by Eric Juneau
Barrett tugged on the chains. “I think we’re ready to go.”
“Everyone step back,” Flint said, pushing the button to start raising the sculpture.
Dee held her breath.
The chains tightened, and the front of the sculpture rose. Flint commanded the crane to move back slowly as it pulled the fasthmouth up. The sculpture rocked onto its base, and Flint stopped the crane.
Everyone cheered.
Dee was relieved to see the crime scene cleaners had done a good job of cleaning the sculpture and the floor.
“Now, let’s test it,” Flint said. He lowered the chains a foot, and the sculpture did not budge.
Barrett slapped the sculpture’s back leg. “This isn’t going anywhere.”
Tallis flew up and landed on the sculpture’s head, rocking it forward. Squawking, Tallis flew back up. The force of his take-off pushed the sculpture back onto the chains.
Dee gasped. Father Nyakuni groaned. Barrett put his head in his hands.
The chains held.
Flint used the crane control to pull the sculpture back into place. “Careful, Tallis! It wasn’t designed to be climbed on.”
Rigel hopped onto the bench in front of the fastmouth sculpture. Flint returned from putting up the crane and sat next to him.
“What do you think?” Flint asked.
“It was a great work,” Rigel said.
“Was? Why not is?”
Rigel gestured towards the rear of the sculpture with one front foot. “It’s missing its tail. A fastmouth without a tail cannot see or speak. It would go insane. I loved it when it was a sculpture of an active fastmouth. Now it’s a sculpture of a crazy one.”
“Would the fastmouth ambassador want it?”
“Not without the tail. Why?”
“I want to sell it.”
Barrett joined in the conversation. “You shouldn’t have any trouble selling it. It’s famous.”
Flint sighed. “I know. But I don’t want someone to buy it because it was a famous murder weapon. I want them to love it as art.”
Barrett patted Flint on the shoulder. “Well, if you need any help finding an art agent, let me know. Most art agents are dicks who wouldn’t recognize brilliance if it blazed into their eyes. Most of the rest pretend not to recognize it so they can scoop works up cheap and sell them for lots more later. But I know a few honest ones.”
“Thanks, Barrett, I may take you up on that.”
Dee looked around for Tallis.
He was circling above Boots’ workspace.
“Tallis, what are you doing?” Dee called.
“I’m looking for Rigel’s missing tail.”
Rigel circled his tail and showed his teeth. “My tail isn’t missing. And it’s an insult to claim it is.”
Tallis landed next to the bench, singing a soothing tune. “I’m sorry, Rigel. I won’t do it again. Are we in harmony?”
Rigel closed his mouth. “Your apology outshines the insult. We are in harmony. Why are you looking for the sculpture’s missing tail?”
“The murderer can’t have been stupid enough to carry it away; it would be compelling evidence against them. So it’s got to be around here somewhere. Want to help me look?”
Rigel hopped off the bench. “Yes.”
Dee followed the two aliens into the workshop area. “I’m going to leave the translation tablet here and go help Yen and Ancelin with the food tables.”
“Thanks, Dee,” Tallis said. “And if you can, try to mention the missing tail to them. Someone has to know where it is.”
Leaving the two aliens to their search, Dee walked over to Ancelin and Yen.
“Hi, Dee,” Ancelin said. “We’re letting the guys do the heavy lifting while we look for good pictures of Boots’ other sculptures to enlarge.”
Yen glanced over to the sculpture before turning to Dee. “And I didn’t want to go near where ….” She swallowed hard.
They were interrupted by Cricket Ericson opening the warehouse door. “Delivery,” he called out.
Everyone converged on the front door.
“Mister Flint,” Cricket said. “I am so sorry about Mr. Boots. But I didn’t do it, I swear! The police have been grilling me and grilling me, but, please, sir, you’ve got to believe me, I would never murder anyone, and double never for Mister Boots. He was a great customer who was always generous at Christmas and who never asked for no ‘special’ deliveries, unlike some of his neighbors I could mention.”
