by Piers Platt
Shit. Get up!
Auresh kicked him in the thigh, snarling. Falken pushed himself up onto an elbow, one arm over his head to protect himself. He looked up, and saw Auresh raise the wrench over his head, preparing to bring it down on Falken’s skull. Then, suddenly, arcs of blue electricity danced across the captain’s chest, and he gave a strangled cry of pain. His body went stiff, his muscles locking up. As Auresh fell, twitching, to the ground, an imposing figure appeared from behind him, blocking out the sun. With a snarl, the new man yanked Cadellium’s pipe out of his hand, drew it back, and drilled the investor in the face with a vicious two-handed swing. Cadellium’s knees buckled, and he dropped to the sand, unconscious.
The shadowy figure held out a stun-gloved hand to Falken, who squinted up at him in shock and surprise.
“Well? Get up,” Archos told him.
Chapter 18
Vina sat in a wooden chair in Sheriff Buckniel’s office, hands folded neatly over the datapad on her lap. The wall behind the sheriff’s desk held a large vidscreen showing a map of the county – as Vina watched, several blue indicators winked and changed location, moving on different roads. She decided they must be patrol cars for the sheriff’s various deputies. To the right of his desk, a display case held a number of framed photographs and awards – she saw a certificate of appreciation from the local Chamber of Commerce, and pictures of the sheriff shaking hands with the current mayor. The whiteboard on the opposite wall was covered in barely legible script – Vina could make out a to do list, what looked to be a shift schedule, and a concept diagram of some sort. On the wall over the whiteboard, Vina saw an old photograph of the sheriff with his brother, wearing fishing gear and posing in front of a lake with a pair of freshly-caught trout. The door behind her swung open.
“… check his release paperwork yourself this time,” Buckniel said, pausing in the door frame. “I don’t want him spending another day in our lockup.”
“Yessir,” Vina heard a deputy reply.
Buckniel sighed and closed the door, then shot her a tight smile.
“Now,” he said, crossing behind his desk and taking a seat. “What can I do for you, Miss Weaver?”
Vina smiled back. “I was hoping you’d be willing to discuss a cold case with me,” she said.
“Sef Weaver’s case isn’t a ‘cold’ case,” Buckniel said patiently, pulling his chair forward and leaning a pair of thick arms on the desk. “Cold cases are ones we haven’t solved.”
“Oh,” Vina said, taken aback. “How … how did you know I wanted to talk about my father’s case?”
Buckniel raised his bushy eyebrows. “You’re his daughter; it wasn’t exactly hard to figure,” he said. “Plus, I get notified whenever a member of the general public requests access to my case files. Kinda figured you’d be coming.”
“Right,” Vina said, blushing slightly. “Can we talk about it?”
“I got half an hour,” Buckniel said, checking his wristpad. “Actually, twenty-five minutes now. Then I’m due at the courthouse.”
“Okay,” Vina said. She opened the datapad with her notes. “I’ll get to it, then. Did you look into any other suspects, other than my father?”
“No,” Buckniel said. “Because I found no evidence to suggest that anyone else was involved.”
“Maybe not physical evidence, but what about his own testimony?” Vina asked.
“Criminals nearly always tell me they didn’t do it,” Buckniel said, shaking his head. “If I took them at their word, I would waste a lot of time chasing down dead ends. My job is to build a strong case against the most likely culprit, not eliminate all possibilities.”
“So you didn’t consider anyone else?” Vina pressed.
“Maybe if your father had an idea of who else could have done it, I would have looked into it more,” Buckniel said. “But I don’t recall him having any suggestions. Do you?”
“Have suggestions?” Vina looked down at her screen. “No.” Not yet, at least.
“If you’re asking questions about the case, you should be asking about Tevka,” Buckniel said, leaning back in his chair. “That’s the part that always bothered me.”
“How so?” Vina asked.
