Kill Process by William Hertling Page B

patterns repeat in the Internet.
    Either way, by observing and copying the traffic in real time, they’ve minutely affected the latency of packets. This is what I’ve detected. In four different nodes. Across the network. This can only mean one thing: someone powerful monitoring me, trying to figure out who I am.
    I hit a button and kill the connection. The routing display fades away, leaving my heart thumping in my chest. Who is trying to find me? How close did they get? Though I possess a big bag of security tricks, I can’t tell you how many nodes in the onion network could be compromised, and still have the network be able to guarantee my anonymity.
    If they’re onto me, I’m fucked. Kill someone in self-defense, and you can get away with it, even if your friendships evaporate and coworkers suddenly avoid you at all costs. Kill dozens of people in premeditated ways, and you’re going to jail. It doesn’t matter that I’m rescuing people.
    Now I’m truly panicked. I’ve got to decamp ASAP, regardless of how shitty I feel.
    Then I remember why I was here in the first place. Nancy is in danger. Immediate, extreme danger. What can I do?
    I grab the directional antenna to change networks, pointing it around wildly, my hand trembling so much I can’t establish a connection at first. Finally, I get a strong signal and VPN into work, then remote desktop to a machine in San Diego I compromised, and launch Skype. Using a text-to-voice synthesizer I phone in a domestic violence call to the Santa Clara police.
    My vision and hearing are clouded, and I’m starting to disassociate from my body. I need to extricate myself, but my call to the police isn’t sufficient by itself. I find a shelter hotline for Santa Clara, someone who will actually drive out there and remove Nancy from the house. Because when the police release Todd, as they do too often, if Nancy is still there, her risk will increase.
    At last, I’m done. I’ve used the system the way it was designed, and I pray it’s enough. In the back of my mind, I know it isn’t. I know the stats. Five intercessions, on average, to get out.
    I kill the power to the computers, move up front, and drive away.
    *     *     *
    I’m still covered in puke, although I’m already trying to make a plan. The van is totally fucked. I was never under the impression I could hide all my DNA evidence, but I took every precaution I could. I showered and used clean clothes before I entered. I wore a hat, hairnet, or hairspray to cut down on shedding. Once a week I rode Max, our light transit, to work. Sitting in a corner where the surveillance cameras didn’t reach, I swept up hair and dust, which I blew all over the van the next time I entered, so there was the DNA of hundreds of people.
    But now there’s vomit, sweat and urine, and it’s gone who knows where. If I were an international spy, I’d possess some amazing way to sanitize the van, or at least destroy it in a fiery blaze so hot every bit of DNA evidence is destroyed. Sadly, I don’t, and if I give it a try, I’ll end up creating a suspicious fire that would fail to destroy the DNA and instead would trigger an arson investigation.
    I drive a few blocks from my house, the closest I’ve ever brought the van to home, park it, and walk home, carrying a bag of electronic equipment. I nod to a neighbor I recognize and cross the street so she doesn’t smell the puke on my clothes, smiling slightly to avoid weird-neighbor vibes.
    At home I shower, change clothes, and stick in a wash. I grab a few hundred in cash, a shawl, and a wide-brimmed hat, all of which I throw in a bag. Once in the van, I don the hat and shawl and take the van to a car wash specializing in detailing. I pay in cash to deep-clean the interior, aware the whole time of the surveillance cameras all around. There’s not much I can do. Going other places would expose me to more surveillance cameras, creating more of a record of my existence, this