Splicer (A Thriller)

by Theo Cage

  The two shorter jocks in the football jerseys were standing now. They had wrestled the gun out of the killer’s hands, who lay either dead or unconscious, half under the imposing weight of their fallen team member. They were all in shock when Mohta rounded the corner of the long hallway, his arms and clothes covered in blood, his face full of rage.

  CHAPTER 73

  The call was straight out of one of Rosenblatt's fantasies.

  A mystery woman, slightly out of breath. He could see the film of perspiration on her forehead and above her finely drawn mouth. She needed to meet with him. Now. She couldn't talk on the phone. For a brief moment, he wasn't entirely sure if he had imagined the call or not. His shaking hand had scrawled something on his desk blotter. WOMAN IN RED. NIGHT MOVES. SIX. With all the death and mayhem going on in this city during the past few days, this felt bad. VERY BAD. But her voice made his heart race. His prick jumped once like it had just received a tiny electrical charge. The way she spoke to him was so ADULT. So ... DO IT TO ME BABY. So ... ERICA JONG, the lady who wrote about strangers meeting and just getting it on, right there in the Men's washroom. In the third cubicle. Ever since he read that passage he had found Men's washrooms intriguingly sexual. She called it the zipperless fuck. He wasn't exactly sure what it meant but he wanted it badly.

  He raced to Night Moves Cabaret in his baby Benz, smoothing down the thick hair at the back of his head that insisted on standing up erect after every new haircut. In the coatroom before the lounge he noticed his knees were wobbling. He wandered slowly into the nearly empty cabaret and scanned the room. There she was. Dressed in a red leather mini-dress, a black negligee top and a red leather jacket, sipping white wine. He could tell even from a distance that she was the most blatantly sexual human being he had ever been in the same room with. And it had nothing to do with her being a woman. If she were a bearded lumberjack wearing muskeg-coated gumboots he would be just as mesmerized by this creatures animal energy. Of course he thought, she is not a man. She’s the essence of woman. A specialist, designed by nature’s hand for one key function and one key function only. Built for speed, not for comfort as they used to say in high school. Others may aspire to certain of the trappings - the full lips, the dark flashing eyes, full taut breasts and an eager ass. But this lady had all the options, and SHE KNEW IT. When she looked up at Norman and smiled, he realized the instant stirrings of an erection. He sat awkwardly.

  "Can I get you a drink, Norman?"

  He fidgeted with his car keys. "Why not! I'll have the same as you."

  "You're a wine drinker," she said, smiling as if that made all the difference in the world. She looked like the farthest thing from an assassin that he could imagine, more like a geisha. A smiling, docile subservient whose every duty in life was to please him. Didn't they learn the mastery of all forms of sexual conduct in order to fulfill their husband’s needs? His face flushed in the dark cold air of the club and didn't cool until the waitress left with his order.

  "You sounded very upset on the phone ... " he started. She put her small hand on his and he stopped.

  "I knew your friend, Jeffrey," she said, her eyes never leaving his. "I can't tell you how much I miss him." She pulled back a lock of dark hair from her eyes. "He spoke about you so much I feel like we're friends." She smiled again. There was only the barest hint of an accent. Her voice was husky and languid.

  Norman nodded, waiting for more. "Then he ... when he was killed, I promised myself I would come to Toronto and do what I could. I need your help."

  "The police have the murderer," he offered, disappointed in her interest in Jeffrey.

  She bent across the table toward him. His eyes fell to the shadow between her breasts. "You don't really believe that, do you?" she said. "Don't you get the same feeling that I get about this whole business? That someone else is involved?" Now she grabbed both of his hands in hers. Anyone else doing this would console and relax him. In Kim Soo's hands his heart was beating erratically and his tongue felt thick and misguided. Her touch sent a jolt through his body. He felt as if he was wired up to jumper cables, his heart whining in his ears. Norman's Chardonnay came so he let her go and downed the glass quickly.

