“Yes.”
“And Val?”
“By handing her a soft drink laced with sodium cyanide. Yes, that was me too.”
Mike’s frown deepened. Without realizing it, he began clenching and unclenching his teeth.
“Don’t forget Zahid,” Rebecca scolded. “First Akio fell asleep, so Zahid woke him. But when Zahid fell asleep, Akio and I decided to let him rest. Poor fellow was in such pain, what with his swollen ankle and all. When Akio fell asleep again, I was the only one awake. I was completely free to kill anyone I wanted. You know, I thought about killing Nikita at that point, and I probably would have if Zahid hadn’t made a pass at me before hurting himself.” She shuddered. “Disgusting man!”
“But why did you do all this?”
“Are you kidding? You mean you still don’t know?”
“Well, I understand it’s revenge. But for what exactly? For spoiling the Apollo smuggling? For putting you in prison? For the deaths of your sisters and brother?”
“Yes! For all those reasons! And for one more.”
“What?”
“You killed my love!”
“Huh?”
“It’s your fault my love is dead. By not being in that craft, you killed Richard.”
“Richard never said anything about you to me.”
“I know. He wouldn’t even look at me. It was as though I didn’t exist! Months before the Apollo job, I followed his movements constantly. I made a point to be in the places he hung out; I ate at his favorite eating places; drank at his favorite watering holes; and that stupid pool hall? I must have wasted a hundred hours sitting in that dump, hoping to bump into him.”
Mike was speechless. This was absolutely the last thing he would have expected from a murderer/smuggler/saboteur.
“All during this trip I’d been looking forward to watching you die a slow painful death, but now I suppose a quick painful death will have to do.”
The travel case in her lap stirred slightly as she withdrew her hand from inside. The hand wore no glove and came up holding a revolver that was bright and shiny, except for blood stains on one side. “Nikita was kind enough to lend me her weapon—after I bludgeoned her to death. She put up a nice fight, though. Nearly shot me in the head.”
Struggling to ignore the gun pointing at his chest, Mike kept his eyes locked on Rebecca’s. He was fighting back fear and, for the moment, winning; but it was a shaky victory—one he knew he could start losing at any moment. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ve got five bullets. One for you and one for me and three spares.”
“Who’ll take care of Kim?”
The mocking tone returned in full. “Yes, what about poor Kim? With no one to squirt food and water down her throat, I would imagine she’ll die soon. Maybe even before this little craft runs out of chemicals for its fuel cells, and hence, the electricity needed to run its lifesupport system, which keeps the air fresh and breathable. Death by exhaustion or dehydration or asphyxiation. Just about breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” Moving the gun an inch closer to Mike’s chest, she spoke in a cruel tone. “Is there anything you’d like to say before you die?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“No begging for your life?”
“Begging won’t work. And besides, thanks to that rain of molten glass and metal yesterday, I’m now something I’ve never been before.”
“What’s that?”
“Ready to meet my maker.”
“I’ve never understood that stupid cliché. What does it actually mean?”
“Prayed-up.”
Rebecca’s eyes grew wide with amazement, but she recovered quickly and laughed as though genuinely entertained.
Mike shrugged. “Laugh all you want, but shoot me and I’ll slide into heaven faster than a greased saint.”
“Then you can deliver a message for me: one I’ve been wanting to send for a long, long time.” Her smile turned into a repugnant sneer as she raised the pistol and pointed it directly into Mike’s face. “Tell God that Rebecca Dozier says for Him to go to hell!”
Her sneer disappeared as a gloved hand grabbed her wrist and shoved it—along with the gun—toward the front window.
The gun discharged.
Its sound was deafening in the pod’s tiny cabin, and was followed immediately by a high squealing hiss, as breathing air rushed through the bullet hole and out into the vacuum beyond.
Rebecca’s eyes displayed only fear as she stared at the half-inch cone-shaped hole in the shatterproof glass, and at the nine-feet-long jet of escaping gas that was visible outside.
