by Ilsa J. Bick
“Did he say what day?” Ramsey asked.
“This past Wednesday.”
“Hunh.” Ramsey eyed Ketchum. “What’s on the island?”
“Nothing,” Ketchum said. “Besides the permanent residents, that is. Used to be real popular a while back when we had a bunch more tourists. A lot of condos, vacation places but not so much anymore and sure as heck not this time of year. Hunting season comes around, we issue just enough licenses to thin the herd of Morin odopudu. The only other thing is the old sandstone quarry. Not a working one anymore, you understand. Tourists like to hike in, gawk. But that’s it.”
* * *
And that was it. The meeting wound down. Ketchum handed out assignments for the next day, and fifteen minutes later, the deputies straggled out, with Boaz giving Ramsey a wide berth. Ketchum stared after the deputy’s retreating back then said, “Something going on between you two?”
Ramsey was embarrassed. “We didn’t see eye to eye on something. I almost lost my temper. Actually I pretty much told him I’d ream him a new asshole if he kept being one.”
“Is there anyone you don’t offend?”
“Have I offended you?” And when Ketchum shook his head, Ramsey said, “There you go.”
Sighing, Ketchum screwed his sheriff’s hat on his head. “I’m going home. I’m going to kiss my wife, have some supper, maybe talk to my boy. Then I’m going to sleep, and I sure as shooting ain’t gonna be dreaming about you.”
“And here I thought you cared.”
“You want to come on over? Have something to eat?”
Ramsey shook his head. “Naw, you go be with your family. I’m going to stick around here awhile.”
“What for?”
Ramsey hesitated. “What you said about the Schroeder case . . . that bothers me.”
“Why?”
“Schroeder died on Cameron Island, right?”
“So?”
“So, maybe nothing. But it’s the last big case around here and now Limyanovich goes to Cameron Island and he’s dead.”
“But Isaiah went hunting.”
“Maybe,” Ramsey said. “Only maybe he wasn’t after any deer.”
* * *
An hour later, Ramsey pushed up from Ketchum’s computer, tossed back the last dregs of cold, rancid coffee, then lobbed the cup for a garbage can. The cup rimmed the can, teetered on the edge, fell in. Probably the only slam dunk he’d see for a long time.
Needed to move. Needed a break. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and paced. The Schroeder case bugged him, but he wasn’t sure why. Something just a little . . . off.
Three years ago, give or take, Schroeder told his wife he was going hunting. He didn’t say where, and his wife told Ketchum she assumed he was going west, into the foothills where the russet-tailed odopudu, a relative of the Morin variety, rutted. Schroeder left his house before dawn. He’d taken along a thermos of hot coffee and a packet of sandwiches. He kissed his wife good-bye, climbed into his truck and drove away. Ida Kant recalled Schroeder stopping by for breakfast and a sack of pastries. That was the last time anyone saw Isaiah Schroeder alive.
Three days later, after the Kendrake Mountain rangers reported that no vehicle license matching Schroeder’s had passed into the mountain hunting preserve, Hank Ketchum went to Cameron Island on a hunch. He and three deputies found Schroeder’s body along a spit of land overgrown by Denebola cypress on the opposite side of the island. Schroeder was facedown, sprawled across a tangle of cypress roots—or rather, what was left of his face was planted in a pool of half-frozen, coagulated blood, his rifle and right arm curled beneath his body. He wore the tattered remains of an orange-blaze pryolene parka, a red-and-black-checked flannel shirt, and blue jeans. He had no day pack but a fanny pack and inside was camo face paint, hand warmers, a pair of gutting gloves, a sat-link, a planetary ID, a hunting license, and a candy bar still in its wrapper. His thermos, half empty, was found ten meters down an incline.
Small animals had done a pretty good job. Big chunks of Schroeder’s buttocks, thighs, and flanks were gone. His brains were gone, too, because the shotgun had blasted away the top of his skull, so all the animals had to do was slurp. Schroeder’s left arm was severed at the shoulder and missing. His feet, still in their socks, were in his boots, but each boot had been gnawed away from the leg at the ankle.
