Fuzzy Bones (v1.1)

by William Tuning (v1. 1) (html)

“I’m not in a position to comment on that at this time, Frank,” Kodoulian said. “We have the witness in protective custody at the present time, and a police guard on the victim until she’s out of danger.”

  “Then you’re certain of a conviction?” Young said.

  Kodoulian smiled. “Assuming we can arrest Mr. Ingermann, yes, I think the Colonial Attorney General expects he can get a conviction.”

  “Thank you Lieutenant Kodoulian,” Young said. “We have been talking with police lieutenant Grisha Kodoulian, at the scene of last night’s murder attempt in Junktown. This is Franklin Young for Zarathustra News Service. Back to you, now, Hal.”

  “Thank you, Frank. And now, here with the weather, is ZNS’s own meteorologist, Doctor George.”

  Christiana appeared in the doorway, pushing up the sleeves of Grego’s too-large spare robe she was wearing. “What was that?” she asked.

  Grego smiled. “The weatherman, “he replied. “I like the way he throws himself into his work.”

  She came over behind Grego’s chair and put her arms around his neck from behind, kissing him on top of the head. “You’re not so bad, yourself. Hungry?” she said, nuzzling around his ear.

  “Ravenously,” Grego said and took a sip of his coffee.

  “Don’t worry,” Christiana said. “I’ll get you to work on time, but I want you well-fed. You have to keep up your strength.”

  Grego leaned back in the chair and kissed her again.

  She stood up straight, again. “Breakfast is almost served, my dear,” she said, “but if you distract me very much more, I just may pounce upon you and let it burn.”

  “Is Diamond up and about?” he asked. “I haven’t seen him at all this morning .He’s usually jumping up and down on my stomach at dawn.”

  “Fuzzies are very discreet creatures,” she said in a tone of mock-seriousness. “Actually, he’s out playing on the terraces somewhere. Later on, I’m going to take him over to the Pendarvis’s. He’s gotten very keen about teaching Pierrot and Columbine the fine points of eating with silverware, and Claudette Pendarvis is quite charmed about the whole project.”

  Grego frowned. “Does he—?” he began.

  “—know about us?” She finished the question. “Of course he does. You can’t keep secrets from a Fuzzy, Victor. I talked with him while you were in the shower, although I didn’t really need to explain. He understands that Hagga are much like Fuzzies—they prefer privacy when mating.”

  Grego suddenly sat bolt-upright in his chair. “Mating? I hadn’t quite thought of it as—mating!”

  “Well, Fuzzies do, and Diamond does too, darling, so we might as well get used to it.”

  He was about to reply when the private communications screen chimed. “Now, what the Nifflheim,” he said irritably and motioned Christiana to move out of the pickup range.

  She made cooking motions with her hands and blew him a kiss as she returned to the kitchen, shoving up the sleeves of her robe.

  Grego opened the access key. Hmmmmm. Have to do something about getting her one of those that fits, I suppose.

  The image cleared and became that of Harry Steefer. “Good morning, Victor,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you before you get to the office.”

  “Quite all right, Harry,” Grego said. “What’s up? Have you picked up Ingermann yet?”

  “Not yet, sir,” Steefer replied, “but he can’t get out of Mallorysport. Ian Ferguson has the city buttoned up tighter than a new airlock, and Al Earlie and I have a cop on every esplanade and escalator in town. I expect they’re all equipped with the wanted photo by now, and we have detectives combing Junktown; we’re putting the pressure on all his known associates and watching his haunts.”

  “Mmmmmm,” Grego said. “How about a reward? The Company will put up forty thousand sols. I’m going to be talking with Gus Brannhard and Ben Rainsford later today. I’ll see what I can do about getting a similar amount posted by the Colonial Government.”

  “Rainsford’ll rant and rave about the money,” Steefer said. “You know how expense conscious he is.”

  Grego smiled. “Yes, Harry, “he said, “I know that. I also know that Gus has been trying to sink his fangs into Ingermann’s throat for a long time. I’ll just bring it up, and let Gus do the convincing. That’s my department. In the meantime, get hold of Max Fane and see what the Marshal’s Office can work out with Judge Pendarvis about immunity from prosecution to the rat who turns Ingermann in. That’s your department.”

