Manhunt on Tau Ceti 4 (Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal Book 6)

by John Bowers

  “Don’t move!” he shouted. “Nick, what’s going on?”

  Nick didn’t take his eyes off the girl. He pulled back the hammer on the .44, making a loud ratcheting sound.

  “Billy, when was the last time you arrested a murder suspect?”

  Billy Stanfield gulped. “I never have.”

  “Well, here’s your chance. This is the girl who killed Harry Jones and Viola Fricke.” Nick holstered his weapon. “She’s all yours.”

  Ginny, astonished that Nick had put his gun away, hesitated barely a second. In spite of Billy’s gun behind her, she lunged. Nick sidestepped and grabbed her left wrist, rotating it upward and back, jerking her off balance. Something popped in her shoulder and she screamed in pain. The knife clattered to the floor.

  Nick spun her around and forced her to her knees, her arm bent behind her at a painfully unnatural angle. He nodded to Billy.

  “Cuff her.”

  Billy Stanfield gulped again; he holstered his gun and pulled a pair of old-fashioned steel handcuffs off his belt. Within seconds he had the girl’s wrists cuffed behind her. She still howled in pain.

  Billy stared at Nick in wonder.

  “You’re sure she’s the one?”

  “Yep. You test that knife and it’s a safe bet you’ll find the DNA of both victims on it.”

  “But—how did you know?”

  Nick winked at him. “That’s a trade secret. I’ll tell you about it sometime. Right now you have a prisoner to transport. You’re the only official lawman in the room, so it’s your arrest.”

  Orosi – Tau Ceti 4

  Police Chief Roger Blankenship pushed open the door to Carter Industries and stepped into the outer office. Connie Ventura was right behind him.

  The woman at the desk smiled.

  “Good morning, Chief! What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Good morning, Etta. Is Bert in?”

  Etta’s smile faded as she saw Connie standing behind him. Her expression became clouded.

  “What are you doing here, Connie? Don’t you know that—”

  “She’s with me, Etta. Now where is Bert?”

  “He’s in his office, but—”

  Blankenship turned for Carter’s door, but the woman sputtered in protest.

  “He’s in conference, Chief! He doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  She rose halfway out of her chair.

  Blankenship stopped.

  “Who’s he with?”

  “Some…employees.”

  He nodded, then pointed to her chair.

  “You’ve done your job, Etta. Sit down.”

  Blankenship gripped the doorknob to Carter’s private office and pushed the door open. He stepped inside and stopped; Carter sat behind his desk. Facing him were three men, one of them sitting, the other two standing. Blankenship recognized them at once: Sam Wannamaker, Frederic Gough, and Charlie Gaspar.

  Carter turned in surprise at the intrusion.

  “Roger! What the hell, I’m in a meeting.”

  Blankenship nodded and stepped aside to allow Connie Ventura to follow him inside. Carter’s expression darkened at the sight of her.

  “What’s going on, Chief?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Can it wait a few minutes? I’m just—”

  “No.” Blankenship turned his gaze on the three visitors. “Good to see you boys with your clothes on.”

  Two of the men nodded, the other spoke.

  “Morning, Chief.”

  Carter turned to the trio. “Wait outside until I call for you.”

  But Blankenship shook his head.

  “Stick around. This involves you, too.”

  He turned to face them squarely, in case he needed to draw his weapon. Carter frowned at him.

  “What’s going on, Roger? And why is Connie here? Didn’t you give her my message?”

  “I did. She’s probably here to pick up her severance pay.”

  Carter made eye contact with Connie.

  “Talk to Etta outside. She can settle up with you.”

  Connie Ventura smiled. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Carter’s face began to cloud. He looked at Blankenship again and picked up his smug expression.

  “Roger…”

  Blankenship pointed at the three men across the room, but spoke to Carter.

  “Where did you get these guys from?”

  “I hired them.”

  “I’m aware of that, but where did you find them? Are they from around here?”

  “Well—yeah, I guess so. I didn’t ask to see their birth documents.”

  “Did you do background checks on them?”

  “No, did you? You’ve known them as long as I have.”

  “I know them as your employees, but I didn’t hire them. If I had, I would have run backgrounds.”

  “Well, I didn’t, so…what’s the problem?”

  “Where did you find them? Did they all walk in on the same day and apply for work?”

  “I don’t remember! What does it matter?”

  “Did Tinker-Smith recommend them?”

  “I—” Carter groped for a reply. The three men exchanged glances and their bodies tensed. “Roger, what’s going on?”

  “Did you send them after Nick Jones with orders to beat him up?”

  Carter burst out laughing.

  “Oh, my god! Is that what this is about? Yes, I sent them to intercept him and find out what he was doing at my house.” Carter, looking relieved, shifted in his chair. “My mother called here, all in a panic, and said some cowboy motherfucker had been at my door—”

  “Your mother said ‘motherfucker’?”

  “No, I supplied that part. She said he was wearing two guns and threatened her unless she told him where I was. I sent these men to find out what was going on.”

  “Why didn’t you call my office? We’re trained for that kind of work and it’s our job.”

