Splicer (32 page)

Rusty wasn't surprised when he heard the car start. He expected Grieves, in his maddened state, to make an attempt at driving the disabled vehicle. But he was unprepared to hear the car roar up from behind them so quickly. He grabbed Jayne's arm. She was just ahead of him and they loped down into the clearing toward the tree line. They moved carefully into the low-slung pine bows and knelt down in the dark together. Once down on one knee, he felt like he would never be able to stand up straight again.  He felt it was only a matter of time before he would collapse to the ground where the insects could finish him off in peace

"Now what?" Jayne asked. Rusty noticed she wasn't even breathing hard yet. He had to gulp for air.

"Hopefully he hasn't seen us. When he passes us we'll follow him."

"In the car?"

"He won't be breaking any speed limits. We could probably jog as fast." She turned to look at him. "Well, you could jog as fast. I could just lay here until you return with a stretcher," he added.

She stared at him, her forehead covered in dried blood, one eye puffy.  "Don't you ever take anything seriously?"

He put his arm around her shoulder lightly. "Some things. Like getting out of this alive."

"I vote for that." She turned her head away. "Look. Here he comes."

The Cutlass rolled past them noisily on the gravel going about ten miles per hour.

"The fools actually looking for us," breathed Rusty.

"Yeah, and I thought
jack lighting
was against the law."

"We'll wait until he's far enough ahead of us so that if he gets out of the car we'd still have time to hide in the trees. Then we'll follow him to the cabin."

"The hunter has become the hunted."

Rusty smirked and lifted himself up stiffly, his hands on his lower back. "Some hunters." Just as they left the protection of the trees Rusty felt a drop of cold rain on his face. Then the midnight sky opened up on them.

Somehow, Rosenblatt had found a cab in front of the hotel and stumbled into the back seat where he rolled up into a ball of pain. The driver was asking for an address, guessing his customer was too drunk to give directions. Rosenblatt stuttered out his office address in the Mars complex. The cabbie just shrugged his shoulders - the office district was a strange place to drop off a drunk at two in the morning.

Rosenblatt was in complete agony. He had his hands cupped around his genitals, every bump on the road like a knife thrust into his guts. What was he going to do? He should be headed right for an emergency ward. But what would he say? How could he explain this to a doctor - to his wife?

The woman from the restaurant had hypnotized him with her innuendo and her eyes and her roving hands. They had found a hotel only a block away where she had started removing her clothes in the elevator. Somehow, delirious with desire, they had found the penthouse suite. He couldn’t rip what was left of her clothes off quickly enough, thinking he would explode before seeing her fully naked.

He dizzily recalled a mating. But he wasn’t entirely sure. The wine had started to really kick in and everything was growing fuzzy. Then when he was lying across the bed, feeling like he was about to pass out, she brought out her purse. She still had that special treat for him she said.

She began to fondle him. At first, he laughed sleepily, guessing he was too far-gone to perform again. But then he got a surprise. Something was stirring down there. She really was a master. He turned to her, just beginning to believe he may have a second life, when he saw her unwrap a long thin object. It glittered like crystal. It was roughly the size and shape of a thermometer.

The rest of the evening was a blur of pain and shame and desperation. The pain was excruciating and unrelenting. She had a technique. She pushed the thin glass rod deep into his organ and held it there with both hands. He could tell by her face she was enjoying her work. Then the questions began. Where was Grieves? How could she find his cottage?
Who was she working for? What kind of monster was she?

Rosenblatt started to weep, his tears soaking the silk sheets on the bed. She had other questions. Where were the backups? What were the passwords? The questions went on and on.

And then when she was done, when she had everything she needed, she smiled and then snapped the glass rod inside him with one quick twist of her wrists. He heard it shatter and the pain was like nothing he had ever felt before. He vomited on the king size bed as she left the room. Then he looked down at his ruined manhood, the blood stained sheets, his dinner on the pillowcase.

During the endless cab ride to his office, all he could see were images of Jeff, his eyes pushed out of their sockets with the force of his exertions. Ludd was trying to scream but all he could produce was a bloody froth around his severed throat, an airy wheeze of agony. He could see this now as he saw it many nights before, waking with a start, surprising his wife - the blankets soaked with his oily sweat.

