The Widowmaker Unleashed: Volume 3 of the Widowmaker Trilogy

by Mike Resnick

  The man stared at him. “Even the Widowmaker can't take fourteen of us.”

  “There was a time when I could,” answered Nighthawk. “These days I play it safe.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the man, looking into the shadows.

  “Enough talk,” said Nighthawk. “Go back to your ship.” He paused. “Your weapons stay here.”

  The man never took his eyes from Nighthawk. “We're not here for you, Widowmaker. We have business with someone else. Let us by and we'll let you live.”

  “I don't make deals,” answered Nighthawk. “Your weapons—now.”

  The man drew his laser pistol. Nighthawk was faster, and he fired at the man's feet, detonating a small explosive device that was all but invisible in the dim lighting. Four men and two aliens screamed in agony as the force of the explosion blew them twenty feet into the air. Nighthawk hit the two other devices he had planted, and suddenly there was only one remaining man, a teenager who had stood, motionless and transfixed, as the explosions decimated his companions.

  Nighthawk stared at him, and put his burner away.

  “All right, son,” he said. “It's up to you. You can walk away, or you can go for your weapon. There are no more surprises, no more bombs. It's just you and me. Do you think you're up to facing the Widowmaker?”

  The teenager stared nervously at him for a long moment, then shook his head.

  “Then walk away, and don't let me ever see your face on Tumbleweed again.”

  “Where'll I go? What will I tell them?”

  “I don't much care where you go, and you can tell your bosses that Tumbleweed is off-limits from now on.”

  “They'll come back for you.”

  “Like I said, we've got a big graveyard. There's room for everybody.”

  The teenager backed up a couple of steps, then hesitated and finally stopped.

  “I can't go back and tell them that everyone else was killed,” he said plaintively. “They'll never believe me. They'll think I sold them out!”

  “That's not my problem,” said Nighthawk.

  “I can't do it!” yelled the teenager.

  “Don't be a fool, son.”

  “No choice!” he wailed. “No choice!”

  He reached for his weapon, and was dead before his fingers touched it.

  “Stupid!” muttered Nighthawk, walking over and putting another blast into his body, just to be on the safe side. “Just stupid.”

  He walked to the drug runners’ ship, pulled out yet another explosive, placed it into an exhaust vent, and detonated it. Then he walked to a hatch and opened it.

  “If there's anyone inside, come out with your hands behind your head. I'm only going to ask you once.”

  There was no response.

  A younger Nighthawk would have thought nothing of entering the strange, darkened ship and seeking out any enemies. The older Nighthawk simply closed the hatch and melted the lock with his laser pistol, leaving the ship sealed and disabled. If there was anyone aboard it, they'd be more willing to listen to reason in three or four days.

  He stopped at the security control room, canceled the red alert he had ordered and left word about the ship, then drove his vehicle into town, leaving it at his office and walking to the restaurant.

  Kinoshita immediately got to his feet.

  “It's over already?”

  “Yeah, it's over,” said Nighthawk, walking over to an empty table and sitting down.

  Sarah came out of the kitchen.

  “I thought you were asleep,” she said.

  “I will be soon. I had a little business to attend to first.” He took his badge off and tossed it onto the table. “I won't be needing this any more.”

  “What happened?” she demanded.

  “They won't be bothering you anymore.”

  “Jesus!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening. “You killed them all?”

  “They didn't give me much choice.”

  “Much choice? There must have been a whole gang of them! How did you do it?”

  “In the safest way possible.”

  “Is that all you're going to say about it?” continued Sarah.

  “Give me some coffee and a piece of pie, and I'll give you the sordid details.”

  “Why didn't you tell me they were coming?” she insisted. “It was me they were after! I could have helped!”

  He stared at her without replying.

  “All right, all right,” she said with a sigh. “You're the Widowmaker. You didn't need any help.” She paused. “But you knew you were going to face a whole gang of them. You should at least have taken Ito with you.”

  “He was where I wanted him.”

  “Protecting me?”

  “There was no guarantee I could stop them.”

  “If you couldn't, how could he?”

  “You'd be surprised what good men can do under pressure,” answered Nighthawk. “And he's a good man.”

  “How many of them did you kill?”

  “Fourteen.”

  "Fourteen?"

  “It was legal. I had the badge, and it was self defense. I even set up a holo camera to record it, just in case I'm ever challenged about it.”

  “Now, that's a holo I'd like to see!”

  “It's digitized and locked under my seal in the spaceport's security computer. I'll pull it out if I need it in court. But I don't think I will.”

  “Damn it, Jefferson, you're just shrugging it off like it was all in a day's work. You could have been killed!”

  “That is my work,” answered Nighthawk. “Or at least it used to be.”

  “But you did it for me.”

  “I just figured I was better equipped to handle the situation than you were.”

  “I've had one man I care for die on me. I don't want it happening again.”

  “Your kid's father?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was gunned down?”