  "Did you work with Jeffrey?" he asked, searching for words, searching for meaning, hoping fervently for a quick buzz from the house wine.

  She smiled knowing innocence. "Norman. I know that you know Jeffrey and I had what you might call a thing. It was very innocent. We had fun. I confess I'm attracted to powerful men ... like you. I always have been. I can't help it so I just go with the flow. It's my nature."

  "I'd love to help you ..." struggled Rosenblatt.

  "Kim!"

  "Kim. I'd love to help you. But these murders? The police have said it’s Redfield. Who else ..."

  "And the rapes."

  "Rapes?" He swallowed loudly. "I hadn't heard ..."

  "The Redfield woman was brutally raped. She was held down to the floor, tied up with wire, and then the killer proceeded to ... well, do unspeakable things to her. "Rosenblatt flushed again. "Is that the kind of thing a husband does to his wife before he kills her?" she asked.

  Norman shook his head slowly. The way she described the rape, he could see it. But the person he saw was not Redfield. She was right. How could he have done that to his own wife? Had Grieves really snapped then? Gone over the line? Grieves had seen him in some of his darkest moments in prison; he looked then like a man who could do anything.

  "And the rumor around the courthouse is that Redfield couldn't have done it. That he was with his lawyer, if you know what I mean, when the murder took place"

  Rosenblatt had heard that, or read it somewhere. With his lawyer at two o'clock in the morning? Was there anyone besides him who wasn't getting it every day of the week?

  "So you see ..." she started.

  The wine was loosening his tongue. "How can I help you, Kim? You wouldn't believe the problems we've had with the company since Jeffrey's death. If we don't find a buyer soon, we'll be wiped out."

  "I can help you there."

  "You can?"

  "I know the buyers."

  He swallowed the last of his drink, slopping some of it on to his checkered tie. "You are full of surprises." He was beginning to feel more in control now. The wine was having its way with him.

  She opened her jacket. "You know that a lot of the negotiations went on in Vegas. And Jeffrey would tell me about them, in bed, late at night. Nothing confidential - just a sense of what was going on. I find it very exciting to hear men talk about their business conquests. I found out later that I knew the buyers. I can help you. I can help you in a lot of ways. We can help each other."

  "What do you need from me?"

  "You need to tell me who the loose canon is?"

  He popped his head back. His eyes had grown red-rimmed. "Huh?"

  "You know what I mean, Norman. You can't tell the police. You're afraid it will get you involved. And XTech won't finish their sale with you, won't turn over the money, while this murder hangs over everyone's head. Where do you think I first heard that rumor about Redfield and his classy lawyer? From the police."

  Rosenblatt was transfixed by her. "From the police?"

  "I can solve all of your problems, Norman. And I mean all of them. Just tell me who it is. I'll feed the tip to the right people. And no one will ever know."

  "Well, I hardly see how it matters now. A lawyer by the name of Quinn told me about a former employee his girlfriend saw ..." Then Rosenblatt stammered and froze, afraid for the first time. Quinn told him about Shay seeing Grieves. He told X-Tech about Shay. Three days later she was dead. What the hell was going on here? "Who are you anyway, Kim?"

  She took one of his hands again, stroking the soft meaty inside of his palm with a long ruby fingernail. "I'm your fantasy come to life, Norman. I'm your fairy queen. I'm doing a good deed for some very wealthy folks, who are also very generous. They want to make this deal with you very badly. They told me to do what I
had to do to make it happen. I've been asked to be especially nice to you." Rosenblatt frowned. "But I'll sleep with you because I think you're very attractive." Rosenblatt felt a prickly heat climb up his chest and groin. Then she moved as close to him across the table as she had been all night and whispered in a tiny voice full of energy. "And I'll give you the best oral sex you've ever had because, well, it's sort of a hobby of mine, and I'm very good at it. It has a special twist I think you’ll never forget."

