by Jeff Taylor
“Police! Stay where you are!” another officer shouted from the rear bedroom.
Strinnger dropped the picture on the couch and sprinted to the source of the shouting, his arms and weapon extended ahead of him. The armored officer was barking orders at someone in the room to get down and slowly come forward with their hands on their head. The detective peered around the corner of the door frame. Strinnger saw no one inside, but a soft, nervous sob could be heard from the side of the bed opposite the door.
“What’s going on?” he yelled to the officer, Jensen.
Without taking his eyes off the thin space between the bed and the far wall, Jensen replied, “I saw movement in that corner.”
Strinnger chanced a second look. This time he saw the top of a dark-haired individual shaking violently behind the stack of pillows lining the lengthwise bed.
“Move around to the foot of the bed. I’ll cover you,” be ordered.
Nodding his head, Jensen advanced slowly, his rifle trained on the source of the crying while Strinnger kept his muzzle pointed in the same direction. When Jensen reached the end of the bed the person, a woman, screamed in anger and hurled a heavy glass bookend at the officer. Jensen easily deflected the projectile and shouted once more, this time for her to lie face down. Strinnger stepped in, echoing the officer’s commands.
“No!” screamed the woman as she curled her knees up to her chest.
“Get her up!” commanded Strinnger.
Jensen shouldered his rifle. The panicked woman flailed against his efforts to seize her wrists and screamed even louder when he finally succeeded.
“Put her on the bed!” Strinnger directed as he removed his handcuffs from his belt.
The woman kicked and writhed in Jensen’s grip as he bent her over the bed and folded her hands behind her back. Strinnger came around to his side and locked the restraints on her scarred wrists.
“Hold her head up.”
Jensen put his weight down on her back while his right arm propped her head up off the white and black trimmed bedspread. Strinnger held his gloved hand before her. Tips of his glove glowed blue as they scanned the contours of her angered face. The scan completed and the digital voice of the police computer confirmed her identity: “Donna Roncin.”
Finally, he had her. “Let’s get her to the living room,” Strinnger said. The two lawmen each grabbed her under her arms and dragged her to the front room of the house. She did not go quietly, kicking and screaming until they tossed her onto the sofa. Strinnger pulled up an ottoman and sat facing her. He wanted answers and didn’t want to wait until they got her to the station to get them.
He surveyed her from top to bottom. The first things he noticed were her eyes. They were wild and fierce, but not with rage as he’d initially believed. No, instead he saw fear. She was in a terrified panic, so much so that her body visibly quaked. Strinnger surmised that the scarring on her wrists must have been failed attempts at suicide. She was deathly afraid of something, but it wasn’t him.
Her body was pale and sickly thin. It must have been weeks since she had eaten much of anything. Her face was sunken and hollow and she reeked of body odor and waste. She was in bad shape. He quickly decided to try a consoling tone before interrogating her.
“It’s okay,” he soothed, returning his service weapon to its holster. Jensen, and soon Romeroz, did not do the same. “It’s okay. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not here to arrest you. In fact, I want to just talk to you. Can we do that?”
It seemed to be working. The wailing subsided, but her intense eyes still jeered at him as if he were fresh meat. She must be exhausted, expending all that energy to fight us off.
“Great. First, you don’t look like you’re in such good shape. Do you need a doctor?”
Her heaving breaths were her only answer.
This is getting us nowhere. “Look, I have to know what you know about the night Hanel Schulaz died. We have you on camera as one of the last people to see him alive. Did you have anything to do with his death?”
Again, she did not answer. She only stared at the red LED blinking on the smoke detector above the front door. She was entranced by it.
“Okay, fine,” Strinnger relented, wiping his head out of frustration. He stood up and kicked the ottoman back ward the stone and iron coffee table. He grabbed Drake by the elbow, directing him to the door. “Go get Bill. I want him to search for signs of anyone else being here in the last three weeks; fingerprints, DNA, the whole works. I think someone got to her and I want to know who.”
Drake nodded and headed for the door, but Strinnger stopped him.
“Oh, and head back to the station ahead of me. Get a room set up where we can talk to her without making her too uncomfortable. And have a medic ready. I don’t think she’s eaten in a long time and may need an IV.”
The junior officer nodded again and disappeared outside. Bill and his tech team soon followed. Strinnger met them at the door.
“Get to work, Bill,” he ordered. He then turned back to Jensen and Romeroz. “You two, get her to your squad car and take her back to headquarters, ASAP. Lights and sirens, got it?”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison before reaching down to take Donna by the arms.
Immediately, Donna’s cries assaulted his ears as Strinnger stepped outside. If possible, she was even more crazed in her protests.
“No! No! Don’t take me out! You can’t take me out! She said it would kill me. Please! I can’t leave the house! Kill me! Just kill me!”
Strinnger stepped out onto the stone landing just outside the front door and removed the clear palm pad from his pocket.
“Send message to Chief; Donna found, inbound ETA twenty minutes.” A small ping acknowledged receipt of the message and then he returned the inch-square pad back to his jacket. He looked back inside the door at the struggling woman. She was incredibly determined not to leave the house. For someone so emaciated and malnourished, she was putting up a desperate fight to stay inside. It was if she were a prisoner, afraid of stepping out of her cell.
