Psychic Killer: 7/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Chapter Ten
Linley turned at his partner's shout. He had been aware of Alan's growing uneasiness for the past couple of minutes, so he was not taken entirely by surprise.
He saw the blaster sail through the air and knew instantly what was happening. Their killer was making another try. The blaster, set on overload, would explode like a grenade in approximately five seconds.
No time to grab it and throw it back out the door, no time for fear or for anything, except one last, fleeting glimpse of his partner's face, his green eyes wide with horror, of the sunlight streaming through the window behind him, and the dust motes dancing in the air ...
Mark landed belly first on top of the blaster.
Silence. He remained where he was, his body covering the weapon, waiting for it to let go.
But, nothing happened, and Alan let out his breath in a long sigh. "It's okay, Mark." He reached out a hand to help Mark up.
Linley had to clear his throat once and then a second time before he could speak.
"You got it?"
"I managed to turn it off." Alan's voice was remarkably steady but Linley noted that the hand that helped him to his feet was ice cold. "I wasn't sure it wouldn't go off, anyway." He glanced around. "Wanda?"
Her head came up from behind the bed. "You turned it off," she breathed. "I didn't think any psychic was that strong."
"I guess I had to be," Alan said. "Thank heaven for psychic power packs."
Linley nodded, drawing a deep breath. His knees felt weak. His partner had somehow managed, with their combined power, to move the lever of the blaster back from the overload slot -- a difficult feat at best, since once in the slot, the lever was wedged and resistant to further manipulation. No psychic without a power pack could possibly have managed it.
"Thanks, kid," he said, soberly.
Wanda headed for the door and they followed her. The hallway was empty, except for a surprised-looking maid, pushing an antigrav cart before her. Wanda signaled for her to stop.
"Have you seen anyone out here in the last few minutes, Maggie -- anyone at all?"
The girl nodded. "There's a repairman around the corner, there." She pointed. Mark and Wanda ran in the direction she indicated. They passed the lifts and turned right. Ali al Hassad was kneeling before the door of Lyn's room, working industriously on the lock. He glanced toward them, his face impassive.
The initial numbness was wearing off and Linley was beginning to feel justly angry with whoever had thrown the blaster. He forced back the feeling, holding it under tight control, as he had learned to do as a slum kid in the gutters of Shallock. A man who allowed his temper to get the better of him didn't live long in the harsh environment of Linley's hot, native world -- a world where Jilectans were the rulers and humans existed as little more than slaves or vermin. You controlled everything you felt or did -- or you didn't survive.
They stopped beside the maintenance man. Hassad straightened up from his work. "Yes?"
"Where have you been in the last fifteen minutes?" Wanda asked.
The dark eyes flickered from her face to Mark's and back again. "I was taken downstairs for questioning with the others. Perhaps five minutes ago, they told me I could go. I had work to complete, so I returned to the sixth floor." He paused. "Has something happened?"
"You could say that," Mark said. "We'll have to establish alibis again," he added, to Wanda.
"Alan's already called Chris Pahaui. He'll notify Greene." Wanda turned back to al Hassad. "Have you seen anything unusual in the last five minutes?"
Al Hassad frowned. "No, nothing."
"Did anyone pass you in the hall? Anyone?"
"Maggie did -- about two or three minutes ago." The man's face was alive with curiosity.
"No one else?"
He shook his head, then paused. "I heard the lift a couple of times -- once right after I got back and once just after I saw Maggie."
Mark bit back a cuss word. "I guess we'll just have to question everybody again. This thing's getting weirder every minute!"
There was a sound behind them, of a lift arriving. The doors of one parted as Mark turned and Lyn emerged, her face unnaturally white. "Did you find anything, Mark?"
"Not a damned thing. Alan told you about it, huh?"
"Of course." Suddenly, to his surprise, she flung her arms around his ribcage, nearly unbalancing him. Linley grasped her, reflexively.
"Hey, honey, what's wrong?"
"Nothing." Lyn's voice was muffled.
"Oh." Irrationally, Lyn's action made him feel a little better. He put an arm around her, and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "I'll hafta risk my life more often if this is the thanks I get."
Lyn giggled and gave a watery sniff as she wiggled free. "Masher. We'd better get back to Alan."
Wanda Blake smiled a little crookedly. "I see your reputation is well-deserved, Colonel Linley."
Mark didn't answer, but grinned as they turned back in the direction of Thurmond Osgood III's room.
