Asteroid Outpost (Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal Book 1) Page 7

  A new graphic appeared on the display and Murray keyed instructions. The cradle began to sink below the tunnel floor into an airlock. They waited nearly a minute for the lock to pressurize, then a door opened and the cradle conveyed them forward, through a narrow tunnel, and finally emerged in a large, well-lit space that looked like a parking bay. Nick saw five or six other vehicles there, and the conveyer delivered them to a parking spot not far from an exit door. A message flashed on the console display and Murray began powering down.

  “That’s it. You can unstrap.”

  Nick followed Murray’s lead, letting him exit the vehicle first. When he crawled out of the hatch he was surprised how cold it was—his breath was frosting—but he was breathing real air and was able to stretch his legs. He hadn’t realized how cramped the cockpit had been.

  “Bring all your gear,” Murray advised. “Rule number one—never trust anybody out here, even if they’re wearing a badge. You just never know.”

  Nick retrieved his space bag, wishing he’d also packed a heavy jacket.

  “What’s rule number two?”

  “There is no rule number two. Let’s go.”

  Caribou Lake

  The hatch from the parking bay opened into a short corridor with two elevators. Nick and Murray took one that rose for nearly a minute before stopping. They emerged into another corridor that branched off in two directions. No signs were posted offering directions, but Murray seemed to know where to go, and Nick followed as he turned left. The corridor was narrow, lined with metallic siding, and felt very much like being on a spaceship. It opened into some kind of lounge with chairs, couches, and scattered vending machines. Three more corridors opened off in three directions, none of them marked, and Murray made another turn as they continued walking.

  “Place isn’t exactly designed for tourists, is it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where’s the lake?”

  “What?” Murray spun around in surprise.

  “Caribou Lake,” Nick deadpanned. “I was just wondering.”

  “Shit!” Murray resumed his stride and Nick followed, shaking his head. The man had no sense of humor.

  Two or three turns later they came to their destination. This door actually had a sign—FARRINGTON SECURITY. Murray plowed through without knocking and they found themselves in the lobby of what looked like a police station. An elderly woman behind a counter was talking on a radio and didn’t bother to look up. Several desks cluttered the small office space, but only one had an occupant. He was about Murray’s age, Nick guessed, and didn’t look any more pleasant. He regarded the newcomers with a scowl and got up slowly, as if stiff from sitting too long. He was wearing a faded uniform with the word FARRINGTON on a shoulder patch.

  “Looks like the motherfuckers have landed,” he said gruffly. “One motherfucker in particular.”

  Still scowling, he limped toward the counter, his eyes sweeping the two U.F. Marshals as if they carried the plague. Russ Murray leaned his elbows on the counter and stared right back at him.

  “If it weren’t for the motherfuckers,” he said evenly, “the assholes would have become extinct a long time ago.”

  The other man shook his head. “That’s not true. The cocksuckers are our allies now. And we can always recruit extra slapdicks if we need them.”

  Murray broke into a grin and extended his hand. The other man grabbed it and they both burst into laughter.

  “Russ Murray! How long’s it been, motherfucker?”

  “Too goddamn long, asshole. How’ve you been?”

  “All things considered, not too bad.” The other man slapped his leg, and Nick heard the clink of metal. So that was the reason for the limp—he had a prosthetic leg. “Could have been a whole lot worse.”

  Murray nodded and stepped to one side to include Nick.

  “Jim Keating, meet Nick Walker, United Federation Marshal.”

  Keating stared at Nick a moment, his smile fading.

  “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed. “They’re robbing the day-cares now! Is he old enough to wear that gun?”

  “Damn right he is! Ex Star Marine. This kid’s a certified war hero.”

  Keating smiled and took Nick’s hand. His grip was strong and warm.

  “Just fucking with you, Nick. Not much entertainment out here, so we pick on each other.”

  Still amazed at Murray’s introduction, Nick grinned and accepted the handshake.

