Kris Longknife's Bloodhound, a novella

by Mike Shepherd

  “We got to get a picture of this monster,” one said, and corralled a pair of the lovers to operate the camera so all four of them, and the fish, could be in it.

  Taylor waited until the couple had snapped several pictures, then tossed the fish back over the side.

  “Oh,” one of the old timers said. “It’s a shame you lost your handle on that honey. She’d have fed a family for a week,” but the other two seemed to know exactly what happened.

  Taylor would gladly take a filleting knife to Arlen Cob. Maybe even Alexander Longknife, but he had no wish to take out his frustrations on some poor fish that just happened to get in his way at the wrong time.

  Besides, his wife hated fish, no matter who cleaned them.

  Taylor folded up his gear, cleaned it at the washing station, and headed back to where he’d rented it, all the time contemplating the need to warn Leslie and the even stronger need to keep his fingerprints off any alert.

  The four retirees were at the rental place. They included one Taylor thought he remembered.

  “Albert, can I borrow your phone? Being on vacation, I seem to have left mine on the dresser.”

  Albert, who’d retired five years ago from the Bureau, couldn’t avoid the flick of his eyes that took in the computer at Taylor’s wrist, but he was offering his own commlink without batting an eyelash.

  Taylor typed out a quick message. I left a file relating to our last case in my secure briefcase. Be careful retrieving it, I wouldn’t want you splashed with acid.

  Taylor handed the commlink back. Albert glanced at the message before he did the unique magic that got messages sent over the different net providers and various equipment systems that somehow could never standardize on a single interface.

  “The old acid security joke, huh. She a new kid?” Albert asked after reading the old joke.

  “Still new enough to benefit from a warning to keep safe,” Taylor admitted.

  “She the kid that came out to have lunch with you?”

  “Yep.”

  “They get younger every year. Next year I swear, they’ll be recruiting in kindergarten.”

  Taylor laughed at the old joke and headed for home. With any luck, Leslie would get the message, know what it really meant, and take the caution to heart without it being traced back to Taylor.

  He whistled softly to himself as he waited for the bus. One was along as soon as the transit company promised and he was home before the kids got off from school. Today, he’d see if he could still do eighth grade homework. His two upper school kids would, no doubt, turn up their nose at dad’s offer of help.

  Chapter 9

  Next morning, Taylor actually did do something vacation-like. He took his wife to the Japanese Gardens on a hill above Wardhaven. They walked the quiet grounds, listening to a water wheel and the soft call of birds. Sitting on a cool stone bench, quietly letting a rock garden whisper to them, his wife said.

  “You’re not really on holiday, are you?”

  “I’m here with you,” he countered.

  “Physically. Today. Yesterday. The day before that. Please don’t lie to me, and no, I don’t want to know what is actually going on. I’ve survived twenty-seven years as a Bureau wife. Just don’t make me a widow. I deserve the full retirement pension. It may be double of you and half of the pay, but it beats what widows get. You hear me.”

  ‘I think I do.”

  “Good. Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  The next day he took her to a movie she’d been wanting to see. The leading character was one his wife swore she was in lust with, almost more than with him. He paid extra to get seats near the center of the theater. That gave them the best view of everything happening around them.

  “I love the way you always know when he comes on stage,” his wife said. “Some of the new actors these days, they can be on stage a couple of minutes before you know they’re there if you aren’t looking that way.”

  ‘Yes,” Taylor agreed. “He always seems to make some sound so you know he’s there, a cough, or a misstep.”

  “He’s a pro,” his wife agreed.

  Which left Taylor wondering what misstep he could catch Alex Longknife in? What would that old and scared man want to sell to the aliens? Computers? Machinery? Most likely, but tracking any particular order among so many would be nearly impossible.

  Art work? Food delicacies, wines and other fine spirits? Could orders for those be traced? They would certainly be more limited in their sales. And if there was an order to have them all delivered by a specific date . . . ?

  Hmm, that might give us a better call on the fitting out date for those ships overhead.

  Taylor made a mental note to himself. The theater done, they walked toward where he’d left their car. “Just a moment, honey, I need to buy something,” he said, and ducked into a small store, specializing in off world media, various intoxicants, and, of course, discreet and disposable phones. He paid cash. He always carried a bit of cash for purchases he didn’t want traced.

  He was an officer of the law, but that didn’t mean he had to be dumb.

  Using his burner phone, he sent Leslie a text. Please check orders for luxury items and art. See if there is a pattern of specific deliver dates. Be careful. Some folks are playing hard ball on this one.

  His wife was waiting patiently for him when he got back on the street.

  “Be careful,” was all she said.

  “Love, I always am.”

  Chapter 10

  Next morning, Taylor got the kids off to school, then took himself off to the fishing pier. Again, he had little luck, but he did not change his fishing lure. He kind of liked letting the fish take his bait. The sky was blue with some lovely fluffy clouds floating along with the wind. The water was a clear blue and the air tasted of sun and salt and youth itself.

  At lunch, Leslie showed up, two aluminum wrapped burritos in hand.

  “You shouldn’t have come. It’s dangerous.”

