A Tangled Road to Justice

by Olan Thorensen

  The direct question startled the man, but he recovered and absentmindedly tugged at his coat. “Boril Bossev. Mayor of Justice. And who are you?”

  “Name’s Edgar Millen. My friend here is Everett Cole. Glad to meet you, Mayor Bossev. Thank you for coming around. Saves us the trouble to finding you and apprising you of the new situation.”

  Bossev blinked twice, processing Millen’s words, I assumed.

  “New situation? What new situation?”

  “We have relieved Dayton Wilton and whatever assistants he had in providing marshal services to the town of Justice and the surroundings. You may consider me Marshal Millen and Mr. Cole here Deputy Marshal Cole.”

  Bossev blinked four times. “Wilton’s no longer the marshal? Cherkoff has replaced him with you?”

  “The change in management occurred without Mr. Cherkoff’s knowledge,” said Millen, “though I suspect he either has received the news or is about to learn of the change.”

  Bossev couldn’t have looked more disbelieving if he’d been told Wilton had turned into a bird and was about to take to flight.

  The mayor sat at one of the empty desks. “Who are you people?”

  “Let’s just say that we recognized the opportunity to bring a different level of law enforcement to Justice and have filled the sudden vacancies that opened up today.”

  “What bullshit!” the mayor spit out. I thought it a positive sign that he was getting over his confusion. “You can’t just come into town and claim to be the marshal! Who appointed you?”

  “And exactly who appointed Wilton?” Millen said softly.

  Bossev sat back in his chair. After several moments, he sighed. “I suppose no one ‘appointed’ him as much as Cherkoff just said he was the marshal.”

  “There you go,” said Millen. “In keeping with precedent, I’m saying that Mr. Cole and I are the new law here in Justice. We’ll discuss reasonable compensation for Mr. Cole and me at a later time.”

  “There’s no way Cherkoff is going to let this stand. I’d advise leaving Justice as fast as possible before a dozen men come to kill both of you idiots.”

  “Excuse me, Mayor Bossev,” I said, “but you might not be aware of recent events and four new patients at the Justice hospital.”

  “Well, Everett,” Millen piped up, “it’s more accurate to say three patients. The fourth no longer qualifies since he’s dead.”

  Bossev looked more confused than ever, so Millen apprised him of the day’s other events.

  “You . . . ” Bossev struggled to comprehend. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, and the fingers of one hand drummed on the desktop.

  “I don’t know how I should feel. Is this some trick of Cherkoff’s to see who is a threat to him? I don’t see how. He knows how I feel and that I’m not going to do anything to endanger the people. For everyone else, they either keep their heads down or collude with him in some way. If this isn’t a ruse, then are you two merely insane? Or maybe you think you can take over from Cherkoff? But that doesn’t make sense—not just the two of you.

  “Or . . . ” Bossev paused, glanced out the front window, stood, and paced for half a minute while we waited, then he sat again. “Or maybe you’re sent here to change things, hopefully for the good? If that’s the case, I don’t know if I should be relieved or afraid. Cherkoff is vicious, and he’ll respond hard. I don’t want any of my people hurt, and I don’t see how just the two of you could prevent that. On the other hand, I’d given up expecting outside help. I had come to accept the status quo, in the hope of doing whatever I could so that things wouldn’t get even worse.”

  “How we got here or why should not be your immediate concern,” said Millen. “I’d like you to consider what actions you might support if you truly want things to change. For the moment, I’d advise you to step back and give serious thought to the future of Justice. We’ll be settling in for a few days and waiting to see if there’s an immediate response from Cherkoff. My guess is that he’ll want to meet with us.”

  “Meet with you?” said Bossev incredulously. “He’ll want to kill you! Why would you think anything else would happen?”

  “Oh, I imagine Mr. Cherkoff is not as driven by reflexive action as you might think. He’s had so little opposition from the people here that the sense that something new is in play will make him want to assess the situation personally. There’s also the possibility he isn’t acting on his own. If there’s someone or some organization above him, he may feel he needs to check in with them, for either directions or information on who we might be. If I had to guess, I’d say in a day or two he’ll come to town, and we’ll have an illuminating conversation.”