  “No,” replied Sarah. “He was a decent, hard-working man, and I loved him. We never married, but we lived together for fourteen years.” She paused. “He didn't die heroically. He contracted some disease that could have been cured in two weeks if we'd lived in the Oligarchy, but he hated the Oligarchy and wouldn't leave the Frontier even to save his own life. So I watched him die, bit by bit, and I swore I'd never watch someone I love die again.”

  “I spent 112 years and tens of millions of credits not to die like that,” said Nighthawk.

  “There are other ways to die, even when you're the Widowmaker.”

  “One of them is hunger,” he said, forcing a smile. “I'm still waiting for that coffee and pie.”

  She left without a word and returned from the kitchen a moment later.

  “What do you do now?” she asked.

  “Eat the pie, drink the coffee, and go to bed. It's been a long day and I'm an old man.”

  “Stop saying that!” she snapped. “Old men don't do what you did!”

  “All right,” he said. “I'm in a state of advanced middle age.”

  “Damn it, Jefferson! I'm trying to get a straight answer out of you. Are you staying or leaving?”

  “On Tumbleweed? I'm staying.”

  “Alone?”

  “I hope not. That depends on you.”

  “My house is a couple of miles out of town. Tell Ito to cancel your room at the hotel.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. She wasn't the idealized woman he had dreamed about; on the other hand, he had a feeling that a 62-year-old eplasia victim who made a living by killing people wasn't her idealized man. He found her interesting, and comfortable to be with, and attractive enough to think of taking her to bed, and at this point, 174 years into his solitary life, that was enough.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Nighthawk.

  16.

  “What are you doing up?” asked Sarah, turning suddenly at the kitchen counter.

  Nighthawk entered the room, wrapping a robe around himself. “I heard you tiptoeing aro
und, so I thought I'd see if you were okay.”

  “Of course I am. I just wanted a cup of tea. I'm sorry; I didn't want to disturb you.”

  “It wasn't your fault,” he assured her. “I've always been a light sleeper. It probably saved my life a dozen times. I don't imagine I'm about to change.”

  “Well, can I make you something to eat or drink, now that you're up?”

  “Coffee will be fine,” he said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

  “Cream or sugar?”

  “Black. And hot.”

  “I have some that's imported from Alphard,” said Sarah. “Or do you prefer the local brand? I like it better.”

  Nighthawk shrugged. “Makes no difference,” he said. “Coffee's coffee.”

  “Local, then. No sense wasting money.”

  “You don't have to worry about money any more. I'm a rich man, relatively speaking.”

  “I'm willing to share. I'm not willing to be kept.”

  “I'm willing to share, too,” said Nighthawk. “And one of the things I've got to share is money. I don't mind sharing your food and your house and your bed; I don't expect you to mind sharing my money.”

  “I'll share it when I need it. But I've always been frugal. I see no reason to change, just because I'm living with the Widowmaker.”

  “You're living with Jefferson Nighthawk.”

  “Isn't it the same thing?”

  “The Widowmaker's retired.”

  “I thought he showed up at the spaceport last night,” said Sarah.

  “That was his farewell appearance.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you packing the Widowmaker away in mothballs?”

  “Because I've been putting my life on the line since I was fifteen, and I'd like to stop.”

  “And do what?” asked Sarah. “Just how many birds can you watch?”

  “More than you think,” answered Nighthawk. “And I've got the better part of a lifetime's reading to catch up on. And I can do half a thousand other things I never had time to do when I was the Widowmaker.”

  Sarah shook her head. “Not you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look,” she began, “I wish you could learn to relax, and grow old gracefully, but it's not you. You wake up the second you hear me tiptoeing two rooms away. You face fourteen gunmen at the spaceport and kill them all. You see things with your naked eye that I can barely see with my lens at full magnification.” She paused at stared at him. “Like it or not, you're the Widowmaker. It's what you do, it's what you are, and I don't think you can hide from it.”

  “I wasn't the Widowmaker back on Churchill. I was enjoying my life until they burned my house down.”

  “How long were you there? A year?”

  No answer.

  “A month?”

  Silence.

  “Not even a month,” said Sarah. “And you wound up killing Johnny Trouble—oh, I know all about it; Ito told me—and Johnny Trouble wasn't even responsible for the fire.” She paused again. “Why don't you just admit that you're the best at what you do, maybe the best there ever was, and stop running away from who you are?”

  “I'm an—”

  “Don't give me that ‘I'm an old man’ crap again!” she said sharply. “You certainly didn't act like an old man in bed tonight.”

  “That's not the same thing.”

  She poured his coffee into a cup and handed it to him. “Could an old man have held off fourteen killers?”

  “I planted explosives around the area before they showed up,” answered Nighthawk. “I didn't have to shoot fourteen of them; I just had to hit a couple of bombs they didn't know were there. And when I killed those men back on Bolingbroke, I lured them into a situation where all I had to do was make a loud noise and they were buried under shattered crystal.”

  “Don't you realize what you're saying?” persisted Sarah. “You're even better now, because you use your brain as well as your physical gifts. You're like an athlete who may have lost a step, but makes up for it with added experience.”

  Nighthawk sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “I appreciate what you're saying,” he replied at last. “But sooner or later every athlete knows it's time to hang it up. There's at least one man out there somewhere who could take me without working up a sweat—my second clone. And if there's one, why shouldn't there be more?”

