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

by John Bowers

  His curiosity was killing him.

  Chapter 3

  Gil Prater Estate – Alpha Centauri 2

  The twin suns were low in the west as Nick’s hovercar approached its destination. It was only nineteen miles from Centauri Springs and Nick took his time getting there, studying the terrain. The single road below him carried no traffic, and after six or seven miles began to meander as the terrain became hilly. For the final two miles the road twisted and turned back on itself as it wound its way up the side of a ridge, and just where it ended, Nick saw the estate. Sheehan had said it was a fancy house, but this was beyond anything Nick had imagined.

  The house was a mansion perched two thousand feet above the plain with an unrestricted view in all directions. Alpha 2 was virtually pollution free and the air was clear as a vacuum; the only hindrance to visibility was water vapor in the atmosphere, and that was virtually nil.

  The property itself was expansive—the crest of the ridge was layered; in addition to the main house, a multi-storied affair of step-down architecture, Nick saw three different swimming pools, a tennis court, and acres of manicured lawn. Around the edges of the lawn sat several smaller buildings in the same architectural style as the main house, possibly guest housing or employee quarters. He also saw a satellite receiver, what looked like a small solar power station, and a little farther out a large barn with a complex of whitewashed corrals. Grazing horses dotted a pasture that extended off into the distance.

  Nick circled the place once, then settled down onto a small parking area at one end of the mansion. The parking area fronted a wide garage with eight or nine large doors, all of which were closed; his car was the only one in sight.

  Nick was twenty-nine years old, had been an active U.F. Marshal for five years, and a Star Marine before that. He’d been around the celestial block a time or two and didn’t get excited easily, but for some reason his pulse accelerated as he got out of the car. He took a moment to breathe deeply and expel the shot of adrenaline that squirted into his system. Then, adjusting his hat, he wound his way up the manicured path to the front of the mansion.

  The place was state of the art. Nick saw four camera blisters that covered his approach from different angles; the door opened just as he arrived. The person who stared out at him was hardly what Nick expected; he was about twenty-five, slender and effeminate, his eyes circled in mascara, his spiked blond hair tinged with green and purple. Nick stared back in astonishment—no one had told him the senator had a gay son.

  The young man’s hands flew to his cheeks and his eyes popped in admiration.

  “Omigawd, you must be Marshal Walker! The senator is expecting you.”

  He stepped aside and Nick entered, holding his hat in his hand.

  “Where did you get that outfit! I’m so jealous—I want one just like it!”

  “Bad idea,” Nick told him. “The last person who wanted one got a bullet in the heart.”

  The young man’s eyes bugged even wider. “You shawt him?”

  “No, someone else did. They thought he was me.”

  “Omigawd!”

  Nick nodded somberly. “It isn’t safe to get too close to me.”

  “I guess nawt. I’ll remember that. Follow me, please.”

  He led the way. Nick’s eyes swept the interior of the mansion—if anything, the inside was even more magnificent than the outside. Everything he saw bumped an imaginary cash counter in his head that quickly spun into the millions.

  “Are you the butler?” he asked casually.

  “Not really. Well, I guess you could call it that. My name is My-chael, by the way. Michael Smith.”

  “Pleasure.”

  Nick tried not to watch the young man’s butt as he led him through the house, but it was hard not to—his hips swung like a girl’s. Michael Smith was the most effeminate man he’d ever met, almost a caricature from an earlier century. Other gay men Nick had known didn’t advertise their orientation.

  The trek through the mansion passed through several lavish rooms and down two or three levels to a spacious study facing the rear of the property. A tall, wide window offered a panoramic view of the grounds nearest the house; the rest of the property sat on a lower level out of sight. But Nick hardly had time to admire the view. A dignified looking man with an athletic body and silvered temples rose from an armchair.

  “Senator, Marshal Walker is heeere,” Michael Smith announced.

  “Thank you, Michael,” the senator said.

  Michael backed toward the doorway, still gazing at Nick’s western wear. He caught Nick’s eye.

  “I’m still jealous.” He smiled, then turned and swished out of the room.

  The senator crossed the intervening space with a smile and hand extended.

  “Marshal, thank you for coming. I’m Gil Prater.”

  Nick shook hands, noting the firm grip.

  “No problem. Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

  “I didn’t expect you to show up the same day. I know it’s quite a long trip.”

  “You said it was a matter of life and death.”

  Prater waved to a leather armchair and Nick settled into it, careful to keep his guns unencumbered. Prater stepped over to a wet bar against the wall and began pouring liquor. He nodded.

  “I believe it is, but not the immediate-threat kind. I probably have a few days.”

  He offered Nick a glass with two fingers of amber liquid.

  “I hope you like bourbon?”

  “Bourbon is fine.” Nick took the glass and set it on a table at his elbow. The man hadn’t asked if he wanted a drink, just gave it to him. Assertive.

  Prater settled back into his own chair and kicked his feet up onto a hassock. He was casually dressed in fashionable golf slacks, a sport shirt, and loafers. Nick picked up a whiff of aftershave.

