by Rhine, Scott
Frantically, I phoned the judges for clarification. The man on duty allowed that I could use this clause, but that all benefits would be nullified if I fired a single shot from my guns or physically assaulted another vehicle during the mission. I also had to provide a suitable environment for the organ. If it decayed or were damaged in any way, I would also lose the mercy time. I could live with both restrictions. No one else was this far back to shoot at, and the heart should fit nicely in the Duratech vault. The casual comment the judge made in closing, however, threw me for a loop. “Your deadline has been moved ahead two hours at the request of several other players. They need time to read it so they can make their own petitions.”
“So that makes it ten o’clock local time?” I said, not happy, but not wanting to argue. I could make the last deal in three hours if I hurried.
“Eight local. Eastern Time is the standard for all of our deadlines, Mr. Hayes.”
I slammed the phone down and had to vent for a few minutes before I was fit to speak diplomatically again. My shadow ducked his head in briefly while I ranted. I had less than two hours remaining when the phone rang again.
“What do you want this time? My firstborn?” I shouted.
“I hope you were referring to Miss Anselm, sir. Lawyers are no longer allowed to take infants or souls in payment since the Faust accords of 1623.”
“Nigel!”
“Good Evening, Mr. Hayes. My wife told me you’ve been trying to reach me, but you’ve been unavailable. Did I miss anything important?”
“I’d give my right arm to have you here,” I sighed.
“Careful what you say, sir. I’m down in the lobby for the last day’s event, as I promised. What is so important that you’d part with a limb?”
I saw the clock, and skipped the good stuff. “North Ameri-Car needs something to keep open their helicopter plant, and I need a petition signed. I’ll authorize them to mass-produce the main body of Ghedra as a bargaining chip. I want you to head to their suite and begin negotiations. We don’t need a contract, just a fair gentleman’s agreement.”
“No problem,” he said, a little puzzled and travel-weary. “Anything else?”
“We need it by eight. Meet you there in ten minutes,” I said, straightening my clothing and hanging up.
Foxworthy was amazing. He kept saying that he wasn’t that sort of attorney, but he did a fantastic job helping us reach a business understanding. Everybody left the bargaining table happy, and Nigel was still cautioning me. He was wearing his usual sort of casual attire—dress pants, a pullover shirt his wife got him for his birthday, and leather deck shoes. He spoiled the leisure effect by wearing argyle socks and carrying a briefcase large enough to transport a house cat. His other four bags were waiting for him in the lobby.
“They’ve only contracted to build a small number of your design, more for novelty than anything. It’s admittedly impractical, but it gives them a chance to retool and retrain their plant. You’re not getting a percentage either. North Ameri-Car is merely licensing thirteen of your patents for the spin mechanism, suspension, and coupling systems. All this is subject to FCC approval, of course. You can offer your services to help make the design street legal, but that would be a separate contract.”
I phoned my allies to let them know the good news. I would live another day, and the Scarab was still undefeated! As we headed to the judges’ suites, something Nigel said earlier finally sank in. “How did I get so many patents so fast?”
Foxworthy smiled. “My whole office has been busy. Gertrude warned me that we had to make the applications by the end of the race or what’s left would be considered common domain. We couldn’t have that, now could we?”
I was once again stunned. When this was over, I owed Gertie more than a box of chocolates. “How many patents do I have?”
He shrugged. “We applied for twenty-three. It will take a few months, but I expect over half to come through approved. By the way, you swindled me on the arm. You knew it was defective when you offered it.”
I smiled. “You were so eager that you didn’t ask. Maybe you’ll learn next time. But if you want to, I’ll trade you this bum arm for a glass of the house’s best champagne with a beautiful lady.”
“Where is she?” Nigel asked, not wanting to be swindled again.
“Mr. Whitaker?” I asked my shadow when we left the elevator on the judges’ floor.
His eyes focused for a moment and he said, “Your old room, sir.”
