Lex Talionis (part 1)

Perfect World story (The NOW)

Cassie McBride perched low on Onions, her three year old Palomino, allowing the strong animal to race her through the stiff breeze as they galloped around the perimeter fence of her beautiful wooded ranch. Sweat poured off her brow; the animal glistened with effort as dust kicked up around them.

Behind her but not far was another horse, larger, also riding hard, carrying a man. He looked grimly determined as the gun belt slapped his thigh with every pace. Cassie glanced behind; he was gaining on her!

A rise before the sharp left of her property line provided the cover she needed. Keeping low to ensure she was out of sight she tugged the reins and Onions veered to the right, into a stand of yellow pine, between two narrowly spaced trees. Beyond the rise was a long drop, and she used the hill to her advantage as Onions picked up speed. She could hear him continuing straight, around the fence to the left and up the hill. He would be pissed when he reached the summit and couldn't find her!

Sure footed and powerful, Onions had been her favorite horse in the stable since she picked him up at the Fair for a song-- he was frail and sickly and wasn't expected to live; he was basically being sold for glue. She had nursed him back to health, remaining in his stall for three straight days until the medication began working, a level of care that cemented a powerful bond between them.

And he wasn't going to let her down now! He bounded along the serpentine trail, skillfully avoiding loose scrabble and low branches and emerged from the copse a hundred yards further ahead of the man than they had been moments earlier; she guided Onions into the paddock as the man galloped, almost missing the entrance in his haste.

"You cheated!" His face was dark with dirt and tracked with sweat.

She giggled. "There are no rules, Will... it was just a friendly race. But you owe me a steak dinner at Purdy's nonetheless."

"Not much of a bet-- I was going to buy you dinner at Purdy's anyway. So where's this target range, anyway? I gotta whip your butt at something today."

"Right up ahead. Tie up Stella and follow me-- it's a short walk."

Cassie was happy to see Will Devlin-- since buying this ranch in the sticks last year she hadn't much chance for socializing, and especially not with old friends from Chicago. But the timing of his visit was a little strange. The townsfolk had been buzzing about the stranger found dead in the brush outside of Lewittville for the last day and now Will, an FBI investigator, just happens to call out of the blue?

The target range had been built atop the tallest hill on her 500 acre property, and from the summit you could see eighty miles in every direction. Cassie unlocked the small log-built cabin housing the guns and ammo and started to pull out two rifles and a box of bullets, then stopped. "That's odd."

"What's odd?" Will's ears pricked up. He had been born to solve puzzles, and could hear a problem forming at 60 paces. "Something going on?"

"I don't know. I'm the only one with a key to this storage building."

"Yeah?"

"There's a gun missing." She pointed to the neatly organized gun rack housing about twenty weapons. There was a rifle space open.

"Are you sure? That's a lot of guns there... did you do a count?"

"I don't have to. Every space had a specific rifle. The fella who owned this property before me was a collector and labeled every gun, see? The missing one is a Kalashnikov AK-47."

Will looked closely. There was a label on the handle rest of every gun post, and a traced outline of each gun in black paper neatly glued to the back, like a shadow of the weapon perched in front of it. "Hm."

"You see something?" Cassie remembered Will in college as the guy nobody could slip anything past... and as the guy with real skills in the bedroom. She wondered if the two were connected.

"There's a small chip missing in the rack for the AK and..." he looked on the floor. "Here it is. Almost like somebody had pulled it out in a hurry... and recently. Cassie, if the previous owner was such a gun aficionado, then why didn't he take his collection with him when he left?"

Cassie smiled wryly. "I don't know if they allow guns in Heaven. He died in his sleep at 92. I bought the property from his son, a citified man who had no use for it."

"Oh... too bad. I was thinking that other keys probably exist for this lock, and he was at the top of my list."

"Too bad. Maybe his son has another copy?"

"Maybe. I'll look for prints later. But I want to get a chance to redeem myself right now... I was a pretty fair shot at Quantico. You lead."

