Return to Oz (The Falken Chronicles Book 3)

by Piers Platt

  Down the hall, Falken saw a shadowy form emerge from the doorway to another office. For a second, Falken was sure he had been caught, and then he heard a soft grunt of exertion, and he realized the other man was carrying something bulky. A tangle of wires trailed out of the doorway after the man, who paused, as if unsure where he was, and then turned and headed down the hall toward Falken. Falken let go of the door handle and crept back from the opening, hoping to hide himself in the darkness of the room. He kept his eyes locked on the approaching man. He was short – far shorter than Falken –and appeared to be struggling with the heavy object in his hands. Then, in the split second as he passed the door to Falken’s hiding place, he crossed through a narrow beam of moonlight, and Falken caught a good look at his face.

  “Weaver!”

  Startled, Weaver gave a shout of alarm, and dropped the object in his hands. It landed on the floor with a thunderous crash. Falken tore the door open, but the smaller man was already sprinting down the hall.

  “Weaver, wait!”

  The bookkeeper burst through a set of double doors, with Falken hot on his heels.

  “It’s me, Falken!”

  Down a narrow staircase, and then through another door – Falken was closing the distance on him – but when he pushed the door open, he found himself on a circular metal balcony overlooking a massive metal disk.

  The disk! Damn it, he led me right to the heart of the facility.

  Weaver was already halfway round the balcony, and another unintelligible shout brought two inmates, bleary-eyed and angry, out of doors farther around the room. They let Weaver pass, barely paying him any attention, and in the dim moonlight filtering in through the open roof, Falken saw them catch sight of him. Then he heard footsteps coming down the stairs behind him, too.

  Shit.

  He held his hands up.

  “I just want to talk to Weaver,” he called out. “I’m not here to start any trouble.”

  “Too late for that, pal,” one of the approaching inmates told him. Falken saw that he was wearing a stun-glove on one hand. “Just stay right there.”

  Should have brought the damn gun.

  Falken shook his head in chagrin, and waited. The inmates stood watching him, in silence, as the rest of the gang roused themselves. Complaining at the late night commotion, they emerged from their rooms, gathering around the balcony and watching Falken sullenly. Falken glanced over the railing – at the base of the disk, he could make out the dark forms of the new inmates Archos’ crew had captured, awaiting their turns on the disk.

  At last, a tall figure appeared on the far side of the balcony, gave a mighty yawn, and then sauntered around toward Falken.

  “Things that go bump in the night,” Archos said, his teeth grinning white in the moonlight. “What the hell just went bump, and ruined my night?”

  “Looks like one of the farmers, Warden,” the inmate with the stun-glove said. “Caught him sneaking in through the back door.”

  “A farmer, eh?” As Archos drew closer, the smile slipped from his face. “… Bird-man?” he breathed. “Can it be?”

  Falken inclined his head. “Archos.” Last time I saw you, we fought out there on that disk. You nearly killed me … and then you did kill me, at the Khonsu. But none of that happened in this version of events. All I did was run away from the facility. I hope.

  “My, my … an old friend,” the warden said. “Gentlemen, this is Bird-man. As promising a recruit as we’ve ever had. Undefeated through all three rounds, and he even beat two men at once for his final fight. Isn’t that right?”

  “That’s right,” Falken said, cautiously.

  “And then you went and threw it all away,” Archos said, shaking his head sadly. “How are my crops coming along by the way? I think it’s nearly time for another supply run. My corn gruel this morning hardly tasted fresh at all.”

  A murmur of laughter spread through the gathered inmates.

  “Whenever you need more food, you know how to get it,” Falken said.

  “Indeed. So … what brings you sneaking back into my facility, Bird-man?” Archos asked.

  “I was looking for a friend,” Falken said.

  “A friend? And you didn’t feel like waiting until the morning, and maybe, knocking on the front gate?”

  “I’m in a hurry,” Falken said.

  Archos laughed. “Hear that, gentlemen? He’s in a hurry. On Oz.” Archos chuckled again. “Got a busy calendar, Bird-man?”

