by John Bowers
He glared at the prisoner with cold hatred in his eyes, reaching for his laser pistol. Fred Ferguson trembled with terror.
“Right now,” Nick said quietly, “I’m leaning toward option number three.”
“You can’t do that!” Ferguson pleaded. “I’m supposed to get a trial!”
“Well, yeah, you are supposed to get a trial. And Misery Allen is supposed to be alive. But, gee whiz, guess what—SHE ISN’T!”
Nick pushed the laser muzzle against the prisoner’s throat and thumbed the charge switch. After a brief whining sound, the charge light turned green. Ferguson closed his eyes and began to blubber.
“I swear to god, Marshal! It wasn’t meant for her! I would never have harmed her! She was a beautiful girl.”
“Yeah, and she would have given you the best possible defense in this situation. But she can’t. She’ll never defend anyone again.”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“I’m sure you are, but that doesn’t do her a hell of a lot of good, now does it?”
Ferguson’s eyes looked desperate, panicked.
“What do you want from me? What do you want me to say? I did it! I wish I hadn’t, but I did!”
“You didn’t do it on your own. Who hired you?”
Ferguson shook his head, his face slick with tears.
“Oh, Christ, I can’t tell you that! I’ll be a dead man.”
“You’re already a dead man. Unless you start talking.”
“Marshal, please!”
“Was it Turd Murdoch?”
Ferguson shook his head rapidly.
“No. Turd wanted to kill you himself. He would never pay someone else to do it.”
“Then who?”
Sobbing, Ferguson shook his head from side to side. “Please!”
Nick thumbed the pistol, setting the beam spread to needlepoint, and shot him through the left ear. It made a tiny hole, more of a burn than a wound, but blood sprayed across his collar. Ferguson screamed.
“Last chance, Fred. The next one goes through your dick.”
Ferguson was lunging up and down; Nick had to push him back against the wall and hold him with his left hand.
“Stan Cramer!” he shouted. “It was Cramer!”
Nick’s eyes widened with surprise. “How do you know Cramer?”
“I work for Farrington. I’m a plumber. I’ve done plumbing in his office.”
Nick’s eyes narrowed in thought. He had really thought the mastermind behind the shower bomb was Turd Murdoch, but this put a whole different spin on things.
“Why did Cramer want me killed? I hadn’t even been on the asteroid a whole day.”
“When you jacked Turd up that first night, the news spread like a solar flare. It was all over Ceres before morning. Cramer heard about it, and it upset him.”
“Upset him why? What was Turd to him?”
“Turd is a drill supervisor, a good one. He’s also a maniac, and Cramer uses him sometimes to take care of people.”
“What people?”
Ferguson swallowed, panting with pain.
“Troublesome people. Turd is good at arranging accidents. Nobody ever challenged Turd before, but you did, and that worried Cramer. He said we didn’t need any U.F. Mavericks running around on Ceres.”
“U.F. Maverick?”
“That’s what Cramer called you.”
Nick frowned again. “So why didn’t Cramer send Turd after me, instead of you?”
“Cramer knew that Turd couldn’t kill a U.F. Marshal and get away with it. He also knew Turd would do it anyway, sooner or later, so he wanted you dead before Turd got a chance to kill you. To protect Turd.”
“So…if I got boiled in the shower, it would just be a plumbing problem. Nobody to blame.”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
Nick thumbed his pistol back to standby and stuck it in his holster.
“Why did you warn me about Turd that day?”
“I was hoping you’d kill him. Then I could warn you about the shower. I didn’t want to set that device, Marshal, but I had to. If I didn’t, Cramer would have sent Turd to kill me.”
Fresh tears coursed down Ferguson’s cheeks.
“I’m not a violent man, Marshal. I’m just trying to survive.”