“Looks like we’ll have to rescue her from a room full of FBI agents.” Both men raised an eyebrow at that statement. I gave Nigel the short form of what happened since we spoke to him last.
We made it to the judges’ lounge and turned in the petition with ten minutes to spare. The DeClerk negotiating team went down to the front desk to order champagne and get Nigel his own room.
“How’s the stock?” I asked Niven while Foxworthy signed for his key.
“The market is closed, sir. But the buy orders are waiting.”
Chapter 22 – Tracking a Myth
Whitaker knocked on the door to our old suite and gave the guard some kind of secret handshake. Soon, we were ushered into an investigation in progress. It wasn’t the nerve center, but there were hotel maps, communication head sets, and manila folders strewn about on a card table and the kitchen countertop. The photographers were gone, as were large sections of my Sansui interface and half the portable items in the room. I saw four suits drinking coffee in the kitchen, and asked, “Where’s Officer Anselm?”
The closest one answered. “That’s Special Investigator Second Class Anselm. At least after she gets back from her mandatory, three-week medical leave, it is. I put in for her citation right after I got here. I’m field supervisor Reynolds. You must be...”
One of the other suits whispered my name in his ear. This Reynolds had a unique aura of competence about him. Many local cops I know leave the impression that their first career choice had been that of gym teacher, but they didn’t want to go through all that work to get a degree. This cop looked like he could have been a great salesman, but quit because it wasn’t a challenge. Although they all had on the same outfit, I could tell the others were all just imitating the style of their boss. Cloning is the sincerest form of flattery. Reynolds had the beefy appeal of an aging hometown hero who could some day run for office. He had a head full of hair, tinged with gray at the temples. The southern-accented officers to each side, who I dubbed Billy Bob and Joe Bob, gazed at him with that loyal dog look that said they’d take a bullet for him. Maybe he deserved their devotion, but I took an instant dislike to the man. I don’t know what got my hackles up, but I smelled snake oil. I tried to hide my mistrust for Mare’s sake.
“Ahh... Yes. I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Hayes. I’m the new agent in charge here, and there are some questions I’d like to ask you.” The camera crews must love him. I was right; he could sell ice to an Eskimo. Fortunately, I wasn’t an Eskimo.
I shrugged. “You already know more than I do. I just came to get Mare. Our team needs to assemble in two hours, and I want to spend some time with her before then. She’s had a pretty rough day already. I thought I’d talk to the principal and get her out early.”
Supervisor Reynolds nodded. “She’s in that bedroom talking to our colleague from the FCC. You’re right, though. She deserves a break, we’ll both go in. Your friend...” he said, indicating Foxworthy.
“His lawyer. Flew in from Pittsburgh,” explained Whitaker.
“Interesting,” said Reynolds, chewing on a thought. “In that case, he can come in, too. Whitaker, you can wait out here. It’s going to be crowded enough in there already.”
On our way in, Nigel whispered a frantic, “I’m not that type of lawyer either.”
“Do they know that?” I asked, impishly.
In what had been Mare’s bedroom, she and my old pal Larry from the FCC were having a long and tedious chat. Mare looked both relieved and a little distre
ssed to see me. Officer Lawrence had the same thin ring of frizzy hair ringing his bald crown and the same nasal voice that only he seemed to love the sound of. I have a theory that balding government functionaries compensate for their own sufferings by making life hell for whomever wanders into their petty little kingdoms. I sat on the bedside dresser while Nigel stood against the back wall, concealing the bottle of champagne behind him.
Larry saw Reynolds and asked, “Where did that Holstein fellow lead you?” When he saw me and Foxworthy, Larry frowned.
“He found a pay phone and made a local call to an Indian Reservation just north of here,” said Reynolds.
“You’ll have to be specific. There must be a dozen of them,” complained Larry.
“The Sandia Reservation.”
