by Ilsa J. Bick
“Uh-huh.” Pearl looked unconvinced. “You sure you aren’t begging to get the stuffing beat out of you? Maybe . . . I dunno . . . maybe, you know, one of those head games getting everyone else to punish you for what happened?”
“No,” Ramsey lied again. “Nothing like that.”
They fell silent, listening to the tick of an antique brass clock on Pearl’s desk. Then Pearl said, “I could make you see the shrink again.”
“Brannigan?” After McFaine—after his son—Ramsey had seen the department psychologist for debriefing. The debriefing was standard procedure whenever there was an “incident.” “I don’t need to see her again. She’s the one cut me loose. Send me back, and she’ll have a nervous breakdown.”
“I don’t doubt that. But can I ask why you’re fighting this? I figured you’d snap this up like a Parthinkin largemouthed bass.”
Ramsey sighed, shrugged. “I don’t know. I think . . . I think I’m worried that I’ll start to feel good. That the job’s the only thing left that means anything.”
“I don’t see the problem.” Pearl looked befuddled. “I like my job.”
“Yeah, but when you go home, you’ve got a wife. You’ve got two daughters. I come home, and . . .” He left the rest unsaid.
Pearl looked at him for a long moment. “Yeah. Jesus, Jack. This is a hell of a thing.” He shook his head. “Hell of a thing.”
There was nothing for Ramsey to say, so he didn’t. Finally, Pearl said, “Okay, listen. This is not a request. You did your bit. No reason you hanging around. Sheriff from Farway calls for help, he gets help. Best thing for you is to get out of town, get back to work. Anyone wants you, it’ll be easy enough to park your butt in a tilt-wing.”
“A tilt-wing? No, thanks. I’ll take my hover up.”
“No, they want you there in”—he checked his clock—“two hours, not seven. There’s a tilt-wing waiting at the spaceport get you there in forty-five minutes.”
“Yeah, and then what? I’ll need a vehicle.”
“You got an expense account. Just don’t go nuts up there and rent, like, a Bannson Cavalier, or something.”
“When have I ever gone nuts?” When he saw Pearl’s face, he added, “Right. What about my badge?”
Wordlessly, Pearl pulled out his top desk drawer, rummaged around and then pulled out a badge case and dealt it to Ramsey like a playing card. Ramsey flipped open the case, saw his number on the gold shield, and felt a queer tightness in his chest that was almost like joy. He looked up at Pearl. “Infernal Affairs has my service weapon.”
Pearl shook his head. “Can’t give that back to you, Jack. Only so far I can go.”
“Okay. I understand.” He did. Pearl was a friend, but he was a captain and a pragmatist. If this blew up—if, God forbid, Ramsey pulled another McFaine—Pearl would take enough heat as it was. “I’ve got a personal carry.”
“I did not hear that. So”—Pearl scraped up papers and butted them together—“get out of town. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to know you. Go do your civic duty and stay out of sight until all this blows over and, for heaven’s sake, stay out of trouble. And, Jack? Godspeed.”
Ramsey pushed up out of his slouch and stood. He was conscious of the weight of his badge case in his hip pocket. “I thought you were an atheist.”
“Go.” Pearl waved him out the door. “Get outta here before I do something and then my old lady’ll drag me to confession.”
* * *
Dawn, and three cups of coffee later. A squad hover, flashers going but no siren, took him back to his apartment and a uniform Ramsey didn’t know waited downstairs while Ramsey threw together a travel bag: the clothes he wore plus more jeans, three shirts, underwear, socks, toothbrush and toothpaste, a razor. A leather bomber’s jacket from his militia days. And his Raptor, snugged in a quick-draw on his right hip.
The tilt-wing was a cop blue, modified Cardinal transport with forward laser turrets instead of autocannons. The pilot was waiting, his hand on the throttle and headset jammed over his ears. Ramsey clambered up then dropped into the copilot’s seat directly behind the pilot, and less than ten seconds later, they were airborne, the tilt-wing pulling a straight vertical and then leveling out as they streaked northwest out of the city. The sky directly overhead was black and crowded with stars, but east of the city and Lake Diamond, the horizon was smudged with orange: sunrise coming.
