but in real life I didn’t want to appear the Peeping Tom, so I thought it would be better to do something other than stare. I pushed open my truck door and walked to a pale blue wooden porch, Cape Cod style. The door opened and young bright eyes met my gaze. Caroline’s innocence melted my apprehension. I smiled as she bubbled with enthusiasm. Her dark hair danced at shoulder length and gray eyes searched my soul. “Hi,” she said, pulling the door wide. “Mom’s upstairs. She’s getting ready.” I heard Claire’s voice from around the corner. “Who is it? I don’t want any of your friends over.” The words sounded muffled. “It’s not one of my friends, Mom. It’s yours.” Then she giggled. “Your boyfriend.” I smiled, not knowing what to say to an almost teenage girl. I probed my mind for something intelligent. Suddenly I felt like an intruder, observing a private and delicate family. Claire could have had other men, but she chose me. She made a good living, she had a family and she was strong. Yet she had opted to spend time with me. It made me both self-conscience and satisfied. I watched her girlish energy as she strolled through the kitchen oblivious to my eye. “What grade are you in?” “Eighth grade,” she chirped. “I’m supposed to be in seventh, but I skipped a grade.” Claire’s voice interrupted. “Don’t tell me Charlie’s here already.” Caroline headed for the stairs, pausing as she passed the corner wall. Her eyes fluttered. “You’d better wait here. Mom walks around naked half the time.” I didn’t move, imagining what Claire must look like under her gray business suit. My date emerged moments later, her hands coaxing a pair of earrings to her lobes. “Hello, I didn’t expect you so early.” “I didn’t mean to- I mean, sorry.” I fiddled with my watch, as if it caused the offending mistake. “I think it’s fast.” Claire pushed back her hair and walked to the kitchen where she stood next to a pair of black shoes left on the floor. “I take it Caroline and you are getting along.” Her daughter followed close behind. I nodded. “She’s quite a hostess. I remember her from the Christmas party.” “Caroline’s in the eighth grade. She’s an honor student. She was Student of the Month last month.” Caroline blushed. “My television show’s almost on.” Her voice trailed off as she spun toward the family room. Claire leaned forward. “No friends over. In bed by ten thirty, it’s a school night.” “Okay, Mom,” came the reply. I cleared my throat. “Since I’m so early, I thought maybe we could get something to eat.” “Sounds okay to me, Mom,” Claire said, slipping on a pair of black pumps near the stairs. I apologized for the state of my vehicle, although I suppose I might have made a better impression by cleaning it. We stopped at a fast food Japanese restaurant and then saw an innocuous movie at one of the local malls. Halfway into the love scene the most incredible incident occurred. At ten my pager began buzzing. I pulled it off and flicked on the light. My hands started to shake. It read: 989898989. I had programmed the computer at my apartment to page me the instant it received a beacon call from Raymond Tucker’s computer. “Who is it?” Claire asked. In shock, I sat silent, then began stuttering. “Someone, just someone I know.” I replied. “Who is someone?” she said blissfully. “Just, oh, it’s my computer at home. It’s telling me something.” My mind raced with anticipation, I wasn’t thinking of whether or not to tell Claire. I didn’t know then that women can always tell when you’re hiding things from them. She laughed. “You have your computer page you?” “Sure. It’s an option in one of my appointment programs. It just reminds me about things.” “So, what did you need to be reminded about?” I shook my head. I didn’t want Claire involved in my little scheme. She wouldn’t consider it ethical. She would know that I was a man who still broke laws, she might even tell Tucker. “Oh, it’s really nothing,” I finally said. “It must be something or you wouldn’t have programmed it into your computer.” “Nah, it’s nothing, really.” Claire seemed irritated. “Okay then, it’s personal, you don’t tell me, we all have secrets.” I wasn’t good at lying. “It’s about bills to pay or something.” “You don’t have to explain. We hardly know each other. I don’t expect you to tell me everything. It’s not like we’re married.” She folded her arms. My elation fell apart. When the movie ended, Claire stood up abruptly and walked toward the aisle. I scurried to catch up. It didn’t go well after that. She pulled away from me. We hardly spoke a word on the way back to her condo. I guess I brushed her off, anxious to get back to my apartment. Down in the hall, my hands shook as I fumbled for the key to my door. I couldn’t wait to get to it, to find out how big a fish I had landed. I brushed sweat from my forehead, flicking on the lights and heading for my work bench in the corner. I tapped the spacebar on my keyboard. My world changed forever. I opened up my Juno email account, a dialup basic service provided for free