  “Yeah. So someone told me. Did you have to use that old acid joke? I’m not a probie anymore.”

  “It got the message out, if not understood,” Taylor said, as gruffly as he could. Still he put his rod aside. He did love the burritos created by the food artist at this particular cart.

  “It was understood. I’m a big girl and I chose to take it under consideration. I’m considering it still. Now, about the orders for art and high class consumer goods. There is a pattern. There’s a couple of tons of wine, fine cheeses and delicacies due to be shipped up the beanstalk in two weeks. Deliveries are spread over three days,” she said with a knowing smile.

  “On top of that, several art galleries are supposed to deliver pictures, paintings and sculptures those very same days. Interesting, isn’t it? He’s also shipping several complete library systems, audio, visual, media, and about half of the books from the Wardhaven public library.”

  “The technical sections?” Taylor asked.

  “Damned if the fool isn’t,” Leslie said with a scowl.

  “He does not pay attention to the news,” Taylor said.

  “Or at least any that he doesn’t think is right,” Leslie added. “How much of what passes for news do you believe?”

  “I trust the comics. Occasionally the sports section. The rest, well, when it was real paper, it was good to wrap fish in.”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad. The news about Kris Longknife is usually accurate. You can trust her maid for that. She’s on Musashi now, awaiting trial. You should watch the one press conference she gave. It was a hoot,” the special agent said with a most non-bureau giggle.

  “No doubt. No one can accuse her of being a fool,” Taylor agreed. “A fool would have lost her head long ago.”

  Leslie winched. “She may lose her head on Musashi. Quite literally.”

  “Well, let us not lose our head here. You be careful. Both you and I have been threatened by a certain security type from Alex Longknife’s establishment. Keep your eyes
open and your back checked.”

  “”I’ve asked my mother to call me every night,” Leslie said. Taylor knew what a sacrifice that was for the agent. “If she can’t get ahold of me, she’s to call you or Mohomet or Rick. One of you will, no doubt, get the bloodhounds out on my trail.”

  “No doubt. Now, thanks for the burrito, and the news. Get back to work, and again, watch out for our new friends.”

  “Yes, boss,” she said, in a tone no doubt she’d mastered as a teenager for her mother.

  He tended to his fishing, but kept a watch on her out of the corner of her eye. She was a delight to watch . . . and she made it off the pier and into the streets of the city without any problems.

  Taylor tossed his line back in with four bait cubes. With any luck, the fish would know it for what it was and carefully relieve the hook of its burden without bothering him to reel it in.

  Was Alex actually sending a full technical library out to the aliens? What did he expect to get for it? Wine. Cheese. Caviar, no doubt. From what Taylor had picked up about the aliens, they were hardly the type to bother with hors d’oeuvres. No, Alex Longknife was ignoring all that Kris Longknife had reported back about the aliens. He was assuming they were just like him and strutting out there, confident that he, and he alone, understood the situation.

  And he’d fall flat on his face, which wasn’t so bad, but it would be the greatest catastrophe in human history.

  Taylor winced. It would take one of those damn Longknifes to foul up that bad, wouldn’t it?

  Taylor considered interviewing some of the galleries and purveyors of fine foods, but dropped that line of questioning. They would most likely only know that they had an order and that they were fulfilling it. No leads there.

  Again the agent considered the list of merchant marine officers that Leslie had given him. Yep, they’re the most likely source of information. They would have to know something about where they were going and why.

  Taylor reeled his hook in. Empty. He rebaited it, putting six cubes on it, careful to have them loosely affiliated with the hook, and did another cast. He leaned forward, eyes half on the water beneath him, half on his wrist unit as he flipped through the officers.

  All had salient careers with the Star Lines. They’d delivered the goods on time and at a profit. None, Taylor noted, had any experience handling the extraordinary or uncommon. They’d sailed the established trade routes and done the job.

  If Alex Longknife thought these men could follow in the footsteps of someone like Kris Longknife, he was a fool.

  However, it was very unlikely that anyone that made it to the top of his fortress of insecurity would tell him that.

  Taylor looked over the list again, and found nothing new. He rebaited his hook. Eight cubes was all he had, and all the hook would take. Another cast into the ocean void.

  Who would I send into the void?

  The large freighter would, no doubt, get experience captains and officers. But what about the small tender? Who would take it out? Who would enjoy cloud dancing and, maybe, doing extra scouting?

  Taylor went down his list again and found no one with command experience in a cruiser during the war. No one with any experience in the little stuff.

  My list is too short.

  Taylor reeled in his hook, collected his gear and headed to the wash area. Clean and done, he returned it to the rental. None of the retirees there today were from the bureau. He put five bucks into the tip bucket and headed for the bus stop.

  Half his mind was on where he might find the missing skipper, someone to command the tender. The other half of his mind, was, as normal, checking out his own situation. There were the usual joggers and skaters. Business men and women went from their last meeting to their next one. Here and there, a couple strolled along, intent on each other.

  A limo pulled up to the stop light.

  The bus he wanted turned onto the street. Taylor turned to watch it as it headed toward him.

  Suddenly, a couple that he’d have sworn were too interested in each other to bother anyone stepped up to him. The door in the limo opened and he was shoved into it.

