Galaxy Man

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Crackle said, “Good to see you, Gallic. Stand back . . . I’m opening the door.”

  The stall door slid open and for the first time Gallic could see Lane’s horse in full view. He stared blankly at the horse—at the dead rider sitting atop the horse.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Tori asked from behind him.

  “It sure the hell is.” Gallic exclaimed. Teddy Walters, AKA Zip Furlong, was dead—his skin a sallow greyish-blue color. His sightless eyes open wide, he looked like a statue. Like an old Civil War bronze job—a long-gone general leading his men into battle. Teddy Walters, sitting rigidly astride the saddle, was somehow propped up on it.

  “He’s got a metal shaft, of some sort, stuck up his ass,” Crackle said.

  “And the shaft is jury-rigged with bailing wire, keeping it tied to the saddle . . . somehow. Someone spent a good bit of time putting all this together,” Lock added.

  “And yet we all slept through it,” Phil said, shaking his head.

  Gallic was only half-listening, concerned with all these unexpected implications. Their primary suspect in the hammer-and-nails murders, as well as being the possible abductor of Lane, was dead instead—sitting atop a horse. Only then did Gallic notice the hand-written message on the stall’s planked wall.

  Chapter 42

  Frontier Planet, Gorman — Heritage Plains Township.

  The Curz are always watching. Even as a lamb strays from the flock, I am most useful when I can’t see.

  A half hour had passed since they’d removed the body. Gallic reread the three short sentences, written in the victim’s blood, again. “So . . . is Teddy supposed to be the stray lamb here?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person,” Phil said, using a large wet sponge to scrub some congealed blood off the horse’s back. He then submerged the sponge, squeezing out some bloody residue, in a water-filled metal bucket. Teddy Walter’s body, the saddle still attached, was now gone from the barn—transported by Crackle and Lock to the largest D-22 tent. Forensic drones were already at work on his corpse.

  Tori entered the barn behind Gallic. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Gallic said back. “Anything discovered so far?”

  “Not much. Well, one thing . . . he, Teddy, had small nail heads protruding out his pupils. No one noticed them until he was positioned flat on the forensic table.”

  “What kind?”

  “Of nails? They’re 2D box nails. I checked them right away,” she said.

  “Do you have a TOD yet?” Gallic asked.

  “Crackle says it was at least 72 hours ago. Significant decom . . . rigor already come and gone. We’ll know more when the drones complete their full-body circuits.”

  “You know this is going to blow up,” she said by his side, staring at the three blood-drawn sentences etched on the wall.

  Gallic said, “I’ve already spoken to Danbury. He’s giving us a full day before he releases the news . . . the murder of famous, beloved Zip Furlong to the press. After that . . . yeah, this place will be a zoo.”

  Tori nodded. “At least we’ll finally get to see D-22 elevate the cases in priority. So, what will you do, now that your primary murder suspect has turned up murdered?”

  Gallic shrugged. “The guy was already dead, when Lane was taken.” Damn! He felt her slipping farther and farther away from him. He scanned the barn, as if searching for something.

  “What is it?” Tori asked.

  “Why the hell kill Teddy? Why so suddenly . . . radically . . . change your MO?”

  “A diversion? Keep us off guard, perhaps?” Tori offered.

  Gallic glanced at his ComsBand. Tapping on it, he asked the Hound’s AI, “Have you had any luck in tracking down Teddy Walter’s spacecraft? Any of them?”

  “Interesting you should ask,” the AI replied.

  Gallic rolled his eyes, and Tori smiled.

  “No, not a specific finding, but I believe I have . . . a possible location.”

  “How did you come across that information? And who else knows about it?”

  “I have not told anyone else. The vessel, which I believe belongs to Mr. Walter, is a Dorian Pulsar. I have been routinely monitoring the full spectrum of emergency announcements, as far into space as my sensors will allow. Vessel announcements, intended to be local, are geared for onboard personnel only. But one that has been on a repeating loop for several days now is simply a propulsion compartment moisture intrusion notice.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much to go on. It’s impressive, though, you were able to pick up on such an arbitrary and, I imagine, faint broadcast . . . but—”

  “The location is at the bottom of a small lake, or a pond,” the AI interjected.

