Torn From On High: Free City Book 2 (The Free City Series)

by S F Chapman

  Dilma's little getup was much simpler. The girl had painstakingly copied a whimsical drawing of an ocean denizen that she'd found and the results were remarkably true to the image.

  Sabra gently spread the girl's outfit out on the table.

  The woman realized that something was missing as she studied the garment.

  The headband and the blue boa!

  Dilma had asked Ryo to retrieve them from their apartment but the overworked Investigator had failed to do so. It was just a silly little thing, Sabra knew, but the girl would be especially unhappy if she did not have the items. Dilma might well hold Ryo accountable for his minor oversight.

  That was the problem that had awakened her, Sabra realized.

  But what to do about it?

  She spent many minutes playing out various scenarios in her head to remedy the difficulty; all had significant shortcomings. Finally she concluded that she should sneak back to the apartment and pick up the missing items.

  On the return trip she'd stop at her own abode and retrieve a more appropriate pair of boots for herself.

  Surely a quick trip across town in the middle of the night would be harmless.

  • • •

  The Forensic Technician glanced out of the cab of the abandoned delivery vehicle when Ryo and Cadet Inspector Helen MacDermish arrived at the Impound Lot.

  “Hey Ryo, what's got you up at this horrible hour?”

  The old Inspector waved to his longtime pal, “Just catching up on some work. What have you got?”

  The Technician sighed, “Well; there's a dozen or so small drops of blood on the floor, mainly right around the driver's seat. I just ran some samples through the Chromosomal Comparator and it came back as Manfred Chong, age 37 from Dublin.”

  Ryo nodded, “Mr. Chong was the driver assigned to this vehicle.”

  He and Helen studied the cab's interior for several seconds.

  Ryo rubbed his chin, “Manfred Chong was murdered nearly 24 hours ago. I suspect that you will find his DNA all over the cab. Check the steering wheel and perhaps the dashboard switches for fresh material from someone else.”

  “Already done.” The Technician held up several swabs, “I just collected these, I'll run them through the Comparator right now.

  While the machine was analyzing the specimens Ryo tapped out an update of the investigation for Helga when she returned to the office.

  A pleasant ding from the Comparator announced the completion of the work.

  The Technician read the results, “Herman Kowalski, age 28 from Nairobi. It says here that he goes by the name 'Bowie.' He has quite a record in EurAfrica. His current location is listed as unknown but I think that we can surmise that he's somewhere in Free City.”

  “The last of the Goons is now prowling around town,” Ryo muttered.

  Helen had a look of bewilderment, “Is that the criminal who murdered Manfred Chong?”

  “It would be my guess but that particular investigation is in the hands of the Dublin Police.” Ryo glowered in silence for a time, “I'm hunting for Herman 'Bowie' Kowalski for the murder of Mr. Nathan Briggs.”

  • • •

  It was damp and dreary on the street.

  For two long days Bowie had tried to locate Ryo Trop's kid and her nanny in Free City.

  Fortunately he had some recent pictures and two pages of fairly good intelligence information to guide him.

  Bowie studied a photo of the nanny. Her name was Sabra MacFarland and she was rather attractive. Too bad she was associated with Inspector Trop.

  Apparently the old man had hidden them just after the dagger in the door incident. But no matter, Bowie thought as he leaned against the wall of a building on Rahara Street. He'd found out enough about the nanny to know that she shared an apartment with her sister about half a block down. All he had to do was to loiter around until she showed up and then trail her until she led him back to the hideout.

  One way or another he'd murder the kid and the nanny and settle the score with Inspector Trop.

  • • •

  The old Landlady scrutinized the photo before she nodded.

  “You're sure?” Ryo glanced at the gray-haired gal. She was in a grimy pink bathrobe with a headful of blue curlers. She hadn't objected too much when he knocked on the door of the boardinghouse at 3:30 AM. Apparently late night visits by the police were not uncommon.

  “Yeah Inspector, that's him.”

  “You said he's not in at the moment;” Ryo continued, “any idea of where he is right now?”