  “Illuminating?” said Bossev. “That’s hardly a word I’d use, assuming the improbable happens, and he comes to talk and not something else.”

  “Well, we’ll see. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you could give us a list of prominent citizens we might want to talk with, so we can get a better sense of the community and its general thinking. We’ve already met Doctor Gebran. Seems like a reasonable fellow.”

  Bossev shook his head. “If you think you’ll rouse people to support you against Cherkoff, think again. Also, I haven’t ruled out that this is some kind of trick for Cherkoff to check whether there’s any opposition organizing.”

  “Then let me make it safer for you,” said Millen. “Make it a list of prominent people without reference to whether they are Cherkoff supporters or not. That way, you can’t be accused of helping us do whatever it is we’re doing.”

  Bossev took on a thoughtful expression before replying. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do that research on your own—if you can find people who will talk to you. I can’t be seen to help foster civil unrest.” He shook his head. “Whatever your game is, I wish you a long life, though I wouldn’t place any bets on it.”

  After the mayor left, Millen laughed, and I suspected why. “I think the good mayor was hedging his bets.”

  “I agree,” said Millen. “He might be supportive if he thought we had a realistic chance of making a difference here. Wouldn’t surprise me if a list of citizens magically comes our way.”

  Millen’s prediction came true surprisingly soon. An hour later, an unmarked envelope was slipped under the office door. I hurried to peer out a window in time to see a young boy running off. The envelope was thin, but I held it to the light to see whether anything worrisome was revealed. Nothing . . . so I opened it to find a list of eleven names, occupations, and addresses.

  After scanning the list, I grunted. “Interesting. Men and women. Townspeople, two farmers, a rancher, mine manager, genetics research operation director, and our Dr. Gebran. One of the ranchers and two of the town’s businessmen are separated at the end of the list by a line drawn across the sheet. I suspect those are Cherkoff supporters.”

  “We’ll have to see if they’re directly involved with Cherkoff or just collaborators taking advantage of him controlling things,” said Millen.

  “What do you want to do?” I asked. “Start looking these people up right away?”

  “No, I think we’ll let the news of our arrival percolate through the community until at least tomorrow. It’ll give us a better foundation for talks, rather than having to surprise everyone individually. I suspect in a town this size the leading people will get word pretty quickly.”

  Millen rummaged through the marshal’s desk and pulled out two metal pins in the shape of stars.

  “I love it!” he said. “I didn’t see Wilton wearing one of these shields and thought I’d have to have a couple made up. Let’s look for a place to eat and then take a stroll around the business district. Seeing two armed strangers wearing these should help confirm any rumors.”

  He flicked one of the stars to me, and I snatched it out of the air. It was crude: a silver five-pointed star with only the single word “Law” in raised gold lettering.

  The attached needle and latching nub on the reverse side didn’t need explanation. I pushe
d the pin through my shirt’s fabric and walked to a small mirror hanging on a wall.

  “Somehow I don’t see it serving as a shield for bullets or anything else. Neither do I think the townspeople will be overly impressed.”

  What did get citizens’ attention was two strangers carrying pistols and assault rifles. We got plenty of looks, some curious, but most fearful. It didn’t take much wondering to figure out why.

  “They think we’re Cherkoff’s men,” I said, after a family of five scurried to cross the street when they saw us. “We seem to be the only people armed.”

  “Interesting,” was all Millen responded.

  We poked our heads into a well-laid-out restaurant with neat waitresses and small menu monitors on all twenty or so tables. The dozen customers were well dressed. Faces who turned to us expressed interest or disinterest. A few even smiled. None appeared nervous or fearful.

  “Cherkoff people,” mumbled Millen, and he motioned toward the door. Once outside, he said, “Either active supporters or those going along. We’re not going to get a spectrum of views from that bunch. Let’s find someplace with a more diverse clientele.”

