Galaxy Man

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  “You mean like those ranch hands, the ones who waited for Phil and me?”

  “There was no excuse for that . . . I’m truly sorry. Like I said, I grew up with Larz. Those three idiots, I suppose, were simply being protective of him. They’ll be fired. Like you said, they could have killed Phil . . . and you.”

  “Not so much me. If you hadn’t come along when you did, you’d probably be notifying that boy’s next of kin.”

  Lane studied him for several beats. “You’re one dangerous Frontier Marshal. Truth is, I think you scare me.”

  “No need to be scared. We ‘Frontier Marshals’, like everyone else, have a job to do. We’re as close to law enforcement as these parts are going to get. With that said, we are given enough leeway to protect ourselves . . . and others, too, within our purview,” Gallic told her. “Speaking of that . . . I should get back to doing it.” As he stood, his towel stayed behind him on the bed. Unfazed, he reached for it.

  Lane let out a reflexive laugh. She grabbed his wrist and held on. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  She laughed again—her face flushed. “Back at Renegade’s Haven, we watched you when you came in—me, and every other person in the place—women and men. You draw a lot of attention.”

  “I’m a big guy . . . tend to get noticed.”

  That evoked a crooked smile. “Yeah, but it’s more than that. More than mere confidence.”

  Gallic continued to stand before her—buck-naked.

  “It’s just so obvious you don’t give a shit. About anything or anyone. That’s a whole lot of dangerous.” Keeping a firm grip on his wrist, she leaned back on the bed, pulling him down with her—atop her. She kissed him, and he kissed her back.

  She said, “Just know this is only going to happen once. I’m not looking for a boyfriend or—

  Cutting Lane off, he kissed her again—harder this time.

  Turning her head aside, she said, “Hey . . . I was talking to you.”

  “Is that what you want to do . . . talk?”

  Panting, she shook her head. “No! Help me take these boots off.”

  Chapter 12

  Frontier Planet, Gorman — Heritage Plains Township.

  Lane was asleep—her head lying softly upon Gallic’s chest. Beneath the sheet, his left hand cupped one of her compact, surprisingly firm, butt cheeks. Lane wasn’t the first woman he’d slept with since the death of his wife. But there hadn’t been many.

  He needed to move. His back throbbed, and the gears in his head were again spinning. Working the crime scene reminded him of old times, back when he was DCI for the Colonial Police—in Space District 22. He’d fallen back into a familiar routine—the process of searching for evidence, clues, to identify a potential suspect, or suspects, in a death caused by either violence or some other unnatural cause. In this case, a young mother and her child. Superintendent Bernard Danbury was right. The similarities to Clair and Mandy’s murders were, of course, far too similar to be a coincidence. But Gallic needed to be careful. Bringing baggage from one murder scene to another murder scene, even unintentionally, was a rookie mistake. Each investigation had to be run by the book. All progression going forward solely determined by whatever trace evidence and clues were gathered. Can I really be objective, or am I only kidding myself?

  The truth was, this wasn’t Gallic’s case. Not really. He was no longer DCI. Right now, he couldn’t big foot himself into the ongoing proceedings. Any mishandling could backfire badly—getting him kicked to the curb. That could not be allowed to happen. He’d waited years for just this opportunity and nothing was going to stand in his way—finding the murderer of Clair and Mandy. He always knew he wasn’t looking for justice. Seeking something far more primal than that. He was out for revenge—pure and simple.

  Carefully, he managed to extricate himself from the bed without waking Lane. He stood, watching her breathe evenly in and out. She’d told him this would only happen once. He needed to ensure that would hold true. She was one hell of a distraction—one he didn’t need in his life right now.

  Hearing a groan, Gallic padded his way into his closet and quickly dressed. On entering the Hound’s main compartment, he quietly moved over to where Phil lay, sprawled out on the couch. The Navaho blanket lay on the deck in a heap. Phil’s eyes were closed, and the gash—along with a good-sized purple knot on his forehead—made Gallic grimace. He softly said, “That’s going to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch when you wake up, buddy.” He figured it best to just let him sleep.