  CHAPTER 74

  Mohta had survived where others had become statistics. In Bahrain, the armored personnel carrier he traveled in to a late night Shiite meeting struck a Russian-built land mine. Two soldiers crowded into the front, their backs to Mohta, were turned suddenly into bloody hamburger meat. He sustained only a glancing slice across one retina. In Kuwait, a rusty 50-gallon drum filled with aged nerve gas shattered near his truck instantly killing a dozen volunteers. Mohta drove from the sight like a demon, suffering only severe sunburn when his truck broke down in the desert hours later. Bullets had entered his body on six different occasions always sparing vital organs.

  It was with some surprise then that he felt the first intense crack of pain to his spine while walking along the flowerbeds next to the campus gym with his two silent hostages. The only sound that preceded the breaking of his neck was a slight whisper, like the sound made by a tennis ball being lobbed across a court through a stiff summer breeze. It was the sound of Rusty Redfield falling through the air.

  When Mohta had caught up to the scuffle by the exit door - his team leader, a lifeless heap on the concrete - he calmly put two bullets through the brains of the two remaining football players. They dropped without a sound. The programmer, looking ready to run, hesitated, then slumped his shoulders and raised his arms. Mohta never said a word. He just pointed and the two hostages trudged off in front of him; the woman's hands balled into fists. He told them that his orders were to get information and if they resisted in any way, he was to kill them. The woman seemed resigned to it. The programmer glowered like an angry pet.

  Mohta's detention in the fan room had been brief. With the main fan disabled, the blades jammed against Pierce's skull, he simply crawled around the ruined body of his ex-partner and made his way into the next chamber. It had an unlocked door. They should have killed him. They just didn't know any better.

  :

  Rusty, standing by the entrance, moved away from the doors when he caught a glimpse of Mohta rounding the turn of the tunnel. He could see that Mohta was wounded somewhere in the upper arm, but the agent was still moving quickly; his eyes alive with purpose. The professional coolness Rusty had detected in the man before had totally vanished; the muscles in his neck were shaking with barely contained anger.

  Rusty ran up behind the hedging on the verge of the walkway and watched the trio leave the tunnels for the campus commons. Mohta was openly brandishing his weapon. Rusty watched with a kind of sinking helplessness augmented by a blistering rage. He knew he had little hope of braving an attack. He was unlikely to accomplish a task that three monstrous football players failed at - and probably paid for with their lives. The waste sickened him. He had approached the three men just outside the entrance to the tunnels. He told them a man was molesting a young woman with a weapon. They reacted instantly. It hadn't accomplished much. All their eager chivalry had proved useless against an enemy armed with the cool will to kill without compunction. This last assassin no doubt shared the same qualities.

  Rusty watched them move away. This was hopeless. He was weaponless. He didn't care that much about Grieves' fate; he believed the programmer deserved what ever he got. But Jayne? She had tried so hard to believe in him. Was that foolishness or something else? He wanted to find out. But that meant saving her life. He saw them move towards the walkway that headed towards the northern parking lot. It made sense. An out-of-towner would choose the most obvious parking area on campus as a logical spot to leave a vehicle. It was also the most distant lot. In order to gain access to it, they would have to pass the walkway that ran the length of the campus gym, the Sports Complex. They were moving at a careful pace. That might give Rusty just enough time to beat them to their vehicle. He moved back through the dogwood bushes and sprinted across the gravel road that led to the gym.

  When he reached the walkway, he had already come to the realization that being the first to reach the parking lot was of minimal value. He was still unarmed. And this wasn't a nervous convenience store thief he was planning to confront. This was a trained killer. He pulled back the front door to the gym and raced up the stairs to the top floor. He had seen teams doing calisthenics on the roof when he was a student and that gave him a blurry idea. He found the exit to the roof. From there, the ground looked alarmingly far away. But he had no choice now. Just below him were the forms of Jayne, Grieves and the dark-haired man with the cold eyes. He stepped to the shallow edge of the gravel roof, gauged the man's speed as best he could, and flung himself over the edge. He aimed with his heels, his legs straight out. He had to hit the killer on the shoulders and hard if he had any hope of putting him out. He wasn't thinking about what would happen if he missed. The sound of their contact smashed into Rusty's brain and the night filled with angry colors.

