“Serious as a heart attack.”
“That’s crazy! What in the world has brought you to that conclusion?”
“I knew him. Clair and I both did. We were friends, sort of.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
Gallic cut Tori off. “Larz Cugan’s father, Rick Cugan . . . is Zip Furlong’s agent.”
“That’s an interesting coincidence, but . . .” Tori questioned.
“And Zip Furlong, his legal name is Teddy Walters, is Lane’s uncle. The same uncle she was forced to go live with when her father, and then her mother, died.”
Phil and Tori, absorbing that last bit of information, looked at each other, both stymied.
“Still think I’m hurrying to conclusions?”
“No,” Tori said, “but proving it will be a whole different matter.”
Phil still looked perplexed. “He murdered . . .”
“Clair and Mandy. And, more recently, six other mothers, along with their young daughters . . . here in the Frontier worlds.”
“I don’t know if I should be happy for you, John, or very sad,” Phil said, truly concerned.
“Perhaps both. For now, this needs to stay between the three of us. I don’t want it entered into any formal report. No ComsBand recordings. Not yet.”
“But we’re going after him, right?” Phil asked.
Gallic nodded. “I know I am.”
Tori pursed her lips. “Gallic, I think I believe it’s him, too. Yeah . . . could very well be him. But we need to do this by the book. You can’t be thinking of some kind of open range justice here . . . you’re a—”
“Frontier Marshal,” Gallic said. And I’ll do what I have to do within the boundaries of my job. That is . . . if he surrenders without provocation.”
“. . . And if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.”
“But if you are?” Tori persisted.
“I’ll probably take a major hit to my career. I don’t really give a shit. But I do care about your career, Tori; and yours, Phil. Think real hard how involved you want to be moving forward. Feel free to step away . . . if that’s what you’d prefer to do. This needs to be played carefully, very carefully. Teddy Walters has resources . . . financial and otherwise . . . that would crush an official investigation in minutes. We’d all be without jobs before you could say Zip Furlong. Look . . . I don’t have all the answers. Very few answers, actually. Like why he is killing women and children out here? What is his connection to the whole Curz cult? And why did he kill my family? I now know the who, just not the why.”
“And Lane? She’s been abducted. I’m sorry, Gallic, maybe even killed. Don’t we want D-22, its full investigatory capacity, working on this?” Tori asked.
Gallic looked past them to Tori’s star-cruiser. “Sure . . . it’s a good idea to make a full report to Superintendent Bernard Danbury about Lane’s presumed abduction and possible murder. But keep Walters being a suspect under your hat for now. Don’t expect much . . . six murders have been committed in the Frontier worlds. D-22 has sent what . . . one investigator? Now let’s add one missing woman to the mix. Do you think that will make much of a difference to them?”
“Well, you know I’m in, anyway,” Phil said.
Gallic didn’t say anything—his back turned.
“Fine! Then I’m in, too,” Tori said.
Chapter 36
Frontier Planet, Gorman — Heritage Plains Township.
Gallic had to put it all aside—the murders of his wife and child; the murders of six mothers and their daughters. Also, of course, doing any further work regarding Allison Tillman’s Hayai. Each case needed to be put on hold, secondary now to saving the life of Lane Walters. Gallic had to stifle his imagination, too ready to envision all sorts of possibilities, including the use of 2D box nails.
Tori, still inside Lane’s house, deployed her little drones to collect trace evidence. Gallic didn’t expect them to come up with anything. The hammer-and-nails killer, to date, hadn’t left so much as a single cell of evidence behind. No unaccounted-for DNA database matches had been detected at any crime scene.
Phil, aboard his craft the Gallivanter, was sent back to cover the Cugan’s ranch. Rick Cugan was close to becoming a suspect himself. Linked, at the very least, through his close association with Teddy Walters.
Gallic, now back in the Hound’s den, sat at his desk reviewing the case files of the previous murders. Looking for clues—something—he may have missed in the numerous times he’d gone over them. Specifically, something that related to the new revelation Teddy Walters was involved. Some indication where he might be holding up now, keeping Lane imprisoned.
“AI, I want you to run a trace on Teddy Walters’ movements over the last . . . let’s start with the last three weeks. I want to know every planetary port of call he’s made; also, every layover in space, for any reason at all.”
Gallic knew the majority of Interstellar spaceships movements were fairly easy to track. Every spaceship was equipped with a transponding tracker for two main reasons. One, to safeguard the operators of a given ship—outer space was an easy place to get lost in, or to break down in. Two, for all other reasons, including tracking nefarious actions being unlawfully perpetrated, allowing authorities—police—to pursue criminals, etc. Gallic’s repo business utilized the same transponding signals to find some spacecraft that a bank, or a dealership, requested repossession of. But transponding trackers can be disabled—if you know the right people.
“Teddy Walters has four registered spacecrafts. He may have others, either unregistered or registered under some different name.”
“Track the ones you can identify.”
“That process is completed,” the AI said.
“Okay, put the information up on the murder board.”
Gallic stood, about to weed through what seemed a long list of spatial locations, when the AI said, “You have an incoming hail from Superintendent Bernard Danbury.”