What had her so terrified?
Her panicked resistance could not deter the much stronger officers from aggressively forcing her toward the door. Strinnger watched with concern. There was definitely something wrong about all of this. He was about to step back inside to have the officers put her back on the couch until she calmed down when he noticed the direction of her eyes. Through her verbal protests, he noticed her attention was not on the officers but still fixated on the blinking LED above them, which, if Strinnger wasn’t wrong, was speeding up as she drew nearer to it. Romeroz nearly had her underneath it when Strinnger realized his mistake.
“Wait…”
He never got the word out of his mouth.
Julia Kratin’s long legs eagerly emerged from the filthy taxi. The rest of her soon followed, not wanting to spend another minute in the cab’s cramped, foul-smelling interior. The thirty-minute ride from the airport was the longest of her life. Quickly tipping the driver generously for not killing her en route, she forcefully slammed the door behind her and stepped away as if she might catch some infectious disease if she were near it another minute. The driver sped away as recklessly as he’d arrived.
Her hands reflexively tried to brush off the stench, or anything for that matter, that may have lingered from the backseat. Next time, she would call the studio and have them send a car. Hoisting her carry-on bag over her slender shoulder, she looked up at the brightly colored homes in the Sunnyside Court complex.
“What a cute little neighborhood,” she thought aloud.
Rows of pink, purple, and white perennials lined the front units, while as if on cue, a half-dozen swallows chirped merrily from the deciduous trees rooted at the corners of the gate. A smile unconsciously formed on her lips and she couldn’t help but laugh at the seemingly storybook setting. Her musings were interrupted only by the presence of four navy and white police cruisers haphazardly arrayed in the parking lot to he
r left.
This didn’t seem like the kind of place to have a crime problem, she thought, somewhat concerned. An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach. She craned her neck past the gate toward the courtyard. Perhaps she was too late and the detectives were already inside arresting her friend. In a flash, her amusement turned to dread. Her ridiculously tall heels clicked on the pavement as her steps onto the cobblestone path quickened.
Her hand was on the latch to the gate when a deafening boom rocked the air, throwing her back onto the gray concrete with the force of a hurricane. A suffocating cloud of black smoke engulfed the block, siphoning the oxygen from her lungs. Impulsively, she rolled into a ball, bringing her knees to her chest while covering her head to shield her from the hailstorm of debris peppering the ground around her. Miraculously, the barrage of splintered wood and iron for the most part avoided colliding with her helpless body. For several minutes, terrified tears bathed her face. The force of the blast had knocked the wind from her lungs and the poison of the billowing smoke made it nearly impossible to recover, but when the clattering of debris finally stopped she slowly lifted her head and looked toward the condos.
Smoke enveloped everything she could see. The sun was blotted out by the thick, black pillar rising from the earth while red and orange flames danced mercilessly over the ravaged units. The desperate shouts of the occupants scrambling to save themselves and their homes pierced the blackened veil, pricking Julia’s heart with a terror she’d never known.
In a daze, Julia moved ahead, hobbling cautiously on the one shoe that remained on her right foot. Her wide eyes dared the smoky air and stared blankly at the carnage. The surreal scene seemed to stem from a horrendous dream. She wobbled forward until at last, her fragile frame refused to move any further. She wanted to leave but she couldn’t. Her feet were cemented on the cracking pavement stones as she scanned the numbers identifying each unit.
All the homes on the south side were burning or destroyed. One home had been completely incinerated. She needed to know which one it was. She willed her body to look around, counting the black block letters nailed above every door. Every home was an odd number, counting upwards by twos. She found the lowest number and began counting. She did this again and again; not finding what her mind told her should be there. Finally, she faced the raging inferno. Her manicured hand rose to her mouth and her breath went shallow with a paralyzed whisper. The number she had been longing to find, the one that represented the home of her friend, was missing, blotted out by a column of black smoke. An unearthly shriek then escaped her choking lungs.
“Nooooooooooo!!!!”
CHAPTER 8
COUP
Ahkman’s victory was so near he could taste it. Within the next several minutes the Carsus Corporation’s board would meet to formalize the company’s merger with Medes International, the deal which he had dedicated the last two years of his life bringing about. The deal would be hailed as the marriage of the world’s two foremost space exploration companies joining forces to pool their resources for greater access to the stars. But such altruistic notions had nothing to do with the transaction; it was all about the money.
In truth, the deal was more of an acquisition than a merger. The semantics only helped hold the anti-trust lawyers at bay. Medes was paying for the whole collection of Carsus companies and their subsidiaries, subsuming them all into its already existing empire rather than forming a new joint conglomerate. The Carsus board would be dissolved, with a hefty settlement payout, and the company would no longer exist as it would be sold piece by piece until nothing was left.