  “He doesn't seem to have a job,” the Landlady frowned as she thought, “but he did ask a lot of questions about the Enlightenment Crusade and what those nut bags might be likely to do.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Well; I've got a couple of Crusaders up on the third floor and all they talk about right now is the Bicentennial Parade tomorrow. He seemed really interested in that.”

  “Thank you. If he returns, contact me at once.”

  She nodded sleepily before closing the door.

  Ryo stood in grim silence for several seconds: Dilma and Sabra would be at the parade.

  • • •

  Bowie was hunched over like a dozing vagrant, but the big Goon certainly wasn't asleep.

  About forty minutes earlier he'd spotted an unusually wary young woman wrapped in a gray cloak skulking down the deserted street. The leery traveler nervously glanced around before slipping into the apartment building that he'd been watching.

  Bowie then repositioned himself across the street to afford a better view of the woman should she reappear. He was fairly certain that it was Sabra MacFarland.

  The glass panes rattled in the ancient wooden lobby doors of the apartment building.

  Bowie glanced up.

  The jittery woman stood in the dim early morning light studying the empty thoroughfare for far longer than would be considered normal.

  It was her.

  Bowie grinned malevolently before slumping forward to resume his ruse. He'd found the nanny.

  She hurried off.

  When she was nearly a block away, the big Goon stood and casually dusted himself off before following her.

  Bowie patted the bulge in his jacket as he walked down the street; with luck he'd use the gun for killing today.

  36. The parade

  The swirling claptrap of the restless humanity was deafening.

  Sabra stood attired as a luminescent purple and pink jellyfish in the midst of nearly thirty-five thousand colorfully costumed parade participants.

  The huge group of revelers was stalled again for some reason.

  Dilma's quivery little hand was clamped tightly to hers.

  Sabra smiled at the tremulous twelve-year-old who was elaborately dressed as a mermaid. The girl was adorned with the hard-won headband and blue boa.

  Days earlier at the safe house Dilma had managed to cajole Ryo into letting her attend the huge public display that marked the end of the Free City Bicentennial Exposition. Since returning from New Rome, the old Investigator had been strangely unwilling to let Dilma dawdle about in the city.

  The recent intimidation involving the dagger in the apartment door had made her boss even more edgy.

  But Dilma's sparkling charm and endless persistence had eventually worn him down. Finally he relented with a few stern caveats: She must return to the safe house by sunset and must never be more than an arms length from Sabra during the entire outing.

  The girl merrily agreed to his conditions before skipping off to work on her costume.

  Sabra had noticed afterwards that Ryo watched over the girl as she fabricated her finery with an inexplicably moody look of foreboding.

  But now it all seemed worth it, Dilma was participating in a once in a lifetime event that she certainly would relive for decades to come.

  • • •

  “OK; what is that?” Dilma pointed to the left at a group of a dozen or so parade participants in themed
costumes.

  Sabra studied the gang for several seconds before answering. “That's quite clever; it's a good portion of a chess set.”

  A man bedecked as a black rook shuffled forward and bumped a little girl who was dressed as a white pawn. The girl teetered dramatically before flopping to the ground. The move produced a booming call of “HUZZAH” from the other group members. The pieces reset themselves and the stylized sideshow began anew.

  “Excuse me ladies,” a deep male voice grunted.

  Sabra turned to the new arrival.

  “Jasper!” Dilma squealed with delight at the scruffy and imposing red-maned man dressed as a Neanderthal.

  “G'day, sweetheart!”

  Sabra scowled at the arrival of the unfamiliar man.

  Dilma fingered the faux bearskin that wrapped the burly newcomer, “What are you doing here?”

  He smiled at the young mermaid, “Ryo mentioned that you might need some company in the parade so I put on my Sunday best and decided to join you.”

  Sabra tipped her head in confusion, “How do you two know each other?”

  “Ah...well...you see..,” Dilma was uncharacteristically tongue-tied by the question.

