Splicer (33 page)

The gravel road ended in a turn about eight hundred yards from Grieves' summer retreat.  The path from the drive was a twisting procession of flat rocks making their way up, step by step, to a small clearing at the top of the rise. At the crest of the hill, amongst the boulders, sat a rambling makeshift bungalow constructed of pine logs, fieldstone and mortar and roofed with graying moss-covered cedar shakes. Two heavy wide fireplace flues were in evidence, one at each end of the wide building. There were a dozen windows, all of them protected with heavy oak shutters. The trees rose up beside and behind the cabin leaving minimal open ground around the building which faced directly into the open path, the rugged front yard and the long twisting gravel road which snaked its way back to civilization.

Rusty stared up at the craggy building and the clearing and was reminded of a fortress or a castle keep. Sitting in the front room of the cabin, a vigilant observer could detect a visitor from miles away. The only possible entrance was from the south; any other approach would be dangerous or impossible. Was this design simply an accident?  He was reminded of Superman's
Fortress of solitude
. This was no weekend hideaway - there was no beach, no garden or deck. It was a hide out. The Hole In The Wall Gang could happily make this their home.

As the thunder rolled across them a distant flash reflected off the chop of the lake.  The rain had picked up and was whipping the rain from every possible direction. Jayne, in her light nylon jacket and Rusty in his golf shirt, were soaked to the skin. The rain fell first in a torrent, straight out of the sky, then the wind shifted directions and began to gust erratically. The sky above them shook and reverberated with the growing sounds of a summer storm. One deafening crack of thunder made both of them duck instinctively. Then another sound, deep and low and relentless began to build until the ground itself shook. A high-powered whistle stabbed through the night. A freight train thundered. The busy Northern main track was only a few hundred yards to the east, carrying its cargo to dozens of communities in Northern Ontario. The combined cacophony of the ruthless wind, the sharp rifle shots of thunder and the horrific rumble of the train filled them both with a chilly uncertainty.

Jayne saw Rusty shiver under the protection of a spruce bow. She moved up beside him, her hands tucked deep into her jacket pockets.

"This must be as close to Hell as you can get.  Thunder and lightning like I've never seen before and on top of this a freight train passes right through their living room.  Toss in monsoon rains, a billion blood-sucking mosquitoes - and what have you got?" asked Rusty.

"How I spent my summer vacation by Jayney McEwan," she answered.

"Do we still need Grieves?"

"He's a witness. A hostile witness, but a witness."

Rusty laughed out loud, and then covered his mouth with his hand. Jayne looked sternly into his rain soaked features.

"Hostile witness? There's an understatement."

The trek up the hill was cold entertainment. The rain was falling with such force it formed a sluiceway, which rushed down the hand-made steps, obscuring the footings in the dark.

Jayne and Rusty were completely soaked by the downpour, the force of the water shooting down the hill wetting them to above their knees. Seeing more than a few feet in front of them was becoming a problem. Rusty stopped constantly, checking the cabin above for lights or signs of life. Curiously, there was no evidence of Grieves. He must be in hiding, aware that a light in a window would stand out as a beacon.

They clambered, step by unsure step up the rise until they reached the long grass at the crest. Water sat in pools on the overgrown lawn as much as a foot deep in depressions, the rest running down the incline toward the lake to the west and the fire road to the east.

Rusty grabbed Jayne's arm and pointed towards the north wall of the rambling cottage. She shook the water out of her eyes and nodded. The north wall was windowless and was covered by a long overhang from the cedar-covered roof. It provided only marginal shelter.

"Now what!" she yelled. Rusty shrugged. He had no obvious plan besides getting out of the rain and wind. He wrapped his arms around his chest in an attempt to keep what warmth remained in his body. They were a sorry team - unarmed, freezing. The temperature seemed to be dropping by the moment. Neither of them would be surprised by hail.

Rusty touched her shoulder.  "He's inside. And we still need him."

"I've got to get out of this rain before I freeze to death."

They moved around to the back of the cabin, into the close overhang of the pine branches. The ground was cluttered with barrels, lumber and scraps of steel pipe. The rain on the empty drums filled the yard with an eerie hollow roar. A quick inspection showed no basement windows and oddly no crawl space. This puzzled Rusty. His knowledge of cabins built on this kind of ground, essentially solid rock, was limited to those built on pilings or beams. It was far too expensive and difficult to tear a trench or a basement out of solid granite. Yet that's exactly what it looked like was done here. There was even a concrete footing, which extended into the ground.

"Look," said Rusty amazed. Jayne peered down where Rusty knelt.

"Did you find a window?" she asked.

