The speaker thundered, “Who are we?”
In unison, the men yelled out, “We are the Curz.”
The speaker asked, “And what do we do?”
The men replied, “The Curz are always watching.”
The speaker, pivoting slightly to his left, asked, “And how do we protect you?”
The women and young girls stirred, raising their downturned heads upward. “They make sure we don’t see. Only they have true sight. I am blind. I am blind. I am most useful when I can’t see,” the females chanted in unison.
The video flickered then disappeared as Tori’s voice returned. “Interesting, huh? Well, we now know what this Curz bullshit cult is all about. It’s a bunch of old, misogynistic, clueless fuckwads. I’ll tell you more about the video when I see you back on Gorman.”
Gallic’s wrist vibrated twice—two short bursts—indicating he still had two unheard messages. Remembering then that Lane had called last night, he checked the time—6:00 a.m., still a tad too early still to call her. Tapping his ComsBand, Gallic called up her last message. She came alive, in three-dimensional splendor, in front of him. It took him a second to figure out where she was—standing in her kitchen, inside her small house on Gorman, she was chopping celery on a cutting board. Dressed only in a tiny tank and panties, Lane was keeping beat to music, heard playing in the background.
“Hey you . . . any chance you can drop by sometime tomorrow afternoon? I’m making tuna salad. That’s about the full extent of my culinary capabilities. Maybe you can bring the wine?” Lane stopped chopping long enough to glance up and smile. Wearing dangling earrings, they swung to and fro—catching the light shining outside a nearby window. Then a noise, something, caused her to look away, perhaps towards the front door. Her expression was one of distracted confusion—not expecting anyone. She flashed her amazing smile again and, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, said, “I better get that . . .” Then the projection was gone, and Gallic was once again staring at the now-unobstructed murder board.
He frantically tapped at his ComsBand and twice his shaking fingers hit the wrong touch keys. Shit! The hail to Lane didn’t go through, so he tried again. And still no connection.
“AI . . . keep hailing Lane . . . and power up the drives!”
Chapter 34
Open space — onboard the Hound.
En route to Gorman, Gallic hailed Phil, but he too was not picking up. He throttled the Hound, up to its maximum, sub-light speed. Traveling at FTL, within close-proximity of Frontier World’s planetary system was not only unsafe—it was illegal. Figuring he could make it to Lane’s Heritage Plains property in thirty minutes, all he could think about was what a terrible predicament she now might be in. In his imagination, he quickly envisioned the worst possible scenario: abduction by the hammer-and-nails killer. He mentally waved off the fact that she didn’t have a daughter—didn’t fit in with the killer’s typical MO. Why would that matter anyway, when the killer, of late, was clearly going off-script? No, Gallic didn’t have thirty minutes. Lane didn’t have thirty minutes.
“May I make a suggestion, Mr. Gallic?” the AI asked.
“Just say what you have to say.”
“You may want to try reaching out to Lane’s best friend.”
“You’re referring to Larz?”
“Larz Cugan, yes,” the AI affirmed.
“Do it . . . that’s not a bad idea.”
* * *
The snarl on Larz Cugan’s face said it all. Larz wanted nothing to do with him. Gallic was surprised he even accepted the hail. “What do you want?”
“I’m worried about Lane. I know you two are friends—”
“Best friends,” Larz interjected.
“Fine . . . best friends. But I think she might be in trouble. Can you get over to her place . . . right now?”
Larz stared back at him, via his own ComsBand. Gallic noticed right behind him the familiar, distinctive, silhouette of his Hausenbach L35T. “I’m on my way, but if you’ve gotten her into some kind of trouble . . . brought that hammer-and-nails bullshit into her life, I’m going to mess you up.”
“Just go . . . and hurry!” Gallic said.
Larz Cugan’s sour face disappeared, only to be replaced with a flashing warning message:
DRIVE MAINTENANCE REQUIRED. Friction levels exceeding acceptable parameters.
Gallic inwardly groaned. Aware the Hound was slowing, he asked, “AI . . . what the hell is happening?”