He had wanted Grieves to do the dirty deed, to wipe out Jeff Ludd for good. Now, looking back, he could hardly believe he had brought himself to even talk about it. But he had, of course. In fact, he had been forceful and persistent on the subject.
Was he trying to convince himself that he had the nerve to do the job on his own?

It wasn't fear that made him hesitate. It was the details. A perfect murder required a flawless alibi and a convincing frame-up. These are not circumstances you can always create. Sometimes they are formed whole out of blind fate, which is exactly what happened.

Norman had visited their printer one morning in late May to pick up a sample of a new label they planned to use for the IM5 system. He knew Stapleton, the owner - they sometimes went to hockey games together. They even looked similar. People sometimes mistook them for brothers.

"Hey, Norm. Before you go, I've got something for you." Stapleton bent down behind the counter and pulled a manila envelope from the shelf. He stood up and opened the envelope by squeezing the sides, letting the contents fall to the table. It was a freshly printed business card, shiny stock with blue and gold lettering.

"It's your old buddy, Redfield," he announced, as proud as a tabby that had just returned home with a partially digested rodent.

Rosenblatt looked down at the card, his head immediately spinning with possibilities.

"
Rusty Angus Redfield. Great Barrier Software.
Thought you might be curious to know what your ex-employee, ex-jail bird, is up to."

Rosenblatt stared at the freshly printed square of paper, transfixed. Stapleton looked at him for a few seconds.

"You need glasses, Norm? Want me to read it for you? Hell, I do it for my grandmother."

Rosenblatt looked up, a queer smile on his face.

"Can I have it?" he asked.

"Sure. Take it. I printed them a few days ago. I do all of Great Barriers printing. I pulled one out of the order for you."

"How about putting it in your envelope there. I've got my hands full."

"Want me to button up your coat for you too? There's a nasty wind out there."

"Go to hell, Stapleton. And thanks."

"Anytime. Show it to Ludd, he'll get a kick out of it."

"That he will, Stapleton, that he will."

The damn card. Without that card, none of this would have happened. Rosenblatt couldn't resist it. An untraceable link to Rusty Redfield. Placed in the right spot, at the right time, it could have the force of a steel-jacketed soft-nose 45. It could kill.

Then came the email that morning, the note to Ludd about the rendezvous. Rusty needed to meet with him, and Ludd dutifully recorded the time and place in his appointment book. A meeting in a darkened, nearly empty parking lot. A meeting with an ex-employee with a grudge. And with Rusty's business card, an unmarked fragment of evidence to throw the police off the track, Rosenblatt could create an ironclad alibi for his own whereabouts. He knew that fate was thumbing his nose at him. All the pieces were there and all he had to do was act.

His deal with Grieves had soured.
The bugger had no intention of killing anyone. He played me for a sucker. All that money, that time, the exposure. Now I have to do it myself. I have to dirty myself. If I don't, everything I planned, goes down the toilet.

Rosenblatt had waited in his car in the staff parking lot. He then walked back to the office with a bulging bundle of file folders. Ludd was at his desk. He asked him if he could get a ride downtown. He told his partner his wife had the car.
Shopping, you know.
Jeff shrugged. They could leave at 6:30. When they left, Rosenblatt offered to set the security alarm. He didn't.

Several blocks before the President’s Club, Rosenblatt got out. He took pains to touch nothing. He said good-luck. Ludd drove on to the Club and parked in the semi-deserted parkade. He waited for Redfield. A few moments later, Rosenblatt, his face flushed with exertion, ran up to Ludd's car, which was still running, the whine of the air conditioning pump audible in the hollow of the parking garage. Ludd fingered the power switch for the window and the glass rolled down. "Redfield will be right up, I saw him. He said I could join you." Ludd looked peeved but opened the side door. "I'll sit in the back," offered Rosenblatt. "Can you get the door?" His arms were still full of the bulging files. He squeezed into the back then pulled the door shut with the sleeve of his coat wrapped around his fingers. They waited in silence.