  The big man grinned pleasantly, “I helped her out of some difficulties about a year ago and eventually delivered her to Ryo.”

  “Yeah; that's it!” the girl quickly nodded in agreement.

  Sabra frowned at the obviously over simplified explanation, up to this point everyone had been quite forthright in matters regarding the girl.

  The parade lurched forward and the woman reluctantly set her leeriness aside.

  • • •

  Just to their right, an odd little Dixieland band was playing “When The Saints Go Marching In” with homemade scrap heap instruments.

  The crowd had managed to move three blocks before the merry procession had stopped again.

  It was especially festive, Sabra beamed.

  After several minutes of awkwardness with the arrival of Jasper, Dilma had grasped his big hand and had shuffled proudly along between both of the adults.

  The girl seemed quite comfortable with the big caveman, Sabra concluded.

  WHACK!

  The sickening sound of bones cracking interrupted the high-spirited procession.

  “HEY!” Jasper recoiled from punch. “WHAT THE...”

  Dilma screamed.

  Sabra turned to see a sneering thug in a black jacket, his hand still clenched up and bloody.

  “BASTARD!” Jasper regained his footing and turned to the attacker. “I've got five years of bar brawls in Blackall,” his fist slammed into the man's face, “and I've swatted bigger flies than you!”

  The punk lurched back from the punch.

  The crowd bolted away from the battling men.

  Sabra instinctively jerked Dilma out of the way of the fracas.

  “You're just in the wrong place at the wrong time!” the goon growled at Jasper. He produced an unusual gun and leveled it at the big Australian's head.

  “NO!” Dilma lunged at the gunman just as he fired.

  The punk was thrown off balance by the tiny attacker.

  A weird purplish beam crackled from the weapon and struck Jasper just above the right collarbone. A good-sized chunk of his shoulder blade was blasted away as the beam exited. Blood was everywhere. Jasper wobbled dizzily before he collapsed.

  With spiteful satisfaction, the brute watched the big Aussie fall before he swung around towards Dilma, “NOW YOU!”

  The twelve-year-old snarled defiantly as she slowly backed away from the man.

  The assassin lined the gun up on the girl and pressed at the trigger.

  In a blur of furious motion, the keen edge of a silver-gray broadsword struck the gunman across the small of the back.

  “AHHH!” The bruiser winced in agony. His weapon clattered to the pavement.

  The sword-wielder walloped him again behind the knees and produced a gaping wound. He crumpled to the ground.

  The guardian angel pressed the razor-tipped broadsword between the thug's ribs should additional struggle require that he should be dispatched.

  Three beat cops subdued the bloody man.

  Several bystanders rushed in and tended to Jasper.

  Dilma stared in awe of the small woman who had brought down the burly punk.

  It was the mysterious redheaded woman that had prodded her to stay close to Sabra at the coffeehouse.

  “IT'S YOU!” Sabra exclaimed as she studied their protector. “You loaned me money and introduced me to Ryo!”

  “That's right, sweetie,” she grinned enigmatically. “Someone named Zmuda had me keep an eye on you two from the beginning.”

  “Who's Zmuda?” Sabra wondered.

  “Ah;” Dilma smiled, “he's my godfather!”

  One of the cops withdrew a communications device from his belt, “We got him, Inspector Trop. We're over on Knutsford Street. Yes; it is definitely Bowie. Your kid and the nanny are fine but we need an ambulance for the assailant and a big chap named Jasper.”

  “Thank you,” Sabra whispered to the mysterious woman.

  The girl was still shaking from the violent altercation.

  “I like this,” Dilma nervously fingered the elaborate costume of their savor, “what are you?”

  “I'm a Valkyrie. They're the death angels that carry slain Norse warriors away to Valhalla,” she grinned at the wide-eyed kid, “or in this case, protect little girls from street punks.”

  The officer turned to the Valkyrie, “I'm going to need some personal details for the report.”

  She smiled curtly at the cop, “Edict 343 says you don't.”

  He nodded reluctantly and the redheaded death angel ambled off into the crowd with her bloodstained broadsword still in hand.