“Iran-Contra all over again,” murmured Foxworthy.
“Drugs? Guns?” I asked. They all cut me a break because it had happened before I was born.
Reynolds explained. “Sandia is a sovereign nation by treaty. They are very sensitive about us searching. It’ll take almost a week to go through proper channels. By then any evidence will be sterilized.”
Larry seemed annoyed by my presence. “Holstein was the only lead we had, thanks to Hurricane Hayes over here.”
“Hey, I got you all those mouse pads and keyboards for fingerprinting,” I said, defending myself.
Larry was working up steam toward full indignation. “Yes, we needed the fingerprints to identify those guys from the computer room. Hayes tried to eliminate as much of their dental and facial record as he could. Lord knows we can’t question the guys he brutalized.”
Mare chewed on her lower lip and looked away from me. Foxworthy stepped in. “What are you implying?”
“I’ll put it in terms you can understand, fancy pants. Hayes should be up on charges of assault and obstructing justice! He’s a loose cannon,” complained Larry.
“Actually, those pants are quite plain,” I said to rub him the wrong way. “He normally wears the Armani.”
Mare looked like she wanted to elbow me in the gut.
Nigel grinned. “You see, Mr. Hayes does most of his fighting with words. I doubt you’ll be able to find one person who has seen him raise a hand in anger.”
“The Scarab is certainly violent. Maybe the Scarab did it for him,” Larry argued. As childish as he sounded, that theory scared me a little. I do tend to save up my violent impulses to vent during the game.
“Scarab hasn’t killed anyone this race,” I said.
“Maybe he wanted to. Hayes fractured one guys jaw and shoulder in at least three places. He beat the other guy into unconsciousness, and then kept kicking him hard enough to cause internal bleeding and break more than twelve bones.” It seemed that Larry wanted me locked up in the worst way.
Everybody in the room stared at me. Mouth dry, I said, “The first guy had a gun. It was hard not to fracture his skull with that fire extinguisher. The second guy, the one who hurt Mare, had a knife. I don’t remember anything about kicking him. In fact, I didn’t remember much of anything except what people told me afterward. The report said ...”
“Mr. Waters refused to tell us the whole story because you saved his life. You’re a sick and dangerous man. When the public finds out about what we know, you’re going to jail.”
Nigel’s voice got lower and quieter. Not that most people would notice, but I believe he was angry now. He’d be a great poker player, even though he prefers Bridge. “You’re implying that an unarmed, unskilled fighter picked on two poor armed terrorists, foreign nationals who were known murderers and kidnappers? You’re complaining because he defended himself, his teammates, and country against those thugs? I’m not a criminal attorney, sir, but even I know no jury would ever convict Mr. Hayes, even if you had a witness to this alleged abuse. He’d walk out of there with a medal. If you state these vindictive theories of yours outside this room, I know a colleague who is very good at slander suits.”
Larry wasn’t put off that easily. “Oh, we’ll try him. We’ll bring up the fact that his father’s brother was an alcoholic who drank himself to death. He did leave behind a battered wife, though. I hear that these sorts of things run in the family. We have witnesses that will testify that Ethan Hayes himself indulges too frequently for his own health. We can make a case that his unstable personality and fits of rage make him an untrustworthy ally for the United States government.” That was close enough to the truth to hurt. I surprised everyone, though, and kept calm.
Nigel continued to defend me. “Try to make that claim stick without a medical exam. The guilty-by-relation attack didn’t work for insurance companies who wanted to deny coverage, why should it work for you. Mr. Reynolds, I’m sure you don’t feel this way. Mr. Hayes has put every resource that his company possesses at your disposal, risking his own life for your investigation.”
“You had to find something out from the workstation,” I added, gesturing to pieces strewn about the floor.
Reynolds shrugged. “Someone did more than clean and floss when they were done on that machine. They resurfaced. This Kali either has a real tidiness fetish, or someone is not telling us the complete story.”
