Bounty Hunter at Binary Flats (Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal Book 4)

by John Bowers

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “Could be a lot worse, that’s for sure. The next two years will be the longest of his life, and somewhere along the line he’ll probably wish he could go back and face the artillery again.”

  “If he only gets eighteen months, then what’s the point of it all? He didn’t kill anybody.”

  “You have to have discipline. Without it, men in combat will never make it through. Hornbeck was a volunteer, so he knew all that going in.”

  He lifted off the parking lot and turned the car back toward the Prater estate.

  “Nick, with your combat record, how do you feel about him?”

  “I can’t really judge him. Not everybody is cut out for combat. I’ve seen men crack under fire, and I came close to it myself a few times. I’ve seen big, tough, macho characters cry like little kids when the shit started to fly, and a couple of guys that everybody thought were pussies turned out to be heroes. You just can’t tell.” Nick shrugged. “I can’t fault Hornbeck for running away. But I can’t fault the Star Marines for hunting him, either.”

  “It seems very sad.”

  “It is. War sucks.”

  Gil Prater Estate – Alpha Centauri 2

  As Nick approached the Prater estate and circled to land, he was aware of Cybele Gannon muttering into her hand-held ‘puter. He couldn’t make out her words and had to concentrate on what he was doing, but once he settled into the parking area and shut down his turbines he glanced in her direction.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Making notes.”

  “What kind of notes?”

  “Research notes.” She smiled. “I just saw another side of you. The compassionate side.”

  “Who says I have a compassionate side?”

  “Nobody said it, but I just witnessed it. You arrested Jim for desertion, but you felt bad doing it.”

  “Who says I felt bad?”

  Cybele laughed. “I’m a very observant journalist, Marshal. I don’t always need things spelled out for me. I saw it with my own eyes, heard it with my own ears. You did your job, but you hated having to do it.”

  He stared at her a moment, then shrugged.

  “Whatever orbits your moon. You still aren’t getting that interview.”

  She dropped the ‘puter in her purse. “So what’s your next step?”

  “Next step?”

  “I assume you’re still investigating the threat to my dad.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He glanced through the windscreen at the cameras above the entrance to the house. “What I haven’t done yet is review the surveillance footage from those cameras. If my guess is right, someone hand-delivered that wanted poster to your dad’s mailbox, and the way those cameras are positioned, it should have been picked up.”

  Cybele had a key to the front door and let them in. The house was quiet except for some low background music emanating from somewhere.

  “Where would I find the security camera footage?” Nick asked.

  “I’m not sure. Michael probably knows; he sort of runs the place.”

  Cybele led Nick through several rooms to a remote office at one end of the residence. To Nick’s surprise, Michael Smith was seated at a desk sifting through what looked like a stack of invoices. Cybele tapped on the open door and he looked up, then smiled as he recognized them.

  “Marshal! Miss Gannon! What’s going on?”

  Nick stepped inside and glanced around. The office was small and neat, nothing out of place. A small row of file cabinets lined one wall, a bookshelf sat against another, and two computer screens adorned the desktop. Nick nodded approvingly.

  “I had no idea you had a setup like this. Is this what a butler does?”

  Michael smiled. “‘Butler’ is a sort of general term; my job involves a lot more than that. I’m more of a business manager, actually. I order supplies, pay the bills, and anything else that needs managing.”

  “Got it. Do you also monitor the security cams outside?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Great. I need to see the footage over the mailbox for the day the wanted poster turned up, and maybe one day before that.”

  “That was over a week ago.”

  Nick frowned. “How long do you keep the footage?”

  “Honestly…I’m not sure. We never had to look at it before. It might be a week, it might be longer. The storage unit loops when it fills up.”

  “Okay. Show me what you have.”

  Michael left the office and returned a few minutes later with four recording chips in hand. He handed them to Nick.

  “These are from the cameras that cover the mailbox. Four different angles.”

  “Thanks. I assume you have a playback device?”

  “Of course.” Michael pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and produced a chip player. “You can set it up right here if you like.”

  Nick smiled and shook his head.

  “I’d rather do it in my room, less distraction there. But thanks.”

  He turned for the door; Cybele was still there.

  “Thanks for your help,” he told her. “Maybe I’ll catch up with you later in the day.”

  She smiled curiously. “You don’t want my help with the video?”

  “No, this is marshal stuff. Besides, how awkward would it be if I found you on the video and you were there when I found it?”

  She laughed. “Okay, I get it. I’m not wanted. I know how to take a hint.”

  He smiled and headed out the door.

  “Do you ride, Marshal?” she called after him.

  He looked back. “Ride?”

  “Horses.”

  “I used to, but it’s been about ten years.”

  “Well…if you solve the crime by, say, three o’clock, meet me at the horse barn.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll show up even if I don’t solve the crime. Sounds like it might be fun.”

  ***

  Nick settled himself comfortably at the desk in the guest room and set up the chip viewer. Each of the four chips Michael had given him came from a different camera, all of them positioned to cover the north end of the mansion from different angles. Anyone moving around in the area would be picked up by at least one camera, and the mailbox was visible to all four.