  “I trust you had an uneventful trip?”

  “More or less.” Nick didn’t mention the hostage crisis in Camarrell.

  “Good. Have you eaten? If not, you must be starving.”

  “I’m okay for the moment. Thanks.”

  “Just let me know when you’re ready. I’ve instructed the cook to prepare something special for the occasion.”

  “That’s very considerate.” Nick picked up the drink and sipped it, feeling the alcohol warm his stomach as the aromatic aftertaste flooded his palate—it was expensive stuff. He set the glass down again.

  “I try to be,” Prater said. “Considerate, that is. A man in my position can always use more friends. God knows I make enough enemies.”

  “Is that what this is about? Your political enemies?”

  Prater’s smile faded. “I’m not sure. You’re the lawman, so I’ll let you judge.”

  Suddenly serious, he set his drink down and crossed the room to his desk. He pulled a rectangular poster from a drawer and handed it to Nick.

  “As you can see, my life has been threatened.”

  Nick held the poster at arm’s length and gazed at it. In the center was a fairly recent flat photo of Gil Prater; framing the photo was the text in bold black lettering. As Nick looked at it, he felt his skin tingle…it was like something from a Yancy West vid.

  WANTED

  DEAD OR ALIVE

  Senator GIL PRATER

  For Treason

  REWARD: ONE MILLION TERROS

  (No Questions Asked)

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It came in the mail, in a diplomatic pouch.”

  Nick’s eyebrows shot up. “A diplomatic pouch?”

  Prater nodded. “At first I thought it was a gag, some kind of congressional prank. Then I got a couple of threatening v-mails, each from a different Net address. I tried to have them traced, but they led nowhere, to some kind of digital black hole.”

  “Who else have you told about this? Did you notify the local police?”

  Prater settled into his chair again, looking grim.

  “The local cops don’t have jurisdiction down
here. I’m sure Chief Sheehan would help if he could, but it’s not really his job. I figured the U.F. Marshal was the only agency with the proper authority.”

  Nick eyed him narrowly. “Isn’t there a Marshal’s office in Camarrell?”

  Prater grinned crookedly. “You’re wondering why I pulled you all the way down from Trimmer Springs.”

  “The question crossed my mind.”

  “I guess I’m a bit egocentric, Marshal. I wanted the best, and you have that reputation.”

  Nick let that slide. “Do you still have the v-mails?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll need to see them. Do you have any idea who sent this?”

  “No. As I said, I thought it was a prank.”

  “Is there any chance that’s what it is?”

  Prater retrieved a pocket ‘puter and fiddled with it a moment, then tossed it to Nick.

  “See what you think.”

  The v-mails were displayed one above the other. The picture and text were the same as the wanted poster, but each contained an additional line. Your days are numbered! the first one declared. The second was almost as specific: You can hide, but you’ll never run far enough!

  Nick read them a second time, his brow furrowed.

  “These are the only communications you’ve received?”

  “So far. Those and the diplomatic pouch.”

  “When did the pouch arrive?”

  “About a week ago. I’ve never had one come to this address, so I was pretty curious until I saw what was inside. I just laughed it off until the v-mails came. That’s when I tried to have them traced. When that didn’t pan out, I called you.”

  Nick handed the ‘puter back and picked up the wanted poster again. He stared at it for a moment.

  “You know what’s missing here? There’s no authority behind it. If someone wanted to claim the reward, this poster gives no indication who to contact.”

  Prater frowned. “I hadn’t even noticed that. What does that mean, exactly?”

  “For one thing, it tells me that no police or government agency issued it—”

  “I already knew that. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “The other thing…it’s a clear invitation to murder.”

  ***

  Prater poured himself another drink. Nick had barely touched his. Prater leaned back against the wet bar and tipped his glass.

  “So what do you think? Is this a hoax or should I be scared?”

  “Aside from the poster and the v-mails, have you seen any other copies? In town, maybe, or on the web?”

  “No. If they exist, I haven’t seen them.”

  “You indicated that you thought it was a prank. What made you think that?”

  Prater shrugged. “I didn’t see how it could be anything else. Who issues a wanted poster these days?”

  “The U.F. Marshal, for one.”

  “Okay, but ‘dead or alive’? That’s straight out of the history chips.”

  Nick nodded.

  “So I figured it must be a joke. Somebody in Lucaston having a laugh at my expense.”

  “Any idea who that might be? Do members of the Senate play those kinds of pranks?”

  “Not usually, no. Maybe somebody from the other party, just trying to rattle my cage.”

  “You said you have enemies.”

  “Of course I do. In my line of work that goes with the territory. I’ve been collecting them for years. Hell, decades.”

  “Political enemies usually fight back with rhetoric, don’t they? They rarely resort to this kind of tactic.”

  “Exactly. One more reason I thought it was a joke. I’m still not sure it isn’t, but I figured I shouldn’t take any chances.”

  “You figured right. Whether it’s a joke or not, a crime has been committed. The v-mails alone are a violation of Federation law, and the wanted poster…” Nick frowned. “Who uses a diplomatic pouch?”

