by Ilsa J. Bick
“Or maybe,” Ramsey said, “Kodza is damage control.”
34
2100 hours
Dinner was lousy, just some leftovers thrown together, but Noah wasn’t hungry anyway. He pushed food around, and every now and again, he saw Sarah out of corner of his eye, the way she skipped looks at his face and then away. She hadn’t liked the look of the thing on his arm and wanted to tell Mom. But she hadn’t because his mother would have been all over Noah like a bad case of tartanfleas. When he pushed back from the table, his chair scraped the floor loudly enough to make his mother’s head swivel like it was on ball bearings. One glance at those red eyes of hers snapping to his plate and then his face, and he knew he was a goner.
“Why aren’t you eating?” she asked. Her voice was raspy, like she’d swallowed sand. “Aren’t you hungry?” Then before he could flinch away, she had him by the wrist with one hand and her other clapped to his forehead. “You’re burning up. And you’re sweating. Are you getting chills? Maybe you have the flu.”
That ploy hadn’t occurred to him. It also helped that he was getting chills: small at first, just tremors, but now bone-rattling quakes that made him want to wrap about eighteen thousand blankets around his body. “Well,” he said, “the flu’s going around.” (That sounded good.) “Maybe I caught it.”
“Well, you hop right into bed, young man. Honestly, just one more thing to worry about,” she said, trailing in his wake as he mounted the stairs. “I’m going to draw you a nice hot bath, and then I’ll bring you some hot soup . . .”
He protested but she was firm. “And if you’re still not feeling well by morning, then we’re going to see Dr. Slade.”
“No!” Noah cried, too vehemently, and then, when his mother stared, he stammered, “I-it’s just the flu, Mom.”
She stood there, a bath towel clutched in her hands, her eyes searching his. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” she said. “Have you gotten yourself into something?”
Somehow he was able to convince her that he wasn’t. But he could tell by the set in her mouth that she wasn’t sold on his story.
His arm was bad. The wound was clogged with putrid yellow and green pus that stank like a forgotten sandwich in an old lunchbox. Red streaks ran to his armpit. When he washed the wound with peroxide and water, the pain made him woozy and his stomach convulsed. He made it just in the nick of time to the toilet, grateful that the sound of running bathwater covered the sound of his vomiting. When his stomach was empty, he hugged the cool porcelain of the bowl and felt like, maybe, he was dying.
Maybe got to tell somebody. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe got to tell . . .
That night, Noah fell into a restless, fevered sleep and dreamt of fire and raving skeletons with guns and wild, white hair.
35
2130 hours
By the time Ramsey got back to the table, the owner was regaling Kodza with the story of his great bear hunt. Ramsey listened with half an ear, his mind busy, mulling over his conversation with Garibaldi.
Damage control fit. It explained Kodza’s hurry to whisk away the body; her insistence that there was nothing to look at in PolyTech; her general uncooperativeness. Or, maybe, she’d put up PolyTech as a red herring, something to divert their attention. From sleeper cells? Denebola was certainly prime real estate: a planet where animosities ran deep. (And no matter how the Republic liked to gussy that up and paint this lovely, friendly, all-inclusive picture, Neurasians didn’t like Zadiposians, and Zadiposians didn’t like Slovakians, and Slovakians hated everybody. Just wasn’t something you talked about.)
So he heard but didn’t quite comprehend when the owner said, “I was so close, I had less than a second to decide whether to knock that Kyotan armor bear in the snout with my Winchester 88, or jam him with a bang stick.”
Ramsey had heard the story and almost tuned out when the owner said: “The problem with a bang stick is you can ruin the pelt, so you only use it as a last resort.”
Then Kodza asked, “What is this, bang stick? I do not know about hunting.”
And the owner said, “A bang stick is, well, a stick with a cartridge at the end, a shotgun shell. Divers use it sometimes for marsharks off the coast of Zadipos, and I know some people use them for those butt-ugly paelleocrocs in the Weslan Swamps on Slovakia. I use them for emergencies, like if I’m too close.”