  He expected the job to take several hours, but to his surprise the cameras were motion-activated—rather than recording hours of nothing moving, every frame contained some kind of action. The chips were indexed, allowing Nick to jump forward or backward as necessary, but for the time period he was interested in they contained surprisingly little footage. Each sequence contained something—a bird, a small animal, a large insect. Twice he saw Michael Smith walking across the driveway; once he saw Hector Ramirez working with lawn equipment; in another segment a mail delivery woman arrived and placed items in the mailbox, and sometime later Michael came out and emptied it.

  He checked each chip for the same time period; each one showed slightly different details, but when he came to the mailbox they all matched exactly. He backed up and reviewed several days prior to the arrival of the diplomatic pouch, but found nothing new. He sat back in his chair and stared out the window for several minutes, evaluating the evidence. Not one of the surveillance cameras had captured anyone placing a diplomatic pouch in the mailbox—not on the day Prater had said it arrived, nor for several days prior. After a few minutes he bent over his computer and accessed the AlphaNet, spending the next thirty minutes in research. Finished, he shot off a couple of v-mails then closed down the computer. From his luggage he took a small locked box and placed the four camera chips inside it, locked it again, and stored his luggage back in a closet.

  Nick left the guest room and returned to Michael’s office. The slender young man was still bent over his desk, hard at work on estate business. Nick tapped on the door frame.

  “Got a second?”

  Michael looked up and smiled. “Of course. How can I help you?”

 
“Are you the only one who collects the mail?”

  “Usually. Sometimes the senator beats me to it.”

  “What about the day the pouch arrived? Did you retrieve it?”

  “Um, no, I didn’t.”

  “Did you get the mail that day?”

  Michael frowned in uncertainty. “Honestly…? I don’t remember. Probably not, since I didn’t see the pouch until—I remember now! I found it on my desk, underneath the other mail. I don’t know who put it there.”

  “Okay, thanks. By the way, I’ll need to keep those recording chips for evidence. You have some spares?”

  “Oh, sure. We have a whole box of them. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Nick’s lip curved in what passed for a smile.

  “I think I did. Thanks for your help.”

  ***

  Senator Prater was sitting on the patio again, reading what looked like a Senate bill, a glass of liquor in the center of the table. As Nick stepped outside, he glanced up and laid the document down.

  “Marshal Walker. How’s the investigation going?”

  Nick shrugged. “I still need to talk to Mr. Barnett.”

  Prater craned his neck to look over his shoulder toward the horse barn.

  “He should be back by now. You might try the barn again.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  “Having any luck?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Anything I can help you with? Can I answer any questions?”

  “Not right now. When I’m done I’ll sit down with you and we can go over everything together.”

  Prater nodded with the hint of a smile. “I’ll be here.”

  He picked up the Senate bill again, but Nick didn’t move. Prater glanced up.

  “I had to arrest Jim Hornbeck.”

  “You did? Why?”

  “He had an outstanding warrant.”

  Prater dropped the document and sat up straight.

  “What for?”

  “Apparently he was in the Star Marines during the uprising. He was charged with desertion under fire.”

  “You’re kidding! I had no idea.”

  Nick watched his reaction closely.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure! What kind of question is that?”

  “A necessary one. If you knew he was wanted, you could be charged with harboring a fugitive.”

  Prater’s expression hardened.

  “I guess I can understand that, but…it’s not like he was a murderer or anything. Is it?”

  Nick shrugged. “The law doesn’t care. A fugitive is a fugitive.”

  “Well, I didn’t know about it. I guess I can’t prove that, but—”

  “You don’t have to. That’s all I need to know.”

  The patio door slid open and Cybele Gannon stepped outside. She saw Nick and smiled.

  “All done, Marshal? Ready to go riding?”

  Nick glanced at his watch. It wasn’t quite noon.

  “I have one more interview, if Mr. Barnett is here. After that…”

  “Fine. I can wait.”

  Prater’s eyes narrowed as he peered at his daughter.

  “You’re going riding? Where?”

  Cybele pointed vaguely south.

  “I thought I would take the Marshal down toward the canyon, show him some wild country.”

  “You be careful around that canyon. It gets treacherous.”

  Cybele laughed. “I’m not twelve anymore, Dad. I know about the canyon.”

  “I was thinking of the Marshal. If he isn’t experienced on horseback…”

  “I’ll take good care of him.”

  Chapter 7

  William Barnett was in his late fifties, short and stocky with thinning hair that had once been blond. He was dressed in denim and sported a day’s growth of whiskers. His hands looked like old leather.

  Barnett was cooperative, if not exactly friendly. Nick chalked it up to the pragmatism of a man who works with his hands—growing up in the San Joaquin Valley, he’d met a thousand like him. They chatted for ten minutes and, aside from expressing surprise at Jim Hornbeck’s arrest, Barnett had nothing to offer. Nick found nothing suspicious in his attitude and no reason to suspect he was being evasive. He mentally marked Barnett off his suspect list.