“Go ahead and make the connection. I’ll take it at the control center.” Gallic did not want Danbury to see, inadvertently, what he was working on in his den.
By the time he made it to the control center, the superintendent’s holographic form was there waiting.
“Sir . . .” Gallic said.
Danbury still looked overworked and tired but markedly better than the last time Gallic saw him.
“I just heard. Sergeant Tori briefed me on the possible abduction of one woman, Lane Walters. She also mentioned that you and she had . . . have . . . a personal relationship. I’m sorry, John. You don’t seem to get much of a break when it comes to personal misfortune.”
“Thank you. I’m doing fine.”
“The sergeant also mentioned that you may have a person of interest in mind in regard to this abduction?”
Gallic inwardly chided Tori for speaking about it. “Nothing I can talk about at this early stage. Let’s just say it might very well be an extremely high-profile person.”
“I get it . . . she said the same thing. I trust your instincts, John, I always have. But I want you to be ready to relay the name of this . . . person of interest . . . soon.”
Gallic didn’t respond to his comment.
“I’m sending another two investigators, Crackell and Lock, your way. You remember them?”
“They’re still there? They were ancient when I was at HQ . . .”
“We’re short-staffed, so their contracts were extended another year. It’s the best I could do. Let me help, John. They’ll be there late tomorrow.”
“Send them on. I appreciate it, sir.” Danbury, in response, offered him a definitive nod and the connection was cut.
The display jumped—a warning message strobed on and off several times.
Strut Hydraulic Pressure Low . . . Strut Hydraulic Pressure Low . . . Strut Hydraulic Pressure Low . . .
“Oh, come on . . . what’s this about?” Gallic asked.
“As stated before . . . the Hou
nd urgently requires a full gamut of crucial maintenance procedures.”
“In addition to the maintenance that’s already needed on the gravitorque drives?”
“Yes, and in addition to seven other key system maintenance functions,” the AI said.
“We don’t have the funds available for a major overhaul like that right now.”
“No, not even close,” the AI responded back.
There it was again, a cheeky response from the Hound’s artificial intelligence unit. Gallic ignored it. “I’m in the middle of a crucial, time-sensitive investigation. Minutes could make the difference between life and death for someone. I need this ship to be fully operational. Not constantly breaking down!” Gallic exclaimed, raising his voice in the process.
“You need immediate funds. I suggest you deliver Miss Tillerson’s Hayai and collect your agreed-upon fee. And did I not hear you say that you knew where the vessel was to Phil Hough?”
Gallic was reminded the ever-present AI was always listening—even when he thought his ComsBand was in inactive mode.
“I’m heading-up an investigation here.”
“One you will be hard-pressed to conduct, operating in an incapacitated vessel,” the AI replied. “If you wish, I can recount the many thousands of light years the Hound has traveled in the last two weeks alone.”
“Can the Hound make it back to Spector in her current condition?”
“I will endeavor to make that happen, Mr. Gallic.”
What a dilemma. He needed to be here; find Lane. Save her from a monster who’d proved, over and over again, he was a psychopath. One who wouldn’t think twice about killing her. What, he wondered, is she going through right now? What is Walters doing to her?
“Contact Allison Tillman. Tell her I’m on my way and this time she’d better be there, waiting for me. No last-minute interruptions or important meetings to attend. If she wants her damn ship back, she needs to be there waiting for me in the museum.”
“Yes, Mr. Gallic, I will relay the message.”
“And contact Sargento. Don’t know his last name. Have him meet me there as well; tell him I’ll make it worth his while.”
“Yes, Mr. Gallic, I think you are making a wise choice.”
“I don’t need your approval, AI. Just make sure the Hound gets there, and back, as quickly as possible.”
Chapter 37
Frontier Planet, Gorman — Heritage Plains Township.
Outside of Lane’s house, Tori slammed the last of the equipment cases into place in the back of the star-cruiser. “You’re what!?” she asked Gallic.
“Hey, that’s precision equipment you’re banging around in there,” Gallic said.
“Why now?” Turning to face him, her expression was defiant.
“The truth?” he asked.
“That would be nice for a change . . .”
Gallic let that go. “If I want to catch the murderer . . . find Lane . . . I need my ship. Unlike others, like you, who get a constant paycheck, I need commission funds to do my job. Even though I may not be here physically for the next day or two, that doesn’t mean I won’t be working the case. You know, better than most, there’s no shortage of idle time jaunting back and forth from planet to planet.”
Tori didn’t seem to like his response very much, but she refrained from arguing the point any further. “So, what do you want me to do while you’re gone?”
“You talked to Danbury, so you know he’s sending on two more inspectors.”
“Yeah . . . Crackell and Lock. You probably know them better than I do,” she said.
“They’re solid investigators. Won’t break any speed records, but they’ll do good work. I suspect the murderer won’t be caught, using our advance technologies, since he’s too careful to leave trace evidence behind. But there’s only so much he can do to hide those he knows . . . comes into contact with.”
“He can kill them . . . that’s what he can do,” Tori said.
