by Theo Cage
"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 its 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."
"Redfield, you talk like someone who knows something. But you know nothing. You were like the sorcerer’s apprentice. A mouse next to a god. You have no business, no intellectual right, to even comment on a chain of events so far out of your ability to ..." Grieves stopped, a blue tinge to his lips. His cheeks were purple.
"If you had it, you wouldn't be upstairs right now still trying to write the damn thing." With that, automatically, Grieves' eyes went up to the ceiling and Jayne launched herself at the basement door. Rusty yelled out her name but it was too late. What he didn't realize was that Jayne wasn't aiming herself at Grieves. She was reaching for the light switches. When she slammed into the opposite wall, she slapped her hand down across them and the room reverted to an absolute, numbing blackness.
Rusty was frozen in a crouch, afraid to move his feet. He felt the crowbar with his fingers. They could hear Grieves, swinging his gun in the dark. Then he fired, guessing that any hit would be to his advantage. The bullet struck the hard steel door of the shelter, then ricocheted with a piercing whine, the bullet spinning through the air. Rusty squatted, gripped the crowbar hard, hesitated for a second, waiting for the next shot, then flung the tool hard in Grieves' direction.
Jayne was somewhere close to Grieves. But Rusty guessed she was lower, perhaps even on the floor. He threw the bar high, heard it whistle through the air, hoping it wouldn't strike her by mistake. There was a sickening thud and the crisp sound of skull bones giving way. A body went down, the air squeezing out of someone’s lungs.
“Jayne?” whispered Rusty, anxious to know who he had hit with the crowbar.
“You brained Grieves,” she said. “I’m alright.”
Rusty ran toward the door, stumbled on Grieves who was crouched over, and cracked his head against Jayne who was now standing against the wall. She groaned out loud. He scrambled for the door and pushed his way up into the stairs. Jayne had her hand on the back of his sleeve, right behind him. He stomped through the main floor entrance into the kitchen and past it, into the great room, which included a large hand-built granite fireplace. Rusty stopped at the front door, then turned back to a set of sofas around a coffee table. On it sat a personal computer and a small desk lamp. To Jayne's surprise, he turned, picked up the monitor screen and main computer box in both arms, wrenched the power cords from the units, and flung them at the base of the fireplace where they disintegrated into glass, plastic and small machine screws. The sound of their destruction seemed to energize Rusty who flew out through the heavy front door, Jayne close behind, out into the still raging rain storm.
CHAPTER 87
The lawyer and her redheaded client stood in the stand of pine two hundred yards from the front door of the cabin. The door was flapping on its hinges in the wind, slamming against the walls of the cabin. There was still no sign of Grieves.
"He'll go absolutely nuts when he sees his computer. There's nothing worse that I could have done to him." Rusty was still out of breath. He sounded slightly crazed. "That move you made on him was pretty gutsy."
"Pretty desperate, you mean," answered Jayne, crouching beside him.
"Where is he anyway?" she asked.
"Maybe you killed him."
"What if I did?"
"You probably saved our lives."
"But what happens to me?"
"Self defense. I was there, I saw it."
"I've heard that before."
Jayne rubbed the rain out of her eyes. “Rusty, I told Kozak."
"Told him what?"
"Told him that you were with me the night that Shay ... during the homicide."
Rusty exhaled, then reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder. "Think that will change anything?"
"They sent Otter to New York," Jayne answered, but Rusty didn't understand. "They switched the investigation over! You're no longer the prime suspect."
"Which means?"
"Which means you're off the hook. You get your life back."
He shrugged. "That's pretty funny considering our circumstances."
Jayne pushed her hair back out of her face. Her mascara had run, forming two dark wounds under her eyes. "He must be hurt. We should have stayed."
"Forget it. The last thing I wanted to do was wrestle the guy in the dark for his handgun. When he comes out, if he comes out, we'll follow him. Take him from behind."
"Why don't we just leave?"
"If he doesn't come out in ten minutes, that's not a bad plan. But without a car, it won't be easy."
"Anything would be better than waiting here." Another crack of thunder made her jump. "Was that true what you said about the Splicer?"
"I told you, I always tell the truth."
/>
"Not exactly. This is the first I've heard that Grieves never solved the project."
"Grieves is a complex guy stuck in a weird situation." Rusty laughed then, or rather chuckled through clenched teeth. "Another way of saying shit head. He hates the idea of the Splicer. Hates everything it stands for. But hated even more the idea that he can't solve the riddle. His whole self-worth is wrapped up in computer programs. It's the only thing he does well. Or did."
"So he didn't want to admit he couldn't figure out how to make the Splicer tick?"
"He lied. Said he had it. But he wouldn't let anyone else have it either. The thought of never solving the problem was driving him crazy. And the fear of what would happen if he did solve it was turning him into a guilt-ridden psychotic. He came up here to finish it, and then figure out how to make sure that no one else ever figured it out. Then he found out that somebody else was on to him, besides us and the police."
"Like whoever killed Ludd."
Rusty lifted one foot out of the water, then another, shaking his shoes. "And Shay. I guess they thought if Grieves was hiding codes then others might know about it. Like me. But they couldn't find me so they found Shay."
"It's not your fault, Rusty!"
"Oh, I don't know about that. I knew Grieves was lying but I didn't exactly go public with the news." If anything, the rain seemed to fall harder. The sound of it striking the hard wet ground was like an ominous drum roll.
Jayne shivered. "Why didn't you?"
"Me? The accused felon? Who would believe me? It would just look like sour grapes. Besides, I wanted to see where it would all go. It all seemed like too much fun. And it drove Ludd crazy."
"It still doesn't make sense."
"How about this then? I had the codes they were looking for. The whole program was useless, but parts of the code worked brilliantly. I was pretty sure I could sell them for enough to live comfortably. What I forgot was - why buy them when you can just take them."
Jayne's breath caught, hitched in her throat. A shape was hunched in the doorway of the cabin. Then it moved slowly down the stairs and into the yard. It was Grieves. He was hurt but alive. And he was carrying a rifle.