The doctor of record was Ezekiel Summers. Summers did the autopsy and ruled the death accidental; he thought Schroeder tripped and died when the rifle discharged into the angle of his right jaw. The round tore through bone and exited below the left ear.
The rifle’s magazine held ten rounds, and there were eight in the clip and one in the chamber. No box of ammo was found in Schroeder’s truck or his home. The only prints found on the weapon were Schroeder’s, and only his DNA was recovered at the scene. The bullets were clean, but the prints on the magazine were Schroeder’s.
Hannah Schroeder thought her husband had been more irritable than depressed, but couldn’t be specific. She had suggested counseling with their priest which her husband rejected. A check of the prisons showed no one released in the last six months with a grudge against the sheriff. Schroeder was buried; Ketchum was appointed sheriff in a special election that gave him the job for the next four years. And case closed.
Something wrong.
He ran through the report again. He read it twice before it hit him. Schroeder wasn’t wearing a hat.
Cold enough for a parka and gloves, but no hat. If a guy’s gonna stay outdoors in the cold for long, he brings a hat.
He reviewed the list of items in Schroeder’s fanny pack. Gutting gloves but no knife and no rope. So how was Schroeder going to field-dress his game? And camo paint with a bright orange blaze parka, that didn’t make sense. Ramsey did another search, nodded when he saw the results. Unlike Terran deer, odopudu could see red and orange hues. So why the camo paint when the parka was as good as taking out an ad?
But there was something else, something in the autopsy. Ramsey skimmed through the report, came to Summers’s report, read it, tabbed to the next section—then went back. Found the section that snagged his attention, read through it slowly.
A few minutes later, Ramsey threaded through the deputies’ bullpen and stuck his head into the dispatch’s office. “Can you give me the number for the hospital?”
“Sure,” the dispatcher said. “You want me to put the call through for you?”
“That’d be great.”
“Who should I ask for?”
“Dr. Slade.”
“Okay,” the dispatcher said. “I’ll patch it to the sheriff’s office.”
Five minutes later, dispatch put the call through. The page operator told him to hold, and a few seconds after that, Amanda shimmered into view. “Yes?”
Ramsey explained. “So I had a couple questions. Can I meet you at the hospital?”
“Sure. I have someone to see in the emergency room, but that won’t take long. Say, a half hour?”
“Great. Thanks.”
“No problem,” Amanda said, and disconnected.
Ramsey transferred a copy of the Schroeder report to his noteputer. Technically illegal, but screw it. Pearl said he should consult, so he was consulting with a consultant. It worked.
As he left, he stuck his head into the dispatcher’s office again. “Thanks. I’m out of here.”
“Okay,” the dispatcher said. She had pencil-thin eyebrows and she did that left eyebrow trick Ramsey never could get. “Have a good time with our Dr. Slade.”
“Uh . . . this . . . I’m . . . this is just business.”
“Oh. Well, then.” The eyebrow again. “Then make sure you two have a really good time.”
20
1830 hours
The Handler was hunched over a mug of coffee and smoking when Gabriel came through a back door. “You were not seen?”
Gabriel shook his head then pointed at another man slouched in a chair to the Handle
r’s right. The other man had a coffee mug in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. “I don’t want him here.”
The other man—older, a little jowly—stiffened. “I have a right to—”
The Handler silenced him with a look and said to Gabriel, “You are in no position to give orders. I asked him to come.” His Handler knocked ash into an empty mug and waited until Gabriel drew a mug of coffee, splashed in cream and slid into the chair. Then the Handler said, “I am disappointed. These witnesses . . . this is not professional.”
He was already mad, and that just made him madder. “Hell what you like. You weren’t there.” Gabriel blew on his coffee then sipped. The coffee was too hot. “Jesus.”
