Keeper of the Sun (Starhold Series Book 3)

by J. Alan Field

  “Covington? Oh, yes—your husband’s attorney. I heard about that poor man. The Nets are saying it was suicide.”

  Renata took another drink. “My guess is that Covington was the original source of the information about Karl’s failure to divest his holdings. When he became a loose end, the man was silenced—permanently.”

  “I don’t like loose ends,” Maxon glared, breaking her military posture and leaning forward to place both hands palms down on the conference table. “Rennie, I am not bluffing. I loved Brin Choi. Even after she stabbed me in my own bed and left me for dead, I loved that woman with all of my heart. Nonetheless, it still didn’t stop me from having her killed. Brin was going to be trouble for me down the road. So was Covington. So are you.”

  Maxon picked up her beret from the table, tucked it under her arm, and stood up straight. “You have ten days,” she said before pivoting and heading for the door.

  22: Specialists

  Twelve Palms

  Planet Tezrina

  “Be still or I’m going to cut you,” warned his wife as she pulled the razor across Frank Carr’s scalp. He had let his hair grow during the six months he was in the field and the day after doctors patched him up in a local hospital, she was returning him to his customary smooth look.

  “Why are you even using that thing?” Carr complained. “Just use the depilatory.”

  “You let it grow too long. The gel won’t work by itself—now sit still,” she said, her tongue sticking out between her lips as she focused on finishing up around one ear. “There! Good as new.”

  Carr didn’t feel as good as new. He had been beaten and battered, with at least two cracked ribs and a body full of bruises. There was one thing his assailants couldn’t beat out of him however, and that was the many inconvenient truths he had discovered during this assignment.

  “Much better,” he said checking himself out as she held up a small mirror. “Very nice work—now go home while I finish my job.”

  “Yeah, like that’s going to happen,” she said, sitting down on the side of his bed and taking his hand into hers. “I know you feel like you have to give me an out. All right, consider it given, but you might as well face it—I’m helping you finish this up whether you like it or not.”

  She was right—he did have to at least offer her a chance to take a pass. Just glad she didn’t take it. Most men wouldn’t want their wife involved in something this dangerous, but most men weren’t married to Etta Sanchez. Trying to push himself upward to give her a kiss, he failed miserably, so Sanchez leaned down and touched her lips gently against his.

  “I’m not letting you go off all by yourself again,” she whispered as she stroked his cheek. “Not ever.”

  Sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, the woman he loved turned to business. “More kisses later. Right now, fill me in on the last six months. What’s it all about?”

  “I can’t tell you everything, mostly because I’m not sure I know everything myself. How much do you trust this SSB inspector of yours?”

  A warm smile came to her face, the type of expression that might make a less secure husband jealous. “Dorham? Yeah, he’s OK—a little, um, eccentric maybe, but…”

  There was a knock at the door, and the big man himself entered the room.

  “We were just talking about you,” said Sanchez.

  “I’ll bet you were,” Dorham said with an affable smile, pulling up a chair beside Carr’s bed. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I was hit by a starliner.”

  Dorham reached into a bag he had brought along. “This is a fine hospital. These folks will take good care of you, but a little extra medication never hurts. Sanchez clued me in to your preferred choice of therapy.” He pulled out a small bottle of Old Oakfield. “Something to speed your recovery, and a small way of thanking you for saving us back at my apartment on Quijano, and again with the bomb behind the door.”

  “It wasn’t him,” said Sanchez bringing three disposable cups from the bathroom.

  Dorham crinkled his brow in surprise. “Not you?”

  “Not me. When Etta was on Quijano, I was here on Tezrina. And I don’t know anything about the booby trap in that house yesterday. In fact, I don’t even know how I got to that house—or why.”

  “I think the why is pretty obvious,” said Dorham as he poured. “They were going to kill you and leave you behind as the murderer of Auric Banks and his friend. Looks like someone got interrupted before they could finish the job.”

  “Interrupted by whom? Us or someone else?” asked Sanchez. “Just how many players are in this game?”