He glared at Ancelin and Barrett. Ancelin blushed, and Barrett clenched his fists.
Cricket continued, “I don’t know where Mister Boots got the drugs in his pocket, really I don’t.”
Flint put his hands on Cricket’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Thank you, Cricket. I believe you. Let’s bring in the groceries, okay?”
They all trooped outside and pulled boxes of groceries out the back of Cricket’s van. After Dee grabbed the last box, Rigel jumped inside.
“What’s that alien up to?” Cricket asked.
“He’s looking for the missing part of the sculpture that fell on Boots. We haven’t found it in the warehouse, so Rigel and Tallis think the murderer took it.”
Cricket’s eyes widened. “I don’t have it! I told you, I didn’t do it!”
Dee patted his shoulder, looking at Ancelin and Yen. Neither had reacted to her comment. “I know. He’s looking everywhere. Shall we get these boxes inside?”
With all of them working, they quickly had the cheese and drinks in the fridge, and the paper goods and breads and cookies stationed where they’d need to be tomorrow.
Rigel jumped over to Dee and nudged her towards the door.
“Wait, let me get the translation tablet,” Dee protested.
Tallis landed next to the glass door to the office and squawked. Rigel pushed Dee towards Tallis.
“Okay, okay, I’m going, I get the message,” Dee said. “But we should tell Flint we’re leaving first.”
After saying goodbye to Flint, Dee went out to the car with the aliens. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she turned on the car’s translation tablet and asked, “What was that about?”
“Did you talk about the sculpture’s missing tail?” Tallis asked.
“Yes, I did.”
“Good. We’ve set the tablet to record the warehouse,” Rigel said. “When the murderer returns the sculpture’s tail, we’ll catch them in the act.”
“Not if they sneak in when it’s dark.”
“We’re not recording it as you see it. We’re recording in infrared, sound, and radio.”
“But we might not be able to tell who it is in infrared.”
“I can,” said Rigel.
Dee thought of a great headline: ALIENS IDENTIFY MURDERER. She hoped the recording worked.
¤
The next morning, Rigel and Tallis were anxious to check their recording, so they arrived at the warehouse at 7 AM. Detective Martinez was already there.
Tallis flew through the museum into the workshop. “It’s here,” Tallis said, gleefully.
Dee, Rigel, and Detective Martinez joined him in the workshop. Dee couldn’t spot the sculpture’s tail. “Where is it?” she asked.
“Flush against the front side of the rubble bin back there,” Tallis said.
“Damn. No one would notice that. We could have just missed it,” Detective Martinez said.
“I noticed it,” said Tallis. “It’s obvious from overhead. It wasn’t there yesterday.”
Detective Martinez pulled on some latex gloves, reached into the bin, and pulled out the tail. “Let’s see if it fits in the sculpture.”
Dee and Tallis followed him over to the sculpture, while Rigel reviewed the infrared recording. Detective Martinez looked at both ends of the tail. “Does this end look like it’s broken?” he asked.
“I thought one end had a metal sleeve to screw into a socket,” Dee said. “But this one doesn’t. That end does look scratched up, though.”
Detective Martinez climbed onto the sculpture’s base to look into the socket. “I think the sleeve may still be in the socket.” After wiggling the tail back into the sculpture, he pulled down on it to force it back out. “Why would someone pull on the tail?”
Tallis squawked, flew up into the air, and hovered over the sculpture’s head. “Think about how Boots was killed. He was knocked out, pulled under this sculpture, and the sculpture was pulled down on top of him.”
“But how?” Dee asked.
“I showed you yesterday. The murderer climbed onto the back of the sculpture and slid himself forward until he was sitting near enough to the fastmouth’s head to unbalance the sculpture.”
“And how does that explain the tail?”
“Your species can’t fly.”
“Either he tried to use the tail to pull himself onto the sculpture or he kicked it as he climbed up.” Rigel demonstrated pulling on the absent tail.
“You both keep saying he,” Dee said.