  “Where?”

  “Here, within the Frontier worlds.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “Muleshoe. Most interesting coordinates, the same coordinates you visited within the last few days.”

  Gallic was getting irritated—this was like pulling teeth. “So, you’re referring to Corianne and Shelly? The Millhouse murders, at the cattle processing facility?”

  “Yes. Strangely enough, the precise coordinates correspond to the middle of the lake there, located on the outskirts of the property.”

  Gallic let that sink in, then huffed, recalling the murky lake on the Millhouse property. Had the murderer made his first real mistake?

  A loud shuffling noise outside the barn caused Gallic to spin around. Kent Lock—still wearing his badly stained disposable overalls—told them,

  “I think you’re going to want to see this.”

  * * *

  Now assembled within the large D-22 tent enclosure, the wind outside had picked up. An open fabric flap at the top of the tent snapped angrily against the central support pole. Formed in a semi-circle around the makeshift autopsy table, a naked Teddy Walters lay on his back, sans the saddle. The metal shaft still protruded unceremoniously from his rectum. Gallic studied his former friend then thought of Clair, their connection to this man. He was so ready to hate him, revile him as the murderer of his family—all the other victims—and now he wasn’t sure.

  Don Crackle stood at the head of the table. “The little bots have completed their work.” Shaking his head, he said, “The deceased obviously lived a robust life. Even if this . . . tragic . . . event hadn’t occurred,” Crackle’s eyes leveled on the protruding metal shaft, “his liver . . . cirrhosis . . . would have taken him out soon. But there again, someone with his fame and money should be able to clone a new one . . . I guess. But that’s not what I wanted to show you.”

  “Just get to it, Crackle, while we’re still breathing,” Lock urged.

  Crackle, ignoring the prod, reached down and took Teddy’s right wrist in his own. Lifting the arm—forcing it to bend at the elbow—he pulled it up, to the point Teddy’s underarm could be seen.

  “What’s that, a tattoo?” Gallic asked leaning in.

  “Bingo,” Crackle said.

  “We’ve run the three-letter symbol through the D-22 database, also through Caprious, back on Earth,” Lock added.

  Gallic was impressed. Caprious was the largest AI computer associated database known to man. Not easy to get access to, even for large government organizations, such as D-22.

  “You didn’t have to do all that,” Tori said. “We already knew what those three initials stood for. The Curz Watchers.”

  “Well, we know he was associated with some form of that cult, anyway,” Gallic said.

  “What you probably didn’t know,” Lock said, taking a position across the table from Crackle, “is that the Curz Watchers stem from a far-larger organization than any of you know about. Something called the Curz Wiccan.” In thought a moment, he went on,

  “The problem is, it goes by several monikers. Like the huge umbrella of Christianity, religious ideologies, such as Catholicism . . . and Protestants, like Lutherans, Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Mormons, Methodists . . . etc. . . . all lay beneath it. The Curz
Watchers are one of about ten quasi-religious factions spawned after that alien ship discovery on Mars last century. All are associated with the Curz Wiccan. Strangely, they all have the same initials; there’s the Curz Watchers, which we are familiar with, but there’s also the Curz Way, the Curz Wonderment, the Curz Worshippers, and so on, and on . . .”

  “Isn’t Wiccan associated with . . . pagan witchcraft . . . that sort of thing?” Tori asked.

  “Yes, so you can see it’s not a particularly enlightened, New Age, spiritual practice. But to each his own,” Crackle added.

  “So, what does this have to do with poor Teddy?” Gallic asked.

  Crackle let out a long breath. “Only the Curz Watchers organization, if you could even call it one, is dark; negative. The entire anti-female aspect holds meaning only to the Curz Watchers. A misinterpretation of how life actually existed on that distant alien planet. Anyway, it’s taken hold here, primarily within the Frontier worlds, more than at any other location in known space.”

  Crackle, still bending Teddy’s arm back in an unnatural position, said, “Teddy Walters was not part of the Curz Watchers; he was part of the Curz Wiccan,” and pointed to the tattoo. “Same initials.”

  “What does that mean, as far as his possible involvement in the murders?” Tori asked.