Then Kodza said, “Are these bang sticks, they are difficult to make?”
And the owner said, “Hell, no. Very easy to make. Then just jam the business end into your target and pull the trigger, usually something easy, like a thumb depress.”
Then Ketchum jumped in: “So would you use pellets? Like a regular shotgun?”
And the owner said: “Depends on what you’re after. You want to kill something, you’d use pellets. You want to stun a critter, maybe just damage the soft tissues but preserve the hide as best you could, you’d go for something without pellets.”
Then Kodza looked from the owner to Ketchum, then to Ramsey and said, “This bang stick . . . this is important?”
“Ahhhh . . . could we get the check, please?” Ramsey said.
* * *
“So you are not going to tell me why this, ah, bang stick is so important?” Kodza’s breath steamed. “But if this is related to Frederic Limyanovich, then you must divulge the information, yes?”
“I must divulge the information, no,” Ramsey said. They were still in the parking lot. Once they’d paid the tab and gotten out of the restaurant, Kodza peppered Ramsey and Ketchum with questions. Now Ramsey leaned against the front fender of his loaner and let Kodza see the grin. “People share their information. You tell me something, I tell you something. But so far we’ve done all the telling.”
Kodza made a rude sound. “You ask stupid questions. A ghost agent. This is preposterous.”
“Yeah, and ghost knights are figments of my fevered imagination. Look, Limyanovich could’ve been a total sleaze. Maybe he deserved what he got. But that’s why there are judges and juries. My job is to catch the guy who killed him.”
There was just enough light from the restaurant to catch the hard glint in Kodza’s eyes. “Well, here is my position. You want to know how much I care, personally, about Limyanovich? I do not care. I do not care about his family. I do not particularly care about the killer. But I care about Denebola.”
“I can respect that, but here’s the problem. Suppose, if this ghost agent is already here, or has followed you, and I find out that some stranger’s been nosing around. Then I waste time because I’m looking at your guy as a suspect instead of someone else. So you save me time if you let us know who your guy is.” It was on the tip of his tongue to mention what Amanda had found and Garibaldi had said—about her secret little jaunts to the periphery of the Inner Sphere—but playing that card might be useful later.
Kodza was silent a good ten seconds. Then she said, “Let me make some calls.”
* * *
They dropped off Kodza at her hotel. Once she was inside, Ketchum said, “The bang stick idea means we could be back to looking at just one guy.”
“Yeah.” Through a square of lighted window, Ramsey saw Kodza stop at the front desk, say something to the clerk, nod and then cross left and out of sight. He looked over at Ketchum. “You and I know that. I’ll bet Amanda will agree that the injury pattern’s consistent with a bang stick.”
Ketchum racked the cruiser into reverse. “Doesn’t prove it.”
“We may not need proof,” Ramsey said as the cruiser slid north toward the courthouse. “The point is Kodza doesn’t know that. You can just bet she’s making calls right now, trying to figure out how many butts she’s got to cover.”
* * *
In the courthouse parking lot, he unbuckled and hauled himself out of Ketchum’s cruiser, then turned around and bent down. “We ought to interview Summers again. Maybe even get ourselves a warrant to search the place, and I may want to get one for the hospital database. And I think Summers kn
ows where his boy is.”
“How you figure?”
“Just a feeling. But his kid’s the only one out of the people we’ve thought about with priors, and he’s nuts.”
“You really think Limyanovich was killed for drugs, or his cash?”
“No. But we have to look.”
Ketchum sighed. “I suppose. I hate opening this up for Doc, though. I’ll talk to the judge tomorrow about a warrant. Meet you round about eight tomorrow morning. And one other thing: Get your damn stinking underwear the hell out of my patrol car, or I’ll boot your butt into next week.”
“Hank,” Ramsey said, “your mouth.”
