Psychic Killer 4/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
With a dazzling smile, she turned and led the way toward the rear of the room, where a section had been cordoned off and labeled with a sign reading: "Reserved for Conventioneers". She seated them at a large table, covered with a white, linen cloth and sparkling with silver and crystal. Two lamps flickered reddishly, reflecting and glinting off the table settings and their faces, in the low lighting.
Mark picked up his menu and studied it. His previous trips to New Hawaii had not included high end restaurants, and he didn't recognize most of the items listed. How the devil was he supposed to order without embarrassing himself?
A pretty cocktail waitress appeared, took orders for drinks and departed. Almost at once, someone else set a tray of hors d'oeuvres on the table. "Are you ready to order?" she inquired.
This was it. Linley kept quiet and waited for Alan to order, listened carefully to his pronunciation of the strange words and copied him. Alan never ordered anything too weird, so he was safe following his partner's lead. Then, he saw Lyn get a distant look on her face and realized his partner's pretty wife was asking for advice. Lyn, although the daughter of a former high-ranking Patrol officer and raised in fairly elite circles, had been born on Corala. Polynesian food was as new to her as it was to Mark.
The waitress finished taking orders and departed, her grass skirt swishing softly about her knees.
Terry and Quade were silent, watching Alan. Of course, they knew why the Armageddon Team was here -- because of the attempt on Jim Francois' life. Alan sat, apparently relaxed, in his chair, watching the fire dancers. He wasn't really relaxed, Mark knew, but only someone closely acquainted with him would have been able to tell. The situation was delicate; no one likes to be suspected of attempted murder and Alan's presence here might be resented by the people who numbered among the suspects.
Terry and Quade were waiting for Alan to speak. Mark studied them, casually. Quade appeared troubled. His face was unusually sober, but that was natural. Terry was a tall, slender Caucasian, with an eye color between blue and grey in shade, and hair of a medium brown, peppered with white. The man was probably not much over fifty -- fairly youthful, nowadays, when the lifespan averaged a little over two centuries -- but his face was prematurely lined. Being the CO of an Underground base was a stressful job, he realized. It tended to age a man fast.
The cocktail waitress was back. She set drinks before them and departed.
"I like the fellow with the torch in his mouth," Alan said quietly, to Quade, who was seated next to him. "He makes it look easy."
"Looks to me like he's going to burn something off any minute," Quade replied, softly. Lyn giggled.
"I hear you were at the luau when Jim got shot at the other day." Alan took a sip of his drink and glanced at Terry.
"That's right." Terry looked a little uneasy.
"Terry and I went down, together," Quade's deep voice cut in. "Along with Colonel Finnar."
"But, you didn't stay together?"
"Ever been to a luau here on the Maui, Alan?" Terry *did* sound worried, Mark thought. Surely, Alan was picking it up, too. "There must have been five hundred people there, at least. We were separated within minutes."
Alan sipped his drink again. "About what time did you go to the luau, Terry?" His voice was natural, un-accusing, but Terrance stiffened like a sabreclaw sighting game.
"About 1740, or so, wasn't it, Ed?" Terry glanced at his fellow colonel.
"Thereabouts," Quade rumbled. "And, if you're looking for alibis, Alan, neither of us has one. I didn't know anything about the shooting until a security guard found me about 2100. I was a little tipsy by then. That tropical punch they serve at the luaus is powerful stuff. Tastes like soda pop and has a kick like a mule." He sipped at his drink and regarded Alan directly. "That's all there is to tell."
Alan glanced at Terrance. The officer was staring morosely at the drink before him. "That's just about what happened to me, Alan. I'd had a couple of glasses of that damned coconut-pineapple fizz and was watching the dancers when a security guard found me."
"What time?" Alan asked.
"2100. Maybe 2130. I don't really remember."
Quade shot a quick glance across the table at his companion's bowed head. Mark saw Admiral Weaver frown.
Alan spoke softly. "Terry."
The man's head came up. "I don't have an alibi, General Westover!" he snapped.
"I know," Alan said, levelly. "I'm only trying to piece things together, Terry. Nobody's going to be arrested just because he hasn't an alibi. I'm going to be *certain* before I do anything of the kind. Take it easy."
Terry's expression relaxed slightly. "My dad always told me I had no head for liquor. I guess he was right. I don't really remember clearly what went on during those three hours but I'm certain of one thing: I didn't take any potshots at anybody with a needle beam. I like Jim. Why the devil -- begging your pardon, Admiral --" this with a quick glance at Anna Weaver, "--would I want to hurt him?"
"That, of course, is what makes the case so difficult," Anna Weaver said, slowly. "Nobody here has any reason to hurt Jim. Everybody likes him."
"Somebody doesn't," Mark said, flatly. "The person who tried to kill him."
Their food arrived during the silence that followed this remark. Linley examined the dish placed in front of him. It looked like glazed shrimp, smothered in some kind of fruit sauce with rice on the side, and a colorful, tropical fruit salad. The smell was ambrosial.
"Mark's right," Quade rumbled, after the waitress departed. "Somebody did it. I saw Jim after the guard called me back to the hotel. He was very upset, and had a nasty burn on one shoulder."
"Could it possibly have been an accident?" Lyn ventured, thoughtfully. "I mean, could it be that the murderer was really after someone else and thought Jim was him?"
The suggestion was greeted by silence. Everyone was looking at Lyn. She flushed pink. "I mean, since no one had anything against Francois, is it possible the murderer was after someone else?"
"I guess it's possible," Alan said. "But, in that case, we'd still have a murderer on our hands -- or would-be murderer. No one's actually been killed."
"Yet," Quade said, softly.
"Does anyone on sixth floor particularly resemble Jim?" Alan asked.
"Not me." Quade flashed him a grin. Alan chuckled.