  Steefer stroked his chin. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I can see that. Eighty thousand sols and amnesty ought to get one of Ingermann’s pals to blow the whistle on him.”

  “Any other developments?” Grego asked.

  “Well,” Steefer said, “we’ve still got the two Marines in the bucket. So far, no one has showed any interest in getting them sprung.”

  “I’ll get around and have a chat with them; might not make it today, though. Have Nifflheim’s own itinerary today.”

  Steefer grinned. “No rush, Mr. Grego,” he said. “Bert Eggers is staying on for a few hours after his duty shift. He’s not real fond of Marines to begin with, and he takes a fiendish delight in interrogating suspects who are hung over.”

  Grego chuckled. “Anything else?”

  Steefer’s grin disappeared. He inclined his head and frowned. “You remember our man on Beta?” he asked.

  Grego nodded. “Did he get anything yet?”

  “He got nailed,” Steefer said.

  “What do you mean?” Grego asked.

  “I mean,” Steefer said, “that he got caught. George Lunt has him in jail at Holloway Station.”

  “Mmmmmm,” Grego said. Then, “Ghu! Harry. We’ve got to get him out of there before they can sweat him down.”

  Steefer shrugged. “I’m doing what I can, Mr. Grego. They’ve got to turn him loose tomorrow—I don’t think they’ve really got a charge they can hold him on. But, under the—well—the circumstances, I can’t bring any real pressure to bear.”

  Grego was silent for a moment. “Well, do what you can, Harry, and see that he’s de-briefed before he talks to anyone here—especially the damned news media. We will, of course, lodge the stiffest possible written protest with the Native Affairs Commission.”

  “Holloway won’t like that,” Steefer said, “and neither will George Lunt.”

  “Well, then, they’ll just have to lump it, won’t they?”

  “Uh—yes, sir,” Steefer said.

  Grego caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye of Christiana standing in the kitchen door, with a worried look on her face. At first he thought that meant breakfast was starting to get a little black and crisp around the edges, then he realized why she was listening. “Harry,” he said, “how’s Miss Ramsey doing? Anything new?”

  “I talked with the doctor this morning,” Steefer replied. “She’s officially not out of danger yet, but he says she’s young and strong, doing nicely, and should pull through with no complications.”

  “Good, Harry,” Grego said. “I’m very pleased to hear that. I’ll get back to you sometime before lunch.” He blanked the screen and got out of the chair.

  Chapter Forty

  The charge nurse punched a series of numbers into her console and scrutinized the readout on the screen. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Miss Ramsey is not having visitors at this time.” She looked crisply at Christiana. “She’s in protective police custody until such time as the Attorney General can take her statement.”

  Christiana frowned and squinted at this most efficient lady in immaculate white. “I have an authorization,” she said; “in writing,” and pushed the sheet of paper across the desk.

  The nurse held up her hand, still looking crisp. She was a floor charge nurse and was not accustomed to anything contrary to her own orders—except from a physician. “I’m very sorry, Miss Stone,” she said, “but the orders are quite specific.”

  Christiana pierced her with an irritated look. It felt
good. Slowly, she tapped her finger on the piece of paper. “The authorization which I have,” she said in measured tones, “is from the man who issued the original orders.”

  The nurse raised one eyebrow and dropped her gaze to the paper. “Oh,” she said, “you’re from Mr. Grego’s personal staff. You should have said that to begin with.”

  “I’ve been trying my best to do just that,” Christiana said. “Now will you please find out if the patient is awake, and inform the police guards?”

  Christiana was not prepared, even though she intellectually knew what to expect. A tiny white form lay very still in a white bed. Her skin was almost the same color as the sheets. The elementary sensors of a robomedic were still attached to her body, the multicolored wires and tubes making a crazy pattern on the white sheets.

  Christiana stepped forward hesitantly. “Gwennie?” she said softly. “Are you awake?”

  Gwen said something unintelligible and tried to lift her head. Blonde hair cascaded across the pillow.

  Quickly, Christiana stepped to the bedside. “Don’t try to move, Gwennie,” she said anxiously. “They’ve still got part of the machine plugged into you.”

