City of Broken Lights Page 15

  “Thank you,” Katrina answered softly. Thankful the man seemed to be decent.

  “Don’t thank me,” Bert snapped. “Like I said, I don’t care one way or the other. I just want to get my cut. If you wind up dead, we won’t get paid.” Bert stared Katrina in the eye. “In other words, don’t wind up dead.”

  Bert gave Katrina a rough shove in the direction of the room that served as her prison cell to drive home his point. She stumbled before catching her balance in time to avoid falling down. Without being told, Katrina sat down on the cot. Bert bound her wrists and ankles again, firmly enough Katrina could not loosen her bonds but not tight enough to cut off circulation. He held up the restraint used to cruelly bind her elbows together and made eye contact with Katrina. “Don’t give me a reason to use this and I won’t. Understand?”

  Katrina nodded without speaking. Bert helped her lay down on the cot before stuffing the gag back into her mouth. Katrina watched him leave without glancing back. She closed her eyes and felt her body begin to shake. Without the pain of her shoulders, caused by binding her elbows together, Katrina succumbed to exhaustion, quickly drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

  A BRIGHT LIGHT PIERCED through the darkness, adding shooting pain to the dull, rhythmic pounding of his headache. Marshall opened his eyes only to close them again as the bright light blinded him. Placing his left hand over his eyes, Marshall was able to slowly regain his senses. He realized he was lying down on a cot. His hands and feet were free, his captors had not bound him. Sweat dripped into his eyes, irritating them further. His shirt clung to his back and chest, heavy with sweat. Marshall could feel his hair clinging to his head, soaked through with sweat like his shirt.

  “Ah, Ambassador,” a male voice announced. “I see you are awake.”

  Using his hand to shield his eyes, Marshall sat up on the cot. He turned his head away from the blinding white light and opened his right eye just enough to be able to see the palm of his left hand in front of his face.

  “It would help matters if you would at least aim the light in another direction.”

  The voice chuckled. “It would help you, Ambassador.”

  “There’s no point in this subterfuge,” Marshall answered in his diplomat’s tone. “I know your identity. How else do you think I knew how to contact you?”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room.

  “Point taken,” the voice answered, breaking the silence. “But my house, my rules.”

  Marshall shrugged. Arguing the point would not produce the results he wanted. “Your house, your rules,” he said agreeably.

  The voice chuckled. “I’m glad you’re a reasonable man, Ambassador.” Marshall could hear the source of the voice moving to another spot in the room. “Your message indicated you had a proposal to offer.”

  Fully aware a single misstep, a single misspoken word could dash everything irrevocably, Marshall gathered himself mentally. He leaned forward and looked down at the floor, providing relief from the blinding light.

  “I am not here to discuss whether or not your demands for the release of Katrina are unreasonable or not.”

  "Good," the voice barked. "Because the terms are actually quite fair!"

  “What is not reasonable is the time table,” Marshall challenged. He continued before the voice could disagree. “I am certain you will agree your demands are of a political and economic nature. These things cannot be rushed or nobody benefits. You won’t benefit, the Chancellor won’t benefit, and the people you are trying to help won’t benefit.”

  Marshall waited, hoping he’d not overplayed his hand.

  “You speak of benefitting as if this is some sort of a game we’re playing, Mr. Ambassador,” the voice droned. “I can assure you, it is not.”

  "I don't play games," Marshall fired back. "I negotiate. Good, well-negotiated agreements benefit every party involved. Think what you want, to get what you want, there will have to be some give and take.”

  "There will be no give and take," the voice roared. "Not beyond that of the Chancellor gives what I have demanded and in return, I hand her precious daughter back over to her."

  Marshall waited for the source of the voice to calm down. He listened for sounds indicating the speaker’s breathing had slowed down, that the pacing was more even.

  “If you push the schedule you have demanded,” Marshall said in an even, temperate tone, “nothing you want will be achieved. Unless anarchy, the total destruction of everything that’s been built on Athens II is your endgame. Because that is what you’ll get. The owners will never submit.”

  “So, if I understand you correctly,” the voice said sarcastically, “your precious Iron Chancellor can’t deliver.”

  “Not under the time restraints you are insisting upon,” Marshall replied. “But, there is a way. If you are patient, you’ll have your demands met, the Chancellor will get Katrina back, and the people of Athens II will benefit.” Marshall paused, waiting for an outburst from the voice. When it didn’t come, he continued. “There is also the added benefit of a transfer of a considerable sum of credits to an account of your choice.”

  “I’m listening,” the voice replied.

  JENNIFER TILTED HER head as she manipulated the cameras in the restaurant. She watched as the maître de led her Markeson and Cassandra to his regular table. Noting the microphones were picking up the pair’s conversation with clarity, she left the sound levels on their presets.

  “You couldn’t have expected this to last forever,” Markeson said.

  “Well you certainly led me to believe I was special,” Cassandra whined. “But I guess I should have seen this coming, what with you not standing up to that Sarah. I have never been so embarrassed as I was the night she showed up here.”

  “Cassandra, you need to learn to let go of things like that.”

  “Easy for you to say,” the blonde answered. “You have money, a great job, you know, you’re set for life.”