36
2230 hours
Good Time Charlie’s was the only place within spitting distance that a person could both dance and legally get drunk on a Sunday. The place was also a dump: working-class bar basically decorated with beer posters so old they curled at the corners. By nine, the air was thick enough with smoke you could just inhale and save your money. Tonight, there was an all-boy band playing bad country rock so bass-heavy the walls thumped like a heart.
Gabriel made his way to a corner table, far right and within a stone’s throw of the toilets. This particular seat was not his favorite. The wall between him and the men’s room was thin, so he heard every tinkle, burp, grunt, and splash. He even knew which patrons washed their hands (answer: not many). But the seat was good because he saw most everyone in the place while he sat in a half-wedge of shadow.
When Gabriel first arrived, there’d been another bartender earlier, a young, gawky kid Gabriel didn’t know well. But, an hour later, Michael walked past the bouncer at the front door, ambled behind the bar, clapped the kid on the shoulder, and took over.
Michael saw him coming, nodded, said, “Haven’t seen you around for a while.”
“Been busy.” Gabriel asked for a bottle brand that promised to taste great and be less filling.
Michael popped the cap and tacked a napkin to the bar with the bottle. “On the house.”
“No, no.” Gabriel shook his head, dug out a half-century and slapped it on the bar. Michael shrugged and made change which Gabriel tossed into Michael’s tip jar. Gabriel read the questions in Michael’s eyes but turned his back and headed for his table.
That was the extent of their conversation, but it had the desired effect. Gabriel caught Michael casting furtive glances his way, and thought that Michael probably would arrange a meet. That was good because then Gabriel could figure out just how much Michael knew. Michael might—a very big might—try to kill Gabriel first. But Gabriel thought he could take Michael and probably enjoy it.
The near-miss with his father had done something to him. In that moment when he realized he held his father’s life on a knife edge . . . it was like something had snapped. No, no, not snapped. Come undone, like a leash. Now he felt the urge to kill like a hungry claw ripping at his gut.
Gabriel sat, listened to very bad music, watched people wander in and out, and sipped beer that neither tasted good nor left him wanting more. The beer did make him have to pee though, and so he left his bottle, tipped the chair and went to do his business.
Three men huddled in a knot a few meters from the men’s room. One was bald while the other had greasy blond hair pulled into a tail. The third man, also bald, smoked and slouched against the wall opposite the men’s room. Gabriel avoided eye contact, letting his gaze slide left. Bikers, and likely a drug buy. None of his business.
The men’s room reeked: an eye-watering stink of ammonia, feces, and regurgitated beer. There was wet toilet paper on the floor, and a puddle of something orange, chunky and rancid that Gabriel minced around. Standing in front of a urinal, Gabriel unzipped, aimed, peed, and stared blankly at the wall. Finished with his business, he rinsed his hands under cold water, dried his hands on his jeans, and shouldered open the door.
The blond man was gone, though Gabriel spotted the two bald ones at the bar. Gabriel dropped into his chair, checked his watch. She should’ve been here by now. Unless she’d turned over a new leaf. But, small town, he’d have heard if she’d gone on the wagon. On the other hand, it was getting close to last call. Not much time . . .
Then he had another thought. Maybe she’d come in while he was in the john. Or maybe she was already home, somebody else with her. He might risk a trip out to her place. After all, he had his father’s car, and no one would give it a moment’s thought.
Just about the time he talked himself into believing he’d lost his chance, he saw the front door open. The bouncer’s head turned—and Sandra Underhill wobbled in.
* * *
Sandra Underhill wasn’t quite drunk enough. This past year, she’d noticed it took a lot more booze to get to the place where she didn’t have to think too hard about what came next. She’d once been pretty. Her husband—gone now, the bum, leaving her with a mortgage, Troy and his diabetes, and a mountain of bills—he’d liked her body, her looks. Told her she had blue eyes he could drown in, and he loved the honey blond of her hair. Her own hair, too, not a color she borrowed from a bottle. When she was sober—and that was too damned often—she knew she wasn’t half bad. The drinking hadn’t quite caught up. Getting there, though.