  Gwen smiled thinly. “Chris? Chris—is that you?”

  Christiana took one of Gwen’s hands in both of hers. “Yes, Gwen, yes,” she said. “I’m right here. How do you feel?”

  Gwen opened her eyes, blinking for a moment. “Rotten,” she said, “but I’m going to beat the house on this one.” She smiled, again. “All I’ve got to do is whip two bulletholes in me. It’ll be a snap.”

  Christiana began to cry.

  Gwen smiled again, showing just the edges of her upper teeth. “Chris,” she said, “it’s not your fault. I was helping to find out what had to be found out because I wanted to. It’s not your fault. I just made a mistake.”

  Christiana dried her eyes on a corner of the sheet.

  Gwen coughed hoarsely. A monitor light on the robomedic flickered briefly, then went out as the nasal cannula made adjustments of air pressure in her lungs and their rate of respiration.

  “They’re going to get Ingermann,” Christiana said. “They have an eyewitness to the shooting.”

  Gwen blinked again. “Of course,” she whispered. “The old man on the bench. He was right there.”

  “Victor has put up a reward on Ingermann,” Christiana said. “They’ve got it fixed so he can’t get out of Mallorysport. They’re going to get him—for sure.”

  Gwen moved her body and head into a more comfortable position, so she could look straight at Christiana. “Victor, is it, now?” she asked. “Something has happened, hasn’t it?”

  Christiana tried to say something, but couldn’t. She nodded her head and sniffed. “He forgave me,” she said. “He forgave me everything. No one has ever done that before . .”

  Gwen reached up and touched her shoulder.

  Christiana nodded her head again. “I’ve never been so happy—except that you’re here—all shot up—and it took that for me to get my guts together.”

  “I’m going to make it,” Gwen said. “I’m so happy for you, Chris. I’m so happy for you.” She coughed again, and the monitor light on the robomedic flickered briefly.

  Christiana leaned down and touched her cheek to Gwen’s cheek. “Get well, Gwen,” she said. “Just get well; and don’t worry about anything else. We’ll find some way to get you where you’ll be safe as soon as they let you out of here.”

  Gwen looked at her questioningly. “How?” she asked. “Where is safe, now?”

  “Well, Great Ghu!” Christiana said. “You can’t go back to Junk town. Ingermann surely has friends left down there. Just don’t worry about it, Gwennie. We’ll figure something out. I feel strong, now. Ghu, it’s the first time in my life that I’ve felt strong, and I’m still getting used to it. Now, you get strong again, while Victor and I find someplace for you to be safe.”

  Gwen smiled, again. “Why, Chris? Why?”

  Christiana pursed her lips. “Because you’re my friend, that’s why. You stuck your neck out for me. “She paused. “I stuck my neck out last night when I went to Victor. It feels good, because now I know I can do anything I want.”

  “Were you scared?” Gwen asked.

  “Scared?” Christiana said. “I was afraid my legs were going to go out from under me every step of the way. Part of the time I would try to say something and I couldn’t get any noise to come out of my mouth.”

  “I know what you mean,” Gwen said. “It does feel good, doesn’t it?”

  “I never felt better,” Christiana said, “except that you’re hurt. Why did you have to get hurt? It’s not fair—it’s just not fair.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Gwen said. “I told you; I can do this standing on my head. This isn’t the first time some guy’s tried to take me out. What’s important is that you’ve found a wonderful man—one who’s good to you. That’s all there is to life, really.”

  Christiana started to cry, again.

  With an effort, Gwen reached up and, with the other corner of the sheet, wiped Christiana’s eyes. “Don’t cry, Chris. Please don’t cry. You’ve found what everyone is looking for—sometimes for their whole life—someone who’s good to you that you can make a life with. That’s what you have to look at, now. I’ll be fine; really I will.”

  Christiana nodded. “Yes,” she said, “yes. Oh, my God, Gwennie, I love him so much…”

  “I know you do,” Gwen said. Her head rolled slightly on the pillow and her eyelids fluttered.