  Dorham raised his cup in a toast. “To you, Brother Carr—you are lucky to be alive.”

  “Yeah, lucky,” repeated Carr as he sipped from the cup. “Proves the old adage about getting what you pay for.”

  “Beg pardon?” said Dorham after downing his drink in one gulp.

  “Professionals would have finished me off proper, but they hired local punks to do it, and the bastards got sloppy.”

  Dorham pushed back in his chair and crossed his legs. “We keep talking about ‘they’ and ‘them.’ I’d be interested in who you think that is, because I’ll bet your bad guys are also my bad guys. Whoever ordered Leo Sanchez’s murder is the same person you’ve been chasing around, otherwise they wouldn’t have dragged you into it.”

  Sanchez placed a hand on Carr’s shoulder. “You do know you’re wanted for questioning in Uncle Leo’s murder, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, hence my identity here as…” Carr paused to glance down at his hospital ID bracelet. “David Fernandez.”

  Sanchez giggled. “We needed a name. That was a boy I used to date back home,” she said with a flippant wave of the hand. “I was sixteen at the time.”

  “Luckily, I’m not the jealous type,” said Carr, looking over at Dorham.

  “The false ID was my doing,” Dorham admitted. “The fewer people who know who or where you are, the better. As Sanchez may have mentioned, my pull with the local authorities is pretty thin right now. If the locals get wind of you, they’re going to want to detain you. Right now, the three of us are on our own.”

  “So, Frank—what can you share with us?” asked Sanchez. “What’s going on?”

  Carr glanced upward, collecting his thoughts. “I’m not entirely sure,” he said pensively. “OK, that’s a lie. I’m ninety percent sure, but I have to check out one more thing before going back to Esterkeep.”

  “What’s this ‘I’ crap?” protested Sanchez. “The doctor said you need a week’s rest. Pass the info to us and Dorham and I will do the leg work.”

  “No. I need to see this through myself. It’s gotten more than a little personal,” Carr said, wincing in pain as he shifted himself in bed. “Let me rest up today, and tomorrow the three of us will head over to the Palatine District.”

  “The Palatine District,” repeated Dorham dubiously. “Nasty part of town. What’s in Palatine?”

  “A guy named Perry Paxton.” Carr noted Dorham’s face registering recognition. “You know him?”

  “Sure do. When I was stationed here, the local SSB tried for months to get something on that son of a bitch. We never could make anything stick.”

  “You boys want to clue me in?” queried Sanchez.

  Dorham obliged. “Paxton runs a prosthetics shop—discount artificial limbs for the masses. There are a lot of mining accidents here on Tezrina, people always crushing a hand in a rockslide or losing an arm in a mining machine.”

  “That’s terrible,” Sanchez said incredulously. “And the mining companies don’t help these people?”

  “Are you kidding? The companies care more about their machinery than their people. People are cheap. People are throwaways. Anyway, Paxton fixes them up with low-priced prosthetics. That’s his day job.”

  “Sounds like a commendable guy, but I’m guessing by your tone, he’s not. So if helping maimed people is his daytime gig, what’s his hobby?”

>   “Maiming them—and killing them. Perry Paxton is a bomb maker.”

  * * * *

  On the face of it, the Palatine District didn’t seem any rougher than any other place Carr had been to in Twelve Palms. Perhaps the third straight day of Tezrinan darkness just disguised it well.

  As the trio approached Paxton’s place of business, Dorham peeled away from the group. Paxton knew Dorham from his days here with the local cops, so it was agreed that he would stand watch outside as Carr and Sanchez went inside. The shop was on the ground floor of a neglected four-story office building.

  “What put you onto this guy?” asked Sanchez as they approached the entrance.

  “Auric Banks.”

  “You talked to Banks before he died?”

  “I talked with Banks five days ago in Cape Trinity, then followed him back here until I lost him. Two days ago, someone ambushed me in my hotel. Next thing I knew, I was waking up in the hospital with this weird woman and her big nerdy boyfriend hovering over me.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. Besides, he’s not my type.”