"John, there's a phone call from the Outers."

"There's almost 7 billion 'Outers', computer. Could you be more specific?" John Lane was still not happy with the personality program of his computer assistant. It seemed no matter what changes he tweaked in the subroutine, the ICPU always managed to be too vague for his comfort. "Perfect World my ass," he snorted, under his breath he thought.

"What's wrong with Aden, John?" the computer asked. "Don't you love it here? I thought everyone loved it here.

Damn computer ears. "Oh I do, I do. I'm just a little frustrated this morning. Nothing's going right. My shower was supposed to clean me but instead reverse-osmosised all over my feet. Then I had a real taste for eggs Benedict and bacon but instead received unsweetened oatmeal and papaya juice, and now you still won't tell me who's calling!"

"Oh! It's Sheriff Andrew Snake from Lewittville. And I'm sorry about the shower... Repair has been notified. You know about your dietary restrictions and I've nothing to apologize for."

"What dietary restrictions? I'm in perfect health! Six-foot-four, two hundred even, washboard stomach... I want my damned bacon!" He picked up the phone. "Sheriff Snake, this is John Lane of Aden Security. How may I be of service?"

"You can start by calling me by my correct name. I'm Sheriff Stait. Lane, we got a problem here, and it involves a citizen of your fancy city, with the equally fancy name of Rennedon. Altibar Rennedon."

Lane started. He gave the computer a dirty look and said, "Sorry about that-- my assistant wrote your name down wrong." He typed 'Rennedon, Altibar' into his console and the file appeared onscreen. "He's a model citizen. What's the problem?"

"Well, he called and reported seeing a woman in a field during a run. She was dead-- her head was covered in blood."

"Please continue." Lane felt sick to hear of this but didn't want the other cop to know it.

"Here's where it gets dicey. He said he didn't touch her, but his fingerprint was found on her wallet, which was empty. Plus, there was a bloody hammer on the ground not far from the body. His fingerprint was on that, too. I hear you Adenites have some impressive investigative techniques, so I thought I'd give you a look at the crime scene before I book him."

Lane was visibly shaken but took a deep breath and said calmly, "I'll assemble my team and be right there. Give me half an hour."

"Half an hour? Lane, you're two hundred miles from here! How are you going to get here in thirty minutes-- have Dominoes deliver you?"

"Ha! We Aden-ERS have some pretty impressive transportation, too. But you can be certain, Sheriff, that Rennedon is innocent of these charges."

"How can you be so sure, Lane?"

He said quietly, "You'll see when I arrive. Give me the crime scene GPS coordinates."

Footsteps echoed in the dark, dank cave. A small man with a pointed, rat-like face approached in short, shuffling steps. "Sir?"

"What is it, Renfrew?"

The man started, looking confused. "My name is Smith, sir."

"Private joke, Smith. Go ahead."

"The deed is done, sir. The woman is dead and the man is about to be framed."

"Wonderful. What about the other business-- on the ranch?"

"As we speak, sir. He's with her now."

"Good, good. Do we have video feed?"

"We're working on it, sir. The bots are approaching position."

"Let me know when we have a picture. I don't want to miss a minute of this-- it's going to be better than 'Cops'."

"No doubt, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?"

"That's all, Renfr-- Smith. Ah-- one more thing. See to feeding the prisoners, will you?"

"Right away, sir."

"Oh, take your time, Smith. They're not going anywhere." The man laughed. "Ever."

"Very good, sir." Smith shuffled off, then stopped and returned. "Oh, I almost forgot, sir. The captain's name is Stait, not Snake."

The other man stood and laughed heartily, which turned to a cough midway. He approached the ratlike man and clamped a hand onto his shoulder for support through the racking spasm. He spat in the gloom onto the dusty cave floor, wiped his mouth with his free hand, wheezed and rasped, "I know... funny, right?"

"I fail to grasp the humor, sir."

"I'm not surprised, Smith. It's not like you find much funny at all."

