Bounty Hunter at Binary Flats (Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal Book 4)

by John Bowers

  “Well, you heard wrong.” The man accepted the card and glanced at the fuel meter, which was still spinning as Nick’s tank filled. “Gonna be in town long?”

  “I dunno. Just got here.”

  “Federation Marshal, huh? What kind of business?”

  Nick grinned wryly. “Federation Marshal business. It’s the business I’m in.”

  The clerk grimaced and flushed. “Ask a stupid question, I guess.”

  “Nothing stupid about it. You probably don’t get U.F. Marshals down here very often.”

  “Truth is, I’ve never seen one until today.”

  Nick nodded. “Well, I had a call. One of your citizens requested my presence.”

  “Yeah?” The man’s interest quickened at the prospect of gossip. “Which one?”

  “Can’t tell you that. Not yet, anyway.”

  The fuel meter stopped spinning and the clerk scanned Nick’s card, then handed it back.

  “There you go.”

  “Thanks.” He put the card in his wallet. “I’m new in town…”

  “I noticed that.”

  “Where are these famous springs located?”

  “Famous springs?”

  “Yeah. I figure with a name like Centauri Springs, there must be a spa around here somewhere. Maybe I can get a mud pack for my face.”

  The clerk eyed Nick with suspicion, as if afraid he might suddenly strip naked and start preaching.

  “It ain’t that kind of springs. The town was named after the artesian wells located here. It was the first decent water source the settlers came across, so they built a town around it.”

  The front door slid open and someone entered the store from the outside. Nick glanced toward the newcomer, a woman in her mid-twenties. She was a pretty brunette, curvy, with long hair the color of dark chocolate. Her clothing was country casual, but expensive—tight jeans and a halter top; the “casual” stopped there—gemstone earrings dangled from her lobes and an expensive necklace glittered at her throat. She was staring at him with a little smile.

  “Well, well, well,” she said slowly, “look what the mattababe dragged in.”

  Nick stared at her in confusion.

  “The what?”

  “The mattababe.”

  “What…what’s a mattababe?”

  She cocked an eyebrow and smiled. “Nothing, babe, what’s a matta with you?”

  The clerk burst into laughter, guffawing loudly, tears forming in his eyes. He leaned over the counter and slammed it with his palm.

  “Goddamn! I never thought you’d fall for that one!”

  Feeling foolish, Nick grinned and shook his head.

  “I never heard it before. Guess I walked straight into it.”

  “Like a spinning propeller,” the girl said, her dark eyes sparkling. She extended her hand. “You must be Marshal Walker. I’m Cybele Gannon. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  ***

  Nick walked back out to his car and disconnected the fuel stanchion. Cybele Gannon was on his heels.

  “How did you know I’d be here?” he asked as he secured the fuel hatch.

  “Anyone coming in from Camarrell is going to need gas,” she said smugly. “This is always the first place they stop.”

  “The only fuel depot in town?”

  “No, but it’s the first one people see, and the grocery outlet helps. They’re usually hungry by the time they get here.”

  She watched him with a little smile, as if waiting to see what he thought of her deductive brilliance. Nick held both hands out away from his body.

  “I didn’t buy any food.”

  “But you did stop for gas.”

  He nodded and hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt.

  “Yes I did. How can I help you?”

  She smiled and slid her hand along the side of his hovercar, her dark eyes never leaving his. The breeze came from behind her, and Nick picked up a tantalizing whiff of perfume.

  “I know you’re here on business,” Cybele Gannon said, “but I was hoping you could carve out an hour for me. I’m a stringer for a news network, and I’d love to do a story on you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “A reporter?”

  “A journalist.”

  “I didn’t realize Centauri Springs had a holonews station.”

  “We don’t, but holonews isn’t the only kind of news there is. I write a feature for the local V-news page, and now and then I’m lucky enough to sell something to AlphaNet. They have a station in Camarrell.”

  “How often is that?”

