Splicer (17 page)

Her client’s face was covered in road dust and the stink of Malcolm Grieves clung to him like a bad dream. He slouched in the tiny front seat of Jayne's sports car, filthy and tattered. His knee was bleeding through his jeans.

"You were right about him," Rusty said. "He hates my guts. Judging by the look in his eyes, he would have killed me if he had a weapon. As it is, I think he gave me an infection just by breathing on me."

Jayne, who had followed their confrontation from a distance, pulled slowly into the narrow alley. "I never trusted him. From the first time we met in court."

"You don't trust anyone - you’re a lawyer."

"Exactly." She looked out across the riverbank, the scum of civilization bobbing against the shore. Pop cans. Prophylactics. The bloated body of a dead rat. 

"What did he say?" she asked.

"He hissed at me a lot. Told me I was
going down
. He looked about as far from repentant or afraid as you can get."

"Get used to it. They're all like that."

Rusty sat up and leaned towards her. "How do you do that twenty-four hours a day? How do you spend your entire working life with low-lifes and scum like him that you know are guilty as hell? And then as a bonus, you end up distrusting all the people you
should
have faith in."

"Like you?"

He rubbed his bruised elbow. "My motives, as my grandfather used to say, are as uncomplicated as goose poop."

"Quaint. Was your grandfather ever arrested for murder?"

He jerked his head back. "You think I deserve this?"

She had lit up one of her rare cigarettes. It seemed to Rusty that she did this more to irritate people than to relax herself. To fortify this theory, she blew a mouthful of smoke in his face. "I think you should stop trying to figure me out," she said, building her case. "I don't need your amateur evaluation. "

Rusty slouched down deeper into his seat. "I know you’re worried. That's fine. Take it out on me if you want."

He expected this to calm her. It failed. She blinked at him through the cigarette smoke. "What's with this
Mr. Sensitive
routine all the time? Are you trying to get into my pants, Redfield?"

Rusty sat up, feeling a twinge in his back. He opened the car door. "I think I'll walk." He got out and flipped the door closed then turned back toward the alley where he had chased Grieves. He heard nothing for a moment, then the R8 revved and he heard it move up from behind. She was following him - in reverse. He tried to ignore her and limped back toward the main road. McEwan accelerated and spun the car around to block his way. She pressed on the horn. She looked at him through the glass and gestured for him to get back in.

"This is pretty silly, McEwan. I've heard of ambulance chasers but this is ridiculous."

She rolled down the window and tossed the cigarette. "I'll help you look for Grieves."

"Why should you?"

She shrugged. "It'll help my case."

"You don't have time. I understand that. I've got more than I need. See you in court."

She honked the horn again - a longer blast this time. He stopped and sighed.

"You don't have any sisters do you?" she asked.

He turned to favor his left leg. "I give up. Why?"

"Do you?"

"No."

"I could tell. If you had sisters you wouldn't take everything I said so seriously."

"That's an interesting idea - since
you're
the one taking things too seriously. I didn't ask to get into your pants. I was trying to understand how you think. I'm soft in the head that way."

"You're saying you have absolutely no interest in me - as a woman?"

"Now what the hell is that supposed to mean? You're not a woman, you're a
lawyer
!"

"That's supposed to be a compliment, right?"

Rusty shrugged his shoulders. Looking down at her he saw a young woman with intelligent eyes and a mischievous smile that kept him awake nights. She was sad and cocky all at the same time. She was complicated all right. Problem was - he was attracted to complicated.

"Since you won't leave me alone, how about if you let me buy you a drink. I owe you."

"Fine," she said, pushing his door open. When he climbed in, she slapped rail yard dust from his jacket and wrinkled her nose. "But it would probably be a good idea to stay away from any place that has a dress code."

They drove in silence to a small ice-cream outlet in the older, once upper class, now lower middle section of town.   They decided that in Rusty's present condition; there were very few bars or lounges that would admit him. And the one's that would, they weren't interested in. It was Friday night and the parking lot was full of wagons, four-wheel drives and passenger vans. Patio lanterns lit a picnic area by the lake. Couples wandered down to a white painted railing along an extended dock and lookout. Over the water, the colored lights of Burlington smeared and ran on the moonlit surface of Lake Ontario.

After standing in line and braving the stares of the suburban family crowd, they took their ice cream and walked down to the dock.

"Did you ever meet a client or an associate and feel like you've known that person before?" asked Rusty.

"As in another life?"

He laughed. "How can you have another life when you're not having one now?"

She took a bite from a plastic spoon full of pineapple and dripping chocolate mocha. "Look at this? How can this not be a life? I'm having a life right now!"

"When was the last time you were here?"

"I've never been here."