Having resigned himself to his fate, Mike had been as shocked and confused as Rebecca at the source of the gloved hand. But the momentary mystery was a mystery no more: Rebecca and Kim were now locked in a frenzied struggle over control of the revolver. Wrestling shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee, they drifted upward and bumped into the ceiling above Rebecca’s seat.
One of them—Mike couldn’t tell which—kicked out an interior light. Pieces of white translucent plastic and clear glass tumbled away in several directions; and the cabin’s ambient light level dropped by one sixth, as the filament, exposed to air, fizzled and died.
Unstrapping himself from his seat, he looked for a place to jump in and help, but had trouble deciding exactly which of the various flailing body parts to grab. Then, as the air pressure continued to fall, the rising pain in his ears reminded him that neither he, nor anyone else, was wearing a helmet.
Overly excited, he fumbled clumsily with the contents of his thigh pocket, suddenly unable to perform the elementary act of removing the suit patch-kit.
His ears popped.
Abandoning the idea of removing only the patch-kit, he simply yanked everything out in one move. Eight items went flying: four batteries, a flashlight, a pocketknife, a pair of folding scissors and the all-important patch-kit. He grabbed it out of the air.
His ears popped again.
As he dug through the patch-kit’s contents, a woman’s scream rose to a level where it would have been easy to believe she was being run-through with a sword. There was no time to check who it was.
He found and removed the hypodermic. Almost empty! Might not be enough! He placed the tip next to the hole in the window and squeezed the handle anyway. A small amount of white fluid came out, clung to the window, and began to bubble and expand. It grew and touched the hole. Some of it was sucked through. But it didn’t grow large enough to completely engulf the hole. It congealed into a spongy white half-doughnut without sealing the leak. Air continued to hiss out into the vacuum.
His ears popped again.
Rummaging through the patch-kit for a fresh cartridge of self-hardening plastic foam, he found one and began loading it into the hypodermic just as the two women—still battling over possession of the almighty revolver—banged two or three of their knees against the side of his head. He raised both arms to protect himself, and in the process, pushed the combatants slowly back toward Rebecca’s seat. He wasted several seconds throwing them a worried glance.
Kim gritted her teeth in unspeakable rage. Rebecca shook her head like a dog trying to wrest a rag from a tormenter’s fist. It was Rebecca’s mouth that was open; and it was Rebecca’s ongoing scream that rung in Mike’s head. Mike saw why: a small trickle of blood emanated from one of her ears.
Her ears haven’t popped!
Shaking her head vigorously caused the blood to trace a line from her ear canal out to the ear’s farthest edge. In the few seconds Mike paused to watch, she slung off two drops: one hit the wall, the other splashed across Kim’s cheek.
He was about to turn back to his work when he noticed there were now four hands squeezing the revolver’s grip; swinging it back and forth; pointing it this way, then that. He jerked his head down to duck under its potential line of fire. Don’t let them shoot me while I’m fixing the hole!
His ears popped again.
Rebecca’s long scream s
topped abruptly, then returned as a series of short screams of even greater volume. The pain must have become too much: she let go of the gun, pressed her palms over her ears and tried to curl herself into a tiny ball.
In the suddenness of Rebecca’s surrender, Kim lost control of the weapon. It bounced off the ceiling and into the pod’s rear. Kim dove after it, then rose to look over the seat backs and point the revolver in Rebecca’s face.
Rebecca didn’t seem to notice. Curled into fetal position, she writhed in pain. Her eyes were closed, her hands were over her ears, and blood that almost matched the color of her nails showed between her bare fingers.
Mike’s ears popped again, but the pressure was now so low that popping no longer solved anything. The pain in his head grew second-by-second and would soon become unbearable. Both he and Kim produced scream-like sounds: high and loud and long.
The pain and fear of the moment dumped adrenaline into his bloodstream, making him exceptionally strong. There was a strange, and somewhat frightening, feeling of power in his hands and arms. It was all he could do to fumble the new foam cartridge into the hypodermic, jiggle the tip of the hypodermic close to the hole, and squeeze the trigger.
