Pavlov's Dogs Read Online Free

happening up that way?”
    “Who knows?” Ken yelled over the horns that had joined the vocal cacophony. “Maybe it’s still happening.”
    Jorge ducked his head back into the Blazer. “I’m gonna go take a look.” He stepped down to the asphalt.
    “If you’re not back here by the time it starts moving...”
    “I’ll shoot your tires and we’ll both walk out of here,” Jorge said.
    “Better take that then.” Ken gestured to the 9mm. “Don’t want an automatic in the car, anyway. Open alcohol’s bad enough. I got binoculars, if you want. Check in the back seat.”
    Grunting, Jorge leaned the passenger seat forward and craned into the back. He paused for a moment and whistled. “You got a rifle in here, too?”
    Ken turned to check, and yes, he had left his rifle in its case back there. “Huh,” he said. “Forgot that was back there. I tried to sell it last weekend.”
    “What is it?”
    Ken scowled. “Forget it. You’ll just try to talk me down on price. Look for the—”
    “I see ’em,” Jorge said, snatching at a pair of black binoculars. “Gun me, bro.”
    Laughing, Ken handed the automatic over to Jorge. “Call me when you see what the hell it is.” He pulled his cell phone from the center console and plugged it in.
    “ Si, señor.”
    Ken chuckled at his friend and watched him amble up the shoulder of the road. A lot of people at work couldn’t stand Jorge and his sense of humor, but Ken found him funny and refreshing, and after all, Ken was the contractor and could decide what was what and who was who. Jorge wasn’t afraid to say what was on his mind, no matter how asinine it might sound to everybody else. Zero brain-to-mouth filter. Ken’s ex-wife couldn’t stand him. Neither could Jorge’s ex-wife.
    Then, realizing that he didn’t have anybody to talk to now, Ken turned the radio back on. The first thing he heard was news of more insurgent activity (or whatever) in the Middle East.
    “Whole world’s falling apart.”

CHAPTER THREE
     
    SOFT, ANONYMOUS MUSIC filtered through the sounds of people at a meal; the clink of a fork on a plate, the murmur of conversation, the ringing chime of glass on glass. There was an occasional hiccup of restrained laughter.
    The long, rectangular room played host to dozens of scattered oval tables, around which sat groups of people. The men and women were equally represented, and it was clear by their groupings which table was which.
    Dr. Crispin, who had shed his lab coat, stepped into the room and waved his new neurotechnician forward. “This, Dr. Donovan, is the dining room. We like to call it Spago’s Stepsister, but don’t let the chef hear you.”
    Donovan nodded absently as he took in the various cliques in the dining room and the way they had arranged themselves. He didn’t know who they were, not yet, but from how they sat with each other, and from their interactions, he had a good idea of who the linchpin personalities were for each department. He nodded to people as Dr. Crispin pulled him to the table nearest the doors at the end, the one with two empty seats.
    He made a bet with himself as to which seat was Dr. Crispin’s.
    He won.
    Crispin stood behind his chair, gripping the back of it tightly. He cleared his throat, then cleared it again, and the conversation dried up around the room.
    “Thank you. I would like you all to meet Doctor Cornelius Donovan, our new neurotechnician. He comes highly recommended, and I would appreciate it if you all made him feel welcome.”
    Donovan, suddenly on the spot, turned and offered a half-hearted wave to the group. If Crispin wanted him to feel welcome, he would have skipped the part where he introduced Donovan by first name.
    “Now then,” Crispin said, taking his seat at the place setting. “Please, do introduce yourselves.”
    From table to table, people glanced at each other. Dr. Donovan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but couldn’t get comfortable in the