Terry spoke up. "I guess you could say Colonel Baker looks a bit like Jim. He's only a little taller and his hair's the same color. They're built a lot alike, too. Of course, anyone who got a good look at him would know the difference. Ever met him, Alan?"
Alan shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Is there anyone on that floor who particularly dislikes Baker?"
Silence. Terry frowned. "Baker can be a prickly sort of guy, sometimes. I've no doubt he has a few enemies -- I guess all of us do. I've only communicated with him in the line of work, so to speak. I really don't know him well enough to give you any particulars."
"Ed?"
Quade shrugged. "I'm afraid I have to agree with Terry. Baker's not the gregarious type. I guess you'd have to ask him."
"I will," Alan said. He smiled suddenly and changed the subject. "This food's wonderful, ma'am. You were right."
Anna Weaver beamed at him.
**********
Chapter Five
Alan Westover entered his hotel room behind Lyn, and Mark turned to press the inner locking mechanism. The latch clicked softly into place. Alan went into the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water.
Mark appeared behind him in the doorway. "What's wrong, Alan? You look upset."
Alan sighed. "I hate assignments like this."
His partner made a face. "Yeah, I know what you mean. It's hell havin' to suspect your friends."
Alan dried his face and hung up the towel neatly. When he returned to the other room, Lyn was seated on one of the beds, flipping through a magazine, but Alan knew she wasn't reading.
"Easy, kids," Mark said, behind him. "It's got to be done, and most o' the folks seem pretty understandin'."
"Terry didn't," Alan said.
Linley sat down. "Yeah, what about Terry? I was wonderin' about him. He sure seemed nervous."
"It's natural to be nervous when you're suspected of murder," Alan said.
"Yeah, but if he's innocent, why the jitters? I noticed it an' so did everybody else."
"He got drunk," Lyn said. "He's probably been warned about taking it easy on the booze, and usually he does. Did you notice what he drank at dinner?"
Mark hadn't.
"Lemon soda." Lyn smiled faintly. "He's not a drinker, Mark -- can't hold his booze. But, the night of the murder attempt, he drank -- and everything got a bit fuzzy. And then, Security picks him up and starts questioning him about an attempted murder."
Linley nodded, slowly. "So, you don't think it's him?"
"Well ..." Lyn hesitated. "It could be, I guess, but I don't think so."
There was a tap at the door. Alan opened it to admit Wanda Blake, a folder in one hand. Behind her were two men in the blue and white uniforms of hotel employees. Both looked ill at ease. Wanda handed the folder to Alan.
"The map you requested, sir."
"Thank you."
"And these are Brian O'Hara and Ali al Hassad, two of our people. They were the off-duty employees with no alibi at the time of the incident."
Alan produced a smile. "Come in, please. I'm Alan Westover." He stood aside as the two men entered the room, uneasiness evident in their attitudes. Neither one had their shields up, probably to demonstrate to General Westover that they had nothing to hide. Their emotions were clear: uneasiness and resentment, as might be expected, but no fear. The younger of the two wore a bellhop's uniform, and the nametag on the breast pocket identified him as Brian O'Hara. He was short and stocky, with black hair and brown eyes. The other, al Hassad, showed his Arab ancestry well in his black hair and eyes, olive skin and fine-boned face. He would most likely be in the second half of his first century, Alan judged, noting the scattered flecks of grey in the shining, black locks. He also wore a small, neat mustache and beard, and his clothing was that of a maintenance tech.
Alan indicated chairs. "Please sit down. First, let me introduce my wife, Lyn and my partner, Mark Linley."
The two men reluctantly obeyed, sitting on the edges of their seats. Alan continued, easily, "As you know, we're trying to piece together the events of the evening, day before yesterday, and hopefully produce a clear picture of what actually happened." He surveyed their stiff faces and sighed internally. "I know it isn't pleasant to feel you're a murder suspect. Fortunately, no one *has* been murdered, but we do need to find out who shot at Colonel Francois, and why. If there *is* some kind of security leak, some sort of danger to our organization, then not only we, but the whole Terran Confederation could conceivably be at risk. Those who are innocent don't need to be afraid. Just tell me your version of what happened that evening. I'm interviewing everyone with any kind of connection to the sixth floor, in an effort to build as accurate a picture of the evening's events as possible. Tell me everything that you can about that evening that had any connection with Sixth. *Anything* might be important. I'm going to scan your surface thoughts as you do, to pick up extra details. I'm *not* going to look at any details of your personal lives that have no connection -- nothing below the surface. I'm sure you've already been through that with Colonel Blake." He added, quietly, "Remember, you may be helping to protect the Underground -- *and* the Confederation."
As he spoke, he watched the emotional output of the men. The apprehension level in both had dropped, and the resentment as well.
Al Hassad spoke first.
"I suppose I hadn't thought of it that way." A faint smile. "I certainly have no reason to shoot at Colonel Francois. My brother, Khareem, is a psychic at the Nova Luna base. He was among the boarding party when you took the Peacemaker in the Battle of Ladreen. You may know him."
Alan did, although not well. "Tell us about that evening. When did you go off duty?"
"At 1800 hours, sir. I was probably leaving the hotel about the time the attack occurred."
"And, no one saw you?"
"I was undoubtedly seen, but I doubt I was noticed. The public parking lot down the street is usually a madhouse at that hour, and it was no different that day."
"Did you notice anything odd on Sixth before you left?"
"No, sir. I was on the sixth floor just before quitting time. At 1730, I arrived on Sixth to repair a broken ventilator in Colonel Finnar's room, just before Colonel Finnar arrived, briefly. He made some remark, I believe, about investigating the Terran custom that we call a luau. I said something like 'enjoy yourself' and went back to my work. It took some time. Apparently, some conventioneer had amused himself by packing the shaft with foam insulation pellets and solidified it with cyanoacrylic glue. It was a while before I was able to remove the substance and replace the broken grill. By the time I left, Colonel Finnar had been gone perhaps fifteen minutes. I remember glancing at my chronometer as I waited for the lift; it was 1755. A minute or two later, the lift arrived."