  He opened his mouth to scream, but a small prick at his neck did something and the day turned dark before he could get a sound out.

  Chapter 11

  Taylor came aware of his surroundings slowly. Before opening his eyes, he took stock of matters and found them grave.

  He was seated in a comfortable chair. His hands were cuffed in his lap. He could also feel restraints at his ankles. In all likelihood, the two were chained together.

  His first glace upon opening his eyes verified that. He kept his chin resting on his chest and surveyed his surroundings through slit eyelids.

  The room looked comfortable, in an expensive way. The rug was white, the chair and sofa he could see were white leather. The walls were a sterile white as well.

  If they beat up on me, the blood will sure make a mess of the decor.

  Taylor didn’t find his joke funny.

  Arlen Cob sauntered into the room. “Ah, sleeping beauty has awoken. I feared I’d have to give you the required kiss.”

  “It only works if true love is behind it,” Taylor said, dryly. “But I would trouble you for a drink. Water please.”

  “I think that can be arranged,” and Arlen left the room. A moment later he returned with an icy glass of water and a straw. He brought the straw to Taylor’s lips and the agent sucked up half the glass in one gulp.

  “Yeah, I’m told that stuff dries you out,” he said. “There’s more cool stuff where that came from.”

  “So you don’t intend for me to die of thirst. Starve?”

  “We intend to return you to your life, untouched by angry human hands, right about the time your leave runs out.”

  “How nice, and, no doubt, after the ships have sailed.”

  The security man’s smile was pure evil. “I don’t know nothing about no ships.”

  Taylor looked around the room. “Comfortable place you got here.”

  “We like to think it is. In time, I think you’ll find it that way. We can provide all kinds of amenities, once you understand that you aren’t going anywhere. Why, I’ve even been given a cash allotment to give you so you can join in our poker game. We really want you to think of this as a holiday.”

  “And not a kidnaping?”

  “Oh, you strike me to the quick,” Arlen said, raising his free fist to his heart. “Such a strong word for folks that just want you to enjoy your holiday and not waste it poking your nose where it don’t belong.”

  “Into what you don’t want me to know.”

  “Six one way, half a dozen the other,” the security man said. “Just so long as you understand that you are not leaving here for the next two, three weeks, we’ll get along fine.”

  “And if I refuse your hospitality?”

  “That would be a major mistake, Agent. A major mistake. We can do this the easy way, and you can join our poker game, swim in our pool. Share the hot tub with some truly lovely gals that don’t own a swim suit among them. Maybe share other stuff they got that you wouldn’t believe,” he said with a friendly leer.

  All the friendly was gone in a blink. “Or we can do this the hard way. I got more of that shit we used on you. We can keep you out for a long, long time. ‘Course, I understand that it ain’t healthy for a man of your age to spend a couple of weeks in bed. It could lead to embolisms and other messy stuff. It’s your call. Choose wisely.”

  And with that, Arlen left the room, leaving Taylor to contemplate his sins, past, present and to come.

  Alone, Taylor tested the boundaries of his imprisonment. The cuffs on his hands were linked to his ankles with a chain that let him move a bit, but not enough to reach his pants pockets, assuming they hadn’t been emptied, and assuming he was carrying anything useful.

  His leggings were not only chained to his cuffs, but had chains going to each leg of the chair. His feet couldn’t move more than a
centimeter or two to the right or left.

  He managed to struggle to his feet. He had to stand stooped over; the chain to his legs was not long enough to stand fully upright. He tried to shuffle forward.

  The chair would not move. Whether it was just too heavy or somehow secured to the floor, it wasn’t going anywhere, and he with it.

  He sat back down. As much as he hated to admit that the security flake was right about anything, Taylor could already feel his blood pooling towards his feet. Sitting, hour after hour, was not going to go well.

  So, old boy, what do you do? Have them deal you in, or what?

  Taylor hated the question. He hated the answer even more.

  If he stayed here in the chair, the situation would remain static. If he played along, he might get an opening. Criminals always made mistakes. If he played their game, he might get an opening.

  But keep your pants on, old friend. No doubt, they’ll have cameras around to capture anything worthy of blackmail.

  Assuming they didn’t digitize him into a compromising position anyway.

  From somewhere, the heavenly smell of steaks on a grill wafted through the room, and Taylor found it had been a long time since breakfast.

  It was thirty minutes before Arlen returned. “What’s it going to be? Steaks fresh from the grill or a bottle of sugar water jabbed into your arm?”

  Taylor scowled. “I will escape.”

  “I fully expect you to try. You won’t,” had finality in it.

  Taylor found himself freed from his chair and allowed to shuffle to the next room. A spacious kitchen and dining room had a table that clearly had been the center of a poker game only a few minutes before. The three men now lounging around it had the distinct air of alertness and power. They also looked like they were very comfortable with the automatics that hung ready in their shoulder holsters.

  One end of the room faced a expansive patio and pool. Through large French doors, a fifth man brought in large platter with a huge steak, a baked potato slathered in butter and an ear of corn. With a cautious eye, the armed cook set the steak before Taylor.