"Life is a series of misfortunes connected by brief glimmers of hope. I prefer not to dwell upon the faint potential for happiness."

"You must be a riot at parties, Smith. You probably didn't laugh when I reprogrammed his shower or his dietary requirements either."

"No sir, not really. It seemed a little... adolescent."

Oh it was, it was... and that's why it was funny!"

"If you insist, sir."

He shot the man a disgusted look. "Feed the prisoners."

"Very good, sir."

"Oh, and Smith?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Any chance you'll ever answer to Renfrew?"

"None, sir."

"Spoil sport. Carry on."

The man shuffled off, an inaudible mutter echoing in the dank cave.

"Okay, Will. Hit the target." Cassie sat on the blanket, one hand resting on her slim and attractive waist, the other pointing to herself, and wriggled suggestively. "If you can, that is."

"Well, this is not exactly the weapon I'm used to, but I'll give it a shot," he responded, and launched the olive in what he was certain was the correct trajectory. It arched high and dropped right on Cassie's tongue. "Bingo!"

Swallowing it unchewed she gulped, "Not bad, hotshot. You want slaw or potato salad?" She pried open the old wicker basket and laid an army of containers onto the blanket, comfortably stretched under the shade of a hundred-year-old Scotch pine.

"Both, of course." He fished a pickle spear from a jar and bit into it-- the dill crunched noisily, sending a spray of fragrant juice in all directions. " Cass, I should tell you, I'm not just here on a pleasure call. I got diverted here because of the murder."

"What murder?" she teased.

"The only one this county has seen in five years, Cassie. Don't play coy."

"I'm not. It's just such a beautiful day, and murder is so... not beautiful." she pursed her lips into a very pretty frown. "But you're gonna do what it is that you do, right? So ask your questions, Devlin. But promise me that when we're done we'll have some fun, okay?"

He smiled at her, even white teeth framed by a tanned face. "Why not now?" he murmured and reached in, kissing her gently. After a long moment they separated and he said, "The questions can wait." He leaned in and pressed harder, kissing more insistently, laying her down.

Containers filled with picnic fare scattered. "Whoops!" Cassie intentionally knocked a few containers, lids still tight, off the blanket and onto the surrounding soft carpet of pine needles. "I'm so clumsy!" she fluttered, in a perfect Scarlett O'Hara. "Whatever am I to do?"

Devlin chuckled and pulled off his shirt in one smooth motion, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn--"

His cell phone interrupted him. "Drat." He flicked it open with a snap and listened. "Yes, sir. No, sir. No, sir. No, sir! Yes sir!" and closed the phone, cursing silently. It took several unsmooth motions to get his shirt back on.

"What is it?" Cassie asked.

"The questions can't wait. I have to go to the crime scene, now."

"Can I tag along?"

"Really? Why?"

"Because the moment you're done with what you're doing..." she lifted her shirt and traced a finger around her sweet, supple breasts, "You're going to show me what it is you don't give a damn about."

Sheriff Stait squinted at the horizon in the direction of Aden. It was clear, a long way off in the undisturbed Nebraska sky. He turned to his deputy. "Not so quick after all, Lance," he said about the supermodern city dwellers to the west. "I bet they're just taking a chopper."

"Two hundred miles in thirty minutes in a helicopter, Sheriff? That wouldn't be a fun ride. Besides," he said in awe, pointing at the sky behind Stait, "I'm pretty sure it's not a helicopter."

Stait turned around and was shocked to see a large jet quickly approaching their position, close to the ground. Too close and too quickly by Stait's eye, and he flattened himself down onto the dry Nebraska dust. Before bowling them over in a roar of jet fuel and whining turbines, the craft's engines flipped neatly and brought it to a rapid stop, where it hovered a scant hundred feet in the air. Then it just descended gently, like the lowering of a flag, and touched down across the field, sending dust and loose brush scattering. The bottom opened into a stairway and three figures emerged and approached. Sheriff Stait got to his feet hurriedly.