“I have warned you this would happen. Without routine servicing, the gravitorque drives are apt to overheat. An automated safety measure has now been imposed.”
“Can you override it?”
“That would be a dangerous course of action, Mr. Gallic.”
“Do it anyway. The Hound will receive the required maintenance within the next few days . . . I promise.”
“I will talk to the drives. But they can be quite stubborn.”
It took all Gallic’s willpower to quietly wait. The AI, reporting back in, said, “Only a few days, and you must take it easy . . . no constant usage of excessive speed.”
Gallic felt the Hound lurch forward—re-accelerating—then he noisily exhaled the breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Mr. Gallic, there is an incoming hail from Allison Tillman.”
“Ignore it.
“There is an older, not listened to, message from Sargento—”
“Ignore it.”
“There is an incoming hail from Phil—”
Gallic cut the AI off, “Put him through!”
The virtual display brought up Phil, standing at the controls of his Gallivanter.
“Where are you, Phil?”
“Just leaving Rawhide, en route to Gorman . . . for our meeting. What’s up?”
“Crap! You’re only slightly closer than I am,” Gallic retorted back.
Phil shrugged. “Hey, Allison Tillman’s trying to get—”
“Forget Tillman for the moment. I know where her damn ship is. That’s not important right now. I think Lane’s been taken. I’m waiting to hear back.”
“Okay . . . anything you need just tell me what to do.”
“You have the coordinates to her home?”
“Probably . . . I think I do.”
“Meet me there. Right now, I need to speak to Tori.”
“Roger that. Wait . . . you know where the Hayai is?”
Gallic cut the connection. “Get me Tori!” he commanded.
A moment later he heard, “Tori here.”
“Where are you?” Gallic asked.
“Waiting for you . . . here on Gorman. Isn’t that where you said to meet?” I’m in the weird little town of Heritage Plains.”
“Head on over to Lane’s place. She may have been grabbed. I’m not sure.”
Tori looked doubtful. “Like by the hammer-and-nails killer? Maybe she stepped out for a carton of milk or went for a ride on that horse of hers.”
“Just meet us there.”
“Us?”
“Phil’s on his way. Got to go.” Gallic cut the connection.
* * *
The Hound circled in for a landing. Three other spacecrafts were already on the ground: Tori’s star-cruiser, Phil’s Gallivanter, and Larz’s 5T. Noting Tori now walking toward the house, Gallic figured she too must have just arrived.
By the time he entered Lane’s home, it was obvious the others there had already looked around. Standing in the kitchen, the three were in the middle of a heated discussion. Larz was going on about something in the bedroom. “She would never leave that behind, never! It was all she had left of her mother.”
The kitchen appeared exactly the same as when he’d viewed it last. Gallic thought back, seeing Lane chopping celery in her skimpy tank and panties. Before him on the counter was the same cutting board, along with half-a-stalk of chopped celery. Bowls and open containers were still on the center island where he’d last seen her working. Gallic asked, “What’s this ab
out something left in the bedroom?”
“I’ll show you,” Larz said, heading down the hall toward the master bedroom.
The four stood before the unmade bed, the bedcovers heaped onto the floor. In the middle of the empty bed was a thin gold chain, with a single small diamond embedded at its end. Gallic remembered seeing it, draped around Lane’s neck. In fact, he’d never seen her without it on.
“What’s special about the necklace?” Phil asked.
Larz looked reluctant to say anything. Glaring at Gallic, he asked, “What do you know about her past . . . where she comes from?”
“Not much. Her past wasn’t something she liked to talk about. I respected that . . . didn’t push or pry.”
Larz let out an exasperated breath. “She was born on Earth. Her parents were very well off. Lived in a sprawling mansion . . . a fucking castle. But then they fell into hard times. Apparently, her father was a bit of a gambler. Did you know there was an Irish mafia?”
Everyone shook their head.