to the general public. The dialup connection wasn’t really an onramp to the Internet, it was simply a method by which mail could be sent without a regular, traceable, mail server. Anyone, whether they had an Internet Service Provider or not, could use Juno with a simple phone/modem connection. Most importantly, there was no way to trace the location of the originating call, providing the personal information was incorrect, like mine. The account was setup under Joe Smith, the most common name I could think of. I provided a fake home address, non working phone number, phony everything. No one could trace Juno mail back to me. Tucker’s computer had mailed me its simple four number IP address number: 24.221.48.114. This IP address could then be used to allow access to everything inside Tucker’s PC. I pinged it from my computer, sending four packets of information to the address. I received four rather slow replies at around 400 milliseconds. This meant he was probably using a modem connection. It also meant he probably had a dynamic IP address and I would have to continue to rely on emailed IP addresses from Juno each time I wanted to make contact. I decided to start my connecting program, the counterpart to the one installed on Tucker’s machine. It ran from my computer and worked in harmony, the Ying of the Yang, allowing me to snap crude pictures of the screen, look at files, examine subdirectories, execute programs and generally mess around. In short, it would allow me to me send and receive information via a TCP/IP connection over the Internet using the address that Tucker’s computer had emailed. My snooping program lacked sophistication. It was small, making it more difficult to detect. It remained camouflaged as a systems overlay file in Tucker’s Windows\System subdirectory. There were typically 700 to 1100 files there, too many for anyone to examine individually. When scouting through someone’s personal belongings, it makes sense to start with the most personal of items. I wanted to look at his email. In order to accomplish this, I needed to run his email program, then take what amounted to snapshots of the screen to read his emails. But there was danger. Tucker might actually be using the computer. I had no way to know if he was there. If I launched the mail program on his computer he would see it on the screen and know something was up. I needed to be cautious, to observe what his computer was doing before I started doing things. I began snapping pictures of the screen, watching for signs of change, programs that were running, keys being hit, a mouse pointer being moved. I looked on in a trance as my screen flickered slowly, like a thirties movie. After fifteen minutes I realized nothing had moved. If Tucker were still in the office, he wasn’t paying attention, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t there. I decided to wait a few hours. I turned my computer monitor so I could see it from my lounge chair. Then I sat back and dozed off. At three A.M. I awoke. The connection had not been broken and the mouse pointer remained in the same place. If Tucker were in the office, he was asleep. I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to dig in. I had to begin working. I opened his mail, a simple Windows based program. Most of the information was mundane. He received many emails about investments, including one from an account in the Bahamas. For the most part there seemed to be nothing of interest. I remember thinking that maybe I had just wasted my time. Maybe Tucker had nothing to hide, not that I wanted any dirt on him in the first place, except I noticed that he had quite a number of solicitations from pornography sites. I closed the mail program and went back to his hard drive. I opened his Windows directory and finally his Windows\Temp directory. It would contain the electronic residue of Raymond Tucker’s dealings. I found it blank. I then remembered the program that he installed removed cookies, cache files and other pieces of electronic fingerprints left from surfing. I remember thinking it wouldn’t be a problem, since I had plenty of ways to unerase files. Within minutes I had uploaded into his computer an unerase program and began the tedious process of resurrecting his cache. Within the next half hour my eyes mulled over what Tucker wanted no one to see. I chuckled. He was a Goddamned porn freak. I pulled up thousands of files that pointed to one porn sight after another. The cookies, small bits of data stored on computers, also pointed to porn. I began to wonder exactly what he had been looking at, what his eyes had seen. I remember thinking: What does a guy so powerful need with Internet porn? He could have it all anytime he wants? And so I copied the addresses onto my computer and began looking at them one by one, to see what Tucker had seen. He liked S&M mostly, slave and master. All the files were dated, and I saw that he spent the last several days looking at a one particular sight dealing in not