  “Not often enough. Not too much happens around here.”

  “I’m not surprised. Seems like if you wanted to be a real journalist, you’d need to head off to one of the bigger cities up north. This town looks like the ass end of the planet to me.”

  She smiled, but her eyes glittered briefly.

  “Hey, this is my home! Just because it’s a small town, you don’t have to be insulting.”

  He shrugged. “Didn’t mean to insult anyone. I live in a small town, too.”

  “Trimmer Springs.”

  He cocked his head. “Sounds like you already know quite a bit about me. Exactly what kind of story were you planning on doing?”

  “You were all over the networks a few months back when you broke up that illegal arms thing. But nobody ever did a feature on you, lucky for me.”

  “A feature.”

  “Right. Everyone was talking about what you did, but nobody ever did anything on Nick Walker the man. What’s he like, what makes him tick, what he likes to eat…things like that.”

  “You want to write about the food I like?”

  “Human interest.” She held up both hands as if framing a headline. “The Cowboy Marshal—that’s my working title—a former Star Marine who single-handedly ended the cult rebellion back in thirty-six, then went on to become a U.F. Marshal. Broke up a human slavery operation on Sirius 1, then returned to the very town on Alpha Centauri where he ended the war and prevented the cults from starting a second rebellion—”

  “Where the hell did you get all that?”

  She smiled. “I did my homework. Background stuff. All I need is a couple of hours of your time to put a face on the man himself. So what do you say?”

  Nick grimaced. “First you said an hour, now it’s two hours.”

  “Whatever you can spare.”

  “Your background is all wrong. I never ended the war, human slavery is alive and well in the Sirian Confederacy, and the cults were never planning another rebellion. Sounds like everything you have so far is fiction.”

  Cybele Gannon’s smile faded and her eyes widened slowly.

  “Are you telling me you won’t grant the interview?”

  “I’m not telling you that, but it sounds like you’re looking to sensationalize something, and I’m the wrong subject.”

  “No, Marshal! You’re the perfect subject. You’re already a hero on Alpha 2. People want to know more about you.”

  “Then write a novel. You can say anything you want and it won’t matter.”

  She clamped her lips in frustration. Nick reached for the car door, but she put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Is it true that you’re married to a Vegan woman?”

  “No.”

  “No? I heard she was Vegan.”

  “She is, but we’re not married.”

  “Tell me about her! I’d love to meet her.”

  Nick’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a great idea. I’m sure she’d love to talk to you. It would be good advertising for her line of Vegan fashions—she has a boutique in Trimmer Springs.”

  “That’s two thousand miles away!” Cybele frowned. “And I don’t write advertising copy.”

  Nick activated the car door; the clamshell popped open. He removed his hat and tossed it onto the seat.

  “It was nice meeting you, Miss Gannon. But I’m here on assignment, and I need to get moving.”

  Cybele Gannon didn’t try to
hide her disappointment. Her shoulders slumped and she frowned.

  “How long are you going to be in town? Maybe we can get together before you leave.”

  “I have no idea. I don’t even know why I’m here yet.”

  He climbed into the pilot’s seat and closed the door. The window was still open as he fired the turbines. Cybele Gannon leaned in.

  “At least give me something! Why do you wear cowboy clothes?”

  Nick gazed at her a moment, then grinned.

  “They make me look sexy.”

  He spun up the window and goosed his lifters. The car began to rise and drift toward the street. Cybele Gannon stared after him as he disappeared down the block.

  “Yeah,” she muttered, “they do. You bastard.”

  ***

  Nick found the police station on the south end of town, right where it was indicated on his dashboard map. It was a low, square building with a manicured lawn in front and twin pine trees flanking the entrance. A flagpole on top of the building featured the colonial flag of Alpha Centauri just below the Federation flag. Nick set his car down in the parking lot and walked in the front door.