The man in front spoke first. "John Lane, Aden security." he reached out and grasped the Sheriff's hand in a confident shake, then brushed dirt off the man's uniform. "Sorry for the startling arrival, Sheriff Stait. We like to fly literally under the radar whenever we can." He smiled awkwardly and changed the subject. "This is Security Assistant Sara Nell Morar. And this gentleman bringing up the rear, this is the man who built Aden, Jake Reston. Jake, Sara... this is Sheriff Andrew Stait of the Lewittville Sheriff's Office, and his deputy..." Lane searched for the man's name.

He spoke for himself. "Deputy Lance Cale, sir. That's a mighty fine ride you've got there. Is that a ramjet engine?"

"Hyperwind turbine engine actually, young man," Jake drawled.

"Wait a second... are you the Jake Reston that owns FutureTech?" Sheriff Stait asked incredulously.

"CEO, son. It's a public company. It belongs to the shareholders now, but yup, that's me."

"It's an honor, sir. Thanks to FutureTech stock I was able to afford college for all three of my daughters! How'd you do it, while corporations worldwide are posting record losses?"

Jake answered seriously, "Responsibility, son. Our corporation's motivation is in maintaining the economic health of our country. If more corporations had that goal, we wouldn't be in this dadgum situation."

"Pardon me, may I see the crime scene?" The interruption came in the form of the petite and fiercely intelligent assistant Sara Nell Morar. Hair tied tightly in a bun and large frameless glasses perched on the tip of her tiny nose she looked ready to save you a bundle on taxes, but the rugged holster and bizarre sidearm spoke a different tale entirely.

Deputy Cale sprinted to her side. "It would be my pleasure. It's right over here." He gestured politely and she took point.

Lane cast a hopeful glance at Sheriff Staid. "I'd like to interview Altibar if that's all right. And we'd like to analyze any evidence in our lab."

"No problem with the prisoner. But you want to take the evidence all the way back to Aden?"

"No... our lab is aboard the aircraft."

"That's fantastic." The words seemed hollow. "You Adeners must pay a crapload of tax."

Lane hedged, "We all pay equal tax in Aden." He wondered if the sheriff knew that number was zero.

"Flat tax?" Staid guessed inaccurately. Lane didn't correct him. "I'll be damned. Well, come on, John Lane, Aden Security. I'll give you a ride to the station-- that's where Rennedon is."

Jake said, "I'll just poke a stick around here and see what squeals."

Deputy Cale approached the crime scene widely. He apologized to the pretty young Adener, "We're a small town here. We just photographed the scene and bagged anything out of the ordinary, then released the body to the coroner. But we all used the same path so as not to trample any evidence," he said proudly.

"Your diligence will be noted, Deputy Cale," Moran responded with the firm, cool tone of an animal trainer, surveying the scene photographically. "Would you assist me? I need gear from the ship." She turned without another word and headed for the gleaming craft. Cale followed, far enough behind to take in the woman's springy firmness. She looked so strait-laced he wondered if she knew what sex was. He was imagining her in a tight black leather apron and nothing else, stepping on his scrotum with stiletto heels; he wondered how to broach the subject but knew that before they parted, he would try.

The ship was large and oddly proportioned. It was half as long as a commercial jet but twice as wide and tall. The wings were slung back sharply. It looked like a flying breadbox. Three rows of porthole windows on either side suggested multiple floors, and the lack of windows at the plane's nose confused Cale. "How does the pilot see?" he asked, gesturing towards the absent cockpit.

"Pilot? There's no pilot," she tossed over her shoulder, and offered no more.

They climbed the steep stairs that dropped from the craft's belly. Cale barely noticed the revolutionary jet because of the undulating derriere in front of his face;

he desperately wanted to open his mouth and bite deeply into her meaty hock, a temptation which was not quelled when his face was quite literally driven into her ass from momentum when she paused at the top to open the hatch.