  By the time the interview was over, Cybele had saddled two horses and led them onto the paddock in front of the barn. Nick walked over and studied the animals appreciatively. They were both geldings, in their prime, well fed and muscled; one was a shiny bay with a copper coat, the other a grey. The bay turned toward Nick and lifted his nose, snuffing him with curiosity. Nick grinned and turned his face as the nose brushed his cheek, smelling the sour-grass of the horse’s breath. Satisfied that Nick was no threat, the bay tried to take a bite of his hat.

  Nick laughed. “Easy, buddy. That’s felt, not straw.”

  Cybele walked around the front of the grey, the reins in her hands. She smiled.

  “I think he likes you.”

  “He’s a beauty. How old is he?”

  “They’re both about four. They were born a few weeks apart.”

  Nick walked around the animal’s left side, running his hand down its neck; the black mane had been trimmed and looked like stubble. He pressed his face into the neck and took a deep breath.

  “God, it’s been too long. I always loved the smell of a horse.”

  “You had horses growing up?”

  “My neighbor did. We rode a lot during my high school years, but I haven’t sat a saddle since I joined the Star Marines.”

  “They say it’s like riding a bike. It’ll come back to you.”

  “Yeah, but I’ll be sore tomorrow.”

  They mounted up. It took Nick a moment to acclimate to the saddle, then he slipped his boots into the stirrups, straightened his back, and wriggled his butt until it felt comfortable. Cybele watched with quiet amusement.

  “Keeping a good posture is the secret to riding a horse,” she said. “I told you it would come back.”

  He nodded and gripped the reins. He moved them right and left, touching the bay’s neck without jerking on them; the horse responded easily.

  “Very good, Marshal. Some people think you have to jerk the reins to get a horse to respond, but that only hurts his mouth. I’m glad you know what you’re doing.”

  Nick looked at her and tilted his hat down to keep the sun out of his eyes. The adulation was getting a little deep.

  “How far we going?” he asked.

  “Maybe ten miles or so. We should be back by dark.” Cybele patted a saddlebag draped over the grey’s rump. “I packed us a snack for later in the afternoon.”

  “Good thinking. Water, too?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And a rifle?” His eyes rested on the scabbard hanging to the right of her saddle; he saw the butt of what looked like a carbine. From the color and style, he suspected it might be an antique.

  She smiled her most engaging.

  “Sure, why not. You have your pistols.”

  Without another word, she spun the grey and jabbed her heels into his flank. The horse bolted forward at a gallop, running twenty or thirty yards before dropping to a trot. Nick spun his own horse, still a little awkward, and managed to catch up. A minute later they were trotting south toward the edge of the estate. Again, it took Nick a minute to adjust to the pace; riding a trotting horse was the hardest kind of riding, as the animal bounced up and down with each step, jarring everything from his bones to his teeth. The trick—difficult to learn—was to synchronize his own bounce to the horse’s motion.

  By the time they had gone a hundred yards, he had it back.

  They rode in silence for a few minutes. It was a beautiful day with a nice breeze; the sun was high and the sky clear, and it was easy to believe the universe was perfect. That would probably last until Centauri B rose, but he wasn’t sure what time that would be. Not that it mattered—they had food and
water and two healthy horses under them.

  “Why do we need a rifle?”

  “It’s a frontier world, Marshal. Over half the planet still isn’t settled.”

  “Are you worried about wild animals?”

  “Just the two-legged kind.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

  “No. But Centauri Springs is the last real town on this end of the continent, and there are several hundred miles of empty country to the south. It just makes sense to be careful.”

  He shrugged. “Can’t argue with that.”

  ***

  They rode south for twenty minutes. After leaving the Prater estate, the terrain dipped and flattened out for a while, but Nick saw more rolling hills ahead. It was pleasant to just sit in the saddle and let the horse do the work; the clip-clop of hooves and creak of saddle leather brought back nostalgic memories. He wished it was Suzanne on the other horse instead of Cybele.

  “What was it your dad said about a canyon?”

  “Oh, he worries too much. The canyon isn’t that bad.”

  “How big is it?”

  “Not terribly big. Maybe two miles long, three hundred yards wide, and a couple of hundred feet deep. It looks really old, probably a seismic fissure from when the planet was cooling. But I’m just guessing about that.”

  Nick grunted. “Not the place you would want to be in a flash flood.”

  “No, definitely not.”

  “Does it have a name?”

  “What, the canyon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Prater Canyon.”

  “That’s original.”

  Cybele laughed. “My dad’s bid for immortality, getting geography named after him.”

  “Being a senator isn’t enough?”

  They rode on for several minutes. The terrain began to rise as they approached the knolls. The horses picked their way to the highest ground, following a clearly visible path through the grass until the ground became stony and the grass receded down the sides of a slope.

  “Looks like somebody does quite a bit of riding here,” Nick observed. “There’s a trail.”