  “I just want to talk to someone here.”

  “Well, I’m afraid we don’t really allow social calls,” Archos said. “And certainly not if you forget to call ahead and make an appointment. But I’ll tell you what: I’m curious to see if years of farming have made you soft. Are you still a wolf, Bird-man? Or have you become a sheep?”

  “I’m done fighting,” Falken said.

  “That’s a shame,” Archos sighed. “Throw him out, gentlemen. Stun him for good measure, first. I’m going back to bed.” The warden turned on his heel.

  “Wait!” Falken cried. Peshai said it didn’t matter what I did in here, he reminded himself. It’s all just a simulation. “If I fight, will you let me stay?”

  “I’ll let you stay, and you can talk to whoever you’d like, for one day,” Archos said, turning back to face Falken.

  One day. I better make it count.

  “… but you’ll have to fight all three fights again,” Archos finished.

  “I’ll fight three at once, right now,” Falken said.

  “Three at once! Ho ho,” Archos wagged his finger at Falken. “Eager, aren’t we? Very well. But we need some light for our entertainment. You fight in the morning.” The warden yawned again. “Out of curiosity, which one of my men is so important that you had to come talk to them?”

  “Weaver,” Falken said.

  The smile disappeared from Archos’ face, and his eyes narrowed. “Weaver? Why?”

  “He’s my friend. I think he needs my help,” Falken said.

  Archos studied Falken in silence for a moment. Then he turned and strode back toward his room.

  “Put Bird-man in the pit,” he called over his shoulder.

  * * *

  Falken was already awake when the metal door to the pit swung open, creaking on its heavy hinges. He stood in the mid-morning light and faced the door, rolling his head to work the kinks out of his neck.

  “Come on,” an inmate wielding a stun-glove told him, but Falken was already striding past him, headed up the stairs, a cold glare in his eyes.

  The balcony was packed full of inmates lounging over the railing, jostling for the best view of the disk. When they saw him step out of a side door, they began pounding the railing rhythmically, chanting. Falken glanced around the gathered inmates, but he could see no sign of Weaver. On the far side of the balcony, however, he spied Cadellium and Auresh, watching him warily.

  The two of you decided to join Archos’ crew? Falken thought. That doesn’t surprise me.

  Cadellium crossed his arms and frowned at him, but Falken, stone-faced, ignored him completely.

  His escort guided him to the gap in the railing, where he found the plank that led out to the disk. Three men stood waiting for him on the disk – while none were quite as large as Falken himself, all looked to be in excellent shape, and bore the hallmark scars that counted their numerous successful fights. Falken crossed the plank without hesitation, and stepped into the middle of the disk. He bounced on his feet, shrugging his shoulders to loosen them.

  Archos stepped to the edge of the railing, and held a hand in the air for silence. “Gentlemen, I give you: the return of Bird-man! He once was a fighter, now a farmer … let’s hope he’s not a failure.” He grinned at Falken, whose attention was focused on his nearest opponent.

  “Fight!” Archos cried.

  Falken leapt forward. The man facing him swung a punch at his head, but Falken caught it easily. With surgical precision, he twisted the man’s arm, and felt the
bone pop. The man shrieked in pain, but Falken was already leaning into a vicious right hook that landed on the man’s throat. He fell to his knees, choking. The spectators roared their approval.

  One down.

  Falken spun and deflected another punch off of his forearm from his second opponent, and then felt a kick land on the back of his leg from behind. He dodged away, breaking free from the two men surrounding him. Falken circled the ring, backing away toward the edge of the disk, and keeping both men in his field of view.

  “Come on,” Falken urged the man closest to him. “Quit being a coward and come at me.”

  The man snarled and hurried forward, launching himself at Falken in an attempt to tackle him. Falken met his advance, and for a second they grappled, and then Falken twisted his upper body and threw the man neatly over his hip. The inmate skidded across the disk for several feet, and then disappeared over the edge, screaming.

  Two down.