“Yes. The recording proves it was Barrett,” Rigel said.
“But why?”
Rigel jumped over the gallery ropes, showing his teeth. “Let’s ask him.”
¤
Barrett danced through the office doorway. He flung open his arms, which were once again covered with Ancelin’s designs. “My friends! Would you happen to have any juice? We’ve drunk all of mine.”
Her heart pounding, Dee tried to act like she hadn’t just heard Barrett was responsible for Boots’ death. “We don’t have any juice, but we do have the fastmouth sculpture’s tail.”
“Oh, good, you found it.”
“Of course we found it. You brought it back last night,” Rigel said.
“Why do you think that?” Barrett crossed his arms.
“Because I saw you on the video.”
“That’s impossible!” Barrett flushed.
“The video is in infrared.” Rigel circled his tail and showed his teeth.
Barrett whirled away from Rigel, holding up his hands. “Okay, I did have the tail, but only because Boots gave it to me after he broke it off. I was going to sell it now that Boots is more famous, but after yesterday, I thought having it might make you think I killed Boots, so I returned it.”
“In the middle of the night. In the dark,” Detective Martinez said.
“What’s wrong with that?” Barrett asked.
“You also reacted when Tallis showed how you knocked over the sculpture,” said Rigel.
Barrett flushed. “Reacted? What do you mean?”
“I see in infrared. You changed color.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
Detective Martinez removed the handcuffs from his belt. “But the fact that you used the gold you removed from the sculpture to pay off your drug dealer does. Barrett Kass, you are under arrest.”
Barrett turned to run.
Rigel jumped and landed on him, knocking him to the ground. “Why?”
“It’s your fault! Boots was rich and famous because he sculpted you, and if you had let me paint you, I would be rich and famous, too! I had bills to pay!”
“What about Ancelin?” Dee asked.
“Ancelin?” Barrett sounded surprised. “She has plenty of customers and money.”
“Did she help you?”
Barrett looked confused for a moment, but then his eyes cleared. “No one helped me, that’s why I had to knock Boots out before dragging him under the sculpture. When I paid our dealer off, I got some X and invited Ancelin over for a late party.”
“You had a party after killing Boots?” Rigel lowered his head to Barrett’s face and bared his teeth.
“Don’t eat me!” Barrett started sobbing.
Rigel stepped off him. “I would never eat you.”
Detective Martinez cuffed Barrett and took him out to the police car.
Rigel leaned against Dee. “It wasn’t our fault.”
“He was out of harmony,” Tallis said. “The fault is in him, and he should be destroyed. But human harmony is for you to determine. Since you and Flint want your courts to determine his fate, so be it.”
As they left to prepare for Boots’ funeral and to remember their friend, Dee thought about what Tallis had said: HUMAN HARMONY IS FOR YOU TO DETERMINE.
It would make a good headline.
Antha Ann Adkins lives in Friendswood, Texas with her husband, two children, and an ever-growing collection of books. Her stories have been published in Perihelion SF, Interstellar Fiction, Goldfish Grimm’s Spicy Fiction Sushi, and The Town Drunk. She blogs about Space & Aliens, her favorite things to write about, at acubedsf.com.
THE BONE POINTER
By Chuck Robertson
CHARLES RESTED A HAND ON THE ABORIGINE’S FOREHEAD. It felt hot, like a sun-baked rock at high noon. He looked up at the doctor standing over the patient. “Surely there must be something you can do for him.”
The unfortunate Native lay on the cot, trembling like a twig in the wind and gasping for every breath. After a few minutes of what must have been sheer agony, he stopped breathing and went limp. The doctor bent over and breathed into the patient’s mouth. He pounded on the chest. Still, the Aborigine showed no sign of life.
“I can’t do anything more for him.” The doctor pulled the covers over the body. “He’s dead.”
Charles scratched his head in disbelief. “Just like that? You didn’t even try to treat him for God’s sake!”