“Anyway, her father got into trouble with the Irish mob. Owed them a ton of money. Lane told me she would come home from school and notice various pieces of furniture gone; then their high-end hovercraft was exchanged for an old clunker. They couldn’t buy anything new; wore the same frayed clothes everyday . . . ate a lot of soup and crackers. Lane’s mother would often take her aside and, in confidence, tell her things would turn out okay. That she’d taken special steps to ensure they would come out of their present difficulty just fine.”
“What happened?” Tori asked.
“First, her father was killed. Found floating face-down in the East River. Throat slashed.”
“Oh God . . .” Tori said.
“That’s not the worst of it,” Larz said. “The house was owned by the father’s family. They didn’t know he was slowly selling off his assets . . . to pay his debts and to live on. They were not happy. One aunt in particular, I think she said her name was Gleason, she began coming around. A real bitch, from what Lane told me. A busybody. Then her mother got sick. Cancer, I think . . . yeah pretty sure. One day, Lane was brought to the hospital to see her mother, who was far gone by then. She gave Lane the necklace you see on the bed. Her mother always wore it. Never took it off. Telling Lane to move closer so no one could overhear their conversation, she said, ‘Take this, Lane. It is now yours. Perhaps think of me when you wear it.’ Well, Lane didn’t want to take it. She didn’t know her mother was dying.” Larz hesitated then said, “Okay, here’s the real crux of the story.”
“Lane said her mother told her, ‘I know things seem bleak. You’re scared. But I’ve been putting things away for you. All my jewelry . . . many thousands of dollars’ worth . . . I’ve hidden away. All for you . . . to start over; have a life of your own. In the house, in those pictures on the walls, I’ve hidden the gems—the jewelry—inside their frames. You’ll need to remove the paintings in order to find them, but they are there. Waiting for you. Keep them safe and hidden.’”
“That’s at least something,” Tori said. “A sad story . . . but it’s something.”
Larz snorted. “Her mother died that very day. Later, when Lane was taken back home, her aunt . . . Gleason . . . was there. The house had already been cleared out. Lane, already overcome with grief, asked about the now-empty walls and the missing paintings. Want to know what the aunt said?”
“What?” Gallic asked.
“Told her she’d sold the lot of them in a weekend garage sale. For pennies on the dollar: to anyone, everyone, who’d put out a few bucks. Lane realized the fortune her mother had hidden away for her over the years was now gone. Impossible—to either find, or track down their whereabouts. After that, Lane was sent to live with an uncle. She never talked about him much. But I think it was through him, he knew my parents, we came to know Lane. Practically adopted her. She’s like a sister to me.” Larz, moister in his eyes, looked at Gallic then at Tori and Phil. “So . . . that necklace you see, lying there on her crumpled sheets, is a message. Either from her, or from the one who took her.”
Chapter 35
Frontier Planet, Gorman — Heritage Plains Township.
“I want this house gone over, from one end to the other . . . treated as a crime scene,” Gallic said.
Already Tori was shaking her head. “Come on, Gallic. I’m not so sure a lone necklace, lying on a bed, constitutes—”
Gallic raised a hand to stifle her words. “Watch the last message she left me.” He tapped his ComsBand and the projection of Lane, cutting celery in her panties and tank top, began to play. Larz glared, but Gallic ignored him. When the final moments of Lane, dashing off to answer the door finished playing, Gallic looked at Tori and Phil. “You just witnessed it for yourselves. Answering the doorbell was the very last thing Lane did in this house. Look at the countertop. Hell, she didn’t even have time to put away the mayonnaise.”
Tori stared at the cutting board then looked about Lane’s surroundings as if seeing them for the very first time. Subtly nodding her head, she said, “I’ll go get my equipment, and everyone out . . . we’ve already trampled the scene more than we should have.”
Stepping outside Gallic thought of something else. “Hey, Larz.”
“What?”
“Who is that uncle Lane went to live with when she was a child? The one who knows your family so well?”
Larz, walking toward his 5T, said, “One of my dad’s work associates.”
“And your dad . . . he’s a lawyer?”
“Mostly an agent . . . for actors and directors,” Larz replied.