  “Now look here, Cassandra,” Markeson said in an affectionate tone. “Relationships like ours have a lifespan. When they’re over, they’re over.”

  “You don’t care about me,” Cassandra whined, pouting as she leaned forward, allowing her cleavage to spill from her low-cut blouse.

  “That’s not true, Cassandra. In fact, even though I’m ending things, I have an arrangement for you that I think you will find quite satisfactory.”

  The hint of a new gravy train was all it took for Cassandra to perk up and smile. Jennifer was surprised at how easy it was for Markeson to pass the blonde skank on to another man. Cassandra was every bit the gold digger Jennifer thought the blonde was. The mention of a new sugar daddy was all it had taken to prevent a scene.

  When it was all done, not only would Governor Rankin be in Markeson’s pocket, Jennifer would have leverage of her own. The collection of tapes and recordings of conversations would all be kept, carefully stored in her private memory banks with back up files on flash drives hidden in secure places only Jennifer knew of.

  There would be no more blonde gold diggers for Jennifer to have to share her Markeson with.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Marshall stumbled clumsily, the effects of the drug used to render him unconscious also left him disoriented and unable to maintain his balance. He squinted at the street light, trying in vain to read the street sign in the hope of learning where he was. He took two more steps and fell to the hard pavement of the sidewalk.

  Pain shot through his arms from the impact and his vision blurred. Marshall could feel the grit on his hands. Burning pain registered in his brain, informing the Ambassador he’d skinned both of his knees, ruining the trousers of his suit in the process.

  “Good night, sir,” a voice exclaimed. “My, but you are drunk as a skunk.”

  Closing his eyes, Marshall focused his thoughts, finding a path through the pounding in his temples.

  “Help me, please,” he managed to mutter.

  Rough hands helped Marshall
into a sitting position. Stale beer breath wafted over his face, nearly making Marshall vomit. The spell passed. Thankful for help from anyone, the Ambassador turned his face away from the outline of the homeless man’s face.

  “Can you hail a cab for me?”

  “Now, look here,” the homeless man laughed. “Do I look like a fare a cabbie would pull over for?”

  "Point taken," Marshall answered after taking another glance at the man. His vision cleared enough for him to read the colorful faux-neon sigh behind his new acquaintance. Marshall nodded towards the bar. "I bet the barkeep could get me a cab. Get me inside, and I'll buy you a couple of beers. How does that sound?"

  Marshall’s offer was greeted with a broad, toothless smile. “Best offer I’ve had all evening. ‘Ere, mate. Let me help you up.”

  After a few false starts, with the drunk’s help, Marshall made it back to his feet and inside the bar. Stationed on a barstool near the door, he was able to convey his need for a cab to the bartender, pay to keep his new acquaintance in beer for the night and slip the bartender a twenty-credit note for both his services and silence.

  The drunk might not have recognized him, but the bartender had.

  WE’D GIVEN UP FOR THE evening on finding the hooligans who’d harmed Mitch. I was convinced they were involved in Katrina’s kidnapping. Everything I’d learned about my daughter told me she was a smart girl. I had no doubts about Sarah’s hunch Katrina had escaped. If so, by this time Katrina would have found a way to contact her mother or someone who could have helped her reach a safe place.

  Without a word Sarah had entered our two adjoining hotel rooms, slammed the door connecting the rooms, and within minutes the sound of water running in the shower could be heard through the paper-thin walls.

  “This is the last thing I need right now,” I complained to Father Nathan.

  “She’s your partner,” he replied from his bed, lying on his back, arms behind his head while he stared up at the spider webs on the ceiling. “You need to talk to Sarah.”

  “She’s being childish. Katrina’s life is at stake.”

  “Sarah knows that. It doesn’t change how she feels.”

  I could feel my blood pressure rising, and my face felt flush. "Sarah's acting like a child, not a professional."

  Father Nathan tilted his head slightly so he could look at me. "You are the one who insists I never forget Sarah may look like a mature woman, but she's only eight chronological years old. Sully, you, sir, have forgotten your own advice. Sarah is as much a child as she is a grown woman."

  My friend had a point.

  “Fine,” I barked at him. “When I get a chance, I will sit the little minx down and see what’s got her so upset.”

  I had no desire to argue with Father Nathan or Sarah. I needed to think. If I didn't sort out the craziness in my head, I would never find Katrina and the criminals responsible for her abduction.

  I needed fresh air. I needed to be alone.

  “I’m leaving for a walk. Don’t wait up, I need to think, sort some things out.”

  Father Nathan yawned and resumed his watch of the bizarre spider watching him from its silvery web.

  “Sounds like a plan,” was his response.

  “Don’t let Sarah out to roam. The last thing I need is for her to get grabbed.”

  I didn’t hear his mumbled response as I shut the door behind me.

  THE MEETING HAD NOT gone as he'd planned. The Ambassador's request to meet had not been a surprise. The proposal the man had offered had been. It had come as a complete surprise, leaving him unprepared to maximize the opportunity. He hated being surprised, not having the upper hand. Too much of his life had found him in such a position, powerless and impotent.