Buckniel put both hands behind his head. “What in the hell was that kid doing kidnapping you and your family?”
“He wanted money, I thought,” Vina said.
Buckniel screwed up his face. “No offense, Miss Weaver, but your family isn’t exactly sitting on a gold mine over there at the bookshop. If memory serves, your Dad won some award that year, but it was only worth a few grand. I think he had to re-mortgage the house to put up the money we offered for a reward. So if Tevka wanted money, he picked a shitty target for a ransom, pardon my French.”
Vina frowned, and scribbled on her notepad. Dad won an award …? “Maybe Tevka just figured because he knew us, it would be easier to take us?” she guessed.
“Could be,” Buckniel said. “He wasn’t the brightest guy, and there was probably a bit of a grudge there, since your Dad fired him for getting high on the job, but … still doesn’t quite add up for me. Robbing the store or your home for some spare spending money, I could see that. But Tevka skipped right over the obvious choices and jumped straight to kidnapping people at gunpoint.” He raised three fingers in the air. “And not one, but three people he kidnapped. That’s a lot for one man to take on.”
“What are you suggesting?” Vina asked. “That someone else was involved? That Tevka had a partner?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, I’m just saying I don’t understand what made him do it,” Buckniel said, shrugging.
“Why would someone else have been involved? Who could have put him up to it?” Vina asked.
Buckniel shrugged again. “I sure would have liked to ask Tevka himself, but …” he trailed off.
Vina ignored the sheriff’s pointed comment. “We never saw anyone else at the bunker,” she told him. “It was always just Tevka that visited. Did you find anything that made you think someone else was involved?”
“Nope,” Buckniel said. “Just a hunch, that’s all.”
Vina shook her head, trying to clear her muddied thoughts. “I had some other questions,” she said.
“Sure,” Buckniel said. He turned and typed on his computer for a moment. “Fire away,” he said, still looking at the screen.
“Your timeline had my father killing Tevka at around seven p.m.,” Vina said, pressing on. “But the medical examiner estimated time of death at six, a full hour earlier. Can you explain the discrepancy?”
Buckniel snorted and turned to face her. “Can I explain the discrepancy?” he chuckled. “I didn’t think I was due in court for another fifteen minutes, Miss Weaver.”
She met his gaze steadily. “Well? Can you explain it?”
“No, I can’t,” Buckniel said. “And if a jury didn’t see a problem with it, I don’t really feel the need to explain it to you.”
Vina waited for him to continue, but he stayed silent, watching her. “So you don’t know why the times are different?”
“No, Miss Weaver, I do not. I can only assume that because the M.E.’s time is an estimate, that means there’s some room for error.”
“How accurate are medical examiner’s estimates?” Vina asked.
“You’d have to ask a medical examiner,” Buckniel shot back, typing on his keypad again.
“Okay, I will,” Vina said. “Your case files said that you were out in the area where the murder happened because someone saw a steer on the road; it had gotten loose from someone’s ranch.”
“If that’s what it says, then that’s what happened,” Buckniel said, exasperation creeping into his voice.
“Did you ever find that missing steer?” Vina asked.
“I don’t recall whether a missing steer was found, no,” Buckniel said. “Apart from the fact that it happened fifteen years ago, I was a bit preoccupied with a new murder investigation at the time. And I was also
trying to find you and your family, who were still kidnapped.”
“Ten years ago,” Vina said. “It happened ten years ago.”
Buckniel crossed his arms over his chest. “What other questions are on that list of yours?”
“Isn’t it an odd coincidence that someone posted an anonymous tip that led you right to the crime scene?” Vina asked.
“What are you suggesting?” Buckniel asked.
“I’m not suggesting anything, I’m just trying to understand what happened,” Vina replied evenly.
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t throw my words back at me, Miss. You are suggesting something. You’re suggesting there was never a missing steer, and somebody sent me out there on purpose.”