  “No problem. Just call me slapdick.”

  “You guys want some coffee?” Keating opened a wing gate for them to pass through. “I think we have a fresh pot, not more than five or six hours old.”

  He led them through the office into a lunchroom with a table and six chairs. The coffee smelled strong and bitter, but Nick accepted a cup anyway. He took a chair at the table with Murray and Keating, carefully sipping the scalding brew. Murray turned to Nick.

  “Before we start,” he said, “remember what I told you about rule number one? Well, this guy is the only exception to that on this entire asteroid. Just so you know.”

  Nick nodded and Murray explained to Keating.

  “I was telling him about the high standards Farrington Security sets on its hiring practices. Just in case he wanted to apply.”

  Keating grinned, but without humor. “From the look of him, I don’t think he would qualify. Too much integrity.”

  Nick, though enjoying the deadpan banter, tilted his head.

  “So why do you work for them?”

  Keating shrugged. “At my age, with my disability, not too many jobs available. When I first took the position I thought it was honest work. By the time I figured it all out, it was too late.”

  “Your disability…”

  Keating slapped his artificial leg. “Lost it in an airlock accident.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow. “Airlock accident?”

  Keating shrugged. “Actually it was bitten off, but Farrington didn’t want to pay for hazardous duty so they falsified the accident report.”

  Nick glanced at Murray, who nodded with a straight face. Clearly both men were screwing with him, but he didn’t press the point. He pretended to go along.

  “If it’s not too personal, how come you didn’t get a bio-regen? I’ve heard they’re as good as the real thing.”

  Keating nodded. “I heard that too, but they’re damn expensive. Company wouldn’t spring for it.”

  He turned back to Murray.

  “You got here pretty quick. You here about the missionary kids?”

  Murray nodded. “Doesn’t take us two weeks like it does some people.”

  Keating scowled angrily. “I would’ve called you ten days ago. I’m pretty sure those girls are no longer at Caribou Lake. But you know my captain.”

  “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “Enough said, then.”

  “You think the girls are even alive?”

  “Oh, yeah. You oughta see them, Russ—they are two gorgeous kids. Young, fresh, innocent—nothing like that has been seen around here for years. Maybe not ever. Girls like that are worth a fortune in this environment.”

  “Forced prostitution?”

  “Exactly. Men out here will pay huge for ten minutes with one of them. I suspect they’re very much alive somewhere, but…”

  He compressed his lips and cleared his throat, as if the rest of the thought was too painful to speak.

  “No longer in pristine condition?” Murray offered.

  Keating nodded. “Yeah, that pretty well sums it up.”

  “You’ve checked the whorehouses?”

  “First thing. Turned them inside out, but the girls weren’t there. We’ve also been all over this asteroid. Only so many places you could hide someone, and they all came up clean.”

  “What about private quarters?”

  “Everything. We practically declared martial law, violated privacy rights, everything. Searched all vehicles, personal and commercial. No girls.”

  “Where’s
the father?”

  “Holed up in his quarters. He was a royal pain in the ass for the first few days—understandably—but I think he’s just about given up on finding his daughters alive. Spends his time praying and reading his Bible. We have a medic checking on him every few hours to make sure he eats.”

  “We’ll want to talk to him.”

  Nick had been listening, but now interrupted with another question.

  “You said you checked everyone’s private quarters. Does that include security personnel, too?”

  Keating stared at him in surprise, then his eyes glinted with humor as he glanced at Murray.

  “Kid learns fast.” He looked at Nick again and nodded. “Yeah. Everybody.”

  “How many people are there on this asteroid?”

  “Couple of thousand. There’s a small mining operation here, but mostly this is a community center for other operations in the area. Only about half the people here are miners; the rest work for the resort.”

  Nick’s eyebrows shot up. “You call this a resort?”

  Keating nodded. “Caribou Lake Enterprises. To the people out here it’s Aspen and Vegas and Coney Island all rolled into one.”

