Search for the Phoenix: Phoenix Series Book 2 (17 page)

Jiorgenson smiled. “I’ll bet Carl Wilkins is hiding there.”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Okay, tell me about the rest of their trip,” the captain said.

“They were there for two weeks, and then flew back, stopping at Oberck, probably for fuel. From there, they flew straight to Dawson spaceport. They spent the night in her aircar on the pad, and then went to Peters’ apartment the next morning.”

“What time did they arrive in Dawson?” Jiorgenson asked.

Baker looked at his notes and said, “Seven thirty-five PM.”

“Does that strike you as a bit odd, James?”

“What, sir?”

Jiorgenson paced back and forth as he said, “They arrived at Dawson spaceport at seven thirty-five—that would have given them plenty of time to shut down the aircar, pack their stuff, and catch a cab to Peters’ apartment. Why, then, did they spend the night in her aircar?” He stopped and faced Baker.

“That is a bit odd, now that you mention it. Maybe they were tired from their trip and didn’t want to deal with catching a cab and driving across town,” the ensign said.

“Maybe,” the captain said.

“Sir, how did we get Peters’ data unit?” Baker asked.

“Vice Admiral Tompkins sent it to me by courier,” Jiorgenson said.

“Yes, sir, but I mean… how did SACOM get it?” Baker asked.

“I don’t know, James. Frankly, that part worries me.”

* * * *

Captain Jiorgenson initiated a comm link to General Lance Nelson, head of SACOM Security Forces. A moment later, he heard, “This is General Nelson.”

“General, this is Captain Jiorgenson. There is a site in Zebulon that I need to have checked out by your security team.”

“I’ve been briefed by the first admiral on your investigation. I’m glad to help. Fill me in on the details,” Nelson said.

“I’ll send you a message with the coordinates. It is a tree-covered hill with two possible structures. I have reasons to suspect Carl Wilkins may be hiding there,” Jiorgenson said.

“If Wilkins is there, we can’t afford to let him slip through our fingers. I’ll send three squads with orders to bring back anyone they find on the site. They’ll leave this afternoon and arrive there after dark.”

“Thank you, General.”

* * * *

Dominick ‘The Weasel’ Waterberry stepped out from behind a tree and moved cautiously to the road leading up the hill. He’d been on the run for three days after being interrupted while breaking into a house in… whatever that town was called. He’d barely escaped, and he had kept running since, afraid the town constable might be tracking him. The Weasel didn’t like what the world was coming to. These days, it was hard for a man to make an honest living doing dishonest things. Picking pockets in crowded markets was good work, when you could get it. Shoplifting was another good job, but technology was making it more and more risky. Breaking and entering was his new specialty. He would watch for a house where a family looked to be going on a trip, leaving together and carrying lots of luggage. After dark, he’d let himself in and enjoy the hospitality of his unsuspecting hosts in the form of any valuables he could find, whatever food was still in the kitchen, and the contents of their wine or liquor cabinet. If he were feeling particularly bold, he’d even spend the night sleeping in a real bed, a luxury he didn’t often enjoy. Under the cover of darkness the next night, he’d pack up his newly acquired goods and leave. He’d sell the things that could easily be sold before the family returned and reported them missing.

For years, he had worked in a big city, and business was good. Over time, he began to feel that he was taking too many chances. He’d decided to move away to a less populated area. Fewer eyes and ears would certainly make his job easier. And it had, except for one detail he had neglected—away from the big city, he had almost no chance of fencing his stolen goods. After his first job out here, he’d gone into a jeweler’s shop to sell a ring, and the jeweler had recognized it. He’d actually recognized the damn ring! That had been a close call. Being fast on his feet had saved him. That was… two months ago. He’d learned his lesson.
Don’t try to sell handmade jewelry in the town where you stole it.

Now he was slow on his feet, walking up this hill, hoping there would be something to make the trip worth his time and energy when he reached the top. This road had been made for a purpose, after all. There had to be something at the top.

* * * *

Nolan sat on the bunk, quite possibly the same bunk in the same cell as his last visit to Hotel SACOM, though he guessed all the cells were identical. At least the light was on, for now. He had been given one meal. He wasn’t feeling hungry at the moment, so he guessed it was still the evening of his first day here.

The lock clicked and the door swung open. A SACOM lieutenant, whom Nolan recognized from his previous interrogations, entered and closed the door. “We meet again, Mr. Peters.”

“So it seems. I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but you’d know I was lying,” Nolan said.

“I understand. I just need to ask you a few questions,” the lieutenant said. When Nolan stared at him without commenting, he went on, “You and your lady friend, Ms. Carson, spent two weeks at your uncle’s farm. Why?”

Nolan gave him a puzzled look. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not a trick question, Mr. Peters. Why did you and Ms. Carson spend two weeks at your uncle’s farm?”

Nolan smiled. “You don’t have much of a social life, do you? Then again, given the way you treat people, that shouldn’t surprise me.”

“Answer the question!” the lieutenant snapped.

“Megan and I went to visit my uncle for two weeks for fun. We went horseback riding in the orchards and pastures. Megan got to know my uncle. It was a vacation,” Nolan said.

“What time did you arrive at Dawson spaceport when you returned?” the lieutenant asked.

“I don’t recall precisely. It was evening, maybe seven, seven-thirty,” Nolan replied, hoping he was remembering what Megan had told him.

“What did you do after you parked her aircar?”

“We went to bed,” Nolan said.

“At seven-thirty? Why sleep so early. Surely, after two weeks’ vacation, you couldn’t have been so tired you couldn’t manage the cab ride to your apartment.”

Nolan sighed. “You’re social life is showing again, Lieutenant. I said we went to bed. I didn’t say we went to sleep.”

