Ray was silent for a moment. “So, this thing makes copies of itself with variations in the copies?”
“Yes, logical mutations that stem from what it has learned. They vary greatly, too. I have no idea anymore what the virus has become. It mutates very quickly. Out on the open net, with a thousand conditions, it has turned into a thousand different viruses doing a thousand different things.”
“How many different moves does it know how to make? I mean, is it created to destroy data, hardware, what? What’s its trick?”
“You aren’t getting it, Vance. The thing is rewriting itself, adapting. I have no idea what it might do. There is one main trick that remains to be seen. What other moves might it make? Who knows? Whatever works best.”
“You mean the thing evolves, experiments?”
“Yes, the same way that organic microbes do,” Nog beamed. “Actually, I modeled it after HIV. That biological monster is particularly hard to cure, because the outer coating of the virus resembles sugar, which is food for cells. It is really hard to teach our cells not feed themselves. My virus is like that, it pretends to be valid data from a valid source.”
“Spoofing,” said Ray, providing the term used for computer programs that tried to trick their way past firewalls.
“Right. But better spoofing than you’ve ever seen. The new computer accepts it and zap, it is infected. Just like HIV, mine has many strains and it mutates so fast that people might never figure out how to stop it. One copy might try to erase hard disks and copy itself using e-mail. Another might use VPN to other servers. Another might try to hide, lying dormant on disks everywhere until a certain time or date. Whichever works the best, that one will make more copies than the others. Some of the new copies will have mutations, which continues the cycle.”
“What if it chooses a bad strategy?” asked Ray, feeling a bit sick. Had he helped create this thing by teaching Nog the basics?
“That happens all the time. You ever see one of those nature-shows, where about a thousand baby shrimp explode out of their eggs at once? All the fish come and feast on them, but a few get by. Defective ones and unlucky ones die off, but many live.”
Ray nodded, overwhelmed. “Only the fittest survive.”
“Exactly.”
A flash of anger hit Ray. His head injury throbbed and his frustration reached a sudden flashpoint. He pointed Ingles’ pistol at Nog. “What’s to keep me from taking you right to the cops, Nog? Why shouldn’t I give us both up and let them grill you until you spill your fat guts on this virus?”
“Only one thing, Vance,” said Nog.
Ray sighed. Justin. Nog knew he couldn’t give up yet. Things had gotten crazy, but he felt that he was close, and he still had to try.
“Okay,” he said. “Just tell me why you were trying to dig up evidence at Brenda’s.”
Nog shrugged. “I didn’t want the same thing to happen to me that happened to you. That Santa-bastard planted something there to incriminate me as well. That’s his way.”
“You mean Ingles?”
Nog glanced at him. “So that was you listening in on No Carrier.”
Ray allowed himself a grim smile. At least he had done something right.
“Yeah, well, in later communications that you must have missed, Santa indicated that he was going to screw me too.”
“It did seem like a crazy way to try to make a million bucks.”
“You know, I don’t think that ever was his real motivation,” said Nog. “He had something else in mind.”
“Do you think he just wanted to burn the net? Is he paranoid? Does the net watches him while he sleeps?”
“Maybe,” said Nog, “he uses the net all the time, but he doesn’t seem to value it.”
“Well, whatever it is, I need to talk to Santa privately.”
“Yeah well, I guess this is the end of the line, then,” said Nog. He slowed the car on a country road and pulled over to the dirt shoulder.
Ray looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“Look around, Vance. This is the back of Ingle’s place. You didn’t want me to drive you right up to the door, did you?”
Ray eyed the surrounding army of black-trunked almond trees. Far down one of the rows, he thought to see a house of white clapboards. Ingles owned a large ranch out here, it must have covered around a hundred-plus acres, mostly of trees. He recalled having been out here years ago for a faculty mixer. Sarah hadn’t come with him that day, he suddenly remembered. He had to wonder now if she had a special reason to not want to go to Ingles house.
Pushing that thought out of his mind, he opened the car door. He paused and looked back at Nog. Was this a set-up? He couldn’t tell.
“You’re one odd sociopath, Nog,” he told his ex-student.
Nog shrugged and didn’t meet his gaze. Ray could tell he was worrying at his tongue again.
“I’ll take that cell phone,” he said, disconnecting it from the dashboard power outlet. “I might need it.”
“Hold on,” said Nog, he reached behind his seat and pulled out a backpack. “Take this one,” he said, tossing another cell phone on the seat. “It’s got a longer range and a better, fresher battery.”
Ray nodded and took up the offered phone. He thumbed the power button. Digits flashed up on the display. It made a tone as it reached out and connected with another computer several miles away.
Ray climbed out of the car and looked back. Nog glanced at him.
“Good luck, Ray,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Then he drove off. Ray watched the big Lincoln roll smoothly away. It occurred to him that Nog had never called him by his first name before.
… 30 Hours and Counting…
Johansen snapped the cell phone shut and brought his fist down on the steering wheel. “Damn.”
“What?” asked Vasquez. She put down the headphones and turned off the player. The sound of Vance’s voice cut off. She wondered how many times she had replayed that conversation between the foggy-minded Mrs. Trumble and Vance. It had to be at least thirty times.
“The squad car they sent over to Brenda Hastings place reported a break-in,” he explained. “It looks like Vance forced his way in and ransacked the place. If we’d just been more on the ball, we could have caught up with him there.”
“That might have been a bad call on my part. I just wanted to listen to the recordings,” she said. “At least we know now that he has fixated on Ingles, his colleague. He left that message for Sarah and for me, putting the blame on him. Clearly, he needs us to believe it too, maybe to assuage his guilt.”
Johansen swung left onto Bovine. They were near Brenda’s place now. Starling Lane was just ahead. “What I don’t get is why he spent the night in the lab with her body.”
“It looks like Brenda got in a blow before he shot her. That paper-cutter looked pretty solid. Maybe he was out cold for the night on the floor.”
“Hmm. But how to you hit someone with three rounds in your chest? And how do you shoot someone when you’ve just been conked on the head?”
“I know,” she said. “The whole thing looks odd. We’ll have to wait for the forensics team to give us their version. It’s not really our field.”
“Okay, let’s go over the time line then. We need to catch Vance on his next move.”
Vasquez nodded. “Brenda’s car was in the parking lot, so it looks like he was on foot. That means he would have to walk for about an hour to get there.”
“I don’t get that either,” he said. “Why did he leave the car? He’s already killed her, so who cares about a wrap for car theft?”
Vasquez frowned. “Well, California law does allow the death penalty only in the case of an additional crime committed in junction with the murder. I don’t think car theft is on the list, but Vance might not know that.”