"Oh, my gosh... I-- I'm so sorry... I wasn't watching where I was going," he stammered, suddenly in every way a junior high school student again.

"Oh, I think you were watching quite closely, Deputy Cale," she responded. Did he notice a twitch of humor on her prim and pretty face? She turned back and lifted the hatch; it was a little heavy and Cale reached from behind and pushed upwards on the door with her, their bodies momentarily in full spoon contact.

"Please, call me Lance."

The door mechanism caught and lifted it the rest of the way up. "Thank you, Lance. Call me S&M."

He felt as though he'd been slapped in the face with a wet Sunday edition of the Times. Could she have read his mind? "S & M? Whatever for?" He asked as innocently as he could muster.

"SNM... my initials. I'm forever teased by them." She took the last two steps up and entered the plane. He followed, and was immediately impressed with its interior layout.

It was almost a gymnasium! Entirely open, walls covered with instrumentation, three levels... only the guard railings would keep people from dropping off each section accidentally, he thought.

"We need to go up there," she pointed to the uppermost platform, near the back of the plane, but Cale could see no stairway.

"How do we get up there? Climb like apes?"

She giggled uncharacteristically; he had had her figured for a 'cool sniff' kind of laugher. "Step on this platform with me." She stood on an eighteen inch silver square on the floor. "Get close."

He moved in, facing her, until his chest bumped up against hers. She put a hand on his waist, drew him in and said, "Just a moment. It's weighing us."

"What's weighing us?" he asked. A metallic click came from their feet and the floor became buoyant. She reached over to the railing and pulled upwards lightly; they glided upwards as if floating! He clutched at her for stability as they were lifted on the square, no railings of any kind steadying them. "What's happening?"

"Meet our Differential Elevator, Lance. When we stepped onto the platform, it calculated our exact weight and added that amount as a counterbalance. Now we can go up or down, forward or back with the slightest push. See?" She used a finger to send them sailing to the top position; another finger push and they were back on the first floor, in front of the craft. "And the best part is that it uses no more energy than a light shove!"

"May I try?" He asked and reached out a finger.

"Be caref--" she began, then stopped as his push sent them too far, too fast and they tumbled off the platform onto the floor, he taking the brunt of it and she, having a relatively soft landing on top of him. "Are you all right?" she asked, not trying to disentangle herself.

"Better than all right," he quipped, then stopped. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. I'm--"

His apology was cut short by a kiss from her soft, moist lips. After a long moment she broke off and said, "I've been wanting to do that since I met you. Now get back on the platform."

They did, and she brought them back to the top floor with a flick. She opened a previously unseen door and pulled him through, falling backwards. She was caught by a small but soft bed. "Welcome to my quarters."

He unbuttoned his uniform and searched for her buttons but could find none. "Here, let me." She pressed a section of stitching near her collar and the two sides of her shirt fell open as if they had been held magnetically together. He observed similar stitching on her pants and pressed them; in a moment she was nude. Oh, glorious!

"The nanocameras have reached their destinations, sir."

"Let's not dilly-dally, then. Get the feeds up, Smith." One wall of the cave held a large screen, which bathed the rocky room in flickering light. It broke up into hundred small rectangles, each housing a live image from a different robotic mobile nanocamera.

"Set the facial recognition software and bring up any feeds within the listed parameters," the older man in the gloom directed. Only his lab coat gave away his position as he shifted from foot to foot. Ten of the pictures suddenly displayed a red outline and with a flick of his hand they expanded and took over the huge screen, squeezing out the others.

Each camera had locked onto their own targets after the swarm had located them all. There now was the face of Sheriff Andrew Stait, as seen from a fly's view across the room; nearby according to GPS was John Lane, talking in the cell where another camera had trained in on Altibar Rennedon's face. A camera had even been dispatched for the morgue, trained in on the slab where the murder victim lay.

"Do they know who she is yet?"

"They haven't said, sir. I think they have yet to examine that data."

"Let's keep that information elusive for now, Smith. If they don't know she's FBI it'll make it harder to figure out who the third and final victim will be."