"Exactly." He sucked on his milkshake, a blueberry trapped in the straw. "What do you work so hard for, Jayne?"

"We driven individuals never ask that question - it slows us down."

"So you never wonder about all of this? As in
why we are here
?
What's this all about, Alfie?"

She tossed her head, clearing her hair from her face. A light breeze from the lake blew it back. "I don't have time to worry about it. Crime never sleeps you know. Anyway, you seem have forgotten your original question"

"You have that effect on me." He rubbed his forehead. "Right. I asked you if you ever met someone for the first time and it seemed like you've known them for years."

"My answer is no."

Rusty leaned down on the railing with his elbows. "Jayne, if you were a man, I'd be having a lot less trouble with this relationship."

She glanced at him sharply. "Maybe you should explain that!"

He thought for a moment. "The minute we met, I liked you. It was like I had known you for years. I admired your rebellious nature, your
I don't give a damn
attitude. And you have a sense of humor too - that doesn't mean you’re fun to be around, it only means you're smart enough to recognize the irony in all of this. I've always found that attractive in people."

There was that secret smile again. "And you don't like humor in a lawyer?"

"I don't like the fact that you try to pretend that nothing matters. If you were a man, we could both go have a game of golf, have a few drinks together, watch the game on TV. We don't have to hug each other to recognize that we like each other’s company. But you? I look at you the wrong way and you think I'm trying to seduce you!"

"Are you?"

"Of course I am, but that has nothing to do with it."

"Hah! It has everything to do with it."

"If you were a cocktail waitress with an IQ of sixty, I might still be tempted to try and pick you up. Why wouldn't I?" He tried again at his milkshake. "I think you're attracted to
the life
. The courtroom and the cops and the unknown are probably what turns you on."

"And the jails. Don't forget the jails. They have a certain ambiance you just can't understate." A boat horn blew in the distance. "You're what my father would have called Section
8 ...
that's Army talk for
lunatic
. Wouldn't he be proud of me now? I'm having ice-cream with a suspected felon and a madman."

"So can you just acknowledge that you like me at least? Just admit it. I'll feel a lot better."

"But I won't."

"Why?"

"It’s not professional."

"Punch out, Jayne. Leave the office for a few seconds."

"O.K. If it will make you shut-up so that I can enjoy the view in silence, fine. I like you. But you’re not my type."

"You just like me?"

"Objection your honor, plaintiff is badgering council."

"I appreciate how difficult this has been for you - revealing a tiny sliver of your feelings this way must have been extremely painful."

His sarcasm struck a nerve. "We can't all be as balanced as you, Redfield. Let's just say that it's not something I do a lot of. Or we did a lot of ... in our family."

"Is that why you mentioned your father?"

She looked away. "You're supposed to be a programmer or a salesman. Where did you get the credentials to psychoanalyze me?" Rusty shrugged his shoulders. "I mentioned my father because he was a very practical, very successful lawyer, who would think that I had gone off the deep end having anything at all to do with a guy like you. Client or otherwise."

"What about your mother? Was she like that too?"

Jayne's eyes seem to de-focus, her hand half-lifted to her mouth. "She was about the bravest person I've ever known. Tried to leave us several times when I was a kid. But my father wouldn't let her. Didn't fit into his plans. At the time I would have been devastated by it, of course. But now I realize it would have been the best thing for her. For all of us. I know she always had the will to do it."

"She left your father?"

"I thought you knew the story?" she said quietly.

"The story?" He was puzzled. He felt suddenly left out of the loop.
Did her father abuse her?

"The famous mister James McEwan? Criminal Lawyer. Powerful. Rich. A lot of enemies. Domineering as hell. Distant. But he wasn't a wife-beater. I would have remembered that. Unfortunately, what he did was worse."

"Worse?"

"He had a way with words - a way with his intellect and his wit that could slice people into ribbons. That's fine in court. But every day of your life, imagine that kind of constant never-ending abuse."

"What happened?"

She turned to him. "You don't know, do you?" He shook his head. "My father was found guilty of her murder after she disappeared without a trace. I was twelve.”

"My God. I'm sorry, Jayne. I didn't ..." said Rusty.

Jayne went back to her sundae. "It was one of those moments you never forget - the look on his face that morning when the jury came back in. Shock, anger, fear, acceptance - all rolling around on his very controlled face. He looked like one of those animatronics US Presidents at Disney World gone haywire."

"Who took care of you?"

"An aunt and uncle who lived in Detroit. Talk about culture shock."

"Is your father still alive?"

She poked at her ice cream. A shiver seemed to go through her. "He had a heart attack in prison. About five years ago."

Rusty touched her shoulder lightly. "He'd be proud of you. I know I would."