Most of the board had already assembled in the conference room of Carsus Tower, and were celebrating with the representatives of Medes. Pilan Ahkman’s grin was the largest in the room. He clearly had the most to celebrate. Over the last twenty-five months he had been the propellant driving this deal forward. His shrewd negotiating style and charismatic demeanor had won over many investors and laid the ground work for a trusting relationship with Medes International. Few of those in attendance now denied that he was the man of the hour, but even fewer knew that he alone was not the sole benefactor of the day’s fruits.
Two years prior, Hanel Schulaz had secretly given Ahkman the approval to pursue a dialogue with Medes and propose a buyout. Both he and Ahkman realized that the company was on a path of unsustainable growth. Although profits had never been higher, and the market outlook was favorable, they knew it was only a matter of time before costs spiraled out of control. The lunar and Martian installations were great for public relations, but they offered far too little results to justify the company’s continued support. In fact, at the time of his death, in addition to exploring weapons testing and manufacturing, Schulaz had been considering the possibility of shutting down all space facilities because of the financial drain they syphoned from the company’s other lucrative endeavors.
The combined value of Carsus’ Corp and its subsidiaries was estimated to be upwards of three hundred trillion dollars. When the paperwork was signed, Medes would be buying them all for just over five hundred. The extra two would be used to provide severance for any employees who did not want to stay on with the new company, and to invest in Martian colonizing startups as a gesture of goodwill to lesser companies. But most of it would go as payoffs to the shareholders and upper management. Ahkman’s net worth, already substantial, would triple overnight. Needless to say, he was more than satisfied with the arrangement.
Ahkman worked his way around the room, making a point to stop and chat with the men and women who had bowed to his charm and made the celebration possible. He and Josephina Leniston each targeted the key members of the negotiating team as they mingled, thanking them for their wonderful work. True, there were times that each of them had wanted to tear the other’s arms from their sockets, but in the end, they had seen one another as allies in a mutually beneficial action. Ahkman graciously acknowledged their patience and professionalism and then bashfully accepted their praise of him for the same.
The festivities started later than expected waiting for all the invitees to arrive. Despite the urgings by many shareholders, Ahkman had decided to finalize the deal after the market in New York had already opened. The timing mattered little to him, but the novelty of watching the stock prices change instantaneously with his signature was more than satisfying. “The deal of the century,” as the press had dubbed it that morning, was going to change the economic landscape of the market and he saw little need to hurry. The world could wait for them to pat each other on the back.
The celebration continued for more than a half hour until Josephina cast Ahkman a sharp look that said it was time to get going. With an ease and grace that betrayed his wiry six-foot, six-inch frame, Ahkman wove his way to the head of the massive oval conference table near the full paneled window on the east wall. Once in place, he gently tapped the rim of his half-empty champagne flute and smiled widely while the happy occupants turned toward him. His chest bulged with pride, and he brought himself up to his full, imposing stature.
“My friends, this is an exciting occasion. Thank you all for your hard work that made this day happen.” Eager applause sounded from the assemblage. “Now, without further ado, let’s sign the paperwork and make this all official.”
Gesturing to the representative from Medes, Chairman of the Board Sung-Hun Park, to join him, he took his place at the conference table. Ahkman assumed the authority to enter into the agreement when Nathaniel declined to be part of it. As the main proponent of the deal, the board agreed Ahkman deserved to be the one to formalize it anyhow. He was more than willing to oblige.
A pair of specially designed oak styluses had been prepared for the event. Ahkman and Park each took one in hand and were about to press their instruments to the document when the boardroom doors flung open with a flourish. The Kratins, Nathaniel and Tina, flanked by Naitus Brill, entered abruptly before either man could sign his name to the agreement.
“Hold on, jus
t a moment,” ordered an unexpectedly bright Nathaniel. He burst into the room, standing tall and looking very presidential in his crisp, striped gray suit and blazing red tie. Tina wore her ever-present scowl while Brill beamed with delight as he hobbled behind them, leaning heavily on his cane. A baffled murmur rose from the crowd but then quickly fell to a hush when Volkor Con and his wife Pryna Zyn followed the impromptu entourage inside.
At first, Ahkman was confused. Why were the owners of Carsus’ largest sub-contractor with Nathaniel now? Ahkman knew they were friends but why would they want to be present to watch the signing? Could he possibly be trying to approach Medes for work already? Con had always been known as a direct, no-nonsense businessman, but to approach a potential partner at this stage was a little bold, even for him.
He pondered the chrome-plated man’s presence until the truth shattered his uncertainty.
“Oh, no,” he said, rising to his feet, his brow furrowed in a stern stare. “No!”
He pressed his way through the crowd, fiercely closing the gap to Nathaniel with unanticipated speed, repeatedly bellowing, “No,” all the way. They converged near the middle of the room, the crowd dispersing ahead of them. The atmosphere, once pregnant with joyous anticipation, now held the tension of a schoolyard brawl. And the bigger kid was very ticked off.
“You’re too late. This deal is going through and you can’t stop it,” he sneered, particularly at Brill.
The old man smiled, gleeful at Ahkman’s rage. “I think you should hear what Mr. Kratin has to say before you make such a statement.”
Ahkman’s fiery eyes darted to the exuberant figure of the CEO and glared at him.
“Well?”