  CHAPTER 75

  Jayne McEwan became suddenly confused by the jumble of bodies in the dark and by the soundlessness of the attack. Their kidnapper made no noise going down; he simply disappeared into a pile on the sidewalk. His gun skittered on the cement and bounced into the grass on the edge of the walkway. Then everything went still, even Grieves.

  Rusty had been lucky. It was all a matter of how he landed. He was traveling at about thirty miles an hour when he struck Mohta; the weight of his impact, with the momentum, the equivalent of half a ton. At first he fell feet forward, but his center of gravity forced a correction in his flight and Rusty had to windmill his arms to maintain his upright posture. The fall was dizzying; the dark concealing the secret of the ground, which rushed at him suddenly, when his eyes finally focused. A miss would have shattered most of the bones in his lower body. Fortunately, his knees met the assassin in the hollow of his neck, cushioning him from the total shock of landing. In a silence broken only by the muffled snap of Mohta's spine, they landed together in a still heap on the ground.

  Rusty was conscious but dazed and hurting. The jar to his back had caused a compression shock, which left him unable to move. The night had broken into a fireworks display, which filled his head with an unsettling combination of light and sound. For a few moments nothing was said as Grieves and Jayne searched the dark for an answer to their sudden confusion.

  Rusty had taken a leap into the night, which Mohta, with all his training and cunning, would never have attempted. They didn’t know that their assassin was afraid of heights.

  Grieves acted first. He got down on his hands and knees in the grass to find the lost gun. Jayne, just beginning to understand what had happened, knelt down and found Rusty's head. It was moving slightly. She reached for an arm and felt for a pulse. It was strong and warm against her fingertips. She leapt back, ready to run. Then she realized it was Rusty's arm she had held. He groaned. He pulled himself up stiffly, his back hunched over, his hands on his head.

  "Are you ..." Then she looked up the side of the building, aware for the first time that he had jumped on their stalker - from three stories up. Her voice caught, hitched.

  "Are you alright? Anything broken?" she whispered.

  "My head," he answered sleepily.

  "Your head was broken before you even jumped, you crazy idiot."

  "You're welcome," he grimaced, feeling his numb legs and arms, searching for a bone poking out of the flesh. Then suddenly he was being attacked again and he jumped back awkwardly, a bolt of pain shooting up his lower back. It was only Jayne hugging him. He would have liked to return the favor but as yet had no feeling in his arms or hands. In the dim light from the distant parking lot he could make out Grieves just get
ting up from the lawn, wiping his knees with one hand. In the other hand he held Mohta’s gun, now being raised in their direction.

  CHAPTER 76

  God laid lousy carpet on the pre-Cambrian shield. Under the bulging escarpment that was two-thirds of Ontario lay the scattered remains of half a continent swept under a great rug. A mere billion years later and the crown was ground from a mountain of granite into a mass or rubble that formed the undulating base of off-kilter tabletop peaks and debris-filled valleys. Over this base grew a wild layer of flora, like an unruly carpet. Driving through the northern part of this geography, on roads cut through sheer rock, one observed the littered remains of an ice age poking through the landscape, wrinkling and tearing it. Rusty Redfield and his lawyer, Jayne McEwan however had no way of knowing what the scenery looked like. They were both crouched uncomfortably in the trunk of Rusty's 1999 Cutlass.

  "He's going to drive this car, with us inside it, into the bloody lake," Rusty said into her ear, his hands cupped around his mouth.

  Jayne was still for a moment. She was digesting their situation. It was giving her heartburn. Rusty could hear her ragged breathing over the loud thump of the speakers just above their heads. Love Shack was blaring, filling the space of the trunk with a low disconsolate rumble. She was breathing fast.