  His initial reaction was a blind desire to kill the Ambassador and send his head back as a message to the Chancellor. Something had given him pause. He discovered he had a newfound respect for the Ambassador, long believed by many to be the brains behind Chancellor Vanzetti. The invisible hand that guided the woman to the top of the political food chain on Athens II and positioned her to move on to the regional government of the Alliance. His brief meeting with the man confirmed the rumors were true.

  Marshall had told him as a negotiator, the goal was for all parties to obtain what they needed if it was at all possible. The man's insistence the mandated timetable was untenable had angered him, nearly driving him into a rage that would have sealed the Ambassador's fate. But the proposal had merit.

  Patience was a virtue, a proverb he frequently told others. An attribute he needed to exercise more himself. The proffered deal was a good one. A large cash payment now, not a bank transfer, he'd insisted on that. Return of the girl, more or less in one piece, to Vanzetti. Maintain control over the workers until the next election. Vanzetti would not run for re-election, instead seeking an appointment to the regional planetary government. One Ambassador Marshall assured him was already in the works. So long as the Chancellor maintained control on Athens II.

  Marshall had mentioned two names. One of the names was unacceptable. The man would be as big a challenge to deal with as Vanzetti. The other was a puppet, easily controlled and unable to stand on her own. Chancellor Vanzetti's endorsement combined with her political machine would ensure the puppet's ascendance to power. Within months of the election, a few well-timed strikes turned violent combined with the sabotage of the planetary shipping facilities, and chaos would rule. New Paris would burn. The workers' revolution would begin, just as it had in St. Petersburg on Old Earth all those many long centuries ago.

  He would have his revolution. Even better, he would be a wealthy man before the anarchy started. It would give him options he wouldn’t have otherwise.

  Perhaps he’d even insist the Ambassador remain for a few years, help him establish his control over Athens II.

  THE WATER STOPPED RUNNING. Father Nathan sighed at the sound. Sarah would emerge in a few minutes, dressed in a clean pair of pants, a t-shirt, and her boots. He was confident the young woman would sit at the table with soaking wet hair and comb out her long, dark tresses in silence. Staring at him, hoping for answers to questions she didn't know how to ask. Things Sarah needed answers to, deserved them even. Questions Sully needed to answer for her, not him.

  Like Sully, Father Nathan needed to clear his mind. His spirit was troubled by something he could not discern, an evil he’d sensed but not recognized. An evil that was part of the troubling situation the group found themselves in.

  The door opened, and as he’d feared, Sarah appeared, dressed as he’d imagined with her long, damp hair draped over a towel wrapped around her shoulders. In Sarah’s right hand was the very tools to tame her hair, given to her by Alice.

  Alice, the waitress at Joe’s who supervised Sarah’s feminine needs and training for Sully, had been a godsend for the three of them. Sully was helpless when it came to the feminine side of Sarah. Like any young girl growing into womanhood, Sarah needed a gentle, patient older woman to help, to share wisdom when it was needed. Alice and her cabbie husband Ralph were a blessing for his parish as well.

  Unable to have children of their own, the couple had been invaluable in his efforts to get the street kids off the street, to help him meet the needs of the poor and homeless in his parish. Father Nathan knew it was Alice who’d gotten Joe to donate the unused food from each day’s service at his tavern and restaurant to the parish soup kitchen. Some days it was obvious Joe had ordered Cook to make sure there was an abundance of food for the hungry.

  Now, Father Nathan found himself praying for God to give him the wisdom of the saintly woman who worked so hard and served so many.

  His heart was burdened by the sight of a sad and distraught Sarah. “I know,” the priest finally said while Sarah carefully worked the tangles from her hair. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  His heart grew heavier as tears began to fall down Sarah’s pale cheeks. She didn’t sob or show any other emotion. The tears were nothing more than a
n overflow of emotion the young woman couldn’t contain any longer.

  “I know this much,” Father Nathan told Sarah, sitting up on his bed. “You mean more to Sully than even you realize. More for certain than Sully is capable of admitting to himself.”

  “It isn’t fair, Father.”

  “I agree, Sarah,” the priest responded, praying he could find the words of healing and peace Sarah needed to hear. It pained him when he could not.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Panic filled Vick as he hurried about the large room where donated clothing and other items were warehoused. Pastor David was nowhere to be found, and a police Inspector had dropped in unannounced with questions Vick couldn't answer. His stomach sank, and his anxiety increased at the realization he would have to deal with the cop himself, something Vick had never been good at.

  The huge cop with the nasty facial scar was sitting where Vick had left him in the reception area. There was no point in stalling or being deceptive. Experience had taught Vick cops instinctively sensed when someone was evasive. Once they sensed deception, it was like the smell of blood for a predator, there was no end to the trouble the cop would cause.

  “Pastor David ain’t here,” Vick announced.

  “Do you know when he will be back,” the scarred Inspector demanded.

  “No. I didn’t even know he was gone. Ain’t like Pastor David to just up and leave without telling me.”

  The cop stood up and reached into his pocket, producing an old-fashioned card with a comm number on it underneath a name. “I’m Inspector Sullivan. This is the number to my comm. Have Pastor David contact me when he returns.”