"Was anyone around? Did you see anyone at all?"
Al Hassad shook his head. "No, sir. As I was boarding the lift, I heard a door slam and footsteps in the hallway, but I don't know who it was. The lift door closed too quickly."
"What did you do, then?"
"I clocked out by the rear exit at 1800 exactly and left the hotel. I headed for the lot where my groundcar was parked. After leaving the hotel, I saw no one I knew. I use that lot because of its easy access to one of the back streets which leads to my home. I arrived home at perhaps 1830. My wife was sleeping. She's expecting -- twins, sir -- and her doctor told her to rest. We went out for dinner. When I returned home at 2100, Colonel Blake's message was waiting, and I called the hotel. That's all, sir."
"I see." Alan smiled briefly. "All right, I think that's all. You can go."
"Thank you, sir." Al Hassad rose and exited. Alan turned to Brian O'Hara.
The young man met his eyes, levelly. "My alibi's no better than his, sir. I'm on flexible work hours. We all are, mostly. I left the hotel at about 1730 ... I clocked out about then, but I stopped to talk to John Bailey, who also works as a bellhop, so I can't be sure exactly when I left."
"And what did you do, then?"
"I went home. I have an apartment about halfway across town ... and I live alone. I get back and forth by ground scooter. A lot of us do, here on the Maui. I had a date that night, but Brittany had called me at work and cancelled -- said she had the flu."
"And, you didn't believe her?"
The young man's fists clenched. "No, sir. I think she's seeing someone else."
"So you know who?"
"Does it matter?" O'Hara's eyes blazed.
"Brian," Wanda said, softly.
He flushed bright red. "He's ... he's one of the dancers at the luaus. He can't be serious about Brittany. I know the guy. He's the love 'em and leave 'em type."
"What's he look like?" Mark asked, unexpectedly.
O'Hara looked at him. "He's like most of those guys -- handsome stud, with dark hair and big, brown eyes -- a little shorter than most."
Alan nodded. "So, you just went home?"
Again O'Hara's eyes met his squarely. "Yes. I had a few drinks and watched the null-grav polo match on the video, then went to bed. Colonel Blake says she tried to call me about 2200, but I didn't hear the phone." He hesitated. "I didn't hear about Colonel Francois until the next morning. I was late to work ... I'd overslept." Again, he hesitated. "I know it doesn't look too good, sir, but it's the truth. I had no reason to hurt Colonel Francois. I wasn't even sure who he was until Colonel Blake took me to see him. I have a sister who's a psychic at the Kri'il base, and my brother, Sean, was murdered by the Jils five years ago. I'm a loyal member of the Terran Underground! I wouldn't do anything like this!"
Alan could sense the young man's sincerity. Of course, all Undergrounders were trained in selective shielding. That was what made this job so difficult. If you could just read everyone's mind, there wouldn't be a problem. Still, an empath had to learn to trust his instincts to some degree, and his instincts said that Brian O'Hara was telling him the truth.
He stood up. "Thank you, Brian. I think you can go, now."
O'Hara went out. Wanda Blake looked at Alan. "What do you think, sir?"
"I think he's telling the truth."
"So do I." She frowned. "I *did* try to call him that night but he didn't answer, and he hasn't got an automatic record feature on his videophone. I called al Hassad, too, and, as he says, he called back later. I also talked to his wife -- before I got his story -- and hers corroborated his. She is, as he says, pregnant; very pregnant." Wanda smiled slightly.
"How about O'Hara?" Mark asked.
Alan nodded. "He certainly *could* have done it ... at least, he's as likely a suspect as all the other very unlikely suspects we've turned up so far. He has no alibi and he's in love with a girl he thinks might be jilting him."
"But, why take a shot at Francois?" Wanda asked.
"Who knows? From the description, the fellow looks a little like Francois -- at least in size and coloring."
"The dancers at the luaus don't have access to Sixth," Wanda said. "They're just employees, not Underground members. Only Underground members have access to Sixth, right now. Security measure. Brian knows that."
"Love does crazy things to people, and so does jealousy," Alan said. "Still, I can't see that boy getting up the nerve to murder someone."
"You never know," Mark said. "Look at the number of 'nice guys' who go crazy and start shooting people. Happens all the time."
"I know that." Alan sighed. "We certainly can't eliminate him as a suspect, but that doesn't leave out other possibilities, either." He knew he was stalling, postponing the inevitable. Might as well get it over with, he decided, glumly. "Wanda, I'd better go talk to Colonel Dean, now."
The woman met his eyes in perfect understanding. "All right, sir. Should I come with you?"
"I don't think so." He rose.
"Very well, sir. If you need me, I'll be in my office." She also stood up.
Alan grinned, ruefully. "Don't you think it's about time you stopped with the 'sir'? My friends call me Alan, except in the presence of higher brass."
"All right -- Alan." She hesitated on the name.
"An' I'm Mark." Linley scowled in mock-severity at her. "She's Lyn."
"Okay, okay!" The little colonel pretended to cringe and went to the door. "Good luck with Dean."
"Thanks," Alan said.
After she had left, Mark put a hand on his shoulder. "Easy, buddy."
"Do I look that nervous, Mark?"
"You look cool as a hibernatin' sloof." Linley had clearly let his grammar slide for the moment, and his accent as well. "It's only 'cause I know you s'well that I can tell."
Lyn glanced from Alan to Mark. "What's wrong with Colonel Dean?"
"You've never met him, honey?" Mark asked.
Lyn shook her head.
"Then, I won't prejudice you. Let's go."
Colonel Dean's apartment was right at the intersection of the hallway, and the would-be killer that Francois had glimpsed had been standing within three meters of the door to his room. They went past Lyn's room, turned left, past the elevators, reached the second intersection and turned left again. Six paces later, they were before the door of Colonel Travis Dean's room. Alan knocked and stepped back.