“It’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Possible and probable are two very different things,” Buckniel said. “And some Good Samaritan posting an anonymous tip with the intention of helping me stop a crime in progress does nothing to exonerate your father.”
“Why would they have posted the tip anonymously?” Vina asked.
“I don’t know,” Buckniel said. “I’d ask them, but …” He threw his hands in the air.
Vina pointed her chin at the photo of the brothers fishing. “Were you close to your brother?”
“We were brothers,” Buckniel said, frowning. “Why?”
“He defended my father in court,” Vina said.
“I’m aware,” Buckniel replied. “He defended a lot of people. That was his job.”
“He defended a lot of people that you arrested. How did you two handle those situations?”
“We made sure we never discussed those cases except when our jobs required us to,” Buckniel said. “Simple enough.”
“How did you feel about the fact that he was trying to keep people out of jail, the people you arrested?”
“If they didn’t go to jail, then they didn’t deserve to,” Buckniel shot back. “We were both important parts of the criminal justice system. Just so happens that we were different parts of it. That’s all.”
“Did you know my father before you arrested him?”
Buckniel studied Vina for a moment. “We’d met.”
“Were you friends?” Vina asked.
“Acquaintances,” the sheriff replied, carefully.
“This was my dad’s first arrest,” Vina said. “Did you have any personal disagreements with him before this time?”
Buckniel’s eyes narrowed, and he pushed the computer keypad away – Vina had his full attention now. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but his tone was full of menace. “You’re about a hair’s breadth away from making a serious accusation, Miss Weaver. Be very, very careful.”
“I’m just trying to discover the truth,” Vina said, her pulse racing.
“You’re questioning my integrity, and my brother’s,” Buckniel said. “I’m an even-tempered man, but I won’t stand for you dragging his name through the mud.” He pushed a button on his keypad. “Deputy?”
A voice came back over the computer’s speakers. “Yes, Sheriff?”
“Miss Weaver and I are done talking. Please see her to the door.”
Chapter 19
Falken took Archos’ hand, and pulled himself up from the sand.
“Why …?” he panted, gesturing at his attackers. Cadellium lay writhing in pain, holding his face, while Auresh was still twitching uncontrollably from the stun blast.
“Why? You tell me,” Archos said. “What beef did they have with you?”
“No, I know why they came after me,” Falken said, grimacing and touching his bruised ribs gingerly. “I’m asking why you helped me.”
Archos shrugged. “I saw them follow you, carrying those weapons. I don’t have many rules, but if there’s gonna be a fight on my island, it’s gonna be on the disk where I can enjoy it, and it’s gonna be fair.” He tossed the pipe out into the ocean. “No weapons.”
Falken narrowed his eyes. There’s something more, something he’s not telling me.
“Come on,” Archos said, pointing at a truck parked in the wood line. “I haven’t got all day. And I’ll leave you here to walk back, if you don’t stop gawking at me.”
“What about them?” Falken asked, pointing at Auresh. The captain, trembling weakly, was attempting to push himself to his knees, as the effects of the stun blast began to wear off.
“Leave ‘em,” Archos said. “They’re on their own now. If I see them back at the facility, I’ll kill them myself.”
Falken crossed the beach and climbed into the passenger seat of the truck.
“Did you get what you were looking for?” Archos asked.
“Yeah,” Falken said, touching his pocket to ensure the album was still there.
“Good.” Archos started the truck up, then drove down onto the beach, heading toward the facility.
Falken glanced over at Archos, frowning. Is Oz … helping me? Did it help me find the album, too? Or was that just a coincidence?
“Thanks for the help,” he said, awkwardly.
Archos stared straight ahead, appearing not to hear him. Falken decided to drop it. As they neared the facility, Archos pointed the truck back into the woods, and they followed a well-worn set of tire tracks through the trees to the entrance to the garage. The truck’s tires squealed as they drove down the entrance ramp, and then Archos jerked to a stop in one of the empty vehicle bays. He climbed out, and without another word to Falken, headed for the stairwell, disappearing into the facility.