  “And what type is your type?”

  “Oh, you know… Bald-headed thrill seekers that run away from their wife for months at a time.”

  Carr halted and took her arm, pulling her close to him. “I’m sorry, I really am. When you see what’s at stake, you’ll understand better. I have missed you.” He kissed her, tenderly at first, but then harder. Her lips felt good on his, searing into his mind just how much he stood to lose every time he left on a mission.

  “Frank, I was just joking,” she said, blushing. “I didn’t really…”

  He ignored her words and spoke earnestly. “When this is done, we move to Earth and never look back. No more missions, no more intrigue.”

  Sanchez grinned. “No more assumed names and false identities.”

  “No more jumping on starliners in the middle of the night to chase the bad guys.”

  “No more getting beaten up,” she said. “Or beating them up!”

  Carr shook his head. “Just flyers for you to roam the skies and ancient Earth relics for me to salvage.”

  Sanchez stepped close to embrace him, pressing her cheek into his shoulder. “It all sounds terribly boring.”

  “Yeah, but we’ll learn to love it,” he said squeezing her tight. “Right now, there’s something I want you to promise me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This guy we are about to see, he probably made the bomb that killed your uncle. Could you please not hurt him until after he answers a few of my questions? I need the information.”

  Sanchez took a deep breath and kissed him once more on the cheek. “I’ll think about it.”

  Carr didn’t really know what to expect—he had never gone shopping for prosthetics before and hoped he never had to. When they entered Paxton’s shop, he thought he might see artificial arms and legs hanging from hooks along the wall or something equally nightmarish. Instead of a scene from a horror story, the place looked like the waiting room of a physician’s office. There was a small but well-appointed foyer with a door leading to the back, which was probably the main office.

  “Hello!” yelled Carr, wincing in pain from his cracked ribs and hoping Sanchez didn’t notice, which of course she did. He had forgone painkillers to stay sharp, but was thinking he might have made a mistake. “Anyone here?”

  Carr was about to shout out again as the door slid open. A middle-aged man slipped quickly through before it shut again. In his fifties, he had a gaunt face covered by a salt and pepper stubble beard. His eyes swept over them, lingering on Sanchez for a few moments before he spoke.

  “I didn’t hear you. It’s hard to hear things in the back, and my assistant has the morning off. Take a seat,” he said gesturing toward the closest chairs.

  “We’ll stand,” replied Carr, mindful that in circumstances which might call for quick movement, starting from a seated position was always a disadvantage. Even so, his injured ribs were throbbing, begging for him to sit down. “We’d like to speak with Mr. Paxton.”

  The man gave them a hard gaze. “I have to say, neither of you look like my usual customers. You seem to have all your parts, and some very nice parts at that,” he said ogling Sanchez. She was exercising remarkable control, even returning his lecherous gaze with a slightly flirtatious smile. Carr couldn’t help but be amused. Wonder how flirty he would be if he saw the pistol in her coat pocket?

  “I’m Paxton,” he said turning back to Carr.

  “My friend and I are here to—”

  “I know why you’re here,” interrupted Paxton, “and you’re too late.”

  Carr and Sanchez traded puzzled looks.

  “Your colleagues already picked up the device. Let’s see now, oh, it was three days ago. Yes, I know it was three days ago because I remember it was right after sunset,” Paxton said in an annoyed voice. “You made a trip for nothing. Now, you can find your own way out—I have work to do.”

  Carr faked a laugh and snapped his fingers at Sanchez. “I told you. I said this was a wild goose chase, that Thompson had already picked it up.”

  “No, no, no,” corrected Paxton arrogantly. “There was no one named Thompson. It was that tall fellow and the woman with purple hair.”

  “Eva Swain,” muttered Sanchez. “Simmons and Swain.”

  Paxton’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, yes, the Swain woman. We don’t see much gene therapy here on Tezrina, but I’d remember her even without the purple hair. Good looker, that one.” His eyes returned to Sanchez. “Of course, mind you, I’ve always preferred Quijanan women myself.”