Nick stood still for a minute, breathing hard. He still had an animal desire to hurt Fred Ferguson, and hurt him bad. Maybe it was the murder instinct that had plagued him for years after the war, or maybe it was just his natural desire for retribution; whatever it was, he dared not give in to it. Ferguson had done a terrible thing, but Nick would have to let the legal system deal with it. He took Ferguson’s arm and shoved him toward the car.
“I’m glad we had this little talk, Fred. I don’t hate you quite as much as I did a minute ago.”
Ferguson said nothing as Nick shoved him into the front seat. Then Nick had another thought and hauled him out again.
“You said Turd is good at arranging accidents. Did Turd arrange for Scott Garner’s accident?”
Ferguson looked blank, and Nick gave him a shake.
“You’re doing real good, Fred—don’t clam up on me now!”
“Who’s Scott Garner?”
Nick sighed. It had been nearly four years ago, so Ferguson might not remember.
“Do you do plumbing in the Farrington lockup?”
“Yeah. That’s where I work most of the time.”
Nick hauled him back to the stone wall and pushed him against it.
“Good. I need some more information, and if you lie to me, I’ll shoot your other ear.”
Farrington Industries - Ceres
David Tarpington had been to the Farrington lockup literally dozens of times, interviewing inmates, offering deals, doing his job. He had never been this far into the building, and found it more than a little depressing. This was the women’s wing, the smallest of all the cellblocks, but he saw hundreds of women sitting in cells. The place carried a powerful smell of bad food, strong urine, and shit. Of those who spotted him, with his wavy blond hair, sexy good looks, and muscular body, a few sneered and two or three cursed, but the overwhelming majority hooted and cat-called him.
“Hey, there, sweetie! You lonely?”
“Baby, oh baby! Where the fuck you been all my life?”
“You sleepy, hon? I got a place you can rest, dark and deep.”
Tarpington ignored them. They reached Lubov’s cell and Spencer, getting more nervous by the minute, pushed her inside with her three cellmates. Tarpington kept walking, heading for a cross corridor just ahead.
“Where does this lead?” he asked as Spencer trotted to catch up to him.
“You can’t go down there.” Spencer took him by the arm. “Come on, man, you have to leave now.”
Tarpington shook him off. “What’s your problem, Tim? I’m just looking around.”
But Spencer’s expression was pained.
“Look, this isn’t a Federation facility. It’s private property. You need permission to look around.”
Tarpington spun around and grabbed him, kissed him again, and patted his cheek.
“I don’t need permission, Tim. I’m with you.
”
“I don’t have the authority—”
But Tarpington was already gone, striding quickly down the cross corridor. The far end was dim, but he saw handrails and steps leading down. The image of a dungeon flashed through his mind, and his heart beat a little faster. Just before he reached it he stopped and turned to his left, his jaw dropping and his eyes growing wide. His heart hammered harder than ever.
Spencer bumped into him, then turned and looked as well. Before them, clearly visible behind a wide window, was a brightly lit room. A woman was suspended from the ceiling by the wrists, completely nude, her head hanging as if she were dead or unconscious. She was no kid—she was at least thirty-five, maybe older; she looked slightly emaciated but her bare breasts were full and heavy. Her hair was cut short in a style fa
ncied by many housewives. She rotated slowly as if in a light breeze, her feet dangling barely a foot above the tiled floor. Tarpington stared in complete shock as he gazed upon the cuts, bruises, bites, and burns on her pale skin. Sitting to one side on the floor was a generator with coiled cables and alligator clips.
“Jesus Christ!” he whispered. “Who is she?”
Spencer was so agitated he was almost sobbing.
“I dunno, man. I told you not to come down here! You should’ve listened to me!”
But Tarpington pressed his hands against the window. He stared at the woman closely, trying to recognize her.
“I’ve never seen her before. What’s she doing here? She was never processed through the court.”
Spencer took his arm and literally tried to pull him away.
“Get out of here, David! Get the fuck out of here right now!”
Tarpington took a step back, his eyes still glued to the woman. Who was she? Why was she here? Who had authorized…this?