"Come in!" Dean's voice said, from within.
Alan opened the door and they entered.
Dean was seated in an easy chair, his feet up on an ottoman. He was clad in a conservative, dark green dressing gown and on his feet were matching slippers. His hair was neatly combed, as always, but his face was flushed. A box of tissues and a steaming cup of something reposed on the table beside him. The video was on, and tuned to a news channel.
He came to his feet as he saw them. Dean was a slender man of medium height, in age, near the middle of his first century. His hair had begun to grey prematurely, and there were white streaks at the temples. He looked older than he had when Alan had last seen him.
"At ease, Colonel," Alan said, quietly. "Please sit down. You don't look like you feel well."
Dean obeyed. "General Westover," he said, his voice, as always, low and formal, betraying no emotion. "Colonel Linley. A pleasure, sir." He glanced questioningly at Lyn.
"Colonel Lyn Westover," Alan said. "My wife. Lyn, this is Colonel Travis Dean of the Riffel station."
Dean nodded, formally. "A pleasure, Colonel. Please sit down."
Alan sat on the sofa beside Dean's chair. Lyn sat beside him and Mark settled into a recliner next to the video, glancing at it. "Another damned flood in Scaifen, I see."
"Yes, Mark." Dean's lips compressed slightly. "I certainly hope our people are all right. Apparently, there have been quite a few deaths in the low-lying sections."
"There always are," Mark said. "And the Jils never do a damned thing to stop it the next time. I think they rely on the floods to clear out a lot o' the vermin ... an' that includes humans. You sick, Colonel?"
"I have a cold -- persistent one. Usually, I throw off such things easily, but not this time." He glanced across at Alan. "I know why you're here, sir, and all I can say is that I'm appalled at what has happened."
That was no lie. Alan could sense the genuine distress from the man's unshielded mind. "I'm told that you were here in your room when the attack occurred, Colonel."
"Yes, I was." Dean's expression became remote.
"You heard nothing?"
Dean shook his head. "I was just coming down with this cold. I'd felt rather ill, all day, so I came directly from the meeting to my room, had Room Service bring me some soup and went to bed early. I had some nighttime cold capsules and I took two of them. They must have really hit me hard, because I heard nothing, although this -- person -- apparently stood right outside my room." He shook his head, slowly. "Colonel Blake knocked on my door around 1900 or so and told me about it. Woke me up from a sound sleep. Lord, what an upsetting business!"
Alan rose to his feet. "Thank you very much for your cooperation, Colonel."
"If I can help in any way, you only need to contact me," Dean replied, formally.
"Thank you," Alan said.
Dean accompanied them to the door and they went out. He closed it after them.
Lyn rubbed a hand across her face. "My goodness!" she whispered. "What an unpleasant man!"
Mark grinned crookedly at her. "Was he? I thought he was perfectly polite and cooperative."
"Polite? Well ... I *guess*he was." Lyn sounded doubtful.
"You just didn't like him, huh?"
"No, it isn't that."
Alan took her arm, and they began to walk down the hall to the elevator. "It's just that *he* didn't like *me*!" She said it on a note of discovery.
"It isn't you, honey," Alan said, reassuringly. "It's that you're a psychic. Dean hates Terran psychics."
"Thinks you're all li'l perverts," Mark interjected. "An' I, for one, wouldn't put it past him to take a potshot at one of you, if he thought he could get away with it."
Lyn shook her head. "No ... no, Mark, I don't think so. He may not like us, but he doesn't have a violence-prone personality. I'm not sure he's even capable of violence, except, maybe, in the course of his duty. I got the impression his duty is very important to him."
"That's why he tolerates psychics, of course," Alan said, quietly. "It's his duty to the Confederation, and so he does. I think you're right, Lyn. Dean ..."
They were just passing the elevators as he spoke, and he cut off the sentence he'd been about to utter as the doors of one slid open and two persons emerged.
His first impression was that they were a man and a woman, then he saw that he had been mistaken. The newcomers were both male, and very tall, nearly matching Mark Linley in height. The one whom he had taken for a woman was very slender, with narrow shoulders for his height and almost effeminate in appearance, dressed in a conservative jumpsuit and waist length cape of a sober, navy blue. His face was smooth, with no trace of beard, and dark, faintly slanted eyes regarded them from beneath arched, shapely brows. The man's hair was also dark, and clipped close to his head.
His companion was a sharp contrast in coloring and body build. Blond, waving hair framed perfectly molded, very masculine features -- the type that could only be obtained through the most expensive of plastic surgeons of the Terran Confederation, who catered to the very rich. The man looked like a video hero, Alan thought. He was taller even than his companion, his shoulders broad and rippling with muscle, quite obvious through the snug, silky stuff of his tunic -- at least, the little that it covered. His whole appearance spoke of hard, finely-tuned muscle; the playboy athlete.
He was dressed in the very height of Terran fashion. His deep red tunic plunged to mid-breastbone; tight, black breeches flared outward at the ankles, swirling fashionably around his feet, which were clad in sandals of furred jackboar hide -- custom made, if Alan was any judge. Very likely, he'd tell you, if asked, that he'd shot the jackboar himself, too. A swinging, jet-black cape, edged with scarlet and silver fringe, completed the striking ensemble.
This, without a doubt, Alan thought, was Thurmond Osgood III and his confidential secretary, Henry Meeks.
The man regarded them coolly down the bridge of his strong, straight nose. "Excuse me, but this floor is reserved for members of the convention. You will leave at once, or I'll call Security."
Alan sensed, rather than saw, his tall partner stiffen at the man's contemptuous tone. Linley had been spoken to that way by too many Jilectans in his past, to take it well from anyone but a superior officer, which Osgood certainly wasn't. He stepped quickly into the silence that followed the man's words.
"We have clearance. You *are* Thurmond Osgood III and Henry Meeks, aren't you?"