Jostling her way to the bar, her gaze bounced around, ticking off faces. She knew most of the men here, though she spotted a few new boys. Always an interesting moment, this: new or old? An old face, she knew what he wanted, and if she played things right, she could score maybe two or three before getting around to a good long fourth. So, old faces then: she slid in between a muscled mechanic in red flannel and a man in cowboy denim. She gave each man just enough butt and boob contact—a little encouragement.
Cowboy looked down, licked his teeth, and smiled. “Buy you a drink, darlin’?”
* * *
Gabriel watched Sandra Underhill work her way between what looked like a farmhand in a flannel checked shirt, jeans, and work boots to her left, and a guy in cowboy denim. Cowboy looked like he’d been in a fight, and he also looked a little . . . familiar. Where? The light was bad and Gabriel couldn’t place him but he saw Cowboy’s hand ease down to cup her right buttock.
Time to make his move. Picking up his beer, Gabriel scraped back his chair when he happened to glance left—and locked eyes with Amanda Slade.
* * *
Wouldn’t you know, the one night in a dog’s age she goes to a bar, and the place is jammed. . . . Then Amanda spotted a couple pushing up from a table about as big around as a manhole cover off to her left. Just as she made it to the table, her pager vibrated. She pushed aside the previous patrons’ empties, thumbed her pager, checked the number. The hospital, again . . . She plugged in her bud, told the link where to call and as she waited for the hospital operator to punch in, her eyes bounced over faces—and stopped. Was that . . . ?
The link clicked. “Emergency room.”
“Yes. It’s Dr. Slade. You paged me?” Plugging her right ear with her pinky, Amanda hitched her body around to face the wall and forgot all about who she’d seen—until much later, when it was too late.
* * *
Oh, hell. Gabriel saw Amanda’s quizzical look, and then she turned away, talking into her bud. Time to get out, but Sandra . . . He threw a quick glance at the bar. Sandra was gone. So was Cowboy.
He had to get out. Amanda didn’t strike him as a woman who went to a bar for a pickup. So she was meeting someone, probably Ramsey. And now Sandra Underhill was gone and his chance to get at Troy. But maybe he could catch her out on the sidewalk. He moved toward the door. Amanda was still talking, still had her back to him. Good. Had to get out before she registered who he was.
The night air slapped his face, and the door clapped shut, cutting the rope of sound in two. He smelled like an ashtray, the cigarette reek rising from his clothes like heat shimmers off sunbaked asphalt. Behind, through the closed door, he heard the dull thump of the bass. But then, off to his left, he caught the sound of someone stumbling, followed by
a man’s curse. A woman’s giggle.
And then . . . a groan.
37
2230 hours
Dispatch put Amanda through just as Ramsey pulled out of the courthouse parking lot. He heard music and voices in the background. “You getting a head start?”
“Yes. I’d forgotten how busy this place gets on Sunday night.”
“That’s because no one wants to go to work on Monday.”
“Mmmm. Tell that to those of us who work Sundays. I’ve already gotten paged four times.”
“You have to go back in?”
“I don’t think so. Just get here, okay?”
A hodgepodge of cars and cycles littered the street in front of Charlie’s and a quick pull-through tour of the back lot revealed several cars with fogged-up windows and no empty slots. Ramsey pulled back out to the main road, turned left and slowly rolled north. He had to continue on a good hundred meters before he came to bare shoulder. He swung the patrol car around in a U-turn then eased in behind a trio of turbo squatting on the gravel shoulder.
The front door to Charlie’s opened when Ramsey was still some thirty meters away, and a man stepped out on a cloud of tinny music and the strong, astringent scent of cigarette smoke. He stood a moment in a puddle of yellow from a light above the bar door, looking first right and then left toward Ramsey. Ramsey saw a Stetson, white bandage and knew: Boaz. Ramsey slowed, but Boaz didn’t appear to have noticed Ramsey. Boaz started forward then pivoted right and cocked his head as if listening to something. The deputy went right, out of the light, turned the corner to the back parking lot and was gone.