"No!  But look. It's a basement."

She lowered herself to her knees beside Redfield. "Can we marvel at the house plans later? Let's just find ... " Then it struck her. A basement? On the top of a small mountain of solid impenetrable rock?

"And see here ... " he pointed, the rain running off his finger tip. "The marks of forms on the concrete. Someone hauled concrete up that hill? And poured a basement?"

"An eccentric nut," she offered. A
rich
eccentric nut?" Rusty just stared into the dimly lit space, the water running down the back of his neck and into his collar. Suddenly the sky filled with light and a breath later, the hill was rocked with a deep, sharp growl of thunder. They both jumped.

"That was close," murmured Jayne, looking around for evidence of a lightning strike.

"It often hits the water," added Rusty.

"Even when we're so high? They say you should stay away from trees."

"That only leaves the lake. No thanks." Almost as an after image of the bright flash of light, at the same time, they saw the window above them.

By rolling one of the empty barrels over to the side of the wall they were able to prop it up against the masonry wall. Jayne hoisted Rusty up. He peered into the dark behind the glass. He turned and knelt.

"It could be a bedroom but it looks cleaned out except for a couple of boxes. I still don't see any lights." Rusty swept his wet hair out of his eyes.

"Does it open?"

"From the inside."

"Break it then."

"I'd like to get out of this rain too but Grieves has got to be in there." Another flash lit up the cluttered back yard. The crack of thunder rolled over the tops of the trees. Rusty could feel the crown of the hill vibrate under the oil drum. Jayne moved away and disappeared into the dark. She returned with something dark in her hands, a short length of four by four cedar. She shoved it at him and it felt wet and spongy in his hands.

"Use this to break the glass. It's soft. Won't make as much noise."

"He'll still hear ... "

"When you see the next flash, count to two then do it."

He stood up and raised the block of wood to the corner of the window where he could see the latch. He waited. His teeth were rattling in his head from the cold and an ache was suffusing through his lower back.
Damn
he thought.
Where is the thunder when you need it?
He turned to Jayne; saw her face lit by the arc light of ten million volts of static electricity. He held his breath, turned, counted, and struck the glass. The air above their heads exploded. The window cracked but failed to shatter. He pressed the block against the glass and shard-by-shard, the pieces snapped and fell to the carpet below the window. With room now for his hand, he reached in and flicked the latch.

Rusty listened. He could hear no sound from inside the building, but judging from its size, Grieves could be far out of earshot. Or waiting just outside the door. He opened the window.

He pulled Jayne up to the top of the barrel with him and knitted his fingers together.

"Your turn," he said.

She placed her left foot in his hand and stepped up to the frame of the window, leaned in and disappeared. She poked her head out a moment later.

"Now what?" she asked

"Give me your hand."

"You think I can pull you up?"

"Don't have to. Just get a grip and give me a little leverage."

Within seconds he was laying in a tangle on the floor of the cabin. She was underneath him somewhere in the dark. He could feel her wet back under his hand.

"Romantic, isn't it?" he whispered.

She tried to scurry out from under him. "I'm beginning to think that danger excites you."

"It's not the danger, it's you. But now that you mention it, you sort of go together."

She ignored the comment. "Would you mind letting me up?"

"No. But first answer a question." She laid her head back, exposing her soft neck.  Despite everything tonight, there was still the faint odor of her perfume on her skin. "Why did you tell me the story about your mother?" Rusty asked, simply, in a quiet voice.

She had her eyes on the door behind her. She swallowed. "It was time. Statute of limitations and all that."

"That's it?" he said.

"That's it," she answered, wriggling under him. He stood up and helped her to her feet. He felt vaguely foolish, as if that was possible under the circumstances. She squeezed his arm and hesitated. "Damn it, Redfield. You're the only one I've ever told that story to. Happy?" He just looked at her. "It must be because you're such a good listener." She took his hand. "Let's go find something to defend ourselves with," she said, and moved to the door. It opened into an unlit hallway. It smelt musty and damp. Distantly they could hear music.

"Mozart. Grieves’ is on a computer. That means he has Internet access. Must be a dish or something I missed."

"And you got all that from Mozart?"

"He always hacked to Mozart."

"Don't we all," she said.

They moved slowly down the thinly carpeted hallway towards the music past several closed side doors. They reached the end of the passage and to their right, a set of stairs going down. Rusty, uncertain about bursting into the main living area, hesitated. Jayne headed into the basement and he followed.