Alan was standing by the door, a distant look on his face that Linley recognized. His partner grimaced suddenly, more an expression of annoyance than anything else.
"I'm not sensing much of anything," he informed them, disgustedly. "Be careful not to touch anything out here until Greene's fingerprint team arrives -- not that I expect them to find anything. All I'm picking up is that same feeling of hostility and anger -- but it's mixed now, with a feeling of persecution. Whoever he is, he feels like he's being threatened and must defend himself."
"'He'?" Mark said.
"Yes. I'm certain it's a male, and probably a Terran, although that's not so clear, and even then, it leaves us a lot of suspects. And I'm pretty sure he's not a psychic -- I think I'd feel it if he was."
"Well, that rules out Wanda and Francois," Mark said. "And, of course, you and Lyn."
Alan made a face at him. "Also, I'm nearly certain that whoever he is, he's the same person who shot at Francois and fired into our room, last night."
"And killed Osgood?" Wanda said.
Alan shrugged. "I can't tell you that -- I'll have to check the gym -- but it seems likely. We probably don't have two murderers running around the hotel. Of course, it's possible that his death *was* an accident."
"Uh huh," Mark said, skeptically.
Alan glanced around. "Ah, here come Greene's men. Let's go look at the hot tubs."
The room with the hot tubs looked exactly as it had when they'd left it, except, of course, that no body floated in the water. Steam rose from the surface of the tubs and the air around them felt damp and muggy.
The four searched the room thoroughly, trying to locate anything that the police might have missed. They went through the steam room, too, and the low-grav room, and through the room that contained the anti-grav swimming pool: a huge globe of water held in place by a single globular gravity core in its center and looking like an enormous Christmas tree ornament of crystal floating in the air.
They found nothing. Just as they were finishing, Wanda's communicator chirped and Lieutenant Greene's voice requested their presence in Osgood's room.
Alan paused next to the hot tub again as they were exiting. Mark stopped beside him.
"Anything?" he inquired, hopefully.
Alan shook his head. "Nothing. Except ..." He hesitated. "Except for the feeling that I'm missing something. You know, there isn't even the feeling of death here. Nothing."
"You think he was killed somewhere else? And, maybe stored in a freezer, someplace, to confuse the time of death?"
"Probably," Alan said. "I don't believe in coincidences like this, you know."
"He was murdered," Lyn said, soberly.
Mark grunted. "Small loss. If somebody had to get murdered, I'd rather it was him than somebody else here -- 'cept maybe Dean." Try as he would, he reflected, he couldn't get too worked up about Osgood's death. Spoiled rich kids who ran crying to Daddy when faced with the harsh realities of life aroused little more than contempt in him. Still, the other murder attempts were another story.
"Really, Mark!" Lyn said, reprovingly.
Mark shrugged. "Sorry, baby."
Alan smiled, faintly. "He's paid the piper, Mark. Let it lie."
Lieutenant Greene was awaiting them when they reached Osgood's room. Several men were still clustered around the door, doing things with some sort of video equipment, and another was placing the blaster in a plastic container, prior to removing it. Actions and technique were extremely careful to avoid the slightest chance of destroying any evidence.
Greene beckoned them to some distance and spoke in a low voice. "We'll run the blaster through all the standard lab tests and have the serial number checked to see who it was issued to."
"Bet it ain't one of ours," Mark said, cynically. "You a betting man, Lieutenant?"
"Not usually." Greene smiled morosely. "You're probably right, of course, but you never know. Maybe our boy slipped up just this time." He turned as one of the men at the door hailed him. "Yeah?"
"It's been wiped clean, sir," the man reported. "Probably with a handkerchief or other piece of cloth. The vacuum might pick up a fiber or two."
"Try it," Greene said. He turned back to Mark. "Chances are, nothing will show. Anything you can tell me, General Westover?"
Alan recounted the events of half an hour before briefly and accurately from the time they had entered Osgood's room until Mark and Wanda had returned with Lyn from their interview with al Hassad. Greene pursed his lips in a silent whistle as he finished and threw Mark a respectful look, but returned instantly to Alan's story.
"That business with the swim trunks sounds pretty fishy," he remarked. "I suppose he *could* have sneaked in here, gotten into them and gone to the tub, but he'd have to be awfully careful. We can find out if anyone's used an electronic key on the lock except us -- and you, of course -- by checking the computer records."