“I can’t treat a man where there’s no illness. Maybe there’s something to those cockamamie stories after all.”
“Surely you don’t actually believe in bone pointers, do you Doctor?”
“Not in the way you think. Consider, though, this man’s Aborigine culture. He believed in the power of the Kurdaitcha, and knew he had broken one of his tribe’s taboos. When that witch doctor caught up with him and pointed that ghastly bone, it was all over in his own mind. The mere belief killed him.”
“I still don’t see how just believing in something like that can kill you.”
“The state of a patient’s mind has a lot to do with it. When they finally brought him to me, he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for several days. The dehydration alone was enough to kill him in this heat. Add to that his heart rate was higher than anything I’ve seen in a long time, and he was a shambles of a man. It’s no wonder to me that he didn’t make it.”
“I still would never have believed this had I not seen it with my own eyes.”
Charles lifted the flap of the medical tent. The sun blazed from directly overhead. He hurried to the mess tent, hoping to still catch lunch.
A hoard of shirtless men labored in the valley below, filling the air with the ceaseless clanking of sledgehammers pounding on railroad spikes. A parallel set of rails stretched into infinity across the sun-baked Australian desert. Although the tent was no more than twenty yards away, in the scorching heat it felt more like a mile. Charles stuck his head inside, to find the cooks already taking up the food.
Reginald stared at him from the executive table. “Late again, little brother. But you always were the compassionate one, actually caring about those savages. Mark my words, it shall be your downfall someday.”
Charles ground his jaw as his brother’s words simmered deep inside. He hoped Reginald didn’t notice the gesture. The last thing he wanted to do was to encourage more of his brother’s gloating.
“So, how is the Aborigine?” Reginald asked.
“He’s dead, as if you care.”
“Actually, I don’t. We can just hire more workmen. But what I do care about is your calculations were a foot off. You’re lucky dear old dad left me the controlling share of the company. Just imagine what would have happened had we actually tried to lay a rail line with your figures.”
“Everybody makes mistakes.”
“Even a foot of deviation is enough to derail an entire locomotive. Does it not bother you at all?”
“No. I know I’m a good en
gineer even if I make the occasional error.”
“I think it does. Do you know how I can tell? You are grinding your jaw again.” Reginald shook his right index finger at Charles, as if he were a five-year old child. “I tell you, little brother, there’s nothing you can get past me.”
With that gesture, he accidentally knocked over the saltshaker. A dash of salt spilled onto the table. Reginald immediately pinched some of it with two fingers and threw the salt over his right shoulder.
“I still cannot believe you’re superstitious. You’re an engineer like me, for God’s sake,” Charles said.
“Believe what you want, little brother. I’m never one to tempt the spirits of nature.”
My brother, the superstitious ass. If only the bone pointer could have done the same to Reginald. Then came the realization, Well, perhaps one can.
¤
Charles waited until the dark of night to approach Jack Stocker’s ragged tent on the outskirts of camp. The location reeked of opium, and the sounds of women performing obscene acts with the workmen emitted from inside. The largest Aborigine Charles had ever seen stood at the front flap. He carried a wicked looking club and a perpetual frown covered his face.
Charles stared up at the Native. “I wish to see Mister Stocker.”
“Wait here.” The Aborigine stepped inside.
Charles turned for a quick look behind, and then to each side. The mere act of being observed here would be enough to tarnish his reputation for years. A side flap lifted and out staggered a workman and a woman of the lowest repute, fortunately under some sort of intoxication. Whether they recognized him or not was irrelevant; in their current state they would never remember him the next day.
The front flipped open, bringing him within inches of a stubble-faced, nearly toothless wretch of a man. “Why Charles, what brings you to my ‘umble abode?” The stench of beer from his breath almost masked the smell of his perspiration.
“Forgive me for bothering you this time of night.”
“’Tis no problem at all. My most profitable jobs come by night.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not here to shut you down. Even I have to admit your… ah…business is good for the morale of the workmen. I need to… to… .” Charles froze, unable to force the words out.