By the time they made Farway, the sky had brightened to a gray glow and the stars had winked out. Ahead, a misty expanse of water glittered and was dotted with the black humps of a dozen islands. Farway hugged the western shore: a jumble of dark buildings, empty streets, and a lonely street light changing from green to red at the center of town. Tidy squares of tilled farmland checkered the countryside further out.
Then Ramsey saw the sparkle of light bars from the county sheriff’s cars, then the red and white flashers of fire trucks. Police and firemen scurried between the vehicles and lines of fire hoses, like oversized ants converging around plump worms. Bright, white light from generator-powered, high-intensity halogens bathed the black pavement and rocks in silver. Halfway down a rocky gorge was a twisted heap of blackened metal speckled with foamy fire-retardant. A thinning gray-black haze hung over the crime scene like a gauzy veil.
The pilot rotored past a line of landtrain tracks then spun a one-eighty and touched down. Ramsey unbuckled, took off the headset, twisted around for his bag. Then he popped his canopy, scrambled down the ladder and swung clear of the tilt-wing’s saucerlike turbines. With a roar of turbo-wash, the tilt-wing lifted off in a swirl of grit and vectored away for New Bonn.
With the tilt-wing gone, Ramsey could hear the basso rumble of generators, the murmur of voices, and the hiss and pop of cooling metal. The air was heavy with the stink of gasoline, scorched metal and molten plastic—and something else that reminded him of black char and overcooked meat.
Deep in his chest, Ramsey felt his heart jump-start with a kick of adrenaline mingled with anticipation. He loved this. Probably that shrink, Brannigan, would say he was nuts. Or maybe just kind of twisted.
She was probably right.
4
Saturday, 14 April 3136
0730 hours
Something was up with Joey, no doubt about that. Sheriff Hank Ketchum stood on the gravel shoulder, arms crossed and thick eyebrows drawn together in a scowl, worrying about his son and wondering what the heck was what.
Ketchum was wiry and field-hand tough. He wore khaki pants, brown boots, his sheriff’s hat firmly screwed in place, and a khaki parka with an embroidered gold sheriff’s star. His thatch of straw-colored hair, still without a lick of gray, was cut regulation short. He had thick, horny calluses on each palm and the leathery skin of a farmer, ruddy and creased from years in the prairie wind and sun. His drawl was slow and a little hick-country, something he’d cultivated. Add a little good ol’ boy, and people either warmed up right quick, or immediately subtracted about twenty IQ points. But Ketchum’s eyes were quick and as blue as old ice. Didn’t miss much.
When dispatch called about the fire, he had just returned home from cruising around town, looking for his boy. Stomped into the house, sick with worry, and Joey was standing there, leaves in his hair and sweat on his neck, like a blown horse running the Northwind Derby. His wife Lottie was standing behind Joey, one protective hand on the boy’s shoulder and fire in her eyes: Don’t start.
And now this. Ketchum’s jaw bunched. Doesn’t rain but it pours.
He watched as the county mobile crime scene people, dressed in neon orange coveralls that glowed unnaturally bright as the sun came on, picked their way down to the wreckage. The car was about fifty meters down, smashed up against a sturdy outcropping of granite that, thank the Lord, leveled out enough for a person to work. Getting there was the problem. The slope was near thirty degrees before it cut to sixty, and treacherous, slick with fire retardant foam and crumbly scree. Mountain rescue had jury-rigged a rope-belay
system so the crime scene people could get up and down.
Ketchum was out of his league, and knew it. That was no ordinary fire, no sir: flared fast, burned hot as a blowtorch. The frame was still steaming, and a thick streamer of black, oily smoke was only now starting to dissipate. And there was that smell of charred meat. Have to be brain-dead not to figure there was at least one roasted body in there. Question was accident, or homicide?
He heard someone call, and turned. Two men, dressed in the same khaki outfit he wore but with an embroidered deputy star instead, trudged up with a very tall, muscled man dressed in faded denim jeans, broken-in black leather jacket, heavy boots that showed a fair amount of wear. No hat. In the growing light from the sun, Ketchum recognized the man immediately. Have to be a hermit not to have seen Ramsey’s face splashed all over the vids and papers. But when they shook hands, Ketchum wasn’t prepared for how violent Ramsey felt, an impression bolstered by a roadmap of scars: a slashing, white scimitar arcing along the angle of Ramsey’s left jaw; another shaped, vaguely, like a half-moon turned upside down beneath his right eye, and more scars across Ramsey’s calloused knuckles. Ramsey’s nose was a little off-kilter, like he’d smashed it more than once, and there was a fleshy, two-centimeter gash embedded in a fresh, liver-colored bruise under Ramsey’s left eye.