"I already have," Wanda said. "According to Chris Pahaui, the manager, the hotel's central computer reports that no one used an electronic key on that door, or Meeks' either -- from the time we investigated the room this morning until Osgood was found floating in the hot tub, this afternoon."
"Great," Mark said, ironically. "How about alibis?"
"We checked," Greene reported. "Everybody was in the conference room at the end of the hall, except for the cleared hotel staff members here on Sixth when Osgood was found. Colonel Westover explained that O'Hara was with you; the rest have alibis. There were seven employees here on Sixth at the time, and four of the maids were in the employees' lounge on their break. Mr. Hassad was repairing your door and was seen by the janitor who was vacuuming the carpet in the hallway. The last, of course, was the woman who discovered the body." He paused to consult his notes. "As for the conference members, two had excused themselves briefly just prior to the discovery: Colonel Finnar, to visit the restroom, although he gave no reason at the time, and Colonel Dean, who apparently stepped outside to take something for his cold. Both returned promptly. And everyone states that he went to his room just prior to lunch and returned to the conference room immediately after. Of course --" He looked disgusted. "People wandered in more or less separately. Quade and Terrence did come in together, but apparently each went to his own room before rejoining the conference. That leaves about fifteen minutes between the end of lunch and the resumption of the conference that Osgood could have been dumped in the tub. The only people with a firm alibi are the Weavers. They had just finished lunch and were in the lift when the discovery was made." He jammed his hands into the deep pockets of his slacks -- dull green, with a coffee stain across one knee, Linley noted. He wondered if all detectives wore the same suit, coffee and all.
"And the business with the blaster?" Alan asked.
"We'd just released everyone," Greene said. "It couldn't have been more than four minutes later that the blaster incident occurred. I guess we'll have to round everybody up again."
"We've got another small mystery," Alan said, "just to keep things interesting. Osgood's night gear seems to have vanished."
"Night gear?" Greene raised his eyebrows. Alan explained. The lieutenant sighed. "Just one more little puzzle piece that doesn't seem to fit," he said. "Why would anybody steal a man's pajamas?"
There didn't seem to be an answer.
Ayers stuck his head in the door. "General Westover?"
Alan turned. "Yes?"
Ayers joined their group and spoke softly. "The man you told me to arrest -- Fink? He's gone."
"Gone?"
"Yes, sir. He signed himself out against medical advice, took his stuff and walked out. Nobody's seen him since."
"When was this?"
"About two hours ago. The nurse who released him reported that he seemed quite uneasy. He didn't want any treatment and he didn't want to press charges. He just wanted out. We checked his home, of course. He's not there and there's no sign that he's been there within the last few hours. I've got an APB out on him, though. And, I've got the background check that you requested. Interesting history."
"Oh?"
"We ran his photo and retinal pattern through the Confederation Police Network. Lawrence Fink, as you thought, doesn't exist, but a man who matches his pattern -- a Justin Cardew -- disappeared from Bellian about two years ago. He's wanted for murder."
Mark whistled softly.
Ayers continued, "I contacted Bellian and they confirmed. Our boy is Justin Cardew. He was loosely involved with organized crime, mostly as a fence, then, about two years ago, one Traci Ratcliffe was found badly beaten in his apartment. The girl died a few days later and Cardew was never found. They faxed me a picture." He handed it to Alan, and Mark looked over his shoulder at the dark, handsome face.
"Looks like our fire dancer," Alan said. "What do you think, Wanda?"
The Security Officer nodded. "It's him, all right. Well, we have a murderer and he works at the hotel. The next question though, is, if he's our man, how did he get on the sixth floor?"
Linley glanced at Ayers. "You've got an APB out, you said?"
"Yes, Colonel. So far, no sign of him. There has, however, been another incident, possibly not related to this. About the time Fink -- or Cardew -- must have left the hospital, an assault took place in the hospital parking lot. A man registered here at the hotel -- one Stanley Fiske --was found unconscious beside one of the aircars. His skull is fractured in two places. Whoever hit him hit him hard, apparently with intent to kill. He also has a broken collarbone and a fractured jaw. And, under his jacket, we found a blaster -- one of the little ladies' models that are easily concealed. No fingerprints on it but his. Hospital Security is holding it along with his personal effects. I saw no reason to confiscate it. Lots of businessmen carry them for protection."
Mark's eyes met Alan's. "Our pal from the dock, again."
"Oh, you know the man?" Ayers asked.