just sex, but satanic rituals and death. I pulled up the websight. It was appalling. A large potbellied man with a pockmarked face and a Nazi hat displayed dull yellow teeth, outlining his patriotism to a worthwhile cause. He intended to eliminate the Jews and Niggers from the planet, or at least put them back in their place. There were thousands of video files containing concentration camps of World War II, assassinations, executions, death in every flavor. They were grotesque. I felt I knew now why Tucker kept the machine so secretive. He didn’t want anyone to know of his bigotry and sexual deviation. I wondered why a man who acted so happy, someone who smiled and laughed with workers, a jolly fellow who handed out Christmas presents at parties, would enjoy such filth. I shook my head in disgust. Finally, I decided I had seen enough. The Trojan Horse installed on the machine would erase itself under two conditions: If I typed in at the command line on his computer, KillMe, it would happen instantly. All the computer code and data files would be dumped and swiped clean within seconds. There was a second provision, too. Every three days I had to tell the program to continue operating, otherwise it would automatically erase itself. I pulled the mouse button to the command line where I could type what I wanted. I spelled out, KillMe, and then I saw it, a curious directory heading called Zip Drive. I considered the idea for a moment, wondering if he had a disk inserted. Why not look at it, what the hell difference did it make? I clicked on the drive. Indeed there was something there. I clicked again, expanding the tree that disclosed the subdirectories. I saw nothing. Why would Tucker have a disk with empty subdirectories? It didn’t make sense. Since I was operating his machine remotely, I pulled up Explorer. I checked the box next to Show All Files. This told his computer to not hide system or hidden files. Indeed I found something. D7.mpg, a video file of gargantuan size. It took up the entire Zipdisk, 190 Megs of information. This piqued my curiosity. I had no way to download a file that huge over a modem. It would take an entire day, or longer. But I could run the file from Tucker’s computer. The images would be like watching a movie showing every twentieth frame, and I wouldn’t have any sound, but I could at least get an idea of what Tucker had stored on the disk. I looked at my watch, five a.m. I had spent the entire night working on this, a few more minutes of investment seemed small. Depending on the quality of the movie, it could be fifty minutes, or longer, or possibly shorter. I moved my mouse pointer over the file and executed the program that would run the movie. The frames of film began clicking across my screen, one picture at time, changing every four or five seconds. The color was good, but the pictures came off a bit fuzzy, as if they had been filtered once or twice. They scene didn’t waver or shake, as if the camera had been placed on a tripod. A round backed love seat occupied the center of the room, its clean white contours blended with the empty white wall behind. I smiled, imagining what might happen next. A few seconds passed, and then a completely naked man emerged, his semi erect penis swaying disjointedly back and forth. He resembled a sumo wrestler, his skin white and covered in grayish hair, but his head looked like a huge round tan ball. I pushed my face closer to the screen. The actor’s identity remained hidden inside pantyhose. He walked toward the camera. I focused on the flat nose, flattened hair and distorted roundness. His hands squared up the camera, pointing it directly at the sofa. He then disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a large clear plastic sheet, the kind painters use to keep carpeting from getting dirty. “What the hell is this guy doing?” I said to no one. I thought of people who enjoyed urinating on each other, and wondered if this wasn’t the plan. The man walking around looked and moved like Tucker. But I wasn’t sure. I hoped it wasn’t him, and I hoped it wasn’t a film about urinating. I wondered if I wanted to know about such things, if I really wanted to look at Tucker each day and try to guess whether or not he was the sick-o behind panty hose. I looked at my watch. I would continue, for a while. The man spread out the clear plastic, patting down the wrinkles until it lay flat against the ground. The man turned and raised his hand. He called to someone. A young naked girl emerged. She scene looked unreal because she too wore the strange mask made from a woman’s nylon stocking over her face. I felt amazement at the sight, the idea that this was not a young woman, not a teenager, not an adolescent. The hose over her head could not hide the childish body. This was a girl, a small thin breast-less girl. I pulled my face away. I felt my underarms begin to sweat. I wiped my forehead. The girl meandered to the small sofa, falling backward clumsily. She wiggled around, like the