  Falken went straight at the last man, who tried to back up but soon found himself out of room on the disk. Falken lunged in to grab the man by the hips, throwing him down onto his back. The man grunted in pain – Falken scrambled up on top of him, straddling his chest. He unleashed a flurry of punches, landing one after another on the man’s upraised arms and poorly-protected face. Finally, Falken grabbed the man’s hair and slammed his head against the metal disk, once, and then again. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head.

  … and three down.

  Falken stood up, breathing hard. He held his arms out to the side, and spun in a slow circle, surveying his two broken opponents, and the inmates around the balcony, whose cheers threatened to deafen him. Falken found Cadellium and Auresh, and pointed at them in warning.

  Do not fuck with me. Not here.

  Then he turned and caught sight of Archos. “Well?” Falken shouted.

  The warden grinned at him. “Welcome back, Bird-man!”

  Chapter 15

  Vina finished scrubbing the roasting pan and rinsed it in the sink, washing the last of the soap from it. Then she held it up, letting the water drain, before handing it to her mother. Elize took it, wrapping it in a dish towel to dry.

  “Thanks for dinner,” Elize said. “The chicken was delicious.”

  “I burned the potatoes, though,” Vina said, peeling off her rubber gloves and draping them over the sink.

  Elize shrugged. “I always liked them crispy.”

  Vina laughed. “Mom, there’s a difference between ‘crispy’ and ‘burnt to a crisp.’ ”

  “Well, I didn’t mind,” Elize said, putting the roasting pan away in the cabinet. “It was just nice to come home to find dinner laid on already. What did you get up to today?”

  “Day four,” Vina said. “First day of defense arguments.”

  “Oh, right,” Elize said. Her brow knitted together. “Vee, should I be worried about you?”

  Vina shook her head. “No, why?”

  “Well … you’ve just been very focused on this since you came back. I’m worried you might get too wrapped up in it all.”

  “Aren’t you curious, too?” Vina asked. “To know what happened?”

  “I was,” Elize said. “As soon as we got out and discovered your father was in jail, I went over everything myself, and talked to everyone involved.”

  “And …?” Vina asked.

  “And I ended up confused and frustrated. All the evidence seemed to support his conviction, although I couldn’t bring myself to believe that he had done it.”

  “But you believe it now,” Vina pointed out.

  “I accepted it, after a while,” Elize said. “For a few months, I caused quite a scene, petitioning everyone that would listen to get him released, or have his case appealed.” Elize sighed, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And then one day I realized I was fighting a battle I couldn’t win, and it had taken over my life, and yours, too. I was fighting for your father, and neglecting you and your brother in the process. So I had to just accept what happened, and move on.”

  Vina bit her lip. “I think I need to look into things myself, too. I’m not ready to accept it, yet.”

  Elize nodded. “So long as you can put it aside, when you need to,” she said.

  “I’m okay, Mom,” Vina said. “Promise. I’m going back to work next week, anyway. I’ll stop digging then.”

  “Okay,” Elize said, placated. She leaned over and kissed her daughter on the cheek. “I’m going up to bed.”

  “Goodnight, Mom,” Vina said, rubbing her mother’s back.

  “‘Night.”

  As Elize made her way upstairs, Vina took a seat on the couch in the living room, and turned the vidscreen back on.

  Onscreen, Tarpon Buckniel was addressing a witness. Vina checked her notes. Who was he …? Oh, right. The psychiatrist.

  “… so, Doctor Wenstal, it’s possible that Mr. Weaver had no intention to kill Mr. Savanh, and it was all just an accident?” Buckniel asked.

  “Ah, I wouldn’t say ‘accident,’ ” Wenstal replied. “I think it’s more accurate to say that Mr. Weaver suffered a mental breakdown when confronted with the man who kidnapped his family, and in that altered mental state, he lost control of himself. He knew that killing Mr. Savanh was wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself.”

  “And is it possible that this ‘altered mental state’ lasted for some time, and in fact led him to try to cover up the evidence, as well?” the defense attorney asked.