"I met him briefly when we arrived," Mark said, dryly. "He can't swim."
"My, my, this does get curiouser and curiouser," Alan said. "Have you checked up on Mr. Fiske, by any chance?"
"Not yet. We will, if you want."
"I already did," Wanda said. "Right after my report to you -- a more thorough one than the first. He's employed by a Terran company: Solar Import and Export, Interstellar. He's Vice President of some branch or other. He was involved in a legal hassle last year: something to do with possible bribery of Customs officials. It was dropped for lack of evidence after several files the DA had of documents were destroyed in a fire, and the backup computer accidentally dumped all its data."
"Amazing coincidence," Alan said, dryly.
"Isn't it?" Ayers said. "I suppose it's possible that he and Cardew know each other, if the assault is connected with Cardew's disappearance."
"I guess it's possible. At this point," Alan said, disgustedly, "I'm willing to believe just about anything." He glanced at Mark and appeared to make a decision. "Mark, I think the time has come to bring in our secret weapon."
Linley had just about come to the same conclusion, himself. He nodded. "I think you're right, kid. It might give us a new angle on things."
Greene looked as if he'd like to inquire, but was too well disciplined to do so. Instead, he remarked, "The boy you sent for his girlfriend just after we arrived -- Colonel Westover said that was O'Hara. Has he returned, yet?"
"No." Wanda shook her head. "No, he hasn't. I tried to call his apartment a short time ago. No answer."
"Hmmm." Alan glanced at his chronometer. "I'll feel better when he's back." He turned to Ayers and Greene. "If you don't need us any more for the moment, there are some things I need to check out." He sighed. "A couple of lines of investigation we haven't tried yet. Keep in touch with us through Colonel Blake, please. We'll do the same with you and if you find anything that might even remotely be connected with this mess, notify me at once."
Ayers gave a sardonic smile. "Will do, General."
**********
"All the same," Alan said, after the door closed behind them, "someone, somehow is managing to evade us. This Cardew guy *could* be involved, or even the other one -- Fiske --but neither had easy access to Sixth."
"That, of course, is the stumbling block," Wanda agreed. "And if it isn't either of them, we've still got a dangerous security leak and our time is growing short. Just what *is* your secret weapon, if you don't mind telling me? I hope it's good, whatever it is."
Linley raised an eyebrow at Alan over her head. All psychics of the Terran Underground knew about psychic power packs; very few nons, however, did. But, what even most psychics did not know about was the relatively new technique, developed by one of Terran Military Intelligence's top researchers, of transforming a psychic power pack into a functioning psychic through the use of a synthetically manufactured enzyme, the all-important control factor, which Mark carried in a tiny self-refrigerated unit on his person. That particular tidbit was about as hot a piece of information as existed in the Terran Underground's litany of top secrets. And, Wanda could not possibly miss knowing what Mark had become once the deed was done.
Oh well, Linley decided, the omelet had to be made, and that meant breaking a few eggs.
"You'll see in a few minutes," Alan said, seriously, having apparently come to the same conclusion as Linley.
Wanda's communicator beeped. She raised it to her lips. "Blake here."
"The O'Hara boy is back, Chief," a male voice said. "He's got the girl with him. I'm sending them up to your office."
"Acknowledged," Wanda said, crisply.
"That's convenient," Alan said. "I want to see the pair of them. Lyn, why don't you help Mark. You know how he is about needles."
Mark made a face. "C'mon, baby, he said, unhappily. "Let's get it over with."
**********
Chapter Eleven
O'Hara and his girl hadn't arrived when they opened the door to Wanda's office. The Security Officer dropped into her desk chair while Alan went to the coffeepot and poured a cupful of the brew, then loaded it with cream and sugar.
"I'm missing something," he said flatly, trying again to pin down the feeling. "I can feel it every time I go into that room -- either of those rooms. I'm missing something important, but I just can't put my finger on it."
"I know what you mean," Wanda said. "Alan, this is the most baffling case I've seen in the last ten years, at least. There isn't any motive that I can see -- just a bunch of attempts on our lives -- and one success. *Why* do you suppose Osgood was killed? He didn't know enough to make him valuable."
"Maybe he saw something he shouldn't," Alan said. "Something that made him dangerous to his murderer."
"But what?"
"The Lord knows. Maybe even Osgood didn't realize it. Or, maybe he didn't see anything, but our murderer thought he did. The possibilities are endless."
