by Jim Proctor
For years, he had worked in a big city, and business was good. Over time, he began to feel that he was taking too many chances. He’d decided to move away to a less populated area. Fewer eyes and ears would certainly make his job easier. And it had, except for one detail he had neglected—away from the big city, he had almost no chance of fencing his stolen goods. After his first job out here, he’d gone into a jeweler’s shop to sell a ring, and the jeweler had recognized it. He’d actually recognized the damn ring! That had been a close call. Being fast on his feet had saved him. That was… two months ago. He’d learned his lesson. Don’t try to sell handmade jewelry in the town where you stole it.
Now he was slow on his feet, walking up this hill, hoping there would be something to make the trip worth his time and energy when he reached the top. This road had been made for a purpose, after all. There had to be something at the top.
* * * *
Nolan sat on the bunk, quite possibly the same bunk in the same cell as his last visit to Hotel SACOM, though he guessed all the cells were identical. At least the light was on, for now. He had been given one meal. He wasn’t feeling hungry at the moment, so he guessed it was still the evening of his first day here.
The lock clicked and the door swung open. A SACOM lieutenant, whom Nolan recognized from his previous interrogations, entered and closed the door. “We meet again, Mr. Peters.”
“So it seems. I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but you’d know I was lying,” Nolan said.
“I understand. I just need to ask you a few questions,” the lieutenant said. When Nolan stared at him without commenting, he went on, “You and your lady friend, Ms. Carson, spent two weeks at your uncle’s farm. Why?”
Nolan gave him a puzzled look. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not a trick question, Mr. Peters. Why did you and Ms. Carson spend two weeks at your uncle’s farm?”
Nolan smiled. “You don’t have much of a social life, do you? Then again, given the way you treat people, that shouldn’t surprise me.”
“Answer the question!” the lieutenant snapped.
“Megan and I went to visit my uncle for two weeks for fun. We went horseback riding in the orchards and pastures. Megan got to know my uncle. It was a vacation,” Nolan said.
“What time did you arrive at Dawson spaceport when you returned?” the lieutenant asked.
“I don’t recall precisely. It was evening, maybe seven, seven-thirty,” Nolan replied, hoping he was remembering what Megan had told him.
“What did you do after you parked her aircar?”
“We went to bed,” Nolan said.
“At seven-thirty? Why sleep so early. Surely, after two weeks’ vacation, you couldn’t have been so tired you couldn’t manage the cab ride to your apartment.”
Nolan sighed. “You’re social life is showing again, Lieutenant. I said we went to bed. I didn’t say we went to sleep.”
“You had two weeks of vacation together, and you couldn’t wait until you got to your apartment?” the lieutenant asked.
This was getting embarrassing. Nolan hated this part, but he and Megan had talked it over and agreed to certain details. He would stick to their script as closely as possible. “Megan can be a bit loud, at times. We didn’t have many opportunities while we were visiting my uncle. As for my neighbors at my apartment, well, the walls are a bit thin. So, we decided to rock the aircar for the night.”
“I see,” the lieutenant said as he scribbled on a clipboard. “And when did you meet with Carl Wilkins?”
“I haven’t seen Carl since the day we were removed from the Independence several months ago,” Nolan replied.
The lieutenant tapped his pen on the clipboard for a moment, and then said, “I think that’s all for tonight. I want you well rested. Tomorrow’s questions will be more difficult, and we will be more insistent on getting the answers we need.” The lieutenant stood and walked to the door.
“I suppose that’s your way of telling me the torture will resume tomorrow,” Nolan said.
“Pleasant dreams,” the lieutenant said with a smile. He stepped out and closed the door. A moment later, the light went out.
* * * *
Ethan Peters was awakened by a humming sound. He knew all the night noises of the area, and this was not one of them. By the time he reached his window, the noise had faded into the distance in the east. He listened as the sound continued to fade, and then climbed back into bed and settled in.
* * * *
The Weasel was proud of himself. He had picked the lock on the back door in a matter of seconds. Breaking a window or kicking in a door was amateur stuff. Always leave them guessing how you got in was his motto. Having a modus operandi of ‘We don’t know how he got in’ was exactly what he wanted. Style—that was what he had.
Turning on a few lamps, he made his way around the first floor, getting a feel for the layout before beginning his search in earnest.
His investigation of the first floor was proving to be fruitless. It didn’t make any sense. The property alone was worth a fortune, so whoever owned this place must be loaded. He made his way to the study and stopped in the doorway. The far wall was lined with shelves, and the shelves were filled with… what the hell were they? Crossing the room, he cautiously ran his fingers over the things, which he now saw had writing on them. Finally, he pulled one out and examined it. Opening it, he was shocked to discover it was full of text. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” he read out loud. “What the hell is this?” He considered for a moment that the items might be rare and valuable. Looking around at the collection and multiplying the weight in his hand by… hundreds, he guessed, he knew there was no way he was going to carry them down the mountain and across the fields. He’d be lucky to manage taking a dozen. They could prove worthless, too, and then he’d be screwed. Slipping it back into its slot, he turned his attention to the desk.