"We are. Who the devil are you?"
Alan was careful not to change his expression, or show the annoyance he felt. "We're the special investigation team sent for by Colonel Blake, because of the unfortunate events the other night."
Osgood's nose went up a notch. "Police, eh? Show me your identification."
Henry Meeks was regarding them closely. Did he recognize them, Alan wondered. Their faces were not unknown in the Terran Confederation. They were on wanted posters in every transportation facility, post office and police station, and their pictures were periodically flashed across videoscreens as well.
Without a word, he pulled out his identification and presented it. Mark and Lyn did the same. Osgood took the little cards and examined them. The sour expression on his face deepened.
"Linley and Westover, eh?" He regarded them disapprovingly. "You're criminals, from everything I've heard."
Alan raised an eyebrow. "You *did* receive an indoctrination, Mr. Osgood, regarding the actual position of the Terran Underground with the Terran government?"
Osgood didn't answer. Alan continued, smoothly, "Now, since we *are* here to investigate the shooting, I'd like to interview the two of you, next."
Osgood's chin went up another notch. Alan wondered how long it would be before he was staring at the ceiling. "There's no reason for you to question either of us, Westover. We were with the Weavers when it happened."
"That's irrelevant," Alan said. "I still need to talk to you. Is there someplace we can go for privacy during the interview?"
"I repeat, there's no need!"
Alan was beginning to be amused. The senator's son was starting to sound like a spoiled child on the edge of a tantrum. "I'm sorry, Mr. Osgood, but I'm afraid I must insist."
Osgood went red in the face. "I'm the son of *Senator* Osgood of Bellian, Westover! None of this has anything to do with me!"
"I'm afraid that doesn't make any difference, sir."
"I have an airtight alibi, and so does my friend and personal secretary! This is preposterous! Out of my way!" He started forward, clearly intending to push Alan aside.
Mark stepped in front of him. Tall as the senator's son was, Linley was taller still, and somehow exuded an impression of power -- menacing power. Alan had no doubt that if Thurmond Osgood laid a hand on him, his partner would have the man sprawling on the plush carpet a second later.
Osgood evidently entertained similar thoughts, for he stopped.
Mark eyed him coldly. "The General needs to talk to you, Mr. Osgood." His voice was level. "I'd advise you to cooperate."
"*You* have no authority over me, *Mister* Linley!" Osgood's voice dripped contempt. "No common criminal ..." He broke off, apparently recollecting his briefing. Mark raised an eyebrow.
"The Weavers didn't object to an interview, Osgood. Why are you makin' such a stink about it? You got somethin' to hide?"
Osgood went purple. "How *dare* you! My father will hear of this!"
"Be that as it may," Alan said, firmly, "we still need to hear your description of that evening's events. Shall we go to your suite, or ours? It's your choice."
"I will *not*!"
"I'm afraid I must insist," Alan said, not changing his tone. "If you wish to make a formal complaint to Admiral Weaver later, you're at liberty to do so."
"I will! My father will hear of this!"
"So you said. Let's go."
Osgood didn't move. "I'll have you broken for this, Westover! I'll tell my father how you're abusing your authority! You'll be stripped of your rank! I'll having you crawling on your knees before me! I'll ..."
Mark snickered. "That'll be the day, Mister. Come on."
"I will *not*!"
Meeks spoke for the first time. "General Westover, I'm perfectly willing to tell you about that evening, but I'm afraid it won't help you. Mr. Osgood is correct. We were with the Weavers the entire time."
Alan glanced at him with more interest. "Thank you, Mr. Meeks. All that I'm trying to do at the moment is to build a complete picture of the evening. I'm not attempting to establish alibis. Colonel Blake has already done that."
"I see. Well, I'll certainly try to help."
"That's a refreshin' change," Mark said, sardonically. Alan hid a smile.
"You're from New York, Mr. Meeks?"
The man inclined his head. "Yes, General, I am. Manhattan district."
"You have a trace of another accent. What is it?"
"Another accent?" Meeks considered. "Well, I stayed on Bellian for a few years -- after I was full grown, of course. Perhaps you're hearing a touch of the Bellian accent."
"Maybe." Alan didn't think so, but it didn't seem important. "In any case, I'd like to get this business done, now. As you may know, time is of the essence. Shall we go to my suite? You too, Mr. Osgood."
"Nothing doing, Westover."
Alan shrugged. "Very well. In that case, I have no alternative but to inform Admiral Weaver of your decision. Come, Mr. Meeks."
"Wait." Osgood looked worried now, as well as angry. "I suppose you do have the right to question me, but I think you're damned impertinent about it. I never *have* liked you power-hungry military types masquerading as heroes. My father will be very interested when I tell him about this ..."
Alan waited.
Osgood hesitated. "Very well," he said at last, very ungraciously. "I'll agree to the interview. In my *own* room!"
"As you wish, Mr. Osgood."
Osgood's room was directly across the hall from Travis Dean's, so they retraced their steps, passed Dean's and entered Osgood's. Meeks closed the door behind them and gestured them to chairs.
"Please be seated. Would any of you like coffee?"
Osgood shook his head.
"General Westover? Colonel Westover? Colonel Linley?"
They declined politely. Alan addressed Osgood.
"You were with the Weavers when the shooting happened, I understand."
"I told you that already! This is a stupid waste of time!"
He ignored that. "Think back to that evening, please. What time did you go down to dinner?"
"About 1745. I already told Colonel Blake this, you little twerp!"
Linley started to rise to his feet. "Careful, mister. You[re speakin' to a general in Terran Military Intelligence."
Osgood grinned, mockingly. "I'm a civil employee, Pretty Boy. I don't have to be nice to any of you military bozos. My father ..."
"We know all about your father, Mr. Osgood," Alan said, feeling more amused than anything else. "And I doubt that he knows anything at all about the Terran Underground, except that we've seen fit to let the public know -- and that isn't much. Now, what happened after you went down to dinner? Was there anyone in the lift with you?"