At the bottom of the stairs she turned the knob on a heavy oak door. They entered an inky cool blackness that felt somehow safe. When they closed the door behind them, Rusty noticed a soft whispering sound. He felt the wall and flipped one wall switch among a bank of four. The sight that flooded their vision nearly took their breath away.

A bank of fluorescent lights blinked on to reveal a large, clean space. Walls painted white. The entire room appeared to be shaped from concrete. Against one wall stood a modern electric furnace, next to it a tall shiny blue steel container with pressure gauges. A thick trunk of water lines, electrical, conduit and air ducting entered from the back wall and snaked into various pieces of electrical and control equipment. A complete shop filled one corner. Tools of every description covered one wall including a lathe, metalworking tools and an air compressor. Directly in front of them, set into the concrete was a large steel door at least four inches thick. On it's surface were mounted a number of aluminum bars, sliders and what appeared to be an ornate electronic timer. It all looked slightly dated, like a scene out of a Jules Verne fantasy.

"A bank vault?" asked Rusty, completely amazed to find this elaborate structure hidden under a crumbling backwoods retreat.

"No," said Jayne. "I think it's a bomb shelter." Rusty couldn't find a response to that. He looked at Jayne. Then back at the monstrous door. He stepped up to it and felt the cool surface of the brushed steel.

"You think Grieves family built this in the sixties?"

"Why would they do it now?" she shrugged.

"This thing cost a bloody fortune. Might even be millions. And his father doesn't even live in this country."

"So Grieves says." Jayne pressed at what appeared to be a handle and the door began to swing smoothly open. It was dark inside, but the light from the basement area revealed several bunks, a computer, what appeared to be a small dining area and a gun rack. There were no guns.

"Looks like a bomb shelter to me," whispered Jayne.

Rusty tried to imagine the effort, the planning that went into the appropriately named Last Resort. This wasn't a retreat, a family getaway. It was the ultimate end-of-the-world rich mans lifeboat. Did he intend to bring his family here? Or just hideaway himself? Then Rusty thought about the logistics. A one and a half hour drive from the city – a city that Grieves’ father didn't even live in. This wasn't designed for the average guy waiting to hear sirens wail. This man knew something. He would have time, perhaps days, to make his way here and nestle in for Armageddon. Who the hell was this guy?

Jayne peered inside the oddly disquieting interior of the shelter.  Rusty had moved over to the workshop area to look for an appropriate weapon. He found an orange crow bar. He swung it once to feel its weight then turned to see Grieves at the door smiling.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said, pointing his handgun at the partially opened door.  Jayne froze.

"The computers too old. And the furniture is retro 60's. But you could easily do thirty days in there. It's one of the best. Designed by a Washington architect who specialized for years in shelters for the rich and famous."

"It might protect you from the end of the world but it won't stop the police," answered Jayne, angrily.

"I didn't know you were such a fan of the boys in blue, Jayne. Change of heart?" He moved a few steps closer. "You two are so much fun to play with I almost hate to end this little get together." He pointed the gun at Rusty. "You can put that down now, Redfield."

Rusty dropped the crowbar noisily on the concrete floor and shrugged. "Who is your father anyway?"

Grieves smiled, looking relaxed and confidant. "Daddy is a capitalist. What more can I say? He stole from the plebes and gave to the tax system. What was left he squandered on these kinds of monuments. Made a great playhouse as a kid."

"There's got to be more to it than that," said Jayne loudly, disdainfully, like she was questioning a perp in the witness box.

Grieves blinked. "Just 'cause your daddy didn't build you a bomb shelter is no reason to be upset with me." Then he chuckled to himself. "Might come in handy again some day. Once the
Splicer
hits those Wal-Mart stores, we're all going to need one of these."

"Cut the bullshit, Grieves," moaned Rusty. "I don't have to listen to your games anymore."

"You're out of turn, Redfield. Take a number."

Rusty, with his eyes on Grieves, one hand on his aching spine, lowered his voice. "It's all crap, Jayne. There is no
Splicer
!" Jayne turned to her client. Grieves seemed to blanch, to become unsteady on his feet.

"You don't have the slightest inkling about what you're talking about," said Grieves.

Rusty bent back and sighed. "O.K. Grieves. Let's play it your way. How did you solve the feedback problem?"

Grieves answered a bit too quickly, thought Jayne. "It was a lot simpler than we thought."

"Bullshit. You don't have it. You never had it."

Grieves ground his teeth together. "Shut up, Redfield."

"It's true, Jayne. There never was a
Splicer
. It's all a fake. A Ludd scam. Grieves here doctored up something for a few trade shows. The buyers bought it. The next step was one final public offering and everyone would make a killing. This was 90% marketing and 10% hypnotism."