Third victim, sir? I believe we have only one dead body."

"For now, Smith, for now. My operative is in place. It's just a matter of time until his mark shows up."

"I have to admit I'm a little curious, sir. Who is your second victim?"

"Him." The shadowed man in the white lab coat enlarged one of the pictures to full screen and pointed. The flycam displayed a handsome young man driving a convertible sports car, from the vantage point of the rear view mirror.

"Another Fed?" exclaimed the rat-faced man.

Jake Reston stepped around and around the crime scene, careful not to violate the taped rectangle surrounding it. His Metaglasses were dialed into 10x; he rolled a tiny wheel on the frame and pored over the magnified ground at 100x.

Walking slowly he could suddenly see the footsteps of a jogger outlined in crushed blades of grass and slipped sections of dirt, passing by a few yards away. He could tell the jogger had then slowed to a walk and circled around, as if he had noticed something in the weeds. "Hm. That's not the action of a killer... more like a witness."

Now he stared near where the body had been found. There were also the tracks of a jogger, but wearing a smaller shoe and coming from an angle oblique to the first set. "They weren't jogging together." The grass had begun to re-straighten. "And her tracks are older."

What was this? A third set of footsteps! Midway in size between the first two sets, these didn't jog. They just walked towards the victim and then back the way they had come. Jake removed the Metaglasses and followed them. The tracks left the crime scene perimeter and moved straight back towards the treeline. Flicking another switch the Metaglasses became sensitive to slight heat variations and caused the footprints to fluoresce; Jake followed them to their source-- a shining set of tire tracks.

"Eureka!" Jake had his smoking gun. He jogged towards the plane for a Sampling kit-- it might be possible to obtain engine residue from the grass or soil and determine the car's make and model from it. That plus the tire tread should narrow the search considerably-- but in any case it pointed to someone other than Altibar Rennedon!

He scaled the steps quickly and entered the craft. "Hello? Sara?" He listened but there was no response. "Huh! I could've sworn I saw her coming here with that handsome deputy feller--" he heard a noise that sounded to him like a powerful blow. "What the--?" Jake took the Differential Elevator up to where he thought he heard the sound originated and opened the door, preparing to do battle if necessary-- then stopped short.

Laying on the bed, face down and naked as his first birthday, was the Deputy.

His hands and ankles had been bound and his muscular rear end was a bright shade of pink. Straddling him was Aden Security Assistant Sara Nell Morar, also nude. Her lovely backside was cleaved by his neck and head, both invisible from Jakes's angle, and she was smacking his ass for all intensity with a leather-gloved hand.

She looked up when the door swung open and caught Jake's eye. Her hand froze midswing; an immeasurable moment passed and she said winsomely, "Hi, Jake." She re-aimed and connected with a sharp crack reminiscent of the one which brought him investigating in the first place.

"Hi, SNM. I have to say, you're not doing much to discourage that nickname you have."

"Yeah." She seemed disappointed for a minute, then smiled. "I've been resisting it, but I think I'm growing into the name, Jake."

"Good for you, honey. Hey, I just came in to get a Sampling kit. You know, I'm pretty sure that--"

"--there was a third person at the scene," she finished for him.

"Yeah!" He said, surprised. "Looks like Altibar just--"

"--stumbled upon the poor woman during his daily jog."

"Right again! Boy, this job fits you like that fancy leather glove, SNM."

She blushed. "Thanks, Jake. I love it."

"I'll communicate the information to the Sheriff. Maybe I'll keep this part out, Deputy." Jake grinned.

"TnksJk," the deputy's muffled voice said, then groaned in pleasure at an especially powerful contacted slap.

"That was my hand, boy, for taking advantage of our sweet and delicate Sara. I'll give you ten more minutes then it's back to work. Don't break him, girl."

"You got it, Jake. Umm, here's a towel. You have chili oil on your hand now."