They went through the introductions. Ramsey was dancing the cold-man two-step and Ketchum eyed the leather jacket. “That the only cold-weather gear you got?”
“It’s all I brought with me.” Ramsey shrugged. “Didn’t think it would still be this cold.”
“Warms up during the day. We can maybe fix you up with something back at the courthouse. There’s a pretty good outdoors place in town, maybe find you a parka.”
“Thanks. Might do that, depending on how long I’m here.” Ramsey jerked his head toward the wreck. “Arson guy here yet? What about the ME?”
“ME’s already down there. Wanted to do the body first then holo the scene and move the body out of the way. Arson guy’s in the air.”
“How many bodies?”
“One that we know of. But the way that car blew apart, might have been more.”
“Okay. You got any idea who it is? Friday night, people go out.”
“You mean a guy on a drunk? I can think of three, four guys right off the top of my head, maybe cracked up. But they’re all married. Wife would’ve called by now.” Ketchum scratched at his chin, his nails rasping over stubble. “Probably not a local.”
“You find where he went off the road?”
Ketchum shook his head. “No skid marks coming or going. Unless the fool was so drunk he passed out, ought to be skid marks, maybe fluid from a busted line. Something. There’s nothing.”
“Hunh.” Ramsey stuck his hands into his pockets and looked back toward Farway and then glanced up the road heading out west. “What’s out there?”
“A whole lot of nothing. A few farms, coupla bars, a gas’n hover station or two. But that’s it for almost two-hundred-fifty klicks.” Ketchum palmed off his hat, gave his head a good scratch, then clamped the hat back in place. “Flat no one.”
* * *
The way down was treacherous, even with the ropes. Ramsey was strong but not experienced. Halfway down, he skidded and would’ve ended up slaloming down rocks if not for the rope. Closer to the wreck, the smell was worse: an eye-watering stink of gasoline, oil, oxidized synthetics, and roast human. Up close, Ramsey saw that the exploding gas tank had blown the rear of the car and taken most of the roof. The upholstery was burned down to the springs; the synthetic elastomer of the tires had melted, leaving congealing puddles under the axles and wheel rims. The engine block was a blackened relic that looked like something in a coal shaft a thousand years back.
A crime scene tech was holoviding the scene while another stood to one side as a woman backed out of what was left of the car’s front seat. She was very tall and outdoors-lean. Her orange coverall was smeared with grime and char, and she wore a pair of scuffed work boots. Her sable-colored hair was plaited into a French braid that accentuated the graceful curve of her neck. Her face was oval, and a widow’s peak surmounted a high forehead. Her jaw was nearly perfect, but a small scar curled along the left side of her chin. Her eyes were an exotic jade-green and canted, a little feline.
“Amanda Slade,” she said when Ketchum introduced Ramsey. She wore smeary gloves and didn’t offer to shake hands. Her hands were large for a woman but slender and her fingers were long. Her nails, visible through the latex, were a no-nonsense square cut. No rings. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder toward the wrecked front seat. “The guy’s a mess, Hank. Looks like the front seat absorbed a lot of the initial blast, though. As it is, crime scene’s going to be looking for a lot of little pieces.”
“Can we take a look?” Ramsey asked.
“Okay by me,” the tech with the holovid said. “I’m done until you move the body.”
They shrugged into coveralls as Amanda hunkered down next to an oversized doctor’s bag, rooted around, and came up with an open box of latex gloves. “He’s in a pretty weird position. Be easier if one of you came in from the driver’s side and the other into the backseat,” she said as they gloved up.
The body was a mess: charred tissue, flash-cooked organs and scorched bare bone. The shins stuck up like tent poles and a litter of small bones from the feet mingled with charred shoe leather and blackened shoe shanks in the passenger’s side foot well. The arms were clipped at the elbows. Small hand and finger bones dusted the front seat.