“You had two weeks of vacation together, and you couldn’t wait until you got to your apartment?” the lieutenant asked.

This was getting embarrassing. Nolan hated this part, but he and Megan had talked it over and agreed to certain details. He would stick to their script as closely as possible. “Megan can be a bit loud, at times. We didn’t have many opportunities while we were visiting my uncle. As for my neighbors at my apartment, well, the walls are a bit thin. So, we decided to rock the aircar for the night.”

“I see,” the lieutenant said as he scribbled on a clipboard. “And when did you meet with Carl Wilkins?”

“I haven’t seen Carl since the day we were removed from the Independence several months ago,” Nolan replied.

The lieutenant tapped his pen on the clipboard for a moment, and then said, “I think that’s all for tonight. I want you well rested. Tomorrow’s questions will be more difficult, and we will be more insistent on getting the answers we need.” The lieutenant stood and walked to the door.

“I suppose that’s your way of telling me the torture will resume tomorrow,” Nolan said.

“Pleasant dreams,” the lieutenant said with a smile. He stepped out and closed the door. A moment later, the light went out.

* * * *

Ethan Peters was awakened by a humming sound. He knew all the night noises of the area, and this was not one of them. By the time he reached his window, the noise had faded into the distance in the east. He listened as the sound continued to fade, and then climbed back into bed and settled in.

* * * *

The Weasel was proud of himself. He had picked the lock on the back door in a matter of seconds. Breaking a window or kicking in a door was amateur stuff.
Always leave them guessing how you got in
was his motto. Having a modus operandi of ‘We don’t know how he got in’ was exactly what he wanted. Style—that was what he had.

Turning on a few lamps, he made his way around the first floor, getting a feel for the layout before beginning his search in earnest.

His investigation of the first floor was proving to be fruitless. It didn’t make any sense. The property alone was worth a fortune, so whoever owned this place must be loaded. He made his way to the study and stopped in the doorway. The far wall was lined with shelves, and the shelves were filled with… what the hell were they? Crossing the room, he cautiously ran his fingers over the things, which he now saw had writing on them. Finally, he pulled one out and examined it. Opening it, he was shocked to discover it was full of text. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” he read out loud. “What the hell is this?” He considered for a moment that the items might be rare and valuable. Looking around at the collection and multiplying the weight in his hand by… hundreds, he guessed, he knew there was no way he was going to carry them down the mountain and across the fields. He’d be lucky to manage taking a dozen. They could prove worthless, too, and then he’d be screwed. Slipping it back into its slot, he turned his attention to the desk.

Whoever lived here was a compulsive cleaner. There wasn’t a scrap of paper or old document lying about anywhere. Pulling open the top drawer, he found the usual sundry things, but nothing of obvious value. In the next drawer, he found a neat stack of papers and picked them up. The first page had a logo at the top and the name
Space Salvage Corporation
printed next to it. Below was printed
Carl Wilkins, President
. Finally, something made sense. The president of a big aerospace company—that was who owned this place. He couldn’t imagine the papers being of any value, so he shoved them back into the drawer. “Come on!” he said to the room. “This Carl guy must be loaded. Where is the loot?” Slamming the drawer shut, he stood and looked around, and then headed back to the living room. Taking the steps two at a time, he rushed up.

At the top of the stairs, he went into the first room on the left and turned on the light. Moving to the bed, he stripped the pillow of its pillowcase, and then went around the room examining things, occasionally dropping something into his makeshift loot bag. Pillowcases were light and durable, perfect for carrying away small, valuable items. Plus, he got some perverse pleasure from using his victim’s pillowcase to steal their stuff.

* * * *

Three SACOM interceptors landed at points evenly spaced around the target zone. Moments later, soldiers ran out of the ships and spread out, setting up a perimeter around the hill. Lieutenant Harris looked through his binoculars, searching for a light, or any other sign that someone was on the hill. Near the top, there was a faint glow coming from the window of a structure. He couldn’t tell what it was in the dark.

“According to satellite imagery, there is an access road on the south side of the hill. Sergeant Burris, I want you to take your squad up the hill. Search all structures, and bring back anyone you find. I’d like them to be alive and in sufficiently good condition to answer questions,” Harris said.

“Yes, sir. We’ll be careful,” Burris said. “How many people are we expecting?”

“The general believes a man named Carl Wilkins may be there. We aren’t expecting others, but anything is possible,” the lieutenant said. Burris saluted and ran off into the dark.

Harris opened a comm link to his entire command. “This is Lieutenant Harris. Sergeant Burris and his squad are going in. I want everyone else to maintain a tight perimeter around that hill. Nobody is to get out, and no one, I repeat, no one is to be killed. If anyone comes out, we want them for questioning. Harris out.”

* * * *

The Weasel switched off the last light upstairs before heading back down carrying the pillowcase, now nearly full. He’d found no jewelry or gold, just… things—things that might be worth a few credits to someone. He shook his head, thinking this Carl Wilkins guy didn’t know how to enjoy his wealth. The Weasel put the bag of loot on the couch and headed for the kitchen. It was long past dinnertime, and he was starving after his long walk. After dinner, he’d check the basement, having found the stairs leading down during his search of this floor.

The refrigerator was off, and the door was ajar. He knew it was pointless, but he opened the door farther. As expected, the shelves were bare. The pantry was full of non-perishables, which told him that the owner probably didn’t come here often. He considered this, wondering if he should make himself at home and stay for a few weeks. He deserved it, no doubt, after the way he’d been treated in that last town. Rummaging through the boxes, cans, and jars, he collected the makings of a decent meal. After he set them on the counter, he took a pan down from its hook and began looking through drawers for utensils.