  We turned off the main business street and found a small café a block later. A sign in script above the door read “Alda’s Place.” The day’s menu was on a blackboard in one window.

  “This is more promising,” said Millen, and we went inside.

  It was clean, though a little worn. A woman who fit the same description waved to indicate we should take a table—any one of the six unoccupied. Four other tables had customers, all of whom noticed us as we walked in. In contrast to the first eatery, expressions were blank, nervous, or hostile.

  I nodded toward a small table at the side of the room.

  “Good,” he whispered. “Let’s us have views of all the entrances.”

  He referenced the front entrance and a swinging double door that probably led to the kitchen. I followed Millen to the two-person table next to a wall. He rotated the table 45 degrees so we could sit adjacent. Each of us faced one entrance directly and the other one out of the corner of our eyes.

  A two- or three-year-old boy smiled and waved as we sat. His mother jerked him around, and the family got up and left. Not that I blamed them. We weren’t exactly the most appealing-looking neighbors.

  When the woman who’d waved us in placed water in front of us, I got a better look. Maybe forty years old, light brown hair, a little hefty but solid. Her expression was somewhere between neutral and guarded.

  “Haven’t seen you men before. You new to Justice?”

  “Came in a couple of days ago and are staying at the Blue River Hotel,” Millen answered.

  “Not out at Armond Station?”

  “Armond Station?” I asked, jumping in before Millen could answer. I was tired of feeling like I was just an appendage of the man.

  “You know,” she said. “Cherkoff’s ranch.”

  “Sorry,” said Millen. “You’re under the misapprehension that we work for Makon Cherkoff. Never met the man.”

  Her expression showed the first real emotion. “You don’t work for Cherkoff? What are you doing in town armed? If no one has told you, the only people allowed to carry guns in Justice are the marshal, his regular deputy, and any of Cherkoff’s men the marshal declares to be temporary deputies.”

  She hadn’t given me more than a cursory glance the whole time, so obviously hadn’t noticed my badge. Millen hadn’t worn his—a deficiency he corrected by pulling it out of his coat pocket and pinning it on.

  “We’ll have to check into that, though we suspected that was the case. It has its advantages, but there will be some changes in the future. It’ll still be up to us to decide who can be in town armed, but I somehow think Cherkoff’s men won’t be on the candidate list to serve as deputies.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” said the woman.

  Millen smiled. “Let me introduce us. I’m Edgar Millen, and my friend here is Everett Cole. We’re the new law in Justice. I’m now the town marshal, and Everett is deputy marshal.”

  She looked at Millen, at me, then back at Millen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about or what kind of game you think you’re playing. This is a café. Are you two figuring on eating something?”

  I was hungry and didn’t want to diddle talking. “I see only two items on the blackboard. That’s the only menu?”

  “If you want a fancier place, there are several on Hebron Street. We do two or three dishes each day, every meal the same. Today it’s ghameh and zinkoul. If you’re new here, I’ll just say they’re a couple of local dishes that came from some of Astrild’s original colonists. I recommend the zinkoul.”

  “Is there a description of what’s in them? The blackboard doesn’t give any hints.”

  “Locals know what they are, so why waste chalk? Ghameh is cow intestine stuffed with a meat-grain mixture of whatever’s available that day. Zinkoul is pastry stuffed with meat and yogurt. I recommend the zinkoul.”

  “I assume you’re Alda,” I said.

  “Alda Nakasomi, owner and general everything else in this establishment,” she said.

  “In that case, I will bow to your recommendation for the zinkoul.”

  “Make it two,” said Millen.

  Without comment, she turned and walked through the swinging double doors.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Millen.

  I wasn’t accustomed to Millen’s view of the universe, so I had no fucking clue where he thought we were getting by the exchange with the waitress. I wanted to ask but resisted to avoid reinforcing his obtuseness. For the next ten minutes, we watched the other customers without trying to be too obvious. Okay, I did that. I didn’t know what Millen was doing or thinking, but we didn’t talk.