  Carter shrugged. “Looking back on it, I probably should have called you. But these boys were handy and they weren’t busy, so I just sent them instead.”

  “They weren’t busy.” Blankenship eyed the trio with cold eyes. “Exactly what is their job description? How is it that you can afford to pay them for not being busy?”

  Carter’s good humor faded once more.

  “I don’t see any reason to answer that. I don’t question how you run your office, and I’ll run my business any way I want to run it.”

  “Did you, or do you, know that Nick Jones is really Nick Walker? Did you know that he’s a Federation Marshal?”

  Carter stared at him.

  “Why would I know that? How would I know that?”

  Connie Ventura had been standing to Blankenship’s right and slightly behind him. Now she spoke up.

  “Maybe Ken Tinker-Smith told you,” she said.

  “Why would Ken tell me that? How would he know?”

  Blankenship answered.

  “He just moved here from the Federation, where he’s a wanted fugitive. Walker has been tracking him. His real name is Kenneth Sarac—”

  Charlie Gaspar, the man with the receding hairline, had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Before Blankenship could finish his statement, Gaspar jerked a pistol from the rear of his belt and leaped forward, shoving it into Blankenship’s face.

  “Shut up!” he said, practically snarling. “Don’t say it!”

  Blankenship, taken by surprise, raised both hands a few inches, his eyes narrowed.

  “Don’t say what? Ken Saracen?”

  Gaspar slammed the pistol into the side of Blankenship’s head, driving him halfway to his knees. He loomed over him, the gun trembling in his hand.

  “I told you to shut up!”

  Bert Carter came out of his chair in shock.

  “Charlie! What the hell are you doing?”

  Gaspar swung the gun toward Carter, his eyes filled with rage.

  “Sit down, Carter! This has gone fa
r enough!”

  Carter dropped back into his chair, his face turning pale.

  “What’s gone far enough? What’s wrong? Have you lost your mind?”

  Instead of a reply, Charlie Gaspar fired twice into Bert Carter’s chest, the shots deafening in the small office. Startled, his companions scrambled back against the wall to avoid any return fire.

  With Charlie momentarily distracted, Blankenship went for his gun, a .38 calibre revolver. He had time to draw and fire before Charlie could swing back to cover him, but a leather thong was hooked around the hammer to keep the gun from falling out of his holster. Before he could get the gun free, Gaspar spun on him again, taking aim.

  Connie Ventura killed him with three rapid shots to the head from her .25 automatic, then turned to cover Sam and Joker before they could react. Both raised their hands and stood frozen in place.

  Blankenship finally got his weapon free and drew it. Panting, he stared at Bert Carter, who had slumped in his desk chair with blood pumping out of his chest; at Charlie Gaspar, who had pitched headlong at his feet, his gun sliding across the carpet; and finally at Connie Ventura, whose no-nonsense expression suggested she wouldn’t hesitate to kill the remaining two stooges if they so much as sneezed.

  Blankenship’s hand was shaking.

  So was Connie’s.

  “Jesus Christ, Connie! Who the hell do you work for?”

  Without taking her eyes off the prisoners, her left hand pulled a leather ID case from her left rear pocket. She held it up for him to see.

  “Federation Intelligence Agency. That’s all you need to know.”

  “FIA?”

  Still panting, Blankenship peered at the ID before she put it away. He seemed uncertain what to do next.

  “I have a suggestion, Roger. Why don’t you cuff these two and then lock them up? Then you and I need to have a long talk. How does that sound?”

  He rubbed a hand over his face, then nodded and reached for his wrist cuffs.

  “Yeah, I think—I think I like that idea.”

  Chapter 25

  Lago District – Tau Ceti 4

  The girl with the bad breath pushed Victoria through the tall oaken doors into a room so massive it could only be referred to as a chamber, or a vault. The vault was a hundred feet long and sixty wide, the ceiling forty feet high. As she entered, Victoria half expected the stone walls to be decorated by crossed broadswords and coats of arms, but instead she saw high-end paneling. The room had been decorated in sections with furnished set-places, like a showroom, each with unique, expensive furniture. It would have made a great office space, art gallery, or bullpen for a political headquarters. The far end of the room featured a broad window thirty or forty feet across. She suspected it was the same window she had seen on the west end, with a view toward the lake. The room was cool, almost cold, but heating something that size would have been very expensive.

  Not that money was an issue.

  The man gazing out the window stood with his back to her. He was wearing what looked like a bathrobe and was sipping a cup of coffee. The girl behind her jabbed the gun into her back.

  “Keep moving.”

  Still handcuffed, Victoria walked forward, down an aisle between the furniture settings, toward a massive wooden desk just short of the window. When she was within ten feet of the desk, the man turned to face her, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

  “Miss Cross! Welcome.”

  Victoria stopped, her pulse racing a little. It was the first time she had seen Ken Saracen in the flesh, but she recognized him immediately. Saracen nodded at the smelly girl.

  “Wait outside, Brandy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The gun withdrew from Victoria’s back and the girl retreated. A moment later the massive doors closed with a rattle.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Saracen reached for a silver pot on a table near the window; without waiting for her reply, he began pouring black liquid into a china cup.