  Gallic wondered if there was anything on the news about the murders. Heading for the Hound’s control center, he said, “AI . . . bring up the local news broadcast.” Taking a seat, he swiveled the chair around toward the 3D display. A story was being reported about a rancher’s hybrid bull. Some kind of genetic concoction, it resembled water buffaloes more than cattle. The ginormous beast was in the process of mounting a far smaller, struggling, common cow as a circle of rancher businessmen watched the scene in rapt silence. Gallic, using a hand-motion, changed the channel, and the trailer to a new movie appeared in its place. An action flick, it starred Zip Furlong. Gallic, huffed and shook his head. He remembered Zip, whose real name was Teddy Walters. He and Clair met the action star when they lived in London. His Oxshott mansion burned down while he was filming an out-of-town feature film. Someone in bed fell asleep with a lit cigarette. The exotic, primarily hardwood structure went up like dried kindling. People were killed and Gallic was called in to be the DCI in charge. He thought back to his interview with Teddy, upon his arrival back in town. The actor felt awful about the situation—felt responsible. Gallic always liked the actor’s ‘tough guy’ movies and found him to be genuine and unpretentious. They got along instantly, and he still considered the movie star a good friend.

  The preview was nearing its end when Lane, now dressed, wandered over to the control center. Her hair was brushed and she still had the afterglow of a woman who’d spent an afternoon in bed, having sex with a near-stranger. Noticing the holographic movie clip winding down, she froze, her expression a kaleidoscope of emotion—changing from shock, to fear, to something akin to anger.

  “Hey there . . . What is it?” Gallic asked.

  “Nothing.” Shaking it off, she only smiled. “I really have to go. Gabby is still tied to a post . . . I have a lot of work to do . . .”

  “Gabby?”

  “My horse, silly.” Leaning in, she gave him a kiss. “Um . . . will I be able to find my way out of here?”

  “Probably best if I walk you out. The Hound isn’t a place you’d want to wander around unattended.”

  “You serious? Why, do you have the thing booby-trapped?”

  He shrugged. “Lots of unsavory types can come a-knocking in my business.”

  * * *

  By the time Gallic returned to the Hound’s upper level, it was dark outside. He checked in on Phil, who was still asleep. Picking up the fallen blanket, he draped it over the older Frontier Marshal since it had turned chilly.

  Feeling tired he made his way back to his bed to lie down. Sleep came quickly. But much too soon the dream vermin arrived—arrived in mass. He’d forgotten, mentally, to batten down the hatches. A torrent of twisting slithering forms moved like an alive, churning ocean. Approaching closer, sharp teeth nipping and snapping, hundreds—maybe thousands—of creatures proceeded to enter unhindered into his consciousness. And then they were upon him. No, not upon him, but someone else—it was Lane. Wrapping their slimy, snake-like bodies around her. Then, in an instant, the snakes and vermin were gone, and Gallic found himself walking into a house. He had his equipment with him. He was on the job. Something about the house was disconcerting—the silence went well beyond quiet. And it was stifling—warm turning to hot—a bad smell pervaded the space. Proceeding down a wood-paneled hallway, where shag carpeting, the color of tangerines ran beneath his disposable booties, he entered the main room. And it was like he’d stepped back in time, wit
h sectional couches upholstered in paisley patterns, and a television console that doubled as a Hi-Fi turntable. Beyond was a kitchen, with avocado-colored appliances and the kind of Formica countertops popular 150 years earlier on Earth. Coming around the end of the couch he saw a body, positioned on the carpet, then remembered this was a hammer-and-nails murder. Why he was there. Something about the woman’s figure, lying there on the floor, seemed familiar. Kneeling down, he sees her face for the first time. It is Lane. Her eyes are closed, nailed shut. Why, he wonders, didn’t he immediately notice the other, smaller form lying beside her? They were holding hands. Oh god . . . Mandy was holding her hand, and suddenly the woman was no longer Lane. It was Clair. Eyelid nails no longer present, she opened her eyes, turning her head toward him. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Only vermin, rushing up from the darkness—to escape from her gaping open mouth.

  Gasping, Gallic awoke. Drenched in sweat, he struggled to catch his breath.