Whoever lived here was a compulsive cleaner. There wasn’t a scrap of paper or old document lying about anywhere. Pulling open the top drawer, he found the usual sundry things, but nothing of obvious value. In the next drawer, he found a neat stack of papers and picked them up. The first page had a logo at the top and the name Space Salvage Corporation printed next to it. Below was printed Carl Wilkins, President. Finally, something made sense. The president of a big aerospace company—that was who owned this place. He couldn’t imagine the papers being of any value, so he shoved them back into the drawer. “Come on!” he said to the room. “This Carl guy must be loaded. Where is the loot?” Slamming the drawer shut, he stood and looked around, and then headed back to the living room. Taking the steps two at a time, he rushed up.
At the top of the stairs, he went into the first room on the left and turned on the light. Moving to the bed, he stripped the pillow of its pillowcase, and then went around the room examining things, occasionally dropping something into his makeshift loot bag. Pillowcases were light and durable, perfect for carrying away small, valuable items. Plus, he got some perverse pleasure from using his victim’s pillowcase to steal their stuff.
* * * *
Three SACOM interceptors landed at points evenly spaced around the target zone. Moments later, soldiers ran out of the ships and spread out, setting up a perimeter around the hill. Lieutenant Harris looked through his binoculars, searching for a light, or any other sign that someone was on the hill. Near the top, there was a faint glow coming from the window of a structure. He couldn’t tell what it was in the dark.
“According to satellite imagery, there is an access road on the south side of the hill. Sergeant Burris, I want you to take your squad up the hill. Search all structures, and bring back anyone you find. I’d like them to be alive and in sufficiently good condition to answer questions,” Harris said.
“Yes, sir. We’ll be careful,” Burris said. “How many people are we expecting?”
“The general believes a man named Carl Wilkins may be there. We aren’t expecting others
, but anything is possible,” the lieutenant said. Burris saluted and ran off into the dark.
Harris opened a comm link to his entire command. “This is Lieutenant Harris. Sergeant Burris and his squad are going in. I want everyone else to maintain a tight perimeter around that hill. Nobody is to get out, and no one, I repeat, no one is to be killed. If anyone comes out, we want them for questioning. Harris out.”
* * * *
The Weasel switched off the last light upstairs before heading back down carrying the pillowcase, now nearly full. He’d found no jewelry or gold, just… things—things that might be worth a few credits to someone. He shook his head, thinking this Carl Wilkins guy didn’t know how to enjoy his wealth. The Weasel put the bag of loot on the couch and headed for the kitchen. It was long past dinnertime, and he was starving after his long walk. After dinner, he’d check the basement, having found the stairs leading down during his search of this floor.
The refrigerator was off, and the door was ajar. He knew it was pointless, but he opened the door farther. As expected, the shelves were bare. The pantry was full of non-perishables, which told him that the owner probably didn’t come here often. He considered this, wondering if he should make himself at home and stay for a few weeks. He deserved it, no doubt, after the way he’d been treated in that last town. Rummaging through the boxes, cans, and jars, he collected the makings of a decent meal. After he set them on the counter, he took a pan down from its hook and began looking through drawers for utensils.
* * * *
Burris and his squad were hot and sweaty when they reached the clearing near the top of the hill. From the tree line, they could see the house with lights shining in several of the ground-floor windows. Burris signaled to his men to split up and surround the house. He personally circled the house, staying in the shadows of the trees, examining every detail. A room at the back was brightly lit, and he could hear faint noises from inside. Rounding the back, he found the stable. He eased the door open and looked around—there were no horses. If anyone decided to make a run for it, they would have to leave on foot. He’d have his squad thoroughly search the stable later. Someone was in the house, and they were his primary concern at the moment.
He sent a text command, which displayed on every squad member’s faceplate—it was time to move in. His squad advanced, some taking up positions beside windows, others moving onto the porches and flanking the doors. Burris peered in through the window of the rear door, looking into the kitchen. A pan sat on the center island, steam still rising from it. The room appeared to be empty. He gave the doorknob a gentle twist, and it turned.
The Weasel took a spoonful of oatmeal and moaned. Yes, it was only oatmeal, but this was the first hot meal he’d had in days. He nearly choked on the second spoonful when a floorboard creaked in the kitchen. The bowl fell from his hands and the spoon flew across the room. He jumped up and spun around just in time to see a very large man in armor holding a pistol that was aimed straight at him. Without a word, he slowly raised his hands.
“What’s your name?” the armor-clad man demanded as three more soldiers came through the door behind him.
Name… what was the owner’s name? “Carl,” he said weakly.