  37. Jurisprudence

  “How are you feeling, you big lug?” Mixion kissed his cheek.

  “My shoulder's killing me,” Jasper grimaced in the hospital bed, “I don't remember much after I got shot.”

  “Well the Lieutenant says you'll get combat pay, if that means anything.”

  She fiddled with the bed sheets, “They managed to rush you here and the Emergency Room Orthopedist took a bone sample. They're in the process of cloning a new scapula and clavicle that will be transplanted in place of the bones that were blasted away during the parade. Until they do the operation in two weeks you'll be hopped up on painkillers.”

  “Is Dilma OK?” The big man gnashed his teeth, “Did they get the guy with the gun?”

  “She's fine; apparently the only reason that you weren't killed outright was that our little kitten shoved the attacker just as he fired. The CRAMP's new redheaded super-spy was trailing Dilma and her nanny. When all hell broke loose she did a fair job of neutralizing the situation.”

  Mixion’s demeanor darkened, “Fortunately the Goon is downstairs right now, locked up in the Prison Medical Ward.”

  • • •

  “How’s Jasper doing?” Zmuda wondered when he slipped into the CRAMP Situation Room.

  Mixion produced a pleasant smile when you looked up from the monitor screen, “Well enough, considering what he’s been through in the last few days.”

  The Lieutenant nodded, “That’s certainly good news.”

  “I have another bit of luck to report.” Mixion pointed at the latest satellite images from high above the ruins of the Fort of Djaba.

  Zmuda studied the monitor.

  The first high-resolution photo showed three men with orange and green headscarves apparently digging some sort of pit.

  He tapped at the image, “Isn't that right around where the Serfs buried Daniel Kufuzu?”

  Mixion nodded and switched to the second frame taken about ninety minutes later.

  Two of the Desert Serfs were carrying a long white shrouded bundle towards the pit.

  “Mmm;” the Lieutenant stroked his chin, “I wonder if that's their most recent failed attempt to reclone Kufuzu?”


  The final image showed the men filling in the pit.

  Mixion snickered, “Well that would be number two if it is.”

  “Eventually they'll figure it out,” Zmuda smiled.

  • • •

  “Alright Inspector Trop; you may begin,” the stern Arraignment Judge stood over the shackled prisoner in the Medical Ward.

  Two hefty guards watched over the proceedings.

  “Thank you Justice Dwan.”

  Ryo turned and glared at the heavily bandaged Goon, “This man, Herman 'Bowie' Kowalski, has been charged with two counts of Murder in the First Degree for the killings for the purpose of intimidation of Debris Retrieval Specialist Third Class Nathan Briggs and Captain Philip Takahashi of the Low Earth Orbit Salvage Ship Billikin. Additionally he is charged with two counts of Assault with the intent to commit murder upon Dilma Trop and Jasper Pomeroy on Knutsford Street in Free City.”

  Copiously restrained in his hospital bed, Bowie smirked as the old Inspector presented the charges.

  The Judge turned to the cop, “What evidence do you intend to present at trial to support these allegations?”

  “HE'S GOT NOTHING!” Bowie growled.

  “Mr. Kowalski,” the Judge snapped, “I will add one Contempt of Court Charge for each additional word that you utter during this formality.”

  The Goon stifled further comments.

  “We've amassed quite a bit of evidence, Mr. Kowalski,” the old Investigator glowered at the punk.

  “You were found to be in possession of a unique weapon that has been traced by a preponderance of evidence directly to the murder of Nate Briggs. That weapon produced a very unusual tissue avulsion upon the body of Mr. Briggs which was nearly identical to a wound found on the remains of Captain Takahashi.”

  “That seems sufficient for arraignment but a detailed presentation will be required at trial,” the Judge interjected. “What of the evidence for the Assault charges, Inspector Trop?”

  Ryo smiled with satisfaction at the question, “Since the crimes took place during the Bicentennial Parade, we have dozens of witnesses who will testify as to Mr. Kowalski's actions.”