  “Thank you.” No point in turning it down. If he was drinking it, the stuff probably wasn’t drugged.

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Just black.”

  Saracen turned and extended the cup toward her. Still wearing the steel bracelets, she took it with both hands, but didn’t drink. She gazed at his face, waiting for whatever came next. He lifted his cup as if in a toast.

  “Drink up.”

  He took a sip, and she followed suit. It was good coffee, an expensive roast, perfectly brewed. It helped clear a couple of cobwebs out of her head.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “No.” She had spent the night locked in a closet barely three feet wide, unable to lie down or stretch out. Her hands had been shackled the entire time.

  “Did anyone offer you breakfast?”

  “No.”

  “Hm. We’ll have to do something about that.”

  Saracen nodded at the window, and waved her around the desk.

  “Take a look. It isn’t often I get to show off this view to visitors.”

  She stepped around the desk and peered through the glass. The vista that lay before her was breathtaking…a glittering lake framed by snow-dusted evergreens, and in the distance a small mountain. No civilization was evident, just a gorgeous natural spectacle.

  “Lovely,” she said in a quiet voice. “I didn’t realize it snowed last night.”

  “It won’t last long.” Saracen smiled. “I am so glad you appreciate such natural beauty.”

  She turned her gaze on him, but didn’t reply. He turned to his desk and sat down, resting his left hand next to a pistol that lay on the surface. Unsure what he expected of her, Victoria remained where she was. She took another sip of coffee.

  “This is good coffee.”

  He smiled again. “Imported from the Federation. Colombia, to be exact.”

  “That must be expensive.”

  “Anything worth having is expensive. Please, take a chair. I’m sure you don’t want to feel like a criminal standing in the dock, waiting to learn your fate.”

  He motioned to a straight-backed chair near the desk; she settled onto it. She was sitting six feet from him, close enough to see the hairs on his neck, the taper of his haircut. At this distance, close enough to smell his aftershave, it was hard to remember who he was and what he represented. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but did have a pleasant face and charming smile. His wavy salt-and-pepper hair was expensively styled. He hardly looked like a monster.

  “So what is my fate?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. Why would you ask me that?”

  “Well, I am your prisoner, after all—”

  “Prisoner? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re my guest, nothing more.”

  “Do all your guests wear handcuffs, or enter your private office at the point of a gun?”

  “Ah, that. Well, you did show up unannounced, and you were trespassing. My staff are understandably concerned about my security, so you must forgive them if they get a little overzealous.”

  “Overzealous.”

  “I apologize. A man in my position can’t be too careful. You understand.”

  “A man in your position?”

  “A man of means. When you have money, you have to watch your back.”

  Victoria sipped her coffee again. Her nerves were singing, but her fear had faded to the background. She had a pretty good notion what Saracen’s game was—she was a hostage to be used against Nick Walker—so she should be safe for the time being. She decided to push her luck a little.

  “I thought you were anti-capitalist,” she said.

  “No, not at all. The word ‘capitalist’ is merely a label. I’m anti-greed.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Of course. Lots of people have money, and the majority of them are greedy. They spend it all on themselves. I believe that if a person is so fortunate—or so blessed, if you will—as to have great wealth, then he or she has an obligation to use
it for the good of others.”

  “Like a philanthropist?”

  “Exactly!” He smiled. “That’s what I am. A philanthropist.”

  “I see. And, if you don’t mind me asking, just what are you doing for the good of others?”

  “I don’t mind you asking, not at all. In fact, at the risk of sounding immodest, I am happy to answer the question.”

  He waved his hand at the window.

  “What you see outside is a natural paradise, but just a few miles away is a town—”

  “Lago.”

  “Yes. It isn’t a large town, and in spite of the abundance of natural resources in the region, it isn’t a particularly wealthy town. Most residents of Lago are working class people, and they live modestly. They pay taxes, of course, but the taxes aren’t very high and the district is only modestly wealthy. They can’t afford many of the things necessary to improve their community. In fact, their budget is stretched pretty thin.”

  He sipped his coffee again.

  “I’ve been here a little less than two years, Miss Cross, and while I did spend a great deal of money on this residence—which you might consider extravagant—I am not unmindful of the plight of my neighbors. In the short time I’ve been here, I have donated funds to improve the roads and the city infrastructure; I built a library, a hospital, a new sheriff’s office, and two new schools. I’ve also donated money to cover the salaries of several doctors and enough new teachers to ease overcrowding in the classrooms.”

  “That’s very generous.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Excuse me?” His smile turned quizzical.

  “I said yes, it’s the very least you can do. Especially when you’ve caused so much carnage on other planets.”

  He continued to gaze at her as his smile slowly faded.

  “Have you donated funds to cover the funerals of all the people you’ve murdered? Have you made any reparations to their families for lost loved ones? Have you—”

  He held up a hand.

  “I don’t know where you get your information, Miss Cross…well, yes, I guess I do. You are Marshal Walker’s attorney, aren’t you? I’m sure he has filled your head with lies about me.”