Gallic thought about Rick Cugan, and his wealthy rancher friends, showing up when they did at Daisy’s in town. It didn’t make sense, why he’d gone to so much trouble. Going so far as to enlist his buddies in an attempt to rough him up. But what if Cugan’s most important, highly successful client had demanded that of him? Gallic said, “Larz, I have one more question.”
Larz walking on reluctantly turned around.
Gallic felt somewhat embarrassed to even ask the question. “What’s Lane’s last name?”
Larz stared back at Gallic with contempt. “Seriously? You don’t know her full name?” Turning back, he continued to walk toward his spacecraft. Bringing out his start-cube, it flew from his hand, seating itself on the side of the sleek ship. Now unlocked, the hatch began to open. Larz glanced over his shoulder, and scornfully said, “Her name, dickwad, is Walters. Lane Walters.”
Gallic let that sink in. Beyond the fact that he should have known Lane’s last name—especially considering how he felt about her—he seriously wondered if this latest revelation could actually be true.
“What is it, man? You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost,” Phil said, standing beside him.
Gallic thought about the uncle, who, Larz said, was related to her on her father’s side. Unless Lane had previously been married, and he was pretty sure she had not, she indeed would still use the same last name as her uncle—Walters—her father’s brother. Could he be the one who’d taught the then-little girl, Lane, those ominous words? The same chant she’d unconsciously repeated when in that trancelike state days earlier. Words nearly identical to those painted in blood on the wall at Melissa and Briar Johnson’s murder scene. Gallic then thought about the hundred-year-old video of the Curz ceremony—the entranced women, and their female children, brought up on the platform and exhibited like prize livestock at a county fair.
“What is it?” Tori asked, returning from her ship, her hands full of equipment cases she’d retrieved from the star-cruiser.
Gallic was finding it hard to breathe. Did he actually know the murderer? Perhaps had known him for years? The one who’d stolen life’s meaning away; the same monster who did those horrible things to Clair and Mandy? And now he was killing again . . . right here in the Frontier worlds. He felt the anger rise up in him. The need to have his just retribution.
But Gallic didn’t think the AI’s interpretation was quite
correct. The killer wasn’t around because of him but because of Lane. She was the connection. It took all of Gallic’s willpower and composure not to get ahead of himself; chase after this latest train of thought. His heart rate accelerated, pounding now in his ears, he swallowed with difficulty, his throat muscles constricting. I know the killer! I know the fucking killer! But could it really be him? Teddy Walters—his and Clair’s one time, off-on again friend, back when they lived in New York? That aging mega-star actor who went by the theatrical name Zip Furlong? Could it really be him? Gallic shook his head.
As the hatch prepared to close on the 5T, Gallic asked, “Where’s your father now, Larz?”
“Beats me . . . probably where he usually is. Back on Earth, engaged in some kind of bigwig client meetings.”
“Can you find out?”
Larz didn’t have time to answer back as the hatch closed. Shortly thereafter, the 5T purred to life, lifted off, and disappeared from sight. Gallic turned, finding both Tori and Phil studying him.
“You going to tell us what’s going on in that head of yours?” Phil asked.
Gallic inwardly debated if he should go there yet. Start spouting off about something that still was, at this point, little more than a wild notion. His own personal theory, was it even plausible? And was he ready to start pointing a finger at one of the most famous, beloved even, actors on Earth and beyond? In that moment, he knew the answer. Yes. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Teddy Walters, aka Zip Furlong, was the serial killer. Gallic didn’t know how he knew, only that he knew. His internal windows and doors were wide-open—no ominous sounds of vermin, lurking there in the darkness.
“I know who the hammer-and-nails killer is.”
They stared at him—waiting for him to clarify the absurd statement or make a joke of it.
“Okay . . . I’ll bite. Who is it?” Phil asked.
“Zip Furlong.”
The two relaxed then smiled—it was indeed a joke. But noting Gallic’s expression hadn’t changed any, Tori asked, “You’re serious?”
Galaxy Man Page 19
