Splicer by Theo Cage, Russ Smith Read Free Book Online

"Smile when you say that, Koz."
    Kozak was getting a cigarette ready. "I'd love to, but I left my dentures in the car." He winced then, some internal pain stabbing at his insides and Otter dropped the subject. He was thinking that though it was a cop’s biggest fear, it was infinitely better to just buy it quick in some grimy back alley. And it certainly wasn't outside of the scope of possibility.  It never hurt to think positive.

CHAPTER 11
     
    A covey of pigeons threw themselves up into the muddy sky.
    As the sound of their wings faded, Grieves worked the lock on the iron door that read WATKINS SUPPLIES SINCE 1891. He stood on an ancient loading platform, the rails just beyond it rusted from lack of use. The door, approximately ten feet across and eight feet high, rolled away from the opening on dirty steel tracks. Another pigeon, alarmed by the scream of metal against dry brick, took ragged flight.
    "Filthy flying rats," spat out Grieves. He looked about, listened for a noise from the rail yard beyond and then stepped into the dark and pulled the heavy door shut. He locked the inside latch with the same padlock, his actions practiced in the darkness. He felt to his right and flipped a switch. A lone fluorescent tube flickered and buzzed as if annoyed at being woken up.
    Along the back brick wall stood an oil-soaked workbench, which Grieves stepped up to, laying his package down. He pulled the brown paper bag away to reveal a new laptop computer, an expensive Sony with a swivel color screen. He swung up the display, which instantly flickered and came to life in a brilliant flash of reds and blues.
    He reached behind a row of dusty bottles and retrieved a modular jack connected to a plastic cable. He snapped the jack into the rear of the computer, struck some keys and then moved into the dark north corner of the space.
    On the floor lay a crumpled sleeping bag, a cardboard filing cabinet and a small camping refrigerator. He opened the door of the fridge and pulled out a drink box, shook it rapidly, and made his way back to the bench along the crumbling cement floor.
    Grieves' father had instructed him years ago to buy this warehouse. Grieves assumed it was some kind of cagey investment move, because to this day, he couldn't be sure if it had ever been used. His part in the purchase was peripheral - just a messenger really. After all, in matters of finance, Grieves couldn't really be trusted. This made the tired programmer laugh to himself. By those standards anyway, he was doing quite well, thank you very much .
    His father was an importer; an agent who made his home in a handful of American cities, returning occasionally to Toronto or his cabin at Red Lake in the wilds of northern Ontario. He claimed he came back only to renew ties with business acquaintances, but somehow he always found time for his favorite hobby - intimidating and berating his youngest son.
    Grieves had felt at times in his life that he almost understood his father, but these were troubling experiences; the fear he saw in the eyes of one of his father's subordinates once when Grieves was a young teenager; the harsh language he used, his hand cupped over the phone or behind a closed door - using a voice that didn't feel like it was attached to anyone he knew, like the voice of a cruel stranger.
    Being the youngest child also drew an unnecessary harsh scrutiny from his father that Grieves would often shrink from. And it was always there, even when the old man was a thousand miles away.
    They spoke twice a year, always on the phone; the older man's voice mixed with the sound of airport noise or the traffic sounds of cities like Berlin or Washington. Grieves believed at one point that he could actually identify most major cities by the sound they made over a phone line.
    The last time they had met in person was five years ago, probably longer. Time flies when you’re planning the destruction of mankind as we know it, Grieves mumbled to himself. He made a