She pulled away. "Proud? Give me a break, Redfield. I don't need a five buck psycho assessment," she said, her face betraying a variety of emotions, not unlike the ones she ascribed to the berserk Disney robots.

"You try too hard sometimes. You don't have to prove to me that you're tough. I figured that out a long time ago. Anyway, that's not the part of you that I like the best anyway."

Jayne looked at him quizzically. He could see the moon reflected in her eyes. He moved closer to her, which surprised her slightly, but she didn't pull back. He kissed her on the lips lightly. They were as cool as the breeze off the lake. He tasted strawberry. Then he stood back, admiring her steady gaze. She was looking into his eyes now, searching for more answers.
Were they here?
she seemed to say. Then she leaned forward and kissed him again. She lingered there. He felt something wet and cold on his chest. He took her face in one hand gently, then broke the kiss and looked down. She had spilled her entire ice-cream sundae down the front of his shirt.

The woman, on her knees, in her living room, was terrified.

Nothing in her experience even remotely prepared her for what she felt, for the hollow fear that banged against her chest like the clapper of a bell rung by a lunatic. She tried to control her breathing and quell the rising panic but she was losing the battle.

They had come to her door late. She had already drifted off to sleep when she heard the bell. They were the police, they claimed. They had a quick urgent question to ask her. She didn't even ask to see ID's. They entered her apartment as if it were vacant, seeing through her as if her function, her purpose, was already past tense. She'd been around men like this before who regarded her as if she were a pet, not even worthy of eye-to-eye contact. This made her angry, but they were so serene, so calculating; their professionalism, yes, that was the word ... their professionalism was so apparent it caused the room temperature in the apartment to chill several degrees.

One man, the shorter one, said they needed information. She remembered nodding. She was sure she nodded. When he asked the question, a buzzing filled her head, the kind that preceded a faint. What she was hearing was the blood rushing from her head and extremities, past the auditory canals in her ears and down deep into her chest. Her body was preparing for
flight
or
fight
. Her knees began to shake because she didn't know the answer and sensed that this was dangerous. She saw the challenge in their eyes.

While the shorter man asked her the question again, the other man had moved behind her and roughly grabbed her by the mouth and throat. She tried to scream, both in anger and surprise, but a strong manicured hand smothered her voice. He pushed her down and the other man asked the question again.

Two buttons had been pulled from her nightshirt, her bottoms pushed up to her knees. They had her in a crouch. They released the pressure on her neck and she told them to look where they wanted. The shorter man shook his head sadly and asked the question again. That look of sympathy made her want to scream again. It was the resigned kind of sadness one might see in the face of a relative attending a funeral.

Shay tried struggling. The bigger man pushed her down to her knees and struck her hard near the base of the kidneys. She stopped, noticed two of her teardrops striking the rose-colored carpet below her. A wave of pain rolled up through her chest. She tasted blood.

Again that damned question. For a few seconds the man above her held her loosely as she recovered from the blow, almost tenderly. Then they told her that she would die if she didn't provide the information. Her thoughts raced ahead of her. Somewhere, buried in her subconscious did she know? An off hand comment she didn't think was important?

As she struggled to remember, the shorter man left her field of vision. For a moment she was puzzled, then began to believe they were going to rape her. She tensed, prepared to fight when a hand pulled back the nightshirt from her neck snapping away the remaining buttons. She tried to use her hands to close the front of her top across her chest when she felt something cold around her neck. At first she thought it was a bracelet, then she felt it stretch horribly against her skin and her Adam's apple, pulling tighter.

Her breath was being cut off. She reached for it, a slim steel line no bigger than string being pulled with angry strength against her neck. It was cutting into her skin. She tried to cry, to choke, to breathe. One fingernail broke against the steel buried into the flesh. The line bit deep into her, making her head spin and her eyes flare in their sockets. Then, surprisingly, it was released. Cold air flooded into her lungs. She shuddered and gasped, the man pushing her down again towards the carpet.

They were not interested in her, she realized, only an answer to a question, which they asked one more time. She shook her head, again felt the awful machine-like tug of the steel against her whole frame. This time she felt the warmth of blood against her neck where the line had separated the skin. She was already dizzy.

She looked down to see a pattern of her blood on the new carpet - trackless broadloom she had chosen so carefully only a few weeks earlier - carpet that complimented the drapes and matched the new couch. Her brain exploded with animal fear.

Shay felt her bladder let go so shame could mix with her despair.

Twice more they tried, pulling harder each time, then sensing that she didn't have the answer, that she was beyond any real help, and being professional, they held the wire against her windpipe long enough until she died. Then, just to be sure, they checked the apartment for the information they sought.