“Watch your mouth, boy,” the other man growled. He was still in his work clothes and picked lint from his trousers. “We’re all at risk. This isn’t a game.”
Gabriel flared. “I know that, you sanctimonious—”
“Stop.” The Handler glared at Gabriel and then the other man. “Both of you.”
“I’m just saying,” Gabriel began.
“I heard. Now, tell me again about last night.”
Gabriel did. Fingering a linked gold chain, the Handler listened in silence, smoked, flicked ash. The other man simply scowled. Then the Handler said, “You are sure they cannot trace the bomb?”
“They might be able to figure out what I used, but I doubt it. It’s a pretty unusual combination. Plus, I didn’t use any commercial grade materials.”
“Well, that’s something,” the other man said, grudgingly.
But the Handler’s eyes slitted, both in thought and against the smoke. The Handler caressed a small oval medallion of gold, zipping the medal back and forth on its chain. “But how did you know the explosive would work? You had to test this, yes?”
This, Gabriel hadn’t expected. He considered lying then thought better of it. “Yeah, I tested it. Just a small amount. I didn’t want to attract attention.”
“Where?”
He gnawed on the inside of his left cheek. “Cameron Island.”
“The island?” The other man sat forward so quickly he sloshed coffee onto his pants. “You idiot, what if—”
“No one saw me.” Gabriel kept his eyes on the Handler. If he didn’t, he was likely to strangle the other man, and while that would give him a great deal of pleasure—would, indeed, make his day—they had to move past this. “I was careful.”
The other man made a rude noise. “Like you were careful in the cemetery?”
Gabriel’s voice was deadly. “I told you before. It was dark. They were downwind, so I didn’t hear them, didn’t think to look up the hill. We chose that spot because we all thought it would be deserted.”
“Enough.” The Handler held up a hand. “Mutual recrimination gets us nowhere. What is done is done. You said the boys had this bicycle, the one with your blood?”
Gabriel nodded. “I still might be able to get to it. But that may not be necessary. Those kids are scared, and Troy’s not going to want anyone to see the bike until it’s cleaned up. I don’t think—”
“I am not asking you to think. I am asking you to follow orders.”
“But, for once, I agree with him.” Screwing his cigarette in one corner of his mouth, the other man dabbed coffee from his trousers with a napkin. “Killing Limyanovich was necessary,” he said. The cigarette bobbed. “These are just kids.”
“This is necessary.”
“They’re kids.”
“And we are at war. Regrettable, but these boys must be eliminated.”
The other man shook his head. “But killing a kid, especially so soon—”
“Murders can be made to look like accidents, or even entirely natural happenings, yes? Whatever comes up, you will handle it. You will steer this as you have done before.” Without waiting for the other man to respond, the Handler nodded at Gabriel. “And especially this boy, Troy, may be prone to accidents, yes? Diabetics frequently experience difficulties, do they not? So”—the Handler inhaled more smoke then blew out twin streams like a dragon—“you are in a unique position to make sure of it.”
The other man chimed in again. “But what about Michael? I know he hasn’t been as involved lately, but if he finds out . . .”
“We will not tell him.” The Handler stood, signaling that the meeting was at an end. “We are very close. If we secure these last two crystals, then we have all three. But Michael must not find out. He will try to stop you, and if he finds out about the other matter, this Noah . . . you will have to eliminate Michael as well.”
“I can do that,” Gabriel said. “But that’s a lot of dead people. Shouldn’t we be making plans to move our operations?”
“If their deaths can be made to look like accidents, nothing else might be required. We could still move our operations, but rushing when there is no emergency? That is when mistakes are made.”
“Okay.” Gabriel checked the time and pushed to his feet. “I got to get to work. Give me some time to come up with something for the kids.”
“You must also think of what we should do with Michael, just in case,” the Handler said. “He knows too much and he is weak.”
“Then we’d better make goddamn sure he doesn’t find out,” Gabriel said.
“Indeed. And, please,” the Handler said, “do not blaspheme.”