  Christiana quickly grasped Gwen’s hand, again, in both of hers. “Gwen?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

  Gwen nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I’m fine,” she whispered. “I’m just fine.”

  “This must be tiring you,” Christiana said. “I’m going to go, now, so you can get some rest.”

  Gwen nodded, again, very slightly. “I wear out pretty fast,” she whispered, “but I’m going to be just fine.”

  Christiana bent down over the bed and brushed her cheek against Gwen’s. “Get some rest, now. I’ll be back as soon as I get them to let me back in.”

  Hugo Ingermann had not shaved.

  His clothes were rumpled from spending the night on a cot in the storeroom of his “charity” mission. He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t go to his office. The police were watching, it seemed, everywhere. Thank Ghu he had some money tucked away in blind-account deposit boxes at various banks.

  He had risked much to come skulking in the back door of The Bitter End—like a common criminal—and have to beg entry to Raul Laporte’s office.

  Presently, Laporte entered. He was not pleased. “What in Niflheim are you doing here?” he demanded. “Don’t you know they’re turning over every damp rock in town trying to find you?”

  Ingermann’s eyes were wild. “I’ve got to have some help, Raul, until this blows over. You’ve got to find me a place to hide.”

  Laporte sat down behind his desk. There was no trace of emotion or reaction on his swarthy face. “Why don’t you just get out of town?” he asked.

  Ingermann was astonished. “They’ve got the place veiled up tight, Raul. You must know that. I’ve got to get out of sight, and you’ve got to help me.”

  Laporte leaned back in his desk chair, pulled out his pocket knife and started cleaning his fingernails. He did not look at Ingermann. “I don’t have to do a thing, Hugo,” he said.

  Ingermann was a little miffed at the familiarity of using his first name, but he knew he couldn’t afford to show it. “My back is killing me,” he said. “Damned cot.”

  Finally, Laporte looked up at him. “Hugo,” he said evenly, “for years now you’ve had the idea that you were in charge of something around here. The rest of us have gone along with it because it didn’t hurt anything—and it was profitable for all concerned. Now, you’ve brought the law down on all of us. They’re leaning on everyone in Junktown like I’ve never seen before, and it’s your fault—becau
se you did a stupid thing.”

  “Stupid!” Ingermann snapped. “How dare you call me stupid!”

  “I call you what I please, Hugo,” Laporte said. “If you had to have the girl shut up, why didn’t you use your brains and have it done quietly, without any fuss, and especially not while she was making a screen call in public.”

  “Why—I’ve made you all rich,” Ingermann said huffily. “I’ve—”

  Laporte cut him off.” You’ve been the best crooked lawyer I ever had,” he said. “That’s what you’ve done for us—until you managed to get disbarred. Now, you’re not even any good for that.”

  Ingermann leaped out of his chair, his face white with rage.

  Laporte snapped his fingers, and a very large man appeared from an adjoining room. Ingermann sat down.

  “What it comes down to,” Laporte said, “is that we just can’t afford to be associated with you any more. They’re out to get you, and they will. There’s an eighty thousand sols price on your head, and I wouldn’t give you six-to-five one way or the other who will be the first to turn you in for it. The safest thing for you to do is stay clear of everyone you know.”

  “Why, this is preposterous!” Ingermann fumed. “I will not be treated this way!”

  Laporte’s patience was wearing thin. He sprang to his feet, put the flat of both hands on his desk—with the knife near his right hand. “And that’s not the worst of it!” Laporte shouted.

  Ingermann shrank back from the verbal attack.

  “The worst of it,” Laporte said, “is that you had to go and shoot the only decent singer I’ve been able to hire for this joint in the last five years!”

  There was a moment of silence.

  Laporte made a gesture of dismissal. “Now get out of here—before I have you thrown out.”

  After a shaken Hugo Ingermann had left the office, Laporte turned to his assistant. “I don’t think Mr. Ingermann is quite in his right mind,” he said. “It might be better for everybody if some kind of accident happened to him.”

  The large man nodded and left the room by a side door.

  It was unusual for Alex Napier to attend to business outside his own office. He preferred—as a matter of protocol—to have people come to him. He had visited Colonel Tom McGraw in his own quarters as a matter of insuring privacy.