Read Online Splicer by Theo Cage, Russ Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Theo Cage, Russ Smith
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Crime, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense, Technothrillers
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pressed a key and the screen filled with rows of text.
I'M STILL HERE. I'M STILL WAITING.
YOU NEED TO ANSWER THIS MESSAGE NOW!
THE TERMINATOR.
Rosenblatt rubbed his jowls, and then typed carefully.
IT'S GOING TO TAKE LONGER THAN EXPECTED
DUE TO THE HOLD UP ON THE SALE.
NR
He had changed his password and the system password every day for a week. But it wasn't working. Grieves kept getting through.
I COULD CARE LESS. YOU HAVE RESOURCES.
I'M NOT WAITING ANYMORE.
THE TERMINATOR.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?
NR.
I MEAN I NEED THE MONEY NOW.
I'VE LEARNED ABOUT A CLEVER TRICK WITH A GUITAR STRING.
DOES JOANNIE LIKE THE GUITAR?
THE TERMINATOR.
Joannie was Rosenblatt's wife. GUITAR STRING? Something about that casual reference to a weapon they had once talked about made his flesh prickle. He was dealing with a complete psychotic. And he had helped design him. Rosenblatt stared at the screen dumbly. Saving these files could only incriminate him. He had to erase them - insure they were gone permanently. He looked at the words on the computer screen - they glowed like deadly radioactive bits of unburied madness.
I'M NOT YOUR ENEMY!
NR.
Rosenblatt punched the virtual keys far harder than necessary. Seconds passed without any reply. Rosenblatt rubbed his eyes, heard a distant voice down the hallway. Madness. He was plugged into someone’s madness . He pounded the screen with his fist hoping the glass would shatter. Then the letters on the screen jumped.
PROVE IT. WIRE THE MONEY TO MY ACCOUNT
BY TUESDAY NOON. DON'T BE LATE!
Norman thought that was the whole message. Then...
THIS IS GETTING TO BE A LOT OF FUN.
AND JUST THINK, I LEARNED IT ALL FROM YOU...
THANKS TEACH.
His heart was tripping away in his soft barrel chest like an old diesel engine. He wiped the perspiration away from his forehead and tried to steady his hands.
How had this started? How did I get involved?
The idea had come to Rosenblatt just like all of his other fantasies. And he simply didn't push them away like others might. He learned that letting insistent thoughts in, inviting them to sit down at the next barstool and buying them a cool one, could be appropriate and valuable.
For example, Rosenblatt didn't believe that thinking about adultery was anywhere even close to actually DOING IT. And he didn't believe that dwelling on the idea of harshly pushing his curvy secretary to the floor of the sales office, tearing her clothes away and giving her a tongue bath was improper - or would lead to the act itself. The ideas came. He entertained them. They were gone. No harm done.
In the same way, last year, Rosenblatt began to see Ludd's death as a possibility, his murder as a justified act - only in his thoughts, of course. The concept, rough-hewn as it was, gave him certain contentment. He saw other benefits unfold. His staff would be happier. They liked him better than Ludd; he didn't drive them incessantly. He usually went home at 5 o'clock. Ludd was usually the last to leave. Ludd often pulled all-nighters. With Ludd gone GeneFab could be sold, likely at its peak value. After all, how long would it be before a dozen clones of their products, hastily assembled in Taiwan or Sri Lanka, blew a hole through their market share? Ludd refused to see this. He was ignoring history.
They talked about selling. Actually, Rosenblatt talked about selling, Ludd just nodded abstractly. The time wasn't right. When The Splicer is functional. When hell gets astro-turf.
How do people do it? thought Rosenblatt. With his salary and dividends he made over a million last year. How did the average Joe survive on fifty thou? What did he do with his money? He bought some land, a couple of mutual funds, went on a couple of trips to the Keys, paid a fortune in taxes. He needed real money. If he was going to be able to set up his wife and kids and then play house in Florida with a harem of nubile gold diggers, he
I'M STILL HERE. I'M STILL WAITING.
YOU NEED TO ANSWER THIS MESSAGE NOW!
THE TERMINATOR.
Rosenblatt rubbed his jowls, and then typed carefully.
IT'S GOING TO TAKE LONGER THAN EXPECTED
DUE TO THE HOLD UP ON THE SALE.
NR
He had changed his password and the system password every day for a week. But it wasn't working. Grieves kept getting through.
I COULD CARE LESS. YOU HAVE RESOURCES.
I'M NOT WAITING ANYMORE.
THE TERMINATOR.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?
NR.
I MEAN I NEED THE MONEY NOW.
I'VE LEARNED ABOUT A CLEVER TRICK WITH A GUITAR STRING.
DOES JOANNIE LIKE THE GUITAR?
THE TERMINATOR.
Joannie was Rosenblatt's wife. GUITAR STRING? Something about that casual reference to a weapon they had once talked about made his flesh prickle. He was dealing with a complete psychotic. And he had helped design him. Rosenblatt stared at the screen dumbly. Saving these files could only incriminate him. He had to erase them - insure they were gone permanently. He looked at the words on the computer screen - they glowed like deadly radioactive bits of unburied madness.
I'M NOT YOUR ENEMY!
NR.
Rosenblatt punched the virtual keys far harder than necessary. Seconds passed without any reply. Rosenblatt rubbed his eyes, heard a distant voice down the hallway. Madness. He was plugged into someone’s madness . He pounded the screen with his fist hoping the glass would shatter. Then the letters on the screen jumped.
PROVE IT. WIRE THE MONEY TO MY ACCOUNT
BY TUESDAY NOON. DON'T BE LATE!
Norman thought that was the whole message. Then...
THIS IS GETTING TO BE A LOT OF FUN.
AND JUST THINK, I LEARNED IT ALL FROM YOU...
THANKS TEACH.
His heart was tripping away in his soft barrel chest like an old diesel engine. He wiped the perspiration away from his forehead and tried to steady his hands.
How had this started? How did I get involved?
The idea had come to Rosenblatt just like all of his other fantasies. And he simply didn't push them away like others might. He learned that letting insistent thoughts in, inviting them to sit down at the next barstool and buying them a cool one, could be appropriate and valuable.
For example, Rosenblatt didn't believe that thinking about adultery was anywhere even close to actually DOING IT. And he didn't believe that dwelling on the idea of harshly pushing his curvy secretary to the floor of the sales office, tearing her clothes away and giving her a tongue bath was improper - or would lead to the act itself. The ideas came. He entertained them. They were gone. No harm done.
In the same way, last year, Rosenblatt began to see Ludd's death as a possibility, his murder as a justified act - only in his thoughts, of course. The concept, rough-hewn as it was, gave him certain contentment. He saw other benefits unfold. His staff would be happier. They liked him better than Ludd; he didn't drive them incessantly. He usually went home at 5 o'clock. Ludd was usually the last to leave. Ludd often pulled all-nighters. With Ludd gone GeneFab could be sold, likely at its peak value. After all, how long would it be before a dozen clones of their products, hastily assembled in Taiwan or Sri Lanka, blew a hole through their market share? Ludd refused to see this. He was ignoring history.
They talked about selling. Actually, Rosenblatt talked about selling, Ludd just nodded abstractly. The time wasn't right. When The Splicer is functional. When hell gets astro-turf.
How do people do it? thought Rosenblatt. With his salary and dividends he made over a million last year. How did the average Joe survive on fifty thou? What did he do with his money? He bought some land, a couple of mutual funds, went on a couple of trips to the Keys, paid a fortune in taxes. He needed real money. If he was going to be able to set up his wife and kids and then play house in Florida with a harem of nubile gold diggers, he
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