  “I'm not suggesting you go out looking for them,” answered Sarah. “But I think you'll go stir crazy if you do nothing but read and watch birds and sit around the house. Tumbleweed needs a police officer. Not much happens here, and I'm sure the drug runners won't come back, not after the way you decimated them—but there should be enough going on so you won't be bored to death. And there's one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Even if there are a few men out there who can take you, they're not very likely to show up on Tumbleweed.” She smiled. “You're not coming in to clean up some hellhole like you used to do all over the Inner Frontier a century ago; you'll just be keeping the peace on a tranquil little world where nothing too exciting ever happens.”

  “It happened tonight.”

  “That was an aberration.”

  “Most killings are.”

  “Are you going to consider what I said,” said Sarah heatedly, “or are you going to spend what's left of the night arguing with me?”

  “I'll give it some thought,” said Nighthawk. “But there's one thing that you haven't taken into account.”

  “I don't want to hear any more age crap.”

  “No more age crap.”

  “Then what?”

  “I'm tired of killing.”

  “Can someone like you be tired of killing?” she asked dubiously.

  “Especially someone like me,” he assured her. “I've run the race. I've faced more outlaws that most people can imagine, even given my reputation. I've faced them one at a time, and I've faced them in groups. I've faced men and woman and aliens. I've put my life on the line more times than I can count. I've looked Death in the eye—and you know something? He's not a desperado holding a gun; he's me, Jefferson Nighthawk, with cheekbones sticking out through his flesh and skin the texture of sandpaper. I've done more than society has any right to ask me, and now I want to enjoy what time is left to me. Is that so goddamned much to ask?”

  “No, it's not,” she said seriously. “But I know you, maybe better than you know yourself. And I know what will and won't make you happy.”

  “If you think killing makes me happy...” he began.

  “No, I believe you when you say it doesn't,” she replied. “But keep the job anyway. You probably you won't have to do anything more than lock up an occasional drunk, or arrest someone for illegal parking.” Suddenly she laughed. “Or maybe close the Sand Castle for watering its drinks. But at least you won't wither away from boredom.”

  “After the life I've lived, withering away from boredom looks mighty appealing.”

  “You won't think so once you give it a try.”

  “There nothing boring about a book,” he said. “Or about being with a good woman.”

  “I'm flattered that you think so, and I hope you'll still think so a year from now, but—”

  “I'm not looking just one year ahead,” said Nighthawk. “I intend to spend the rest of my life here—and I'm planning on living a lot longer than a year.”

  “If a thousand outlaws couldn't kill you and eplasia couldn't kill you, I personally can't see any reason why you shouldn't live forever.”

  “Forever would be nice. I'll settle for 75. Until I get there. Then I'll shoot for 90.”

  “28 years of lying on hammocks and looking at birds,” she said. “Is that really what you want?”

  “Maybe we'll do a little traveling,” he said. “I was always so busy looking into shadows that I never saw what was out there in the sunlight.”


  “Speaking of sunlight,” said Sarah, looking out the window, “I see that it's getting light out.” She paused. “We might as well get dressed. I'm too wide awake to go back to sleep.”

  “Me, too,” said Nighthawk, getting to his feet and following her into the bedroom.

  They emerged, fully clothed, a few minutes later, just in time to hear footsteps shuffling up the stone path to the house.

  “Good morning,” said Kinoshita as Nighthawk walked across the living room and opened the door. “I saw your light on, so I figured you were awake.”

  “You're not going to make a daily habit of showing up at sunrise, are you?” asked Nighthawk.

  “No,” answered Kinoshita. “I just came by to give you something you left behind.”

  Nighthawk stared at him curiously.

  “I thought this might come in handy,” said Kinoshita, pulling Nighthawk's discarded badge out of his pocket and handing it to him.

  “You, too?” said Nighthawk irritably.

  “Tumbleweed needs a lawman, and you're the best.” Kinoshita grinned. “After last night, the city fathers won't consider anyone else.”

  “I don't want to be a lawman!”

  “You can't always have what you want. I'd take the job, but I'm not half as good as you, and we both know it.” Kinoshita paused. “Besides, it'll keep you from getting bored.”

  “Did you two plot this out while I was at the spaceport?” demanded Nighthawk.

  “No, but if she's urging you to take back the badge, I approve,” said Kinoshita.

  “Why?”

  “On practical grounds. Word of what happened last night at the spaceport is going to get out. The bad guys will know someone wiped out one of their crews, and the good guys are already bragging about the lawman they hired. Whether you stay or go, someone's going to come after you. Maybe the drug runners’ boss. Maybe his hired guns. Maybe some punk kids who want to test themselves against the lawman who killed fourteen bad guys at one time. But count on it: someone's going to come after you.” He paused. “You might as well have the force of the law on your side.”

  Nighthawk looked slowly from Sarah to Kinoshita, then back again.

  “You really think it's a good idea?” he asked her.

  “I do.”

  He stared at the badge for a very long moment, then sighed deeply and bonded it to his tunic.