"Only some guests of the hotel who boarded on lower floors," Meeks said, quickly. "No one we knew."
"And after that?"
"Meeks and I met the Weavers in the Molokai," Osgood said, mockingly. "They came skulking in while we were waiting to be seated. We went in to dinner together."
Alan waited for another insulting address, wondering what the Senator's son would come up with this time. Now was he disappointed. Osgood leered at him. "Anything else, you little psychic Napoleon?"
Alan raised an eyebrow at Mark, who met his gaze across the room. He had the look of a man trying hard not to laugh. The name-calling had the same flavor as that of a little boy of about five scrapping with a peer. "What time did you hear about the attempted murder?"
"About twenty-five minutes later, dwarf."
"Did anyone leave the table during that time?"
Meeks interposed, glancing uneasily at Osgood. "No, General. No one left the table."
"You don't have to be nice to him, Henry!" Osgood snapped. "They aren't your bosses, and they can't touch you."
"I beg to differ, Mr. Osgood." Lyn spoke up, softly. "You are now privy to classified information -- the fact that the Terran Underground is part of an official government agency -- to wit, Terran Military Intelligence."
"Huh? What are you talking about?" He turned contemptuously to her. "I don't take orders from any military clown!"
"Incorrect, Mr. Osgood." Her quiet voice had taken on the ring of authority. "I work in the legal section of our organization. In order to be indoctrinated with this sensitive information, you signed certain non-disclosure statements. You *have*, I trust, been informed as to the laws and regulations relating to unauthorized disclosure of classified information to uncleared persons, cleared persons who have not been indoctrinated and persons without a need to know?"
Osgood's face changed. Alan kept his expression blank. Lyn continued, "The High Chancellor's Executive Security Order of 2162, pursuant to the War Emergencies Act of 2104, regarding classified information, and disclosure of same, authorizes the safeguarding of such information with drastic measures, if necessary, ranging from protective custody, up to the employment of lethal force, if judged appropriate. For your personal information, Mr. Osgood, the War Emergencies Act allows the suspension of the civil rights of any person privy to sensitive information -- information that is vital to the security of the Terran Confederation -- for the duration of the emergency. This includes you. And that, Mr. Osgood, gives my husband, and any other officer of the Terran Underground in his position, the right to give you orders and have them obeyed."
Lyn sat back, her face utterly bland. Alan saw Mark hide a grin. Osgood was staring at Lyn, a dark red flush creeping up the smooth, muscular neck. The silence went on for several seconds and then Alan cleared his throat. Osgood jumped.
"Now that we've cleared that up, was there anything you noticed, Mr. Osgood, anything that happened during the meal that seemed unusual to you? Did anyone leave the table, say to make a phone call or visit the restroom? Did you see anyone leaving or entering the room in a hurry? Anything that seemed odd?"
The man stared sullenly at him.
"I noticed nothing," Meeks said, quickly, with an apprehensive glance at his employer.
"And you, Mr. Osgood?"
"No." The reply was barely audible.
"Did you happen to see anyone else from the convention in the restaurant?"
Osgood shook his head. Meeks considered for a moment and did the same.
"Thank you. I think that will be all." Alan stood up and went to the door. Lyn and Mark followed.
"Listen, you!" Osgood snapped.
Alan turned, politely. "Yes?"
"You can't do anything to me and you know it! My father is *Senator* Osgood! When I tell him how you abused your rank ..."
Alan interrupted him. "Mr. Osgood, your father is not cleared for a need to know. Telling him anything at all will be considered a violation of the High Chancellor's Executive Security Order, and result in your arrest, and possibly a charge of treason as well. Think it over." He started to open the door, then turned back. "Oh, and by the way, I'm confining you to the hotel for the duration of this investigation. Good night, Mr. Osgood." He glanced at the secretary and spoke more courteously. "Good evening, Mr. Meeks. Thank you for your cooperation."
In silence, they returned to their rooms. Mark ushered the two psychics through before him, entered behind them, waited until the door had clicked shut and burst into laughter. Alan grinned at him.
"Well, I feel better, Mark."
"Thought you might," Mark said. "I oughta know by now to keep my mouth shut when it comes to interpersonal relations." He put an arm around Lyn, stooping slightly to accomplish the gesture. "You rolled him out like a pie crust, baby. Spoutin' legalese at him like that knocked the wind right out of him. An' now, he can't even run cryin' to Daddy!"
"It helps to be able to see his weak points," Lyn admitted. "His father got him his position, you know, and has bailed him out of trouble that his mouth has gotten him into before. He's the senator's only son, and is apparently used to having his own way."
"Spoiled brat," was Mark's diagnosis. "An' high time somebody gave him a spankin'. Yours was a dilly, sweetheart. Do him good." He grinned. "Just don't ever let on to him that you broke regs by readin' his mind without his okay."
Lyn smiled, primly. "I didn't," she said. "That regulation specifies that psychics aren't to read their *comrades* without permission. He obviously didn't consider us such. Why should I consider him one?"
"Touche," Mark said. "How about that secretary of his? What did you kids think of him?"
Alan frowned. "He's a natural shielder -- the most complete natural shielder I've met since Tyler Brown. But there's something odd about him." He glanced at Lyn. "Didn't you think so, dear?"
She nodded, emphatically. "I didn't like him, much."
"Me, either," Alan said. "And I'm not sure why."
Linley grinned. "Your sexual preferences are different."
"What?" Alan felt himself turning red. "You mean, he --"
"I know it, pal, and you musta noticed it, too."
"Well, now that you mention it --"
"I've known plenty of his type, especially when I was a kid in the slums. Makes you kinda wonder about ol' Osgood, don't it?"