  The woman at the front desk was dressed in civilian clothes, which Nick interpreted to mean she wasn’t a police officer. She looked up from her desk terminal with an automatic smile, but the smile faded as her eyes took in the gunbelt with twin holsters. Her eyes widened slightly as she made eye contact, then she saw his badge and forced the smile back into place.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Nick Walker, Ma’am, United Federation Marshal. Is the police chief in?”

  She placed an interoffice call and a minute later a man came through a doorway into the lobby. He was wearing a traditional khaki uniform common to many police departments. He looked about forty-five, short and muscular, his thinning blond hair so short his scalp showed through. He wore a permanent sun-squint and eyed Nick up and down.

  “U.F. Marshal? Is that right? U.F. Marshal?”

  Nick nodded and extended his hand. “Nick Walker. You must be Chief Sheehan.”

  “That’s right. Come on back.”

  Sheehan pushed open the lobby door and Nick followed him through a small squad room to an office in the rear. Sheehan closed the door after they entered and waved Nick to a chair. He stood there a moment as if he didn’t know where his own chair was.

  “Excuse me for gawking like a tourist,” he said, “but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Federation Marshal in Centauri Springs. What brings you so far south?”

  Nick crossed one leg and leaned back, getting comfortable. The chief still seemed a little off balance.

  “I dropped in as a professional courtesy. One of your citizens requested my presence, but I didn’t think it was polite to trample all over your jurisdiction without letting you know about it.”

  Sheehan figured out where his chair was and settled down behind his desk. His expression was still slightly bewildered.

  “I appreciate that. Which citizen was it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Senator Prater.”

  Sheehan did a double take. “Prater! What the hell does he want?”

  “I have no idea. The call came in this morning and he said it was a matter of life and death. I thought you might give me a heads-up before I go see him.”

  Frowning, Sheehan shook his head slowly.

  “I’m not aware of any trouble at the senator’s place. I see him about once a week, but he’s never indicated that he needed police assistance of any kind.”

  Nick nodded slowly, weighing the information.

  “What do you think it means?” Sheehan asked.

  “I’m clueless at this point. I don’t think I’ve ever had a visit request from a private citizen before, especially one so far away.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My office is in Trimmer Springs.”

  Sheehan’s eyebrows arched. “Christ, that’s a couple thousand miles north of here, isn’t it?”

  Nick nodded. “I know for a fact there are marshals a lot closer than that, yet he requested me. I find that a little curious.”

  “I would say so.”

  “What can you tell me about the senator?”

  “You mean background? Nothing unusual. He’s a local boy, grew up here, I think. His father was one of the original settlers in Centauri Springs about sixty, seventy years ago. Has a fancy house about twenty miles southwest, up on Prater Ridge—named after his family, of course. He was elected to the Colonial Senate about fifteen years ago, serving his third term at the moment.”

  “You said he has a big house—what does he do for a living? Surely the Senate doesn’t pay that well.” Except for backroom money, he didn’t add.

  “He went to college on Terra, came back and opened a bank here in town. His family always had money, even before they settled here. Gil isn’t the type for physical labor. He’s athletic enough, but he saves his energy for the tennis court. He raises horses out there and I think he sells a few now and then, but his primary source of income is the bank.”

  “How many banks are there in this town?”

  “Only one with a physical presence. We have access to the virtual banks, of course, but not everyone trusts them.”

  Nick nodded and stared at his boots for a moment. Sheehan placed his elbows on the desk.

  “You said your name was Walker? I thought that sounded familiar, but when you mentioned Trimmer Springs it hit me—you’re the one who took out those cults last year, aren’t you?”

  Nick dipped his head. “I think the story has been misreported. It wasn’t the cults, it was their arms suppliers.”

  Sheehan eyed him narrowly for a moment, reached for a pencil on his desk and toyed with it. He cleared his throat.

  “Your reputation precedes you, Marshal.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You have a reputation for violence.”

  “I do?”

  “How many people have you killed in the line of duty? Fifteen? Twenty?”