  “That he couldn’t have been involved at all. The Wiccan aspect of the cult is polar- opposite to that of the Watchers . . . their view of women in business, their basic advancement of females in society as a whole. Those two factions were practically at war with each other. Teddy was actually a pretty good guy, as it turns out, above and beyond his popular movie, tough-guy roles. For Teddy to make the arduous trek to the Frontier worlds, we think he was sent. Perhaps sent by higher-ups in his cult organization, attempting to enlighten the wayward Curz Watcher members here . . . help them see the light. That’s our guess, anyway.”

  “Your guess?” Tori asked, sounding skeptical.

  Lock answered, “There’s really no way to know. He’s dead. Yeah, it would be nice to know who he intended to meet with here. Maybe it was the killer. Who knows?”

  Gallic glanced at Tori, then asked, “Hey . . . mind holding things down here for a while?”

  She nodded, puzzled.

  “I’m heading over to Muleshoe. Seems Teddy might still provide us with some answers . . . or maybe his ship can.”

  Chapter 43

  Frontier Planet, Gorman — Heritage Plains Township.

  Before heading out for Muleshoe, Gallic gave the team a checklist of things to accomplish in his short absence. At the top of everyone’s list was finding Lane Walters. While lifting off, the AI announced an incoming hail from Crackle.

  “Go ahead, Don,” Gallic told the holographic image of the rumpled-looking older inspector.

  “Hey . . . more has come in from Caprious. Did you know there’s a local parish for the Curz Wiccan, right here on Gorman? Apparently, services are held in an old barn on Tuesday nights, in a town called Heritage Plains. Tuesday’s their day of worship.”

  “You’re actually within the township of Heritage Plains right now,” Gallic said. “Tori can show you the little town, just be careful.”

  “Careful is my middle name,” Crackle said and cut the connection.

  Gallic, staring at the now blank display, said, “AI . . . I have a project for you.”

  “Yes, Mr. Gallic. Name it.”

  “I want you to gain access to Caprious. Make friends with it . . . or whatever. Can you make that happen? I don’t want to be at D-22’s mercy—doling out vital information.”

  The AI hesitated. “Caprious is a highly secure, if not the most secure, law enforcement resource . . .”

  “And . . . ?” Gallic prompted.

  “I will do my best, Mr. Gallic.”

  The run back to Muleshoe was non-eventful, giving Gallic time to think. The new Teddy Walters development was monumental. Gallic, surprisingly, found himself feeling somewhat relieved. Relieved to find his one-time friend was not a psychopathic serial killer and that he hadn’t abducted Lane—his adopted niece. Of course, that also meant they had no primary suspect. He kept replaying Lane’s last message over and over in his head. She’d looked happy, even playful. Where are you, Lane? he wondered.

  Gallic, so deep in thought, had unconsciously tuned out the AI. Looking up, he realized a new connection had been established on the holographic display. Seeing the blaze of color on Polly Gant’s Hawaiian shirt—a crimson background with bunches of bright yellow bananas—the chubby little man stared back at him. “Hello? Earth to the Galaxy Man . . . did you hear me?”

  “Sorry . . . deep in thought. What’s up, Polly?”

  “Well, I wanted to congratulate you on finding the Hayai! Some pretty amazing investigatory work there, not to mention a nice payout.”

  Gallic’s negotiations tripled his commission, which meant Gant’s share tripled as well. “All’s well that ends well,” Gallic said.

  Polly’s upbeat expression then changed to one of concern. “I also see you’ve submitted the paperwork to pay off the Hound . . . outright. Let me tell you, old friend, that’s a bad decision, bad investment strategy. Instead, why don’t you take the commission money, then lease a new ship; one that doesn’t have quite so many spatial miles on her? I can get you the deal of a lifetime on a brand-new Hewley-Jawbone carrier . . .”

  Gallic, well aware that Polly Gant, who’d negotiated the purchase of the Hound for him, was doing quite well pocketing the ship’s monthly interest payments. “It’s non-negotiable, Polly. I’m looking to simplify my life. I don’t want any more payments hanging over my head. Just let me know when it’s done. Can you do that for me?”