"So, now what do we do?" Wanda asked. "You have something in mind. Do you want to tell me about it?"
Alan nodded. "You can't possibly be our killer, Wanda, and you'll know anyway, in a few minutes. We're going to set a trap. Whoever we're after is -- must be -- hiding behind selective shielding. We've got to trick that person into letting down his guard, and the only way he'll do that is if there are no psychics around to catch him."
"But, how will we know, if we're not here?"
"Because, we have a psychic who doesn't look like a psychic; one who can't possibly be a Terran psychic because he's much too big."
"I don't follow you."
"You're aware that Mark is my psychic power pack."
"Yes."
"You're probably also aware of the theory of the psychic control factor -- the difference between a power pack and a functioning psychic?"
"I've heard something about it. Most non-psychics have it."
"Yes. That's why most non-psychics can produce mind shields. Somehow, when combined with the psychic gene, it produces small people. But a psychic without it is inevitably big -- like Mark. He's two meters tall, you know. Drop your shields."
Wanda looked puzzled, but obeyed.
"Mark's afraid of needles," Alan said. "That's why I sent Lyn along to help." He spoke mentally. *Mark?*
*Hi, kid,* Mark's mental voice said. *The deed's done.*
Wanda's eyes widened slightly.
*Good,* Alan said. *Come to Wanda's office. Brian and his girl will be here, shortly. The lift just arrived.*
*Yeah, I know. They'll be knockin' on your door in a minute. On my way.*
Alan's eyes never left Wanda's. "This is pretty new," he said, "and absolutely top secret, burn before reading stuff. You understand?"
The little black woman nodded, her dark eyes suddenly sparkling. "What do you want me to do?"
"Arrange a place -- not too far away -- for you, Lyn and me to hide out for twelve to twenty-four hours. Taking Jim with us would be too much, I think, but I'm sure Mark can arrange to be in the company of everybody here without Colonel Francois nearby at least once or twice in the next day. That may be all we need."
"How about the Trade Winds? It's the hotel nearest the Lanai."
"That sounds fine."
"All right." Wanda rose. "I'll go arrange with Greene to send his reports on the interviews and the autopsy report to us there."
There was a knock on the door.
Wanda opened it and stood back to allow Brian O'Hara and a young, dark-haired girl of about the boy's own height to enter. Her face showed a white bandage on one cheek and both her eyes were swollen and surrounded by dark bruises. Her mouth and nose alike were also bruised and swollen, and her lip was cut on one corner. Here and there, dried crusts of blood had escaped the medical cleanup. Brian had one hand under her elbow, helping her along.
Alan rose and pulled out a chair for her, very aware of the emotionally charged aura suddenly entering the room. The girl was angry, ashamed, frightened and still in pain. Brian's shields were down, and he was angry as well.
Alan nodded to Wanda. "You'd better go get things set up. I'll call you in a few minutes."
"Yes, sir." Colonel Blake exited.
Alan waited until the door shut. "Have a seat, please, Mr. O'Hara."
Brian took a seat against the wall. Alan surveyed the girl for a moment. "Miss Bauer," he said, at last, quietly, "I need to ask you some questions about last night. Please don't be afraid. Nothing's going to happen to you."
She wouldn't look at him. "Is this really necessary? I told Brian I'm not pressing charges."
"Absolutely necessary. The man who beat you is wanted for murder."
Her face came up. "He *killed* someone?"
"We believe so. Two years ago, a man whom we believe was Lawrence Fink, under another name, beat a Bellian girl to death. I'd say you were very lucky, Miss Bauer, that he didn't do the same to you. Now, please tell me what happened last night. If we don't catch this man, he'll probably eventually kill someone else." Alan softened his voice and made it as persuasive as he could. He was aware of Mark, standing outside, listening to the proceedings through his mind contact with Alan. "Please help us, Miss Bauer."
Reluctantly, the girl nodded. Alan was already half-reading her thoughts, of course, scanning her mind, but the intensity of her emotions made it difficult. The verbal story would help him pick out more detail from the accompanying thought impressions.