  “Something like that.”

  Sheehan brushed his nose with the back of his hand.

  “I’ve been a police officer for twenty-three years, chief for nine. In all that time, I’ve never fired my weapon in the line of duty. I’ve never even had to draw it.”

  Nick felt a chill settle over him, a cold calm that slowed his pulse and dulled his emotions. He pursed his lips and let them twist into an ironic smile.

  “Did anyone ever draw down on you?”

  “Once or twice. But it is possible to enforce the law without killing people.”

  “Most of the time that’s true. Now and then it isn’t.”

  “Look, it’s not my place to judge you—”

  “That’s right.”

  Sheehan scowled. “All I’m saying is that this is a quiet little town. Nothing ever happens here, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Nick stared at him a moment, anger burning in his gut. After a moment he stood.

  “Okay, Chief. If I have to kill anybody in your town, I’ll drag the body outside the city limits.”

  ***

  Nick returned to the parking lot, his jaw still clenched. As he walked to his hovercar, a city patrol unit pulled in off the street and parked next to Nick’s car. A uniformed officer got out, tall and lanky, almost gangly. He appeared to be about Nick’s age. He stared at Nick with a bewildered expression, his eyes taking in the twin holsters and cowboy hat.

  “Where the hell did you come from?”

  Nick turned to face him, and the officer saw his badge for the first time. His expression relaxed.

  “I’ll be damned. You’re a U.F. Marshal, aren’t you?”

  Nick nodded. “Guilty.”

  “Virgil Bullard.” He stepped forward and offered his hand.

  “Nick Walker.” They shook.

  “This must be a day for Federation agents,” Bullard said.

  “How’s that?”

  “It
just came up on the PoliceWeb; they had a hostage standoff up in Camarrell this morning. Some kid had a woman at gunpoint and wouldn’t give her up, then a U.F. Marshal just walked in and forced the kid to surrender. Damnedest thing I ever heard.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Maybe a friend of yours?”

  “Could be. You get a name?”

  “No, it’s just now breaking on the web. Not many details yet.”

  Nick shrugged. “When I get back to civilization, I’ll ask around.”

  “HEY, motherFUCKER!!!”

  Nick spun in surprise and gazed down the street. Half a block away, a painfully skinny man wobbled up the sidewalk, one hand buried in his pants pocket, his shirt open at the throat. He was pale and unshaven, his features pinched. He was staring down the street past the police station, focusing on the target of his rage.

  “What the hell?” Nick muttered.

  Bullard laughed. “Don’t mind him. That’s just Edsel. He hollers like that at least once a day.”

  Nick frowned. “Who’s he yelling at?”

  “Nobody knows. Edsel lives inside his own head.”

  “Mentally ill?”

  “Yeah, I think so. He showed up here about eight months ago. Nobody knows who he is or where he came from. We ran his prints through the system and came up empty. As far as we can tell he isn’t dangerous, just delusional.”

  Nick watched as Edsel continued strolling down the street, still gazing at whomever he thought he saw. He continued on down the block, but didn’t yell again.

  “Does he have a last name?”

  “Undoubtedly, but nobody knows what it is. We tried to question him when he first showed up, but all we got was his first name. He won’t stand still for DNA and we have no legal cause to force the issue. He’s our one and only homeless resident; sleeps in an alley and prowls the streets during the day. Couple of the restaurants leave food out where he can find it. The whole town sort of tolerates him.”

  Nick turned for his car. “I’d better get moving. Nice meeting you.”

  “Same here. When you get a chance, maybe we can visit. I’ll bet you have some stories to tell.”

  Nick grinned. “One or two.”

  Virgil Bullard turned back inside the building. Nick climbed into his hovercar and fired up the thrusters. His GPS system pointed southwest and he headed that way, leaving Centauri Springs behind. In a few minutes he hoped to meet Senator Gil Prater and find out what the mystery was all about.