Gallic stared back at her for a long moment. “That very well might be what he’s doing already. I’ve been so caught up figuring the whole Curz cult angle-thing that I didn’t give much thought to the fact he could be hiding his tracks. Dispensing with those who either know him or know of him. You and Phil should concentrate your efforts on some interviews you’ve already conducted. Phil is trying to track down Rick Cugan. Find him, and there’s a chance we’ll get a lead on Walters. And Linda Cugan and Larz may know more than they’re saying, as well. And that creepy daughter, bet she knows something.”
“She’s not creepy . . . just shy.”
“Fine. Follow up on the leads, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Anything else?” she asked.
Gallic replied, “This is as good a location as any to setup our base of operations. From now on, until we find Lane . . . or find the killer, let’s make this place our temporary HQ.”
* * *
Things started to go south about halfway to Spector.
“Mr. Gallic, an unidentified vessel is moving up on us fast; coming in on an intersecting vector.”
Gallic, eyeing the nav display, asked, “What can you tell me about the ship?”
“It is new.”
“That’s it? It’s a new ship?”
“It is one-third the size of the Hound. The vessel is military . . . all pertinent identifiers hidden. All network access points expertly firewalled.”
Gallic, now able to view the quickly approaching ship out the forward window, said, “You forgot to mention that this particular military vessel is armed with a Trident cannon.”
Gallic’s military background, extensive as it was, helped him identify different kinds of warship armament. A Trident cannon was new—deployed within the last ten years, or so. Distinctively shaped, it had an elongated, spherical, muzzle opening. Whereas typical rail-guns used highly charged magnetic fields to propel thousands of high-velocity projectiles toward a given target, a Trident cannon didn’t use magnetic fields. Instead, it used repelling anti-matter fields, firing projectiles called PDD’s—an acronym for Phase Disrupter Disks. Anything coming into contact with one of those dinner plate-size disks lost its molecular balance. No explosions . . . no dramatic fireworks, yet the effects were far worse. That which it connected with—things comprising of the material world—ceased to exist. A wonderfully advanced weapon, but a horrible one too, depending solely upon which end one was standing. And there was a problem with these weapons . . . they put out an inordinate amount of radiation—one reason why they weren’t used more often. Human gunnery crews, on vessels like this, tended to get sick really quick.
“Can we outrun it?” Gallic asked, already knowing it was a stupid rhetorical question.
“No.”
“Any vulnerable areas on that vessel we can target?”
“I have no data to support a possible strike location.”
The vessel was nearly upon them. The good news was they hadn’t been fired upon . . . yet. “Use all common hailing channels. I want to say hello.”
The response was immediate, sounding tinny and impersonal. Not computer generated, just someone who didn’t give a shit. “Prepare to be boarded. Raise defenses and you will be destroyed.”
“Nice meeting you too, asshole,” Gallic muttered to himself. “Any ideas, AI?”
Silence.
“I’ll officially name you the Hound if you can get us out of this mess.”
“Scanning the vessel, I have discovered one interesting . . . element.”
“What’s that?”
“There are no humans onboard that craft.”
“Nothing unusual about that. Bots . . . artificial intelligence . . .”
“There are those, but there is also organic life. More like cyborg entities.”
Gallic didn’t like the sound of that. “Are there three of them?”
“Yes.”
“Things just keeps getting better and better. Want to bet they’re Tillman Industries’ three
stolen technoids?”
“The vessel is very well-shielded, but I would give excellent odds you are correct,” the AI said. The military craft had come about and now faced in the opposite direction, positioned portside to portside.
“Get me Allison Tillman . . . and hurry!”
Ten seconds later Allison’s full-sized holographic image appeared before him. Seeming both confused and a little unsettled, she was about to speak.
“Listen to me! My ship has just been accosted in deep space. By, I suspect, a
Tillman Industries Midget Destroyer, possessing a very prominent Trident cannon. We are in the process of being boarded. Onboard are three technoids.”
Allison’s eyes went wide, in instant recognition.
“Your ship? Your stolen ‘noids?” he asked.
“I think both,” she replied.
“I have zero time here. Tell me how to defeat them. A backdoor into their neuro-links . . . anything.”
“That’s beyond classified by a factor of ten!”
“They’ve come to kill me.”
“No . . . you’d already be dematerialized, if that was true.”
“I’m not going to sell your damn company secrets! Tell me how to defeat them!”
“You said they’re in the process of boarding your vessel?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t go up against them. Not directly, Mr. Gallic.”
“What then?”
A glimmer of something shone in her eyes. Was it hope? “I need to know—”
She asked instead, “Can you get out? Come around the destroyer from the other side?”
“I . . . yes, I can.”
“This may not work, but it does have a backdoor of sorts.”
“What’s the code,” Gallic asked.
“No, I mean an actual, physical-backdoor. More like an access panel. Large enough for a very small vessel to enter,” Allison said.
The AI, interrupting her, said, “Mr. Gallic, the military vessel is extending a cross-tube to the Hound’s upper deck hatchway.”
Gallic, already running for the lift, shouted, “Ensure the hold is pressurized by the time I get down there!”
Galaxy Man Page 20