21
1900 hours
Spring was as Scott Schroeder always remembered it: long in coming, with many false promises. Too cold still for frogs, and even the malgars—waterfowl with yellow webbed feet and vestigial upper arms reduced to a single claw—had waddled back to their nests, their sleepy screeree cries the very last sounds of anything living on that lake. Then the islands disappeared one by one as stars fanned across an inky dome until there was nothing but blackness and the slap of water on rock.
Cameron Island was the last to go, and Scott watched as it grayed out. He was a gaunt young man and very tall, so when he jammed his fists into the pockets of his jacket, the cuffs rode above his bony wrists. His sneakers were damp, his toes icy. His right ankle throbbed, and he still couldn’t put all his weight on it. Grace was bound to notice.
He didn’t make it back to the apartment until nearly time for him to work his shift at Charlie’s. He threaded his car, a piece of crap junker that was all he could afford, into the back lot, nosing into the only available space, right next to the dumpster. The story of his life.
So many things had gone wrong. Still, he’d been relatively happy when his dad had been alive. Funny how it was the secrets that bound them together in ways that simple blood couldn’t. Because they had a special mission that was more important than just about anything. Their mission was going to save the Inner Sphere.
And then you had to go and get yourself killed. Oh, Dad, I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t have the training. What am I supposed to do?
In the apartment, Grace was sprawled over the stained cushions of an old couch. She was reading under the too-weak glow of a light bar, a beer bottle in one hand and the gray rectangle of a noteputer in the other. The couch’s frame was beige, but the cushions were a dirty liver color, scarred with cigarette burns and spilled coffee. The air vibrated with the surge of heavy bass from downstairs. She looked up. “Where have you been?”
“Out.” Peeling his jacket, Scott headed for the bathroom, trying not to favor his right leg. He turned on the tap, splashing water into a chipped porcelain basin with yellow stains around the drain.
As he washed his face, Grace came to lean against the doorjamb. Her jeans were open at the waist, and she hadn’t been able to work the zipper all the way over the swell in her abdomen. “You’re late,” she said. “Maass came up, threatened to kick us out if you weren’t down there in twenty minutes. I was about ready to go down myself.”
“Well, he can just throttle back,” Scott said to her reflection. In the light of the bathroom, he could see that her left cheek was bruised. “What happened to your fac
e?”
“I fell,” she said, dismissively, as he squirted a rope of toothpaste onto a brush. “So where were you?”
“Out.”
“Yeah, you said that.”
“So, okay.” He flicked on his toothbrush and foamed his teeth, saved from saying anything else for a little while more.
“Out,” Grace said. “Like last night? I know you didn’t work your whole shift.”
He spat, rinsed. “I worked.”
“No, you didn’t. Maass told me. He said you came in late. So where were you?”
He shrugged by way of an answer then pushed past into the bedroom—forgetting, too late, about the limp.
“What happened to your leg?”
“I twisted my ankle.” He palmed open a drawer and rooted around for a fresh pair of jeans and underwear, a T-shirt he could throw on.
She’d followed him into the bedroom, watching with her hawk’s eyes as he sat on the edge of the unmade bed and shucked his jeans. “How?” When he didn’t respond, she bent down, fingered his discarded jeans. “Your jeans are wet. Were you out to the island? I told you not to go out there. You’ll spoil everything.”
“More than things are ruined already?” He thrust his arms into the sleeves of his tee. The shirt was a black crew neck with a logo of a cave lion in silver and black.
“What did you do?”
“I just looked around.” Scott dragged a comb through his shoulder-length hair that he then tugged into a ponytail. “It was my father who died, not yours. I can look around.”
Grace opened her mouth as if to argue, seemed to think better of it and said, instead, “Hannah came by today. She wanted to see you.”
This was a surprise. Scott stopped, socks in his hands. The floor needed sweeping. There was grit under the soles of his bare feet. “What did she want?”
“She offered me money if I’d leave.”
Scott’s chest was cold. “What did you say?”