He heard a footstep behind him, the solid click of hard leather on the starcrete floor.
“Oh, Christ!” Spencer gasped.
Tarpington turned. He clearly recognized the third man, and opened his mouth to speak.
“You should listen to your lover boy, faggot!” the other man said.
Tarpington didn’t see the sap until it crashed into his skull. Pain flashed through his head and then he was falling. Everything was black before he hit the floor.
Chapter 29
Farrington Industries - Ceres
Nick arrived at the security shack at a few minutes before eight in the evening on Saturday. The artificial sunlight was still bright—Farrington didn’t conform to the rest of the asteroid on day/night cycles. He stopped in a small parking lot outside the gate and studied the layout for a moment; the administration building looked quiet, as it should on a weekend, with very few cars in the parking lot. The parking area near the prison building was more populated, but not as heavily as a few days earlier. The lockup was running a skeleton staff for the weekend.
He picked up his porta-phone and called Marshal Milligan.
“I need you to round up Murray and Beech and meet me at Farrington Industries,” Nick told him.
“Walker? What the hell, I thought you went back to the hotel!”
“Change of plan, sir. I’ve got the goods on these bastards and I’m going in.”
“Not till we get there! Give me thirty minutes.”
Nick hesitated only briefly. He knew Milligan was right—going in without backup was foolhardy. But then he thought of Misery, her pitiful body curled up naked in the bottom of that shower. He shook his head, too deep-down angry to care about procedure.
“Sorry, sir, I’m going in now. I’ll see you when you get here.”
“Walker—!”
Nick shut the phone off and hung it on his belt. He got out of the E-car and slammed the door, then strode briskly toward the gate.
The man at the gate was one Nick had never seen before; Browning must have weekends off. Well, maybe that was for the better—this guy didn’t know him and wouldn’t be unduly alert. Nick saw his eyes flicker briefly toward the badge and saw his expression tighten, but that was probably just a standard reaction to law enforcement of any type, not necessarily directed toward Nick personally.
He stepped away from the guard shack as Nick approached.
“Can I help you, Marshal?”
Nick walked right up to him and nailed him with a right hook, dropping him like a stone. The guard’s hat flew off as he fell and Nick dragged him inside the shack, then E-cuffed his hands behind his back. He turned to the control panel and opened the gate, locking it so it would stay open. That would aid Milligan’s entry when he arrived.
The guard had a small E-car parked near the gate, just inside the fence, and Nick took it. The car was clearly marked with Farrington’s logo, so anyone seeing it traverse the parking lot wouldn’t be suspicious. Nick headed straight for the main entrance to the Admin building, and when he reached it, left the car where it was and walked inside. The broad lobby was empty except for another security guard. This one looked up in surprise as Nick approached, but again didn’t seem unduly concerned. He even smiled.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah…” Nick pointed out the front door. “Do you know anything about E-cars? I think my battery is dead, and I don’t know where to charge it.”
The guard stepped out from behind his desk, staring at the front door. As soon as he was clear of his console and out of position to trigger an alarm, Nick drew his laser pistol and jammed it against the man’s head.
“If you make one sound,” he said coldly, “I’ll fry your brain like an egg. Drop your gun belt and radio.”
The guard’s eyes sprang wide as they met Nick’s, and he gulped in fear.
“What’s this about?” His hands fumbled for his gun belt.
“I don’t remember telling you to talk! I won’t warn you again.”
The gun belt hit the floor, the radio with it. Without taking his eyes off him, Nick knelt quickly and retrieved the guard’s E-cuffs, then pushed him against the wall.
“Hands behind your back,” he said quietly.
Seconds later he had the man cuffed. He threw the gun belt behind the desk and then shoved his prisoner toward the elevators.
“Let’s go for a ride.”