“Jesus,” Ramsey said. He’d levered himself in the driver’s side. “How do you know it’s a guy?”
“Pelvis.” Amanda was directly opposite, on the passenger’s side. “A guy’s pelvis is narrower than a woman’s. Women need room to push out babies.”
“Okay,” Ramsey said. The victim’s chest looked like a bomb had gone off and taken most of the sternum. He pointed at a black, fist-sized lump. “Is that the heart?”
“Uh-huh. He’s been cooked. Depending on long the body burned, the interior of his organs might not be as bad. We’ll just have to see.”
Ramsey gave the chest a closer look. There was something there that didn’t look like burned tissue, or fabric. He looked over at Amanda. “You got one of those little lights you guys use?”
“Yeah.” Amanda dug in her coverall pocket, came up with a penlight, handed it to Ramsey.
“What you got?” Ketchum was in the backseat. He’d taken his hat off. A thin rim of red crossed his forehead where the hatband squeezed.
Ramsey thumbed on the penlight. “Around his collarbone. I think it’s wire, or maybe a necklace. We’ll need to get a picture before I take it off.” When the tech was done, Ramsey used forceps to gently lift a loop of chain. Black char flecked off, revealing a glint of gold chain. A medallion the size of a small pecan dangled from the chain.
Amanda said, “It looks like the kind of religious medal, you know, that Old Roman Catholics wear.” She palmed the medal in one gloved hand and lightly ran a finger over the surface. “Some kind of design. You can feel the ridges. Have to clean it up, but I could maybe scan it, see if my computer can come up with a design.”
Ramsey’s eyes were searching the front seat. If the victim was wearing a necklace, then maybe . . . “You got a ring here,” he said. “At least that’s what it looks like.” They had to wait for the crime scene guy to take his shots and then Ramsey threaded a metal probe Amanda handed him through the metal circlet and backed out. The ring was chunky and a dull silver beneath a layer of soot and grime. But they could all see the stone: a red teardrop diamond.
“Looks like silver,” Ketchum said.
Amanda shook her head. “Probably platinum. That gold chain’s starting to fuse, so that means the fire was at least a thousand degrees C. Silver melts at seven-sixty and a person will burn up at about nine-hundred-and-thirty C, but platinum doesn’t melt until the temperature’s nearly double that. Once the crime people
clean it up, they might be able to read an inscription, or maybe figure out where it was made. Red diamonds, they’re rarer than hens’ teeth.”
“So it’s probably safe to say that this was one rich guy,” Ramsey said.
“Making it kind of weird he ends up out here,” Ketchum said. “Farway’s tourist trade died down over twenty years ago, what with everyone going to New Bonn and Lake Diamond. There just isn’t much here.”
“Same with the body,” Amanda said, without irony. “If he had an ID microchip, it’s probably fried. But the skull’s intact. I might be able to match dental records. If he banked DNA, I might be able to rehydrate the bone and extract enough for a match. But I can tell you right now, Hank. This guy was dead when the car blew.”
“How do you know?” Ketchum asked.
“The skull’s intact,” Ramsey said. He looked at Amanda, who nodded. “When a fire gets good and hot, the brain boils and the pressure’s got nowhere to go, and the skull explodes. But this skull’s in one piece. So this guy had a vent.” Ramsey stabbed a spear of penlight at a neat hole drilled above the skull’s left brow ridge. “And I’ll bet you money that our guy wasn’t a Cyclops.”
5
Saturday, 14 April 3136
0800 hours
His orange and white tom was asleep on a pile of laundry in a wedge of butter-yellow sunlight. But Gabriel hadn’t slept at all. Too pumped up, and his leg hurt. The wound wasn’t deep but very wide and a good half meter long. He’d irrigated the wound with sterile saline then sluiced the wound with peroxide. The peroxide foamed and hissed, and the wound hurt so bad he wanted to scream. Then he rooted around in his medical bag and came up with lidocaine, a Kelly clamp, prethreaded dissolvable suture. Then he injected himself with lidocaine, waited for his flesh to numb, then stitched himself up. When he was done, he applied a dermal spray to protect the wound, then chewed down a couple of painkillers that helped only a little.