She began to speak. "Larry and I went to dinner, first, then to a movie -- Dark Passion. It's a murder mystery, starring Selena Ford and Lance Miller. I flirted with him a little, afterwards, saying how could I know if he might be like -- well, like the man in the movie, who was always romancing women, then killing them. He joked back some, and took me home. I -- well, I invited him in for a drink. I'd never done that before. He'd always seemed like such a gentleman. I never dreamed he'd --" She gulped. "That he'd take advantage of it. But as soon as the door closed, he grabbed me and started kissing me hard. He hurt me and I tried to push him away. He hit me; I screamed and he hit me again and again -- I don't know how many times. The he shoved me down and -- and told me he'd do what he liked and if I fought him again, he'd kill me." The girl began to cry. "I wasn't very rational by then. I grabbed a table lamp that had fallen over and hit him with it in the face as hard as I could. It broke, and he kind of fell over, and I got up and ran into the kitchen. He came after me, but I made it out the kitchen door and to the elevator, and he didn't catch me. I went to Brian's apartment." She looked down. "That's all."
"Why didn't you let Brian call the police?" Alan asked, gently.
"I was scared." She shook her head. "You didn't see him. He said if I told on him he'd come after me and my sister. I have a sister who shares the apartment with me. She was working last night at the Trade Winds. He might hurt her if he finds out I reported what he did."
"You mean, she doesn't know where you are?" Alan asked. "You didn't tell her what happened?"
She shook her head again. "We work different shifts. I had Brian leave a message that -- that I wouldn't be home today. I guess the housekeeping robot that Dad gave us probably cleared up the mess."
Alan figuratively closed his eyes. The girl's naivete was unbelievable, but genuine.
He smiled at her, reassuringly. "Miss Bauer, we'll protect you and your sister, and Mr. Fink will be behind bars as quickly as we can manage. But, tell me, did he ever say anything about his past life, or his family?"
She considered. "I think he said once that his parents were dead, but that he had another relative somewhere -- I believe it was an uncle. He didn't say much about him."
"Did he ever talk about his work here at the hotel?"
"He liked it. He liked to dance. He said he'd only learned a few years ago, but it seemed natural to him." She looked down suddenly, and hid her face in her hands. "I'm so ashamed. Kelly tried to warn me about him, but I wouldn't listen."
Alan gave her a moment to recover, then leaned forward. "Miss Bauer, did Mr. Fink ever mention any of these names to you? Jim Francois?"
The girl shook her head.
"Thurmond Osgood?"
Her head came up. "The senator's son? He said he was staying at the hotel and that he needed a good spanking. Why?"
"Is that all he said about him?"
"I think so."
Alan sighed. There must be several dozen people here at the hotel who knew about Senator Osgood's son. "One last name, Miss Bauer. Fiske? Stanley Fiske?"
The girl's brows furrowed. "Yes! Stanley Fiske! A little, short guy with a bald head and a bad complexion?"
"That's right. What did Fink say about him?"
"We were at a movie and met him face to face as we were coming out. Larry introduced me, then excused himself and spoke to him for a few minutes across the room. I couldn't hear what they said. I had the feeling that they didn't like each other much."
"Did Fink say anything more about him?"
"No." Brittany shook her head. "What's this all about, anyway? Can't you tell me?"
Alan glanced up at a tap on the door. Mark entered, and Brittany jerked around with a frightened gasp.
"It's all right, Miss Bauer," Alan said. "This is my partner, Mr. Lawson. I think you can go, now. You'll be kept under police guard -- you and your sister -- until Mr. Fink is caught. He's wanted for murder, among other things, and is trapped here on the island, probably scared silly. I doubt that he'll dare to show his face, but we'll take precautions, anyway." He turned to Brian. "Mr. O'Hara, take Brittany to Lieutenant Ayers at police headquarters. Tell him I want her and her sister, Kelly, guarded until Mr. Fink is in custody."
"Yes, sir," Brian said. He smiled, suddenly.
Brittany looked at Alan, directly. "You look familiar. What's your name, please?"
"I'm Westley," Alan said. "Special investigator."
She smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Westley. You've been very nice."
Alan shook hands with her, gave her his best smile and ushered her and Brian to the door. He saw Mark's appreciative eye flick over the girl's figure as she went out. The door closed.
"Sonofabitch," Linley said. "I hate guys that beat up on women. Makes me want to break somethin' -- like the guy's face."
"How much did you hear?"
"Pretty much all of it. This girl, Kelly, sounds like she sized Fink up pretty quick."
"Brittany's sister. She dated him once and refused to go out with him again, from the information I picked up from Brittany's mind. Kelly was afraid of him, but couldn't say why. Brittany apparently laughed at her and went on dating him."