Nick pushed the guard to the floor and used the key he had taken from Benny Silva to send the elevator to the top floor. When it arrived he swept the lobby with his laser pistol, but as he’d hoped, the lobby was empty. Without a word he pushed a button to send the car down again, then stepped out, leaving the guard inside. Even if the man freed himself, Nick would have two or three minutes before he could send help. He didn’t expect he would need much more than that.
He holstered his pistol and pushed open the heavy oaken door into Harvey Farrington’s office.
System Springs - Ceres
Milo Zima had gone home; he didn’t normally work weekends.
The man in charge on Saturday evening was Lewis Williams, a beefy monster who would have weighed three hundred pounds on Terra, and only part of it was fat. Williams had just unwrapped a sandwich and was going over the daily logs as he began to eat. At the moment all twenty-five cells were full, or nearly full—forty-eight men and one woman. Another prisoner had just been brought in an hour ago, leaving only two beds available for men and one empty bed in the woman’s cell. Williams frowned as he recognized the woman’s name…Judge Maynard? What the hell was that about?
“Can I have a bite of that?”
Williams glanced up at the man who’d just come in the outer door. Chewing slowly, he lowered his heavy lids to look as intimidating as possible.
“After the fight.”
The visitor, almost as big as Williams but more muscular, laughed. He wore a thick, shaggy beard and his stringy hair was tied in the back. His arms were scarred and tattooed, his teeth grey and grungy. Williams knew the visitor well, had known him for years. Had seen him in the lockup on several occasions, but never as a visitor.
“The fuck you doing here, Murdoch?” he demanded. “Only time I ever see you here is when you’re under arrest.”
Turd Murdoch grinned. “Yeah, but I never stay long, do I?”
“I noticed that. You must be sucking some mighty big dick.”
Murdoch grinned even wider and nodded. “Mighty big.”
Williams stared at him, waiting for an answer to his original question.
“I came to spring a couple of your prisoners,” Murdoch said.
“Yeah? Which couple?”
“Stanley Cramer and Judge Maynard.”
Williams’ eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “Can’t have ‘em. They don’t go anywhere without specific orders from the U.F. Marshal.”
“You talkin’ about Walker? He’s the one sent me over here, did I forget to mention that?”
“Funny h
e didn’t say anything when he was here.”
“When was he here?”
“Less than an hour ago. He brought in another prisoner.”
Murdoch’s smile faded. “Who’d he bring in?”
Williams glanced at the log, then back at Murdoch. “Fred Ferguson.”
Murdoch shrugged. “Well, he told me to get them two out and bring ‘em to his office. I guess he did forget to mention it to you.”
Williams crossed his arms and glared. “Seems like he would’ve took them when he was here.”
Murdoch hesitated, then spread his hands in defeat.
“Well, fuck, it’s not my problem. I just do what I’m told.”
“Since when are you and Walker such big buddies? Last I heard, you were aiming to kill him.”
“Aw, that was just a misunderstanding. We kissed and made up since then.” Murdoch winked. “Sorta like your faggot supervisor.”
Williams didn’t smile. He wasn’t gay himself, but he liked Milo Zima and didn’t appreciate hearing him slurred.
“That kind of talk won’t get you anything,” he said, “except my boot up your ass. If Walker wants those prisoners released, have him call me. Until he does, they don’t go anywhere.”
Turd Murdoch grimaced and glanced down the corridor toward the cellblock. He looked back at Williams and shrugged.
“Like I said, no skin off my ass.”
He turned toward the outer door. Williams picked up his sandwich and took another bite, returning to his logs. Murdoch stopped and turned back.
“By the way, I forgot to tell you—”
Williams looked up.
Turd Murdoch held a laser pistol in his right hand; he shot Williams straight through the eye.
Farrington Industries - Ceres
Harvey Farrington was sitting at his desk. Even though it was a Saturday evening, Nick wasn’t surprised. From everything he knew about the man, Farrington had no private life, no personal interests. He lived for his business and nothing else—business was his mistress. Farrington looked up as Nick approached, amusement springing to his eyes.