The thick white fluid shot out of the hypodermic, hitting the window in wavy lines and crazy spirals. None of it landed near the hole. His muscles were all trying too hard. He had no control.
Then he broke the trigger.
Throwing the hypo away, he raked some of the lines of white fluid toward the hole with his hands and fingers, producing several broad white smears across the glass. All the fluid started bubbling and expanding. He had no idea if he’d done any good. Then the long thin jet of escaping gas, still visible through portions of the window, shrank to nothing—as did the hissing sound. The bubbles congealed and made the seal permanent, the cabin’s air pressure began climbing back to normal levels, and the pain in Mike’s head began to weaken.
Rebecca calmed herself. After she had regained most of her composure—and noticed there was a gun pointed in her face—she asked, “What do you intend to do with me?”
Though she was looking at the gun, which was in Kim’s hands, the question seemed directed to Mike. He ignored it, however, and stared at Kim unable to decide which question to ask first. Are you OK? Are you in pain? Can I get you anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you remember me? Do you remember that you love me?
Kim, staring at Rebecca, had no problem expressing her feelings. “We ought to kill her! All the people she’s murdered? She deserves to die!” Baring her teeth, Kim shook the gun at Rebecca. “Let’s kill her, Mike! Just say it! Say you agree and it’s done!”
Mike sucked in a deep breath through his nose. Later. There’ll be time for personal questions later.
Kim glanced at him, refusing to remove her eyes from her prisoner for more than a split second. “Well?”
“I’m hoping that killing her won’t be necessary.” Mike turned to Rebecca. “Clasp your hands together and hold them out in front of you.”
Rebecca didn’t move.
Kim waved the gun closer to Rebecca’s face to emphasize it as a threat. “That’s right, give me an excuse!”
Rebecca scowled at Kim, then reluctantly did as Mike instructed.
Reaching behind his seat, Mike grabbed a yellow nylon rope hanging on the pod’s side wall. Uncoiling it, he used one end of its six foot length to tie Rebecca’s wrists together. Make it tight, he thought. Tight enough that she can’t get loose, but not so tight that she’ll need to get her hands amputated if we ever get out of this.
He used a similar rope to tie her ankles together.
Kim lowered the gun.
Rebecca used this opportunity to kick both of her bound feet against the front window, obviously trying to kill them all by shattering it and creating a huge unpatchable hole. The window did not yield to her force, but shoved her backward against her seat. Screaming in rage, she began to thrash wildly: bouncing off the ceiling, her seat and the window.
Kim waved the gun, looking for a clear shot at the woman.
Mike tried to grab Rebecca so he could throw her into the rear, but failed because he was too scared Kim might accidentally shoot him in the process. Kim’s so crazy with hate she might actually be stupid enough to fire a pistol inside a pressurized spacecraft.
Squirming herself into position, Rebecca kicked the window even harder but still it did not shatter.
Kim screamed and fired. The shot missed Rebecca’s bobbing head by several inches. Mike cringed and listened for the expected hiss, but a hiss did not ensue.
Again, Kim took aim.
Rebecca kicked the window still harder. And still it held.
“Don’t shoot!” Mike yelled, as he grabbed the flailing rope that bound Rebecca’s ankles. He yanked her around so that her head was near the window. Her feet bounced off the top of her seat and up against the ceiling. Kim dove out of the way when Mike jumped past her into the rear and pulled Rebecca along by the ankles.
As Rebecca’s chest and hips thumped against the rear hatch, Mike threaded her ankle rope through a stainless steel ring on a side wall and tied it off. He then grabbed and threaded her wrist rope through a similar ring on the opposite wall and pulled it tight before tying it too.
She struggled and fought, but it was too late. Her body was stretched across the pod’s rear cargo section like a zero-g tube-hammock. Her feet were six inches from one wall; her hands eight inches from the other. Mike wiped his forehead and rubbed one eye. Rebecca continued to thrash and scream in rage. Several times she spun like a top.