  “It’s certainly possible,” the psychiatrist replied, shrugging slightly. “The academic research on the longevity of temporary insanity is not very robust, honestly.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Buckniel headed back to his table, and sat next to Weaver.

  The prosecutor, a younger woman, stood up next. “Doctor, when you say the academic research is ‘not very robust,’ what does that mean, exactly?” she asked.

  “It means there haven’t been any studies on it,” Wenstal replied.

  “None whatsoever?”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s not an easy subject to study, as you can imagine – you can’t exactly induce temporary insanity in a lab environment, or follow subjects around in real life hoping they’ll have a breakdown about something.”

  “Naturally,” the prosecutor replied. “When people experience an episode like this, how long does it usually last?”

  “A few minutes, a few days … in some cases, the insanity can take hold, and become a permanent condition,” Wenstal replied.

  “So it’s possible that Mr. Weaver had an extended mental breakdown, long enough that he was still not of sound mind when he drove home? That he was still insane when he retrieved the tools he needed, and returned to the scene to hide his crime?”

  “It’s absolutely possible,” Wenstal said.

  Buckniel already covered this in his questions. Where’s she going with this? Vina wondered.

  “Is Mr. Weaver still insane?” the prosecutor asked.

  “I don’t believe so,” the psychiatrist told her.

  “How do you know?” the prosecutor asked.

  “He doesn’t exhibit any real symptoms now,” Wenstal said. “He hasn’t tried to harm anyone else, and aside from being distraught and somewhat depressed over this case, I haven’t seen anything to indicate that he doesn’t have a firm grip on reality.”

  “Mr. Weaver continues to deny that he had anything to do with Mr. Savanh’s murder,” the prosecutor pointed out.

  “True,” Wenstal agreed.

  “Is that enough evidence to conclude that he’s insane?” she asked.

  “What?” Wenstal asked. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Sorry. Is the fact that Mr. Weaver has not confessed to this crime enough to conclude that he is still insane?” she repeated.

  “No,” Wenstal said. “I don’t think so.”

  “So then explain this to me,” the prosecutor said. “If Mr. Weaver was insane when he killed Mr. Savanh, but he regained his sanity sometime
following that event … why has he not pled guilty by reason of temporary insanity?”

  Wenstal glanced over at Buckniel apologetically. “I … I don’t know,” he said, faltering. “That’s a question for Mr. Weaver and his lawyer, I suppose.”

  “When people recover from their bout of temporary insanity, do they generally take responsibility for their crimes?” the prosecutor asked.

  “I suppose so,” the psychiatrist hedged.

  “Yes or no, Dr. Wenstal,” the prosecutor said.

  “Yes,” he said. “They do.”

  She turned and faced the jury then. “Mr. Weaver claims he didn’t kill anyone. But his lawyer brought Dr. Wenstal here in an attempt to argue that if Mr. Weaver did it, he was insane – it wasn’t his fault.” She turned and faced Buckniel and her father, crossing her arms. “Pick an argument, gentlemen – we’re all getting a bit confused. But either way, it won’t change the fact that Mr. Savanh is dead, and Mr. Weaver killed him. No further questions.”

  … and that’s where Buckniel lost the case, Vina thought. His own witness pointed out that Dad wasn’t still crazy, but also wasn’t taking responsibility for the crime. I’m not a lawyer, but … that seems like a pretty dumb trap to fall into.

  She paused the video, and made a few more notes on her datapad.

  So the question becomes … was Buckniel just incompetent? Or was he throwing the case on purpose?

  Vina bit her cheek, staring intently at the defense attorney on the screen.

  And if he was throwing it on purpose, why? What did the Buckniel brothers have against my father??

  She made another note, and then hit Play again, letting the video continue.

  * * *

  “Vina.”

  The voice was low and gruff, and a hand shook Vina by the shoulder. She started awake.

  “Hm?” She sat up on the couch, squinting in the harsh morning light streaming in through the living room blinds. A figure loomed over her, frowning. “Grandpa?”