plastic might have been bothering her. The man pushed her back. Again I considered whether I wanted to witness this act. In some ways I felt cowardly for wanting to turn away. An image of Caroline popped into my mind. What would this kind of experience do to a girl like that? This wasn’t taking place like a movie. The images flashed on the screen were jerky, like pictures shown ever few seconds. The jitteriness of the images added a special quality to the scene, as if each picture offered an imprint that my brain could absorb. The man caressed the girl’s head, moving his hands around the curved surface. Then he disappeared, returning a few seconds later with a large hunting knife. The girl didn’t move, as if she had encountered this before. She sat, rabbit like, watching through the sheer cloth. He twirled it in his hand, but no matter how much he moved around, the girl remained still, watchful, unaffected. The man’s erection seemed larger, sticking out like a large club. He reached down with his left hand and pinched the nylon of the hose with his index finger and thumb, pulling out on the fabric. The girl held her head in place. The man moved the knife closer to her face, and then cut a hole in the fabric. The girls mouth protruded now, pushing past the edges of the how just cut. The man tossed the knife down, and with one thrust shoved his organ into her face. It half disappeared as the girl took it in her mouth. It seemed she knew what to do, as if she had done this many times and this instance represented nothing more than another Saturday morning cartoon show. The man thrust at her, holding the back of her head with his hand and moving his organ in and out. She didn’t struggle or try to get away. Instead she held up her hands to his hips and steadied herself. I felt my mind shift gears, as if changing from one person to another. The scene repulsed me, and yet I continued watching. I imagined a spectator at a mediaeval torture, the man up on the rack being cut and hacked and sliced as screamed like horses in a burning barn. But wouldn’t the people watch the event? Wouldn’t a horrible thing remain horrible whether spectators watched or not? I lowered my head in my hands, not knowing the answer. But my face couldn’t look away. My head wouldn’t stay down. My neck muscles tensed and I lifted my chin. I put my hands in front of my face. My fingers so tight at first, relaxed. I peeked through the cracks. The movie fragments rolled on, the man thrusting harder and harder, finally stopping. I considered that he might have climaxed, maybe the horror complete. If so I would be able to shut it off and try to forget the images that were already lingering in my mind. I was wrong. The man pushed the girl onto her hands and knees, then crawled up behind her. He grabbed a clump of the stocking, a place where the fabric had been knotted, and he pulled her head back. He knelt behind her now, like two dogs copulating in the street. I assumed he would continue raping her, but he didn’t do that, for raping would have been a much smaller price. As a plumber might reach for a wrench to unfasten a bold, his hand found the hunting knife that rested beside them. He picked it up with his right hand while his left hand continued holding the girls head back, like bleeding the butcher cow. He brushed it along her back, not cutting, but teasingly. He positioned himself like a stud preparing to mount his mare, and saw him push. After a minute the girl fell forward, and he pressed himself on top of her. And then, with my computer screen flipping pages as a child flips through a book of pictures, I watched the knife thrust forward and pull back. He jerked it in a long deliberate ark, his left hand continuing to hold the stocking, the reddened implement of death falling to the floor disappeared in a crimson river. What I remember most was the blood. It flowed from the girl like a faucet. Her body went limp instantly, and I don’t think she ever knew what happened, except possible a fleeting instant as she died. I tossed my computer’s mouse as if it was the offending devil. “God almighty. What the hell happened?” My forehead tingled with a rush of blood to my face. I fell to the ground. “God!” I repeated, over and over as I watched the man on the screen shoveling handfuls of red onto his arms, chest and legs. I rolled on the floor, feeling bile rush up from my stomach. I heaved onto the tile. I didn’t have time to disconnect or erase the program from Tucker’s computer. My screen suddenly flickered, the connection lost. Either Tucker had turned off the computer, or the Internet connection had been severed. I raised myself up on my elbow, wiping vomit from my lips. A ray of sunlight flickered through the window. My mind tried to analyze what had happened, but I couldn’t make sense of it. Would Raymond do such a thing? It seemed unreasonable. He wasn’t that kind of guy. Raymond Tucker was my friend. Raymond Tucker was my boss, everyone loved Raymond Tucker. Didn’t they? |