  Chapter 13

  Frontier Planet, Gorman — Heritage Plains Township.

  The early dawn sun was now cresting a distant rise. The surrounding pastureland had taken on a pinkish-gray cast that soon would warm to amber, then to an emerald green by mid-day. Gazing out the window, Gallic noticed a handful of cows had gathered close to the Hound.

  He finished adding grounds into the antique coffee maker, knowing too that if he used the replicator the coffee might come out tasting just as good. But Gallic liked his morning routine. The aroma emitted from freshly ground coffee beans was one of the few small pleasures he allowed himself.

  “Have I died and gone to heaven? Smells wonderful.”

  Gallic, surprised, hadn’t heard Phil get up. Wrapped up in the Native American blanket, eyes bloodshot, pasty-white pallor, he looked terrible.

  “Why don’t you take a seat before you keel over,” Gallic said.

  Phil, doing as told, pulled out a chair then plopped down at the small kitchenette table. “I feel like I got hit by a space trawler.”

  “Not a trawler . . . a shovel.”

  “I think I remember seeing it coming . . . didn’t have time to duck.” Probing his forehead with two fingers, he queried, “Please tell me you mercilessly made the one responsible pay . . . and pay dearly.”

  “Three of them. They were lying in wait, all armed with garden tools. You got it in the head . . . me in the back. And yes, they all paid.”

  “Garden tools? What the hell was their beef with us?”

  “It was with me . . . you just happened to be along.”

  “Lucky me. What did you do to rile them up so badly?” Phil asked, accepting the steaming mug of coffee from Gallic.

  “Repo’ed their boss’s ride. A brand new L35T.”

  “Oh yeah . . . you mentioned something about that before. Not easy to gain access into one of those.”

  “Not unless you have the owner around to do it for you.”

  Phil nodded. “So, you not only repo’ed the 5T but humiliated the owner as well?”

  “Yep, in front of his friends to boot,” Gallic added.

  “Well, I hope you got paid, that it was worth it.”

  “At least it’ll keep me current with the Hound. Sorry it cost you that lump on your head.”

  Phil, his brows tightly knitted, looked up from his coffee, “Hey . . . did I see a beautiful blonde moving around in here earlier this morning, or did I just dream that?”

  “You weren’t dreaming,” Gallic said, leaning back against the counter.

  “So, you’re telling me you got paid enough to bring the Hound current and . . . you got laid, too?”

  Gallic simply shrugged his shoulders in response.

  “I had a strange dream,” Phil said.

  “Oh yeah?” Gallic said, not thrilled of being reminded of his own personal nightmare. Noting that Phil looked a bit shook up, he added, “Probably the bonk on the head . . . you’ll be okay.”

  “My father was in it. Weird, he died when I was a kid . . . a teenager.” Phil’s eyes looked tired. As he sat there, mentally reliving his dream, Gallic saw him chewing on the inside of his lip.

  Gallic, pulling out the other chair, sat down next to him. After taking a sip of his coffee, he reluctantly asked, “What was the dream about?”

  Phil didn’t seem to hear him. “You know,” he said instead, “everything we are, and everywhere we’ve been, is due to that discovery on Mars nearly one hundred years ago. Where would we be now if that never happened? I remember my daddy being obsessed with Mars; talked about it all the time. Only it wasn’t in a positive way. Folks in our small town in Montana thought he was delusional. My father thought there was something evil going on up there. He was pretty much pushed aside, considered a crazy loon. I was told by others not to listen to him. By the time I was old enough to really ask him about Mars and what he was talking about, he’d gone off the deep end.” Phil glanced up, pain in his eyes. “When I was seventeen, he shot himself in the head.”

  Gallic didn’t quite know how to respond. What could he say? He said nothing.

  Phil looked away then out the window, as if searching for something out there. Gallic thought he saw him tremble.

  “In the dream, my father told me about one particular Mars conspiracy. That it was all true . . . the truth was right before me.” Phil sat up and drank his coffee down, regaining his composure. He then smiled and said, “Damn, dreams sometimes seem so real, eh?”