Something smelled fishy. “You’re telling me that the FBI has questioned everyone and can’t find a single clue?”
“Not everyone. GEDM has over twenty racing crew members and twenty more executives present, and we have to leap frog two levels of lawyers to get ‘no comment’ from each of them. Any attempt to force the issue will be met with restraint-of-trade lawsuits. We don’t know if they’re stonewalling on principle or they really have something to hide. Most of the remaining TSM members have diplomatic visas. All the guards you caught would tell us is that they heard she was Indian,” said Reynolds.
“Makes sense with a name like Kali.”
Reynolds shook his head. “Wrong kind of Indian. She’s a local, probably mestizo, but nobody we can talk to has ever seen or heard her, including you. Why do you suppose she chose the name of a Death goddess?”
“Goddess of Destruction,” I corrected. “Yama is Death.”
Reynolds nodded. “Comparative religion class?”
“Roger Zelazny, Lord of Light,” I explained. “What about the supercomputer net and the hotel phone switch? You didn’t get anything from those? The Minos login alone should have been a dead give-away.”
Reynolds shrugged his shoulders. “The Minos login is shared by all the active judges—each of them has a copy of the security key. The only one unaccounted for was the duplicate from the hotel vault. As you know, that one is no longer functional.”
“That’s one threat out of the way,” said Larry. He truly annoys me.
I had to reply. “No. Once any competent programmer has superuser authority, they can gain access to your system any time they want. Hell, I could do it.” Larry seemed gratified by this admission. “Can you tell me what you do know? I’m tired of being a mushroom.”
Reynolds used his best press conference tone, soothing but unrevealing. “We know what you told us. One or more anonymous people are stealing files from dying contestants. They are determined enough to kill to cover their tracks. We know enough about their technique that if we have a few minutes warning, we can trace the robbery and gather enough evidence for warrants. But right now we don’t have squat.”
“What about the Cuban real-estate lead?”
Larry took over. “That sort of investigation takes months to complete. By the time we do, Kali will be long gone. This is, of course, assuming there is a Kali. I personally believe that she’s a total fabrication meant to misdirect us.” Mare knew otherwise, but she wasn’t speaking. The way she was avoiding me, maybe she wasn’t allowed to say anything. Someone had ordered her silence.
Nigel interceded for me. He remembered my feud with this man from our last encounter. “Agent Lawrence, your baseless juvenile implications have now crossed from petty unprofessionalism to downright lies.”
“Maybe we
should just let him go,” pleaded Reynolds. I suspected a game of good cop/bad cop going on.
“Show him the file,” ordered Larry. A new dossier on E. Hayes appeared, only a few pages thicker than the last one.
Reynolds apologized. “We investigate everyone involved in these cases, and Mr. Hayes has several unanswered questions in his past.”
“Gentlemen, if you have a question you want to ask me, by all means do so. We’re on the same side here,” I offered. Foxworthy put a cautionary hand on my shoulder.
“To begin with, Mr. Hayes has no history with the IRS,” said Larry.
Foxworthy explained that I had never in my life made a profit, and had an indenturement exemption filed with the credit bureau. Since the company had not been selling stock for three months yet, DeClerk Enterprises had filed no return either.
“He never registered with selective service, a Federal offense.”
“I’m exempt.”
“Why, were you in prison at the time?”
I took Mr. Reynolds aside and explained my hemophilia. I told him quietly that I didn’t want Lawrence knowing. He nodded, and declared that issued settled.
“What, is he gay or something?” Larry whined.
Reynolds winced and Mare cracked a smile.
Larry caught himself on that one. “Oh, yeah. I forgot. Next item, he has no birth certificate.”
“But I had a passport from the ages of eight through eighteen. My birth certificate should be on file at the hall of records in Rio de Janeiro. Is this almost everything? We really do have work to do.” I stood behind Mare and began relieving the knots in her shoulders.