by Piers Platt
Weaver ignored him and continued working, so Falken ate, watching his friend. After a few minutes, Weaver slipped his torque wrench into his tool belt, and then picked up the bowl of stew and sipped at it.
Well, that’s a good sign, Falken thought. I hope.
While his friend ate, Falken told Weaver his own story. He talked about his career as a fighter, his life with Mallerie, and the man he murdered. He told Weaver about their first day together on Oz, and how they had met again later, at the colony. Weaver finished his stew and put the bowl back down, and then turned back to his work.
“We went to the little island, you and I,” Falken said, gazing out at the ocean. “You were teaching me how to sail. And when we landed, we explored the island on foot. Do you remember, Weaver? We found Bearnes and his boat. What was left of them, at least. He had a map, like yours. But he didn’t get nearly as far as you did.”
And then we found the sensor node, which led us back to the Khonsu. At least, that’s what happened in my version, Falken thought. I don’t know what happened in this version of Oz.
When Weaver remained silent, Falken sighed and stood up. He gathered up their empty bowls and took them back down to the mess hall. He found Archos sitting at one of the tables, sipping water from a chipped coffee mug that read WORLD’S BEST BOSS.
“No luck?” the warden asked, as Falken set the dirty bowls in a sink.
Falken shook his head.
“No.”
“Give it time,” Archos said.
That’s the one thing I don’t have, Falken thought. He raised his arm, checking his wrist reflexively, but of course, the wristpad computer he normally wore was no longer there. This is my second day back in Oz … so I have five more days before Peshai pulls me out.
I need a way to break through to him, and fast. I need to show him he can trust me.
Falken looked at Archos. “Did Weaver have anything else on him when you found him?”
“No,” Archos said. “Just the map. Why?”
“Was the boat there?” Falken asked.
Archos shook his head. “We found it a few days later, farther down the coast.”
“Where?” Falken asked.
* * *
The ocean lapped at the shore, the tiny waves washing back and forth across the yellow sand. Falken walked quickly, glancing over his shoulder from time to time to check how far he had come.
Archos said it was just a couple miles south. I can’t see the facility anymore, so I must be getting close.
His foot struck something solid under the sand, and Falken stopped, frowning. He toed the object again, and sand slid off of a flat metal plate in the shape of an arrow. The lettering was faded, and upside down from Falken’s perspective, but he could still read it.
Corrections Facility and Space Elevator.
Falken snorted. I remember that sign.
He continued walking. Around the next bend, he spotted a familiar shape – the hull of the boat they had built. It lay tipped over on the beach with its mast splintered halfway along its length. The boat appeared empty; Falken could see no sign of the sails they had sewn from parachute silk, or any of the supply baskets with which they had stocked the ship. As he neared the wreck, Falken noticed a number of boards torn out of the bottom of the hull.
That must have been some storm, Falken thought. Oz made sure to destroy the boat beyond repair.
He knelt next to the boat and peered inside the upturned hull, searching amongst the broken boards. The ship was empty – picked clean by the ravages of time or the inmates who had found it.
Damn it.
Falken let his arms drop to his sides and sat, thinking.
It’s not in the boat. So now what?
He shifted his knees in the sand to get more comfortable, and suddenly his eyes lit up. Falken pushed himself backward, and began digging into the sand, scooping out handfuls and tossing them aside. When he reached a foot deep, he moved to one side, and widened the hole. Then he shifted once more, and dug down again, sweating as the sun beat down on him.
“Come on, Oz,” he muttered. “You know what I’m looking for. Help me out, here.”
Suddenly, the fingers of his right hand struck something hard under the sand. Falken followed the outline of the object with one finger – it had a straight edge, and after several inches, a square corner. He shouted in triumph, and then tugged it free of the sand.
The booklet’s leather was pitted and worn, and sand spilled out of it when he flipped the lid open. The screen was cracked, just as it had been years ago. Falken set his finger on the power button.
“Come on,” he said.
The screen lit up, and Falken found himself staring at a digital photo of Weaver and his wife, with a young Vina and her brother standing between them.
Yes!
“What’ve you got there?”
Falken spun around, tucking the album behind his back. Several feet away, Auresh and Cadellium stood watching him intently.
Son of a bitch!
Then Falken saw what the two men were carrying. The older man held a thick, metal pipe; Auresh was slowly tapping a heavy wrench against the palm of his hand, a twisted smile on his face. Falken felt his pulse quicken.
“What is it?” Auresh repeated.
“Something that belongs to a friend,” Falken said, eyeing them warily.
“Let me see it,” Auresh said.
“No,” Falken said. He glanced at the tree line, and then down at the boat, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. The boat was empty, the beach bare.
Cadellium looked over his shoulder, back toward the facility. “Let’s be done with it,” he told Auresh.
Auresh ignored the older man. He held up his arm and flexed it for Falken to see. “You broke this back on Olympus, remember?”
“I remember,” Falken said.
“All better now,” Auresh said, smiling. “Good thing we had a nice long journey here for it to heal up.”
Right, Falken thought. A long journey. “I can break it again for you, if you like,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” Auresh said. “And this time, you won’t have a proxy to do your fighting for you. This time I get to fight the real you.”
Wrong again, Falken thought. “Where’s Shep?” he asked, stalling.
“It was his second offense,” Auresh said. “They sent him somewhere else. But he’ll be real happy when he finds out we took care of you.”
“I didn’t kill his brother,” Falken said. “The dragons did.”
“I don’t honestly care,” Auresh said. “But I do care that you ruined our business venture, and my ship. You’re going to pay for that, too.”
“You kill me, and I guarantee you’ll never get off this planet,” Falken told them.
“Look around,” Auresh said. “There’s no way off this planet anyway. Nobody cares what we do here.”
I could take both of them, hand-to-hand, Falken thought. I might even have good odds facing one of them with a weapon. But two of them at once, both armed …
“Enough talking,” Cadellium said. “Let’s do it.”
Falken could see the pipe wavering in his grip. He looked into the older man’s eyes, and saw Cadellium swallow. He’s nervous. He’s not used to being the one to get his hands dirty.
Falken pointed at him. “Remember what happened on the disk this morning,” he warned the investor. “Don’t for a second think that that pipe is going to slow me down.”
Cadellium glanced across at Auresh.
“He’s bluffing,” the ship captain said. “Just aim for the head, like we talked about.”
The two men started toward him. Falken knelt down, making a show of tucking the photo album into his pocket. Then he straightened suddenly, and hurled a handful of sand at Auresh’s eyes. The ship captain yelled, holding his hands up reflexively to block the attack. Falken charged Cadellium, bellowing. The investor’s eyes widened, and he back-pedaled, but he managed to swing
the pipe, and hit Falken a glancing blow on one arm. Falken stumbled, but as Cadellium drew back the pipe again, he lunged forward and caught the older man by the throat, grabbing his arm to stop him swinging the pipe again.
Falken squeezed, and saw Cadellium’s eyes go wide in fear, his mouth gasping for air. Then Auresh struck Falken a heavy blow to the ribs, and the wrench’s impact forced the air out of Falken’s lungs. His grip on Cadellium weakened, and the investor swung the pipe again, connecting with Falken’s head above his ear. He fell to his knees, reeling, and then toppled onto his back on the sand.
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.
“O
kay, 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?”