  “Diplomats. But they’re pretty much used internally, within the halls of government.”

  “Does the Senate use them?”

  “Not usually. Everything is electronic these days.”

  “If you were going to use one, what would you use it for?”

  Prater grimaced. “Something I didn’t want anybody else to see. Something I didn’t want hacked or traced.”

  Nick nodded slowly. “Something with no trail leading back to you.”

  “I wouldn’t care about that. I would identify myself so the recipient knew who sent the pouch, but it would be for their eyes only.”

  “Got it. If someone wasn’t a senator or a diplomat, where would they get such a pouch?”

  Prater’s eyebrows shot up. “I hadn’t thought of that. Stolen, probably.”

  “Do you still have the one that came here?”

  “Sure.” Prater crossed to his desk and drew open a bottom drawer. A moment later he dropped a green vinyl bag in Nick’s lap.

  Nick examined the bag closely. It was totally unremarkable—there was no logo or lettering on the outside, only a programmable window with the name of the recipient. The inside had no pockets or hidden compartments. The seal was simple enough, a manual clasp with an optional combination pad.

  “Was the seal coded?”

  “No, it was set to zero. I just popped it open.”

  “Whoever sent this either didn’t care who opened it or was pretty damn sure nobody would open it but you.”

  Prater frowned. “What does that tell you?”

  “It probably didn’t come from far away. If it had gone through any kind of delivery service there would be the risk of someone snooping and seeing what was inside. The sender apparently wasn’t worried about that.”

  “It came in the regular mail. No box or any kind of packaging.”

  “And no return address, no postage trail.”

  Nick stared out the window, his eyes glazed in thought. He turned back to Prater.

  “How much physical mail do you get on a daily basis?”

  “Not a great deal. Some days there isn’t any.”

  Nick nodded. “Ninety-nine percent of all communication is electronic, so only packages and odd bits of communication get delivered physically.”

  Prater frowned in confusion. “Where are you going with this?”

  Nick looked up. “The Mail Service isn’t going to deliver something like a diplomatic pouch without a postage mark of some kind. At the very least it would have to be in some kind of wrapping.”

  “So?”

  “This wasn’t delivered by mail. Someone brought it by hand and stuck it in your mailbox.”

  Prater’s eyes widened slowly. Nick nodded.

  “If this threat is real, then it’s very close to home. I think you might need to worry.”

  Chapter 4

  The suns dropped over the hills to the west, casting long shadows across the countryside. As dusk settled and the colors deepened, the Gil Prater estate took on a fantasy look, like the painting of a fairy tale mansion. Prater led Nick out onto a patio overlooking the lower levels of the estate and Nick breathed clean, fragrant air spiced with fresh hay and horses. For a moment he was transported back to his childhood, a more idyllic time when everything made sense and the universe felt safe.

  He turned to Prater.

  “I’ll need a list of all your employees, both here and in Lucaston.”

  Prater frowned. “Surely you don’t suspect them?”

  “Until I eliminate them, I suspect everybody. How many people live on this estate?”

  “Well…just me and my daughter, when she’s home. My wife died some years ago.”

  “How many employees live here?”

  Prater counted them off on his fingers.

  “Michael. You’ve met him. Luisa, who does the cooking. Her husband Hector, who oversees the property. Their son Eddie—he does the lawn and minor maintenance…William Barnett and Jim Hornbeck, who take care of the horses…that’s six.”

  “Are any of them rec
ent hires?”

  “No. Jim was the last one to come on board and that was four years ago.”

  “Any disputes with any of them? Disciplinary action? Hard feelings?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “You did background checks on everybody?”

  “Umm, not really. Hector and Luisa came here as newlyweds nearly thirty years ago. I’ve known them forever. I didn’t see the need for a security check.”

  “What about the others?”

  “William Barnett worked for my dad, so I already know his life story. Jim came highly recommended through one of William’s friends—horse people, you understand.”

  “And Eddie was born here?”

  “Yep.”

  “That leaves Michael, if I counted right.”

  Prater smiled, but avoided Nick’s gaze.

  “Michael is safe. We don’t need to worry about him.”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly what is his function here?”

  Prater shrugged. “He’s our version of a butler, I guess you could say. He sort of keeps the place running, acts as my secretary when I need one…” He stopped, staring hard at Nick. “Wait a minute! You’re not suggesting that I’m—”

  “I have to ask, Senator. If you are, then it makes you vulnerable to all kinds of threats.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Yes or no, sir? That’s all I have to know.”

  “No! Most definitely not! I’m insulted that you would even suggest it. And insulted that you would suspect Michael because of his orientation.”

  “Everybody’s a suspect, Senator, no matter what their orientation.” Nick took a deep breath. “However, I apologize if I singled him out. But the question would’ve come up sooner or later anyway.”

  Prater grimaced.

  “All right. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?”

  “Not just yet. Who is Michael and how did you acquire his services?”

  “He’s the son of an old friend who died many years ago. I took the boy in and raised him. I trust him completely.”