  “How many women are here?”

  “Maybe a hundred. They all have day jobs, but most of them also moonlight.”

  “Moonlight?”

  “Yeah.” Keating’s eyes bored into him. “Do I need to explain what ‘moonlight’ means?”

  Nick had the grace to blush and shook his head.

  “How long were the girls missing before you started investigating?”

  Keating sighed. “We’re not absolutely sure. The reverend came to us and said he couldn’t find his girls, but he wasn’t clear about when he’d seen them last. So it could have been a few hours.”

  “Was there any space traffic around that time?”

  “Couple of arrivals, but no departures.”

  “Where you going with this, Walker?” Murray demanded. “You have something on your mind?”

  Nick nodded, gazing from one man to the other.

  “The girls are still on the asteroid.”

  Chapter 9

  The man who walked into the lunchroom ten minutes later was about thirty-five, slender and fit. His uniform looked new, more expensive than Keating’s. Bars on his shoulder designated his rank and he sported a late model laser pistol that looked twice as powerful as Nick’s. Nick figured it must have cost a fortune, considering import costs and the fact that the design was less than two years old.

  Keating got stiffly to his feet as the man came in, and the two marshals also stood.

  “Captain Guthrie, you remember Marshal Murray.”

  Guthrie nodded abruptly, but didn’t smile or offer to shake hands.

  “And this is Nick Walker, also a U.F. Marshal.”

  Nick nodded deferentially, but Guthrie’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Nick Walker? I’ve heard that name before. You the one that got the best of Turd Murdoch?”

  Hairs prickled on the back of Nick’s neck—word surely traveled quickly in the Asteroid Belt!

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Better watch your back. I hear Turd is gunning for you.”

  Nick nodded solemnly. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  Guthrie poured himself a cup of the greasy coffee, then turned to face the visitors again. He was a thin man, almost gaunt. His nose was bony and his eyes sat too close together; he wore a perpetual scowl that didn’t improve his appearance one bit. His thinness made him look taller than he actually was.

  “You’re here about the girls.”

  “That’s right,” Murray said.

  “I’m afraid you’ve wasted a trip. We’ve turned this rock upside down and they’re not here.” Guthrie pulled out a chair and sat down, placing his coffee cup on the table. “I figure they were dead within hours of the kidnap. Probably a rape-murder. They were lookers, both of them, and we don’t get many of those out here. Some of the local scum probably grabbed them, fucked them, and pushed them out of an airlock.” He shook his head sadly. “Most likely, if they ever do turn up, they’ll be floating in space a few hundred miles from here.”

  Murray asked a few benign questions, but received the same answers Keating had already provided. Guthrie sipped his coffee, and five minutes later glanced at his watch.

  “Well, good luck, Marshal,” he said to Murray. “I’ve told you everything I know, but you can work with Keating if you think he can help. I have another commitment, so I’ll say good-bye.”

  He got to his feet, nodded briefly, and left.

  Silence hung in the room for twenty seconds after the door closed, and the three men at the table looked at one another.

  “Bullshit,” Nick muttered.

  Keating burst into laughter.

  “What’s his story?”

  Keating shrugged. “Company man. Started out on Ceres, worked his way up breaking heads in lockup, and got promoted to captain. They sent him here to run the Caribou Lake office and he ain’t done a lick of work since.”

  “Pretty cushy job.”

  “Well…ain’t nothing cushy about living here, but…relatively speaking? Yes.”

  * * *

  The Reverend Crawford Sledge was in his late fifties, rotund and bulbous, with a tangled set of Old Testament whiskers that, had he not been wearing a clerical collar, would have distinguished him as one more besotted miner taking refuge in the Asteroid Belt. When Keating knocked, Sledge opened the door and let the three of them into his quarters. Nick glanced about with a lawman’s eye and noted the tiny apartment’s disheveled appearance; Sledge himself looked completely sleepless and strung out; his eyes were red and puffy, as if he’d been crying, and his white collar was stained. Sledge cleared a couple of chairs of religious pamphlets and pushed them toward his guests. Murray and Keating took the chairs, Nick leaned against the bulkhead. He was alert for the smell of alcohol, but didn’t detect any.