Lyn shook her head, as though unconvinced. "I've known gays before, Mark, and they don't make me uncomfortable. They're usually pretty likeable people. This guy was just too weird. I didn't like him at all."
"Well, maybe we should check a little deeper into his past, unless we come up with another, more solid lead." Alan yawned. "I'm tired."
"Me, too. It's been a helluva day." Mark stretched and also yawned tremendously. One fist brushed the ornate light fixture suspended from the ceiling. "Oops. Okay, you kids bed down in here, an' I'll sleep in Lyn's room." He grinned at the two psychics. "No, I insist. No one's gonna peek in on us durin' the night, an' you two need someone to cuddle up to after a day like this. Come to think of it, I could use somethin' t' snuggle, too. Mind if I crawl in with you?"
Lyn threw a shoe at him. Alan grinned. "I'll lend you my teddy bear, you big goon."
"G'night, kids. Pleasant dreams." Mark opened the adjoining door and went into Lyn's room, closing the door behind him.
Alan undressed, pulled on his pajamas and climbed into the single bed. Lyn, already in her nightgown, was brushing her hair before the mirror. She met Alan's eyes in the glass and smiled, looking small, slim and very young. She did not look like the mother of three children.
Alan held out his arms. "Come here, honey."
She dropped the brush on the dresser and went to sit beside him on the bed. He drew her close and felt her shiver in his embrace. "Are you okay?"
"I don't know. I feel strange, Alan."
Alan knew what she meant. He held her tighter. "So do I. Want to sleep in the bed with me? We're small enough for us both to fit, I guess."
"Yes, please." She crawled under the covers with him and snuggled against him. Her body was tense as a coiled spring. "Alan, I'm scared."
Alan felt it, too. Nerves, he told himself. The room in which they slept was only one room down from the lift where Jim Francois had stood when the murder attempt had taken place. Mark, sleeping in Lyn's room, was directly beside the spot.
The curtains hung limp in the darkened room and the hum of the air conditioner sounded loud. Again, Alan felt the sensation of anger and hatred which he had known out in the hallway when he had touched the walls where the would-be killer had stood. Lyn shivered against him. He held her tighter and kissed her forehead.
A knock sounded on the door of the adjoining room. Alan glanced toward it. "Come in, Mark."
Linley opened the door. He was dressed only in his pajama bottoms and his blond hair stood up on his head, as though he had run his fingers through it.
"You okay, Alan? You're sorta half-linkin' with me."
"I'm sorry, Mark. Am I keeping you awake?"
"Yeah, sorta. What's upsettin' you?"
Alan sat up. "I don't know. This whole situation, I guess."
"Relax. I'll be here in a flash, if you need me."
"Okay. Thanks, Mark."
Linley started to close the door. Lyn sat up. "Mark?"
"Yeah, honey?"
"Would you mind sleeping in here?"
"Huh?" Mark looked at his partner. "You *want* me to?"
"Please, Mark."
"Okay, pal, if you say so." Linley grinned and crossed the room to the vacant bed. "Man, I *hope* nobody walks in unannounced, or this is gonna look real weird." He glanced across at the two psychics as he crawled between the immaculate sheets. "G'night, kids."
"Good night, Mark."
"G'night, Mark." Alan lay down again and Lyn settled beside him, curling her small body against him. For some reason, the feeling of menace retreated, although it still remained a hovering cloud in the background. He glanced at his wife's curly head on the pillow beside him. She turned to look up at him in the darkness.
*Feel better?* her voice said in his mind.
*Yes, and I'm not sure why.*
*Me, too. I sort of had the feeling that Mark was in danger -- in there, alone.*
*So did I.*
Linley began to snore. Lyn smiled at Alan, her teeth gleaming in the dimness. *Good night, husband.*
*Good night, wife.*
Alan closed his eyes and relaxed. Consciousness began to fade and he slipped into the stage of half-sleep, half-wakefulness, where dream-images begin to form.
Suddenly, he was sitting upright in bed, his eyes wide open, his heart pounding. Lyn was also upright and clutching him. "What *was* it, Alan?" she whispered.
"It sounded like a scream." He swallowed hard.
Linley groaned and sat up, rubbing a hand through his hair. "What th' hell..."
"Did you hear it, Mark?" Alan whispered.
"Hear what?"
"Someone screamed," Lyn said. She hesitated. "At least, I think so."
Mark switched on the light. "I didn't hear nothin'. Alan linked with me, but he's done that hundreds a' times with bad dreams, before. You sure that wasn't all it was?"
Alan listened. All was quiet now, except for the soft hum of the air conditioner. "I guess that's all. Gosh, it sounded loud, but thinking back, I *was* beginning to dream."
"So was I," Lyn said.
Alan lay down. "Go back to sleep, Mark."
"Yeah, sure, kid." Mark also lay down, but Alan and Lyn lay awake for a long time, staring up into the darkness. An hour crawled by, then another, and, at last, Alan slept again.
The noise that pulled him out of sleep the second time was different. It was a soft, hissing sound that ceased before he was completely awake. Alan opened his eyes and looked around. All was still. Mark still snored lustily in the other bed, and Lyn's body was slack against his, her breathing deep and regular. The sound that had awakened him was not repeated. Seconds crawled by while he held his breath, every nerve straining, all of his psychic senses extended. Beside him, Lyn stirred.
"What is it?" she whispered, sleepily.
The crack of a blaster set to kill shattered the silence of the night. Instantly, Alan was on his feet, his own blaster, which had been tucked beneath his pillow, in his hand. The sound had come from the adjoining room that Mark had vacated at Lyn's invitation.
Mark grabbed him by the back of his pajamas. "*No*, Alan!" He moved to the door of the other room, a blaster also evident in his hand.
Lyn was at the videophone. "I'll call Security!"
Even as she spoke, there was noise in the adjoining room. The light came on and someone pounded on the door. "General Westover! Are you all right?"
Linley opened the panel, his blaster at the ready.