  Gallic, not one for talking much about his feelings, or his dreams, said, “How ‘bout I fry us some eggs and bacon?” Rising, he topped off his own, then Phil’s, coffee mug. “Then later, if you feel up to it, we’ll head over to Linda’s . . . try to get that interview.”

  * * *

  They caught Linda on the way out her front door, wearing knee-high black leather boots and tan, formfitting riding pants—the skintight kind, worn when one rode English. Securing a leather crop under one arm, she closed and locked the front door.

  “Mrs. Cugan?”

  She jumped, hearing Gallic’s voice come from behind her and spun around startled. “For God’s sake, don’t sneak up on a person like that! Not with . . . what’s happened.” Annoyed, she looked first at Gallic then at Phil. “What happened to you, Phil?”

  Before he could answer, Gallic said, “You may want to ask your son about that . . . and several of his ranch-hand buddies.”

  Exasperated, she huffed in disbelief. “Look, I’m on my way out. We’ll have to do this another time.” She started walking toward the barn—the same barn Gallic and Phil met the business-end of a metal spade.

  “No problem,” Gallic said. “I suppose we can make this a more official interview by conducting it later. Once the court subpoena gets issued, you can appear at the Distrct-22 station.” As a contract Frontier Marshal, Gallic had no such authority to even request a subpoena, but he knew Linda wouldn’t know that.

  Her back to them, she hesitated, standing mute on the driveway, as if rallying the necessary energy, and/or patience, to deal with the added trouble. When she turned around to face them, she’d composed herself, wearing a phony smile. “I would be happy to give you ten minutes. Will that suffice, Mr. Gallic?”

  * * *

  Gallic sat across from Linda Cugan in what was clearly the mansion’s study. Phil stood, leaning against a distant wall jamb, well within earshot. “This shouldn’t take long, Mrs. Cugan.”

  “Just call me Linda. And good—the sooner it’s over, the better.”

  “I’ll need to speak with your daughter, as well.”

  “I don’t want to bring her into this. She’s very upset.”

  “I’ll be as easy on her as possible,” Gallic said, making a few taps on his ComsBand. “I’ll be recording this interview.”

  “Whatever . . .” she said.

  “Um . . . you mentioned you entered the Bower’s residence without knocking.”

  Linda nodded.

  “About what time was that?”

>   “I don’t know . . . late morning, I guess.”

  “What was your reason for entering the house unannounced?”

  “I hadn’t seen them . . . Catherine or Tami, in a while. It was strange. Not like them. As I told you . . . we were close. Like family.”

  “And when was the last time you saw her husband?” Gallic tapped on his ComsBand then added, “Trent Bower.”

  Linda shifted in her seat, looking like she’d rather be anywhere but there with him. “I haven’t seen Trent in weeks. He travels a lot . . . on business.”

  “Just like your own husband,” Gallic said.

  “Your point?”

  “Just an observation, Ma’am.”

  “Don’t ma’am me . . . makes me feel ancient. Linda will do just fine.”

  “Can you tell me a bit more about your relationship with Catherine?”

  “We were next-door neighbors and best friends.”

  “And you hung out socially, together with your husbands?”

  Linda nodded, suddenly unable to speak. She dabbed at her eyes with a balled-up tissue Gallic didn’t notice earlier. Swallowing hard, she said, “Catherine was the social one. Loved get-togethers . . . barbeques . . . all holidays. The life of the party, that one, and always the center of attention.”

  For the first time, Gallic detected a touch of resentment in her voice. “She was pretty . . . beautiful, even,” Gallic said, recalling the vic’s body, lying dead on the floor just next door.

  “She most definitely was the prettiest one. The local joke was that it wasn’t the dogs in the neighborhood you needed to keep a leash on . . . it was the husbands.”

  “So, Catherine was . . . unfaithful?”

  Linda narrowed her eyes at Gallic. “I didn’t say that! She would never . . .”

  “Mom?”

  Gallic turned, seeing a teenaged girl enter the study. She looked about the same age as Tami. This must be Juaquin. The girl sat next to her mother’s chair on the ottoman. Her hair hung down straight, covering most of her face. Gallic could see her cheeks were quite pink—it was obvious she’d been crying.