"Sounds like her sis is a pretty sharp lady. Psychic, maybe?"
"Could be. It's worth checking into, anyhow." Alan looked around as Lyn and Wanda entered the room. "Wanda, I'd like you to notify Greene that I want Brittany Bauer and her sister, Kelly, given police protection until we pick up Fink."
"Right away," Wanda said.
"And, in the meantime, we can't discount the possibility that someone else is behind our problems. Mark is going to take over as the Security Officer for the conference, while the three of us conveniently vacate the hotel."
Linley made a face. "I figured you had somethin' like that in mind. And nobody'll be on their guard, shielding-wise, when I'm around, because I ain't a psychic. Right?" He grinned broadly and the coffeepot on Wanda's heating unit lifted suddenly and tilted, pouring a stream of coffee into a waiting mug. Then, the pot replaced itself, and the mug lifted and floated through the air to settle precisely into Mark's hands.
"Show-off." Lyn stuck her tongue out at him. "I can't do that. My control isn't good enough."
"Take a shot o' that stuff, baby, an' you'll be able to juggle eggs standing on your head." He grimaced. "Damn shot burns, though. Wish they could fix that."
"They're working on it." Alan glanced at Wanda. "What we've done, as you've probably guessed, is supply Mark with a temporary control factor. The psychic powers are the ones that he would have had if he'd been born a functioning psychic."
"What can you do, Mark?" Wanda asked. "Your powers feel quite strong, from what I can tell."
"Telepath and telekinetic, obviously," Linley said.
"Nothing else? That's unusual."
Lyn laughed. "He's pulling your leg, Wanda. He has a whole batch of them -- seven so far. The most that anyone seems to be able to handle is eight, like Alan, but Mark's got some odd ones. He's an empath, too --"
"That must be fun," Wanda commented.
"For an ex-'trol? No kiddin'," Linley commented, sourly.
"He's also a clairvoyant, a cryogenic --"
"A *what*?"
"It's the opposite of a pyro. There's only one other cryo we've found, so far. He cools things off." Lyn cast him a mischievous look. "Leroy was trying to find out what Mark could do, and he accidentally froze the coffeepot, trying to heat it up."
Wanda chuckled.
"He's a teleport," Lyn continued, "little items under half a kilo -- and last, but not least, he's a sparker. He shorts out electrical circuits. The only other psychic we've ever found who can do that is a cousin of Alan's: Karl White." She grinned. "Karl has a power pack from Shallock, too, and he and Alan got to take both Mark and Sam out for a practical training session and field test. I understand it got pretty lively."
Wanda laughed at the image Lyn's description evoked. "I can imagine."
"Anyhow, he's got plenty of psychic equipment," Lyn said. "Apparently, both of Mark's parents were power packs. The scientist who developed the control factor told us that if he'd been born a psychic, he'd have been a 'whopping good one'. I think that was how he put it."
"'As good as Alan. Maybe better,'" Alan quoted. "I believe it, too." He grinned at Linley. "Anyhow, back to the business at hand. Have the conference members reassembled, yet?"
The Security Officer nodded. "Just about. Maybe another ten minutes."
"Good." He glanced at Mark. "You're on, pal."
"Can't wait," Mark said, unenthusiastically. "I hate committees. Bunch o' people who like to hear 'emselves yap."
"Think of it as a chance to do some detective work on your own," Alan suggested. "Maybe you'll find something we didn't that will solve the whole thing in a flash."
"I'm not a psychometrist, remember," Mark said. "You got certain advantages I don't."
"Sometimes too much information can be a disadvantage," Alan said. "You're coming at this with a new viewpoint. It could make all the difference."
Most of the committee had reassembled when they arrived at the conference room. Alan felt his ears pop as they entered the privacy zone surrounding the area. A security man stood beside the door. He saluted Wanda, then glanced past her, saw Alan, drew himself up a couple of centimeters, sucked in his stomach, threw out his chest and saluted sharply. "General Westover, *sir*!"
"Private." Alan saluted casually, nodded in a friendly way and triggered the door switch.
People who were standing here and there talking, glanced toward them as they entered. Alan saw Dean and the secretary, Henry Meeks, standing together in one corner. Weaver and his wife, Anna, were also there, talking to Finnar. They broke off when they saw Alan's party, and approached.
"What happened, Alan?" Anna spoke softly. "They didn't tell us anything, but we knew something was wrong when we got called back for questioning."