Jim Francois stood there, accompanied by Henry Meeks. Jim also held a blaster in his hand and both men were clad in pajamas. Meeks wore a dark red robe over his.
"What happened?" Francois demanded. He looked rather pale.
"It sounded like someone fired a blaster in there," Alan said.
"Yeah, I know. There's a big, charred hole in the middle of the bed!"
"What?" Mark charged through, past the two men. Alan followed.
Francois was right. As they entered the room, the odor of burned cloth made Alan sneeze. In the center of the bed, still smoldering at the edges, was a huge, black hole. Smoke rose lazily upward from the aperture. Linley swore unimaginatively.
Lyn appeared in the doorway. "Security's on the way." She looked at the bed and gasped. "Somebody tried to kill you, Mark!"
"Or you, baby. This is your room, remember?"
Two more figures appeared in the doorway: Travis Dean and Colonel Terrence.
"What the blazes is going on here?" the latter demanded. He saw the bed and drew in his breath. "Linley, are you hurt?"
Mark looked at him sharply. "Why me, Terry? This is Lyn's room."
"Why ... uh ..." The man looked confused. "Well, I guess I assumed that General Westover and his wife would be in a room together. Weren't they?"
They were interrupted by the arrival of Security and, a moment later, Admiral Weaver appeared, accompanied by his wife. Alan looked around at the robed, pajamaed people. Was one of these trusted men and women the person who had just attempted to murder Mark? Or, had the assassin known that Mark had changed sleeping quarters with Lyn? Was she the intended target?
The security guards were examining the burned bedclothing. Alan joined them.
"Standard blaster bolt, from the look of it," one said.
"Did you or your wife have any warning of this, General?" a woman's voice asked. Alan turned, to see Wanda Blake standing behind him.
He shook his head. "I thought I heard something a minute or so before the blast came. It must have been someone -- the murderer, I suppose -- burning out the lock with a needle beam."
"So, you heard the shot?"
Lyn spoke. "Yes."
"But, you didn't go in."
"I grabbed him," Linley said.
"Who arrived first?"
"Jim and Meeks," Alan said. He turned toward them. "You heard the noise in your rooms?"
Francois nodded. "I'm in the room diagonal to this one, in the other corridor. I woke up at the shot -- I've got good reason to recognize a blaster -- and came running. When I came out of my room, Mr. Meeks was just coming out of his."
The two men glanced at each other.
Alan turned to Meeks. "You're further away. You heard it, too?"
Meeks inclined his head. "I'm a very light sleeper, General. The sound woke me and I opened my door to meet Colonel Francois just emerging from his room."
"I see." Alan glanced at Colonel Dean. "You and Terry arrived a minute or two later. Did the blast wake you up, too?"
Dean grimaced, regarding the charred bedclothing. "No. It was the noise afterwards, I think. I'd taken another cold capsule after you left me and I guess I fell asleep in the chair. I woke up a few minutes ago, to the sound of people rushing up the hallway and shouting. I went out and saw Colonel Terrence just going by. I came with him."
Alan looked at Terrence. The man cleared his throat. "That's about what happened to me. I heard the commotion and came running."
Wanda Blake glanced around, then spoke to Meeks. "Where's Osgood?"
Meeks appeared uncomfortable. He glanced at Alan. "Uh ... he went out, right after General Westover questioned him. He said he wanted to be alone. I haven't seen him since. I suppose it's possible that he's back in his room by now, but I didn't hear him come in."
Wanda spoke to one of the security men. "Louis, go see."
The man departed. Alan bent over the burned bed again, then went to the door. Slowly and deliberately, he touched the wall, ran his fingers over the ruined lock. Again, he felt the sensation of hatred and anger, very like that which he had sensed in the hallway, the day before. He straightened up.
"All right, you can all go back to your rooms -- except you, Mr. Meeks, and Colonel Blake, please."
Slowly, the area cleared. Alan glanced at the lock. There was an alternate latch on the door -- a manual one, in addition to the electronic one that had been destroyed, and that one still functioned. Mark had not secured it the night before. He turned as the security man re-entered the room.
"Mr. Osgood isn't there, ma'am, and his bed hasn't been slept in."
Alan turned to Meeks. "Any idea where he would go?"
Meeks looked more worried than ever. "I really couldn't say, sir. He ... well, sir, he's not used to having people give him orders. I can't remember anyone ever -- uh -- scolding him so sharply, before." Meeks' hands fluttered. "Dear me, how distressing! This looks very bad for him, doesn't it? Still, angry as he was, I just can't envision him doing something like this."
"Better start lookin' for him," Mark said. He glanced at his chronometer. "Man! 0320!"
"Why weren't you in the bed, Mark?" Wanda asked. "I assumed you *would* be the one sleeping in here."
Linley glanced at Lyn. "I was invited to sleep in there with them. Alan an' Lyn were sharin' a bed."
"Oh, I see." Wanda Blake turned to Alan. "Premonition, General?"
"I guess so," Alan said.
"I'll have the bed replaced, and your door guarded, tonight," Wanda said. "tomorrow, we'll have the lock repaired and an alarm rigged to the doors of your suite. In the meantime, we'll start searching for Osgood."
Lyn voiced what they were all thinking. "But, he had a perfect alibi the first time! It doesn't make sense that there would be two murderers!"
"But, there *could* be," Wanda said. She sighed. "Gentlemen, it appears that we have another mystery on our hands."
"Well," Alan said, "I suppose we'd better try to get a little more sleep -- although, I doubt I can, now."
"Give it a try," Mark said. "Tomorrow's gonna be a long day."
Alan went back into their room, followed by Mark and Lyn. They locked the door to the adjoining room and Alan climbed back into bed. Lyn settled down next to him, and he heard the creak of springs as Linley lay down in his own bed.
"Man, whatta night!" his partner remarked, a sentiment with which Alan agreed, completely.
**********
(tbc)