She threw one over to him; he wiped it absentmindedly and asked, "So Nancy Drew, where can I find that Sampling kit?"

"Same place as always. Level 2L, Bay 12, Storage E6." She rubbed her nipples. "Man, that oil stings."

"That's why I always pack some when I travel," Jake quipped. "Put it back when you're done."

"Did you by chance also bring a pair of woman's stiletto boots, size 6, too?"

"Not this trip. But you can find fuzzy handcuffs and a ball gag in the first aid kit."

"Good place for them." She waved. "Have fun with your samples."

"I will."

"TnksJk." The voice, muffled and steamy, came from under Morar's pert and delicious rear.

Jake chuckled. "I think you're smothering him."

Cassie loved the wind in her hair, even if it came from the passenger seat of a speeding convertible and not from a galloping horse, so it was understandable that she almost missed pointing out the crime scene to Devlin. Did miss pointing it out, in fact. The experienced FBI agent wasn't counting on her sense of direction though and found the location on his own. The site was empty, except for a staked perimeter and an odd-looking plane parked off a ways, curiously nowhere near an airstrip, nor even the road.

Devlin parked and scanned the area but could see nobody, so called out. An older gentleman in cowboy boots and hat descended from the plane, walked over and said, "Howdy! And who might you be?"

"Will Devlin, FBI."

"FBI, huh? What're the Fibbies doing nosing around a routine murder like this one? Jake Reston." He shook the younger man's hand.

"Whenever it looks like Aden might be involved, we get a call from the President telling us to make it go away. And with..." he checked his notes, "...with Altibar Rennedon as a suspect, it looks like I have some disappearing to create."

Jake nodded. "Although I may have made your job a whole lot easier. I used some of our fancy sensor gizmos to pick up a third set of tracks at the crime scene-- it looks like Altibar may have been set up."

"By who? And why?" Devlin was intrigued. "What do we know about Mr Rennedon? Does he have some kind of a past, Mr Reston?"

"Call me Jake-- and doesn't everyone, Agent Devlin?"

"I suppose."

"Altibar was recruited from college in Idaho. He went to study animal husbandry and after graduation was going to return to his parents' farm, but we tested him and found he had a natural talent for detecting the truth-- he was a human lie detector. That skill was of no use to us in Aden, but came in very handy out here, where his presence was essential at all of our business dealings. I always thought I could spot a lie like it was wearing neon, but that boy, well, he could smell lies you didn't even know you were telling!"

"There's a reason for a frame-up if ever I heard one."

Cassie, who had been laying back in the convertible soaking up the sun, exited the car and walked over, windblown. In a quiet voice Devlin added, "She's not privy to this information," and at normal volume, "This is my friend, Cassie McBride. Cassie, this is Jake Reston."

She put out her hand and shook his gently. With a twinkle in her eye she giggled and suddenly jumped straight into his arms! Devlin's jaw dropped. Cassie and Jake spun around laughing, oblivious to his shock. Reston set her down and said, "I'm old friends with Rusty McBride..."

"My dad!" Cassie giggled again. "How are you, you old goat? How's Aden?"

"We both miss you, Cass. When are you coming back?"

"I want to come by for a visit soon, Jake... I miss the place. But it'll have to wait until we figure out who really killed the victim. We know it couldn't have been Altibar."

"Nah. He wouldn't hurt a fly."

"More likely give the fly a makeover." They both chuckled and she walked back to Devlin.

"You little sneak... you knew all this time!" Devlin growled when she drew near.

Cassie giggled. "You don't remember me from Chicago at all, do you, Devil Dog?"

He winced at the nickname. "That was you?!"

"Wouldn't you like to know? Hey, you're an investigator... investigate!" She whirled and faced Jake. "Let's go in the plane... I want to see how you've changed my designs."

They walked briskly towards the gleaming box on wings; Devlin opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, then jogged up and took pace behind them, giving up. She was infuriating! If only she wasn't so heartbreakingly beautiful.