Alan glanced around. "I'll explain later," he said. "There was another murder attempt -- on me, this time -- as well as Mark and Colonel Blake, but our man made a mistake, finally, and left us a clue."
"That's a relief," Weaver said.
Alan glanced casually around and saw that the attention of everyone in the room was on them. Quade and Terrence had come in while he spoke to the Weavers. Dean was standing a few meters away, obviously listening to the conversation. Good. He wanted to throw a little uncertainty into their quarry. After all, it was easy to be cool when one felt safe. Let the killer become frightened, and he might get careless.
Dean saw Alan's gaze on him and a faint flush of red stained his high cheekbones. He came a step nearer.
"Well, General Westover, *sir*!" His tone was insulting. "Have you finished interrogating all your comrades, or do we --"
"Colonel." Admiral Weaver didn't raise his voice, but the tone stopped Dean in mid-sentence. Weaver continued, his voice still quiet and controlled, but Alan could almost see the steely undertones. "If I hear you use that tone of voice on a superior officer again, I shall personally oversee your court martial. Now, shut up."
Dean said something under his breath. Alan knew that the man hadn't intended for him to hear -- or then, again, perhaps he had. Dean knew about psychics, after all. Weaver leaned forward.
"I didn't quite hear that, Colonel."
"Nothing," Dean said.
"No, I want to hear it. What did you say, Colonel?"
Dean looked uneasy, glancing sideways at Alan. Alan kept his face blank. Should he get Dean off the hook? In spite of himself, he was feeling a little sorry for the man. Admiral Weaver's expression looked about as yielding as that of the great stone face. Still, this was Terran Military Intelligence -- a military organization. Discipline had to be maintained, or the organization would crumble.
"What did you say, Colonel?" Weaver asked, quietly. "Or shall I order General Westover to tell me? I'm sure he heard."
"Sir --" Alan began.
"Be still, General Westover. Well, Colonel? I'm still waiting."
Dean cleared his throat. "I ..." He paused. "I said I was getting sick of this whole business, and that I guess it's making me a little crazy. Sorry, General Westover."
"I'd tell the truth if I was you, Colonel," Mark said, unexpectedly, "instead of relying on the General's good nature."
Dean's head jerked slightly. "What?"
"The truth. I got real good hearing, and I ain't no empath. If you don't tell Admiral Weaver what you said, I will."
Dean glared at Mark. "Now, just a --"
"Never mind," Weaver said. His face looked grim. "I've been aware of your attitude toward psychics for some time, Colonel. It was tolerated because you have been otherwise an exemplary officer and none of us can help our private prejudices. But I will not allow yours to affect our organization. And, Colonel -- "
Dean was white with fury, but he bit his lip and said nothing. Weaver eyed him, coldly. "Keep your opinions on that subject to yourself, henceforth. There's no room for them here. Is that clear, mister?"
"Yes, sir!" Dean replied, stiffly.
"Consider yourself on report." Weaver regarded him silently for another five seconds in a way that made Alan profoundly thankful that the gaze was not turned on him, then spoke to the room at large. "I believe everyone is here. Will you all be seated, please?"
There was a scuffle of feet and chairs as people seated themselves, no one glancing at Travis Dean. Wanda's face bore a more than ordinarily blank expression as she regarded a very ordinary painting of flowers and birds on the opposite wall. Alan waited for the noise to subside, then rapped on the table for attention.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "there has been another murder attempt." He paused, as a sudden buzz of conversation arose and was quickly silenced. "However, this time no one was hurt and our -- friend -- " he smiled dryly, "left us a clue, not by any intention of his own, I'm sure. The only catch is, that to fully investigate it, Colonel Blake, Colonel Westover and I must temporarily leave the island. We'll probably be gone no more than a day, thirty-six hours at the most. Colonel Linley --" He glanced briefly at Mark, "will be substitute Security Officer while we're gone, and Colonel Blake has notified all her men to report to him during the interim period. I'm sorry to leave the conference without a psychic security chief, but it can't be helped, as we're going to need the talents of all three of us if we're going to solve this mystery as quickly as possible. That's all. Are there any questions?"
There was a murmur, then Finnar raised a scaled hand. "I do not suppose you can tell uss anyzing about ziss lead?"
Alan shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Colonel." He glanced around. "Any other questions?"
There were none. Alan smiled. "Very well, then. Thank you for your attention."
**********
(tbc)