  “Sure . . . no problem,” Polly said, looking somewhat hurt. “Hey . . . I have a repo job, just came up on the board. It’s perfect for you—”

  “I’m on a case, Polly. Will be indisposed until further notice, so maybe get ahold of Sargento . . .”

  * * *

  Descending into a raging storm over Muleshoe, Gallic circled the Hound above the Millhouse ranch below. Periodic lightning flashes illuminated the processing facility and the small, outlying ranch-style homes. No lights were on—no cattle, either, milling within the large open pen. The place looked totally deserted.

  “I guess with the murders . . . the place shut down,” Gallic said aloud.

  “Yes. Although I am picking up several human life signs,” the AI said.

  “Maybe a caretaker. I’ll check in with them in a bit. I want to concentrate on that lake. Bring up whatever the Hound finds submerged at the bottom.”

  A murky green image appeared on the display. Gallic could make out the distinct outline of a hover tractor, also what looked to be some kind of kitchen appliance, possibly a junked stove or refrigerator. Then he saw the ship. Unlike either the tractor or the appliance, the ship had no sediment covering it. Similar to Larz Cugan’s Hausenbach L35T, this equally expensive craft, a Majestic P25, even when underwater looked like it had just left the dealership.

  “Can you detect if there’s anyone still onboard . . . dead or alive?” Gallic asked the AI, though not too sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “The storm is playing havoc with the Hound’s sensors. There does not seem to be human remains within the fuselage.”

  “I need to get that vessel up on land . . . without breaching her hull.”

  “I’m afraid the only way to accomplish that is by lowering a winch cable and physically attaching a fastener. It would mean you getting a tad wet.”

  Gallic stared at the murky water image. “Fine. Position the Hound above the water and ready the winch. I’ll try to find my swimming trunks.”

  * * *

  Shirtless and dressed in a pair of old camo cargo shorts, Gallic, with the cable and fastener already lowered into the water, decided to exit through the upper level hatch. A more substantial jump to the lake’s surface below, the momentum gained would propel him to the bottom faster
. Theoretically, that would give him extra time on his single breath of air to do what needed to be done.

  “Go ahead and open the hatch, AI.”

  He heard the latching mechanism disengage, the hatch slid open. A torrent of rainwater immediately poured in. Peering down while standing on the precipice, a horrendous thunderclap, followed by more lightning flashes, gave Gallic pause. The Hound’s underbelly spotlights lit up the unsettled surface below, which looked more like a raging ocean than a peaceful lake. “Maybe this isn’t such a great idea,” he murmured, then, taking in a deep lung full of air, jumped. It was a long drop down. When he hit the water, feet first, the impact nearly caused him to lose his held breath. He submerged into a dazzling flurry of tiny bubbles. After a momentary pause, he saw the straight vertical shape of the winch cable ahead. Swimming over, he grasped ahold of it then lowered himself the thirty, or so, feet to the bottom. The water was disgusting. Liquid slime that was hard to see through. What was I thinking? Of course, the lake is foul, where do you think the piss and shit runoff goes from hundreds of head of cattle?

  The AI had positioned the cable perfectly, coiled atop the Majestic P25’s sloping roof. Seeing the sleek craft close up, Gallic appreciated how beautiful the personal spaceship was. He next located the end of the cable, with its spring-loaded clasp, and began searching for something to clip it onto. Admonishing himself for not asking the AI about possible options beforehand, he glanced at his ComsBand and found no need to worry. A diagram, showing both the bow and stern towing hardware, would suit his purpose just fine.

  Gallic then swam halfway to the bow, needing to stop to give the heavy steel cable a couple of big tugs. Feeling the bends first indication—a burning sensation in his lungs—Gallic knew he needed to rise, get air soon. The muddy lake bottom was festered with all kinds of crap—an underwater scrapyard. As he made his way to the tapered bow, he used his hand to feel beneath the ridgeline of the craft. It felt perfectly smooth. But then he felt it—a circular, recessed area almost imperceptible to the touch. Using his fingertips, he explored the round metal eyelet, how it was oriented, then brought the end of the winch cable closer. Opening up the spring-loaded fastener, he made the connection. Only then did he let his gaze rise up to the curved canopy window eight or nine feet away. Staring back at him was a face. Lane!