  Just as Alda came out of the kitchen with a basket of bread that seemed destined for us, a young couple entered the café. The woman spotted us, nudged the man, and he hurried to intercept the waitress. Whatever passed between them startled her enough that she almost dropped the basket and gave us a sharp look. The couple made a quick exit, and the waitress appeared to be arguing with herself whether to continue to our table. I hoped the answer was in the affirmative—I was getting hungrier by the minute.

  A decision made, she gingerly approached us and set the bread down, then stood staring. “You’re the two idiots who shot some of Cherkoff’s men?”

  “That’s us,” said Millen cheerfully. “Either that or two men looking just like us and with the same names.”

  “Are you two crazy? You need to be getting out of Justice as far away as possible as fast as you can. Cherkoff is no one to mess with. He and his men will come looking for you as soon as he gets the news.”

  “And how would we do that?” I questioned. “We were led to believe the only way in and out of Justice is by dirigible, and the schedule we saw said another wasn’t due for three more days.”

  “There’s a track to Trondheim, usable by horses. Too rough for wagons and no refueling stations. But even if you had to walk it, that’s better than hanging around here to be shot.”

  “Well, if Cherkoff is going to come looking for us, it would be impolite to make it harder for him to find us, wouldn’t it?” said Millen.

  Three men at a nearby table had been listening and hastily left the café.

  “Millen and Cole, you said your names were? You’re going to be deceased Millen and Cole if you don’t disappear.”

  “We understand Cherkoff is not in town right now,” I said, “so even if he gets word over his comm, it’ll take him some time to get here. I think we have time to eat before he kills us.”

  She shook her head and moved to another table of customers. I was working on the bread when a dinging sound came from the direction of the kitchen. By watching other customers, I’d figured out it was the cook announcing food was ready to be served. Since the remaining customers were already eating, I deduced it was our zinkoul.

  T
he steaming food was good and not all that different from a few of the times I’d eaten local foods in Yemen. By the time we finished, we were the only customers.

  Millen paid by comm transfer, and as we left, I said to Alda, “Sorry for chasing away your customers.”

  It was twilight, and we continued casing the business area of Justice, detouring into a few residential areas before we ended up at our hotel. Waiting for us was the clerk who had checked us in, and another man.

  “Ah . . . Mr. Millen and Mr. Cole. I’m Orneel Ahbutan, the owner of the Blue River Hotel. Normally, I would be happy to welcome you to Justice, but I’m terribly sorry, Rangul here made a mistake when you signed in. It turns out there are no rooms available. I’ll have to ask you to gather your belongings from the room he erroneously assigned you.”

  “That’s odd, Mr. Ahbutan,” said Millen. “I don’t believe Rangul bothered checking for other reservations when we arrived. We got the impression there were hardly any other guests. In any case, I’m sure you can make other arrangements for anyone else needing a room because we’ll be keeping the one we have.”

  The stated owner generated a prodigious amount of perspiration. Beads of sweat rolled from his thinning hair down both cheeks. In contrast, Rangul watched the ongoing conversation with rather clinical detachment. I was curious to get a chance to talk with the young man later.

  “Now . . . uh . . . I’m afraid I have to insist,” said Ahbutan. “I don’t want any trouble, and I have other guests to worry about.”

  “My uncle is mostly worried about the hotel getting shot up when Cherkoff’s men come looking for you,” Rangul piped up. “We got word from my sister. She works at the hospital and came running to him with news of two strangers who shot four of Cherkoff’s men. I might not normally agree with my uncle, but I can see his point. As it happens, there are three other occupied rooms near yours, and who knows what collateral injuries might occur when shooting starts?”

  “There’s an obvious solution,” said Millen. “You can just move the occupants of those three rooms somewhere else in the hotel. We’ll be keeping our room. I like the location. Makes it hard for anyone to sneak up on us, don’t you agree?”