“Do you have a last name, Carl?” the big man asked.
The Weasel wracked his brain. What was it? Williams? Wilkins? “Wilkins,” he finally managed. “Carl Wilkins.”
“Who else is here?”
“Just me. I’m alone,” the Weasel said. Then, mustering all the indignation he could, he added, “I’m the owner of this property. What is your business here?” His quavering voice wasn’t especially convincing, and his trembling legs didn’t help his cause.
Burris motioned for one of his squad to open the front door. Moving cautiously around the room’s perimeter, the man reached the door and opened it. It quickly became quite crowded.
“Search the house,” Burris said, and the newcomers quickly spread out in twos and threes, weapons drawn.
* * * *
Harris stood in the dark, staring through his binoculars. Lights on the second floor had gone on and off a while ago. Someone was definitely in the building. An icon flashed on his display, and he accepted the comm link request.
“This is Burris. We have Carl Wilkins in custody. We’ve searched the structures. Wilkins is alone. We’re bringing him out.”
“Good work, Sergeant. We’ll be expecting you.”
Harris closed the connection and opened a new link to the other squads. “Harris here. Burris has apprehended Wilkins. His squad will be coming out soon. I don’t want anyone getting trigger-happy. As soon as they arrive, we’ll load up and fly out of here.”
* * * *
Jiorgenson’s comm unit chimed. He should have gone home hours ago, but he was waiting for confirmation from Nelson that Wilkins had been found. His hand trembled as he pushed the button.
“Nelson, here. I just received word from my field commander. They have taken Carl Wilkins into custody and they’re bringing him in.”
“Yes!” Jiorgenson shouted. “I knew he was there! Good work, General.”
“Thank you. It will be a few hours before they get here. We’ll lock him up. You can interview him in the morning,” the general said.
“All right. I think I’ll go home and get a good night’s sleep. That’s not something I’ve managed often since this case started. Good night, General.”
“Good night, Captain.”
Jiorgenson rode the elevator down to the ground floor. As he crossed the lobby, he paused. He had asked First Admiral Tompkins how they had obtained Nolan Peters’ data unit, and he learned they had picked him up two days ago for further questioning. He had the urge to pay Peters a visit to let him know his boss had been captured. It was tempting, but he was exhausted and just wanted to go home and sleep. He’d stop in to visit Peters in the morning on his way to question Wilkins. Tomorrow was going to be a glorious day. Wearing a broad smile, he turned and continued to the door.
Chapter 14
Niles Jiorgenson opened the door to Nolan Peters’ cell. It was dark inside. He flipped on the switch outside the door and stepped in. Peters was lying on the cot, apparently sleeping. He crossed the room to wake him, but he froze a few feet away. The man on the cot was unrecognizable, his face bruised and horribly swollen. Blood stained his skin and the pillow, as well. He doubted Peters, if this were him, could even open his eyes. Quickly, he turned and rushed out of the cell, closing the door and turning off the light. The floor felt like it was tipping, and he thought he was going to be sick. Leaning against the wall, he pressed his face to the cool concrete and took deep breaths. He had often wondered, especially in recent years, if the rumors of what they did to some of the prisoners were true. Facing it like this, seeing the results first-hand, made him wonder if he was working for the good guys or the bad guys. He fought against the growing nausea, but failed. Two guards came around the corner, drawn by the noise, saw the condition the captain was in, and quickly grabbed him by his arms and dragged him into the men’s room.
Jiorgenson entered his office and closed the door. Opening his locker, he pulled out the dress uniform he kept there for special occasions. He’d look like a fool walking around in dress whites all day, but there wasn’t a good alternative. He was just unbuttoning his soiled shirt when his comm unit chimed. He pressed a button. “Captain Jiorgenson here,” he said.
“Captain, this is General Nelson. I have some bad news.”
Jiorgenson froze as panic rushed over him. Had Peters died of his injuries? Or worse, had they worked over Wilkins during the night and killed him? “Is this about Wilkins?” he asked.
“The man my people brought in last night was not Carl Wilkins. He’s average height, medium build, with brown hair—fits Wilkins’ description, but he’s not our man. I ran facial recognition on him when he got here. He’s a petty crook named Dominick Waterberry. I questioned him this morning. It seems he stumbled onto Peters’ house and
broke in a few hours before my team got there. The crazy thing is, when they grabbed him, he said he was Carl Wilkins. He had found some documents in the house with Wilkins’ name on them and thought he was the property owner. He gave my team that name hoping they would leave him alone. He doesn’t know anything about Wilkins’ whereabouts.”
“And you believe him?” Jiorgenson asked.
“If you questioned this guy for half an hour, you’d understand, Captain. He couldn’t have made this story up if he had someone helping him,” the general said.
“Thank you, General,” he said. Then, with the image of Nolan Peters resurfacing in his thoughts, he asked, “What are you going to do with him?”