  Keating made the introductions and Sledge nodded listlessly.

  “Reverend,” Murray began, “what can you tell us about what happened? When was the last time you saw your daughters?”

  Sledge stared at the floor, his thick grey hair bushy and tangled. He rubbed his nose with a finger and battled his emotions as he tried to remember.

  “We held a gospel service that evening,” he said. “Martha and Mary were assisting me. Mary played the pneumo and Martha led the singing.”

  He peered anxiously into Murray’s eyes.

  “Please find them for me, Marshal! They’re all I have left in the ‘verse!”

  “That’s why we’re here, Reverend,” Murray said with a gentleness Nick hadn’t expected. “How long did the service last?”

  “Hour, hour and a half. I usually like to keep the sermons around thirty minutes, long enough to deliver the message without boring everyone. Then we have the song service and personal testimonies…and altar calls. All that takes about an hour.”

  “Where were the girls during the sermon?”

  “They were moving around. I encourage visitors to follow along in the Bible, you see, and most of them don’t know how to find the scriptures, so the girls help them. I find the men are more attentive if the girls pay them a little attention.”

  “And when the service was over? Where were they then?”

  Sledge frowned, his eyes narrowed in thought.

  “That’s where my memory fails me. The men were standing for the final hymns, and I lost sight of the girls.”

  “How many men were present?”

  “Oh, Lord, I’m not sure—the hall was full, so…maybe a hundred, hundred and fifty.”

  “Were they all miners?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know that, sir. They looked like local men, but some of them were probably employees here on the asteroid.”

  “At what point did you notice the girls were missing?”

  Sledge cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

  �
��It was during the cleanup. I was picking up songbooks and Bibles—we have to provide both, you know—and I realized I was all alone. Usually the girls are helping me, but they just weren’t there.”

  “And what time was this?”

  Sledge shook his head slowly, calculating.

  “The service started about seven-thirty, so…nine o’clock? Maybe a little later?”

  Murray glanced at Keating, then back to Sledge.

  “How long did you wait before reporting their disappearance?”

  “I’m not sure. It was a couple of hours, at least. First I came back here, thinking maybe one of them was taken ill—their room is right next door—and then I hunted all over the asteroid for them…at least the places I was allowed to go.”

  “Do you have any holos of your daughters?”

  “No, sir, but I have some flat photos.” Sledge stood and crossed to a dresser, where he pulled open a drawer and extracted some glossy digitals. He handed copies to Murray and Nick.

  Nick gazed at the photos without expression, but his heart began to pound in his chest. One girl was blond, the other brunette, and both were absolutely stunning. The photos were studio portraits, carefully posed; each girl was in semi-profile, facing slightly away from the cam and looking back over her shoulder—not at the camera, but at Heaven. Each had a beatific smile on her face, presumably reflecting the joy in her heart—perfect complexion, perfect white teeth, long hair brushed and gleaming.

  The longer Nick stared at the photos the angrier he got.

  “Reverend,” he said, his voice edgy, “how old are these girls?”

  “Seventeen and nineteen,” the man told him. “Martha—she’s the blonde—is nineteen. Mary is the brunette.”

  “And I assume they’re both virgins?”

  Keating and Murray spun to look at him, shock in their eyes. Sledge jerked upright as if he’d been shot.

  “I should certainly think so!” he sputtered. “What kind of question is that?”

  “What’s your problem, Walker!” Murray demanded. “What difference does that make?”

  Nick took a step forward and tossed the photos on the bed.

  “Because anyone who would bring two innocent girls to a place like this is either out of his mind, or he’s a goddamned fool!” Nick paused to let the shock sink in. “Unless…he was planning to rent them out.”