"This place is really dead on a Wednesday night," was the last thing that Jeff Ludd said. Then Rosenblatt pulled a length of wire, a steel guitar string, over his partner’s head, wrapped it around his neck and yanked with all his strength. The car continued to purr and pour out a steady stream of cool air into the darkened interior. The deeply tinted windows would hide any interior movement from the eyes of any accidental passerby, of which there were none. Ludd, pinned, flailed his fists behind him, making only incidental contact with Rosenblatt's arms. He pried at the wire around his neck, breaking carefully manicured fingernails in the process. He swung his head from side to side, fought for air, which would not come. When he slumped to his side, Rosenblatt held the wire fast and counted to 20, his eyes darting from the exit to entrance ramps.

When it was over, Rosenblatt inserted the guitar wire into a plastic bag along with the two small wooden dowels he used to hold it taut. From his pocket he pulled a small plastic bottle with a spray attachment. He reached across the slumped head of his partner, his heart blasting away in his chest so hard that he thought he heard the engine race. He sprayed the driver side window twice with a fine clear mist.

Several months before Redfield left the company, he had participated in a test of the IM5 system. It was part of a demonstration for clients. A small swab of his saliva was placed in a culture dish then
typed
or
mapped
by the computer, producing a detailed print out. Then the IM5 was instructed to duplicate three batches of the saliva's DNA component. Ten minutes later three samples were complete. Each was identical to the original swab and confirmed by additional printouts. Rosenblatt kept those samples in a specimen freezer, labeled with a cryptic number system only he understood. That night he had cross-indexed the numbers and chosen a small frozen vial from the freezer. He defrosted it slowly and added the contents to an ounce of distilled water in an atomizer. The spray bottle now contained the active DNA of one
Rusty Angus Redfield
, a portion of it now clinging and drying on the blood specked surface of Ludd's driver window.

Rosenblatt had opened the back door of the Prius again with his sleeved hand, locked it behind him and walked away. He hurried the dozen blocks back to his office and re-entered the building. Two hours later he left, setting the nightly alarm with his personal code. During the two hours he waited, sweating in the cold air of the office, he plugged a small laptop computer into the security system panel, downloaded the days security log into the memory of the computer, re-wrote it and loaded it back into the system. As far the security system was concerned, Rosenblatt had never left the building.

He was so clever. But it had all gone so wrong.

Without Ludd,
GeneFab
began to fade fast. Rosenblatt realized that the gloss and the allure of the company were based largely on hype, on promises of endless future discoveries. Without Ludd's enthusiasm and energy, this company was only a building full of aimless souls.

The sale had unraveled so quickly it made Rosenblatt queasy. Everything had leapt out of his reach. Even the promise of the
Splicer
was so much cheap lead lacquered to look like gold.
How did it disappear so fast?

Now Rosenblatt prepared to take full stock of his situation. Take a hard bite into a reality sandwich. He was broke and so was
GeneFab
. How long would it be before the police showed up again, this time their expressions a lot less friendly?
No barely disguised politeness necessary this time, Rosenblatt, you fat fuck!

His current pain brought him out of his reverie. It was duller now, spreading like a cancer through his lower body. But that hardly mattered. Nothing they could do would make him a whole man again. Then he noticed blood was spreading on his lap.

Rosenblatt got out of the cab and made his way into the GeneFab building, taking the elevator to his office without seeing anyone. At his desk, he picked up his smart phone with a shaking hand and dialed a number. He only had one call to make. It would be brief. When he was done, he whimpered slightly. Not from the realization that his life had turned to shit, or from the loss of blood, but from the cold angry point of steel that stung his forehead. He couldn't remember where he had first acquired the gun? It was just always there. Always there for what? He had found it in his briefcase this morning. He couldn't remember packing it. But it made sense.
Think about it
he cried softly.
Think about how this sucks. Think about your life in prison, the way Grieves saw it. Everyday. Think about the pain. The abject humiliation and nothing left ever again to give a damn about …

That was all it took to make his reluctant finger move on the trigger.