Falken stepped down carefully from the truck’s cab. His ribs ached, and when he touched the side of his head, his fingers came back sticky with drying blood. He probed the ribs along his right side experimentally.
Ah! Sore … but not broken. He sighed. I should probably clean that head wound, but … it’s not real, anyway. Other than the pain.
He left the garage and climbed the stairs to the roof. Weaver was still sitting in the middle of his transmitter, the guts of a server spread onto a faded piece of fabric on the ground in front of him. Falken sat cross-legged next to him, but the bookkeeper paid him no mind.
“Do you remember the first time we met?” Falken asked. “It was in the infirmary – Salty’s infirmary, back at the colony. You were recovering from a concussion. And you’d lost something. Do you remember what it was?”
Weaver held a small plastic part up to his face, squinting at it to try to read the tiny lettering along one side.
Falken set the album down on the fabric. He saw Weaver glance at it, then look more closely. Slowly, he set the plastic part down and picked up the album. Weaver brushed his fingers over the cracked leather of the cover, his eyes wide. He looked at Falken, and for the first time, made eye contact with him. His face was a mixture of uncertainty and apprehension.
“Open it,” Falken said, softly.
Weaver looked back down at the album, and with shaking fingers, opened the cover. The screen flickered once, and then came on. Beneath the splintered glass of the screen, the photo of his family appeared. He gasped, and covered his mouth with his free hand. After a time, Weaver advanced to the next photo, and stared at it. Then he moved to the next. He scrolled through the album two full times, before carefully closing the cover, and placing the album back down on the ground. He looked at Falken again. When he spoke, his voice was gravelly and hoarse, but Falken recognized it all the same.
“That’s the second time you’ve brought this back to me,” he said.
“Yeah,” Falken agreed, tears welling in his eyes. “It is.”
“Thank you,” Weaver breathed. He looked down at the album again, and then back at Falken. “Why did you come back here? Why were you looking for this? For me?” he asked.
“We were friends once,” Falken explained. “Do you remember?”
“I hadn’t forgotten,” Weaver said, his voice growing stronger. “The last time I saw you was out on the little island. We were just testing out the boat for the first time.”
“Yes!” F
alken nodded. “We landed and explored the island together.”
“We found Bearnes and his map,” Weaver said. “And then we argued about what to do next. I wanted to keep sailing, but you said it was too dangerous. You threatened to destroy the boat if I tried to keep going. I had to leave you there – I thought you were going to try to hurt me.”
So that’s where our experiences diverged. Oz showed him a different version of me, to try to stop him from sailing out. But why didn’t it just show him the sensor node? That would have stopped him from sailing, too. Falken frowned, thinking. He wasn’t ready for it. Oz needed him to confess, before it told him about the Khonsu.
“I’m sorry,” Weaver was saying. “For leaving you there. I was upset … and scared.”
“It’s okay,” Falken said. “I’m sorry for scaring you.” Here I am, apologizing for something a simulated version of me did years ago.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Weaver said. “You were right, in the end. It just took me two years to realize it.”
Falken shook his head, trying to organize his thoughts. “So … you remember? You remember everything?” Falken asked.
Weaver nodded. “I didn’t lose my memory. I just … I stopped talking to people. It’s easier that way.”
“What do you mean?” Falken asked.
Weaver reached down to the fabric on the ground in front of him, and picked at a seam with his fingernail. “Have you ever felt like you were losing your mind?” he asked, looking down at the fabric. “Like you couldn’t trust yourself?”
“I lost my self-control once, a long time ago,” Falken said. “Out of anger and grief, I killed a man. That’s why I’m here.”
“I’m not talking about that,” Weaver said. “I’m talking about feeling clear-headed, but not believing what you’re seeing, what you’re hearing.”
“I’m not following,” Falken said, frowning.