  Sanchez forced one more smile. “Just what is it that draws you to Quijanan women, Mr. Paxton? Is it our exotic good looks?” she asked as she took the pistol out of her pocket and pointed it at his head. “Or our explosive tempers?”

  The blood drained from Paxton’s face as he instinctively raised his hands and stumbled backward until he bumped against the wall.

  “And speaking of explosive,” Sanchez continued, “tell me about the bomb that killed Leonardo Sanchez.”

  “Wait, wait! Who are you people? I thought you were OMI.”

  “You’re only partly right,” Carr said. “I am OMI. But her? She’s an angry relative of Leo Sanchez.”

  It didn’t seem possible, but Paxton’s face turned even whiter. “Listen to me,” he said slowly, struggling to stay composed and make his case for survival. “I just take the orders and sell the product. They don’t tell me who the target is going to be. Honestly, I don’t want to know.”

  “But you know it will be someone,” spat out Sanchez, her hand wrapped tightly around her pistol. Carr was sure it was all she could do not to squeeze the trigger.

  He needed information before handing Paxton over to either Sanchez or Dorham, he hadn’t decided which yet. “This product that you’re so proud of,” said Carr. “Tell us about the one that killed Admiral Sanchez.”

  Paxton took a few seconds and seemed to be mentally sorting through his orders before responding. “They wanted something for a helicraft, or a flyer, I can’t remember which. Anyway, I made them an acid device. When the engine started, a canister of acid was released which ate through to the detonator and explosive packet. About thirty minutes later, boom!” As soon as he said it, the man clearly regretted his choice of words. “Sorry,” he added to Sanchez. “No disrespect meant.”

  “I have another question,” Carr said quickly before Sanchez did something rash. “This most recent device, the one they picked up three days ago. Who is the target?”

  “I told you I don’t ask. And before you let her kill me, you’d better think about something. Your people aren’t my only client, you know. I do a lot of business with the Black Doves,” said Paxton, invoking the name of the Renaissance Sector’s largest criminal organization. “If she kills me, you two are going to have a lot of unhappy people to answer to.”

  “Paxton, you are way too conceited,” came a
voice from behind them. Carr’s pain and Sanchez’s anger had dulled their senses just enough to allow the purple-haired woman to enter unnoticed. Eva Swain stood just inside the street-entry door holding a plasma pistol pointed their way. “Hello, Carr. Sorry that my hoodlums made a mess of your murder,” she said with a sneer. “And Sanchez, looking as lovely as ever. You’d look just as nice without the gun, dear. Place it on the floor and kick it over to me.”

  Paxton lowered his hands and took a deep sigh of relief. “About time you showed up. I didn’t know how much longer I could stall them from, you know…”

  “Killing you?” asked Swain, as she turned her gun on him and fired. A flash and the thudding sound of a plasma cartridge combined to send a charge across the room and into Paxton’s chest. Even before his body came to rest on the floor, the smell of scorched flesh had filled the air.

  “Dorham,” thought Sanchez aloud as she looked at Paxton’s body, still holding her slug pistol.

  “Simmons is taking care of him,” Swain replied. “We knew you guys would show up here sooner or later. Frank was always good at following the clues.”

  “I try,” said Carr, thinking of how to bait information from her even though he might not survive to use it. “And once we’re gone, you guys will have everything wrapped up.”

  “Almost everything. As I said, dear Etta, gun on the floor—now.”

  Sanchez started a very slow turn toward Swain. “Even if you shoot me, I’ll still get off one shot.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it. Besides, my gun isn’t pointed at you.” Swain raised the weapon just a bit higher and more directly toward Carr’s head, then smiled. “I know what you’re thinking, Etta, but it’s—”

  She never got to finish her thought as the door behind her suddenly burst open. Ellis Dorham crashed through it, wrestling with another man who was draped across his back. The Inspector yelled out as he tried to flip the assailant over his head, but the man held on, and both of them tumbled forward into the ill-positioned Swain.