Finally calming, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Mike took this occasion to pluck her eyeglass computer from her face. She displayed no visible reaction, though she must have felt it. Mike wondered if her lack of a reaction was real or a carefully performed act to trick him.
He held the headup close to his eyes as if about to put it on. Its lenses were as clean and transparent as glass—until he managed to view them from exactly the right angle. Then they resembled twin computer screens; small and finely detailed, and yet still transparent, like a fighter pilot’s headup display—hence this type of computer’s trade name. The twin screens displayed a row of tiny icons across the top, a list of items along the left edge and some text across the bottom.
Without opening her eyes, Rebecca said, “The writing is far too small to read, McCormack, unless you put them on.” She smiled slightly. “Or are you afraid?”
Either she wants me to put them on because she’s got them booby trapped, or she doesn’t want me to put them on and is just trying to make me think they’re booby trapped. He folded the glasses. This is no time to take unnecessary risks. He slipped them into Rebecca’s thigh pocket. “If they blow up, they’re on you.”
Rebecca’s close-lipped smile grew wider and more evil. Unsure if this too was real or an act, Mike decided to ignore it. He turned to Kim. “That was quite a coincidence: your coming out of the coma just when she was about to shoot me.”
Rebecca strained quietly against the ropes at her wrists, trying to work the knots loose.
“It was no coincidence,” Kim said. “I’d been awake for five or six hours. As soon as I saw her, I knew I had to pretend I was still unconscious. I’d already discovered she was the killer, and I figured she probably knew that I knew. So I loosened my straps and waited for a chance to jump her.”
“Are you—” Mike stumbled for words.
“What?”
He bit his lower lip before asking, “Do you remember me?”
“Yes, of course.”
He wiped his cheek, then squinted and moved closer. “Do you remember that you love me?”
Kim looked frustrated. “Why do you continue to insist that we are in love?”
Despite the lack of gravity, Mike’s posture sagged. “Never mind.” He turned his back to her and began gathering small floating objects he’d scattered when he yanked the patch-kit out of his pocket.
Kim�
��s frustration lingered. “Why?” she asked.
“Never mind!” He raised his hands in surrender. “Forget I said anything!”
“Fine!” Kim turned her back to him as well.
“Pocketsize,” Mike said, “did you record the audio of Rebecca’s confession to the sabotage and all those murders?”
“Yes,” said the softly feminine voice from inside the chest area of his vacuum suit.
Rebecca stopped trying to wiggle the knots loose on her wrists and smiled. “Digital audio recordings are not admissible as evidence in court. They’re too easy to fake.”
“True,” Mike said, “but they’re a perfectly legal source of information for detectives to use in searching for other things that are admissible as evidence; things like a dead body wearing the wrong skin, a stolen medsys, a dead programmer. And besides, a simple genetic test will show that your current skin has a different genetic code than all your internal organs, muscles, bones and blood. How do you plan to explain that in court?”
Rebecca thrashed for a few seconds then stopped abruptly. “None of this nonsense is going to do you any good! No ship will be sent to rendezvous with this pod. They don’t expect you to survive, remember? You’re going to sit, alone and helpless, in this little coffin while it travels past the planets, out of the solar system and into the endless void between the stars. You’ll sit in here until you use up all your food, water, electricity and oxygen. And then you’ll die. Just as I planned!”
Chapter Seventeen
Too Close an Inspection
Mike stared intently at the window in front of him. Except for the white lines, globs and smears of leak sealant on its inside surface, most of the window appeared completely black. A thick layer of soot had accumulated on its outside surface, even covering the area he’d cleaned before the mechanical arm got smashed. For the last two hours he’d stared at it while waving one hand in the air.
Wearing a claw-glove, he was cleaning an area of window about one foot square using nothing more than the pointy tip of a metal sliver the size and shape of a toothpick which jutted from the broken end—just beyond the elbow—of the one and only mechanical arm that still functioned.
Bones Burnt Black: Serial Killer in Space Page 23