Then he recalled the most recent sentence she uttered and said, "Wait. Cassie, you... you designed this plane?"

"Just the propulsion... and the power systems... and the onboard equipment. Oh, and the hyperwind turbine. And the dry lav."

"What else haven't you told me?" he asked, vexed.

"We've barely scratched the surface. But, I can out-eat you at dinner tonight... you wanna bet?" Cassie's eyes glinted with challenge.

"Don't do it, boy," Jake warned. "She's an animal. Don't put your hands anywhere in her chewing radius unless you want to lose a fingertip."

"I remember. What kind of onboard equipment, Cassie?"

"This is a research vessel, Will. A CSI unit on wings. I re-designed the equipment so they were light enough to keep the plane aloft, plus be crazy easy on power. But I designed one piece of equipment from scratch."

"Watch your heads," Jake cautioned, and they ducked under the fuselage to reach the stairway. Devlin glided his fingers along the aircraft's smooth skin and mounted the stairs behind Cassie. He averted his eyes from her swaying form out of respect but the dog in him wanted to peek. Entering the craft he was impressed at the smooth flow of design. The equipment was mounted within a rounded 'dashboard' at each work station, and each station curved around the operator for ease of reach. Equipment was placed in logical order, adding to the ingenuity. Devlin marveled at Cassie's style sense; the interior looked for all the world like it had dropped from a futuristic sci-fi set. He did not miss the pride she displayed and asked, "What piece of equipment did you design from scratch, Cassie?"

"This!" she shouted. She tugged at the railing behind her and shot up into the air! Devlin jumped back in real surprise to watch her launch. It was then that he noticed she was standing on a small metal platform, which moved in whatever direction she pulled.

Jake laughed at his involuntary reaction. "We all get a kick out of the Differential Elevator, Will. It's a marvel of green simplicity. It's like a funiculus, using counterweight technology to make the platform and rider essentially weightless."

She reached the top floor and got off. Now that the platform was lighter than the counterbalance Devlin was certain it would shoot towards the ceiling, but instead it just hovered in place. He looked curiously at Jake, who provided an explanation.

"it's very sensitive to changes in weight. When it detects one, it freezes in position as a safety precaution."

"Ah."

"Come on up, Will-- summon the Elevator with that button." Cassie walked around the top level of research bays, gliding her fingertips over each smooth partition with an air of ownership.

Devlin pressed the glowing button that he could now see repeated at each science bay; he found the idea of a door-to-door elevator unique and delightful. The platform descended smoothly back to its original location and he got on and repeated Cassie's motion; he floated slowly up to her. "What an interesting feeling! It's like being on a surfboard!" he marvelled when he reached her. "But what are we doing up here?"

"I can answer that," came a woman's voice from behind a door. It swung open and the prim, tightly-fitted Sara Nell Morar emerged. She snapped the door smartly behind her and continued, "I've been analyzing Jake's most interesting findings."

"Among other things," Jake implied quietly, grinning.

She crossed the catwalk and stopped at one bay, clicking on the computer, shooting him an indecipherable glance. "Here is an analysis of the third set of footprints." A detailed view of a shoeprint, scrawled over with scientific analysis, popped up on screens around the ship. "It's a man's shoe, size 7. Altibar wears an 11. The impression in the soil puts the weight at around 140. Altibar weighs 186."

"Whose is it?" Devlin asked.

"Let me finish, please," she said. The screen changed and showed a soil analysis. "We found flammable organic compounds next to the car tracks, indicating spent gasoline. This analysis indicates the gas has an unusual ratio-- it looks like it came from a nonstandard source."

"Homemade gasoline? Who even does that?" Devlin was astonished.

Jake spoke up from below. "I can think of one person."

The three Adeners looked at one another, expressions uniform in their dismay. "The Professor," they echoed, gravely.

The man in the lab coat clicked through the images, looking for a particular one, and as he did each picture expanded to fill up the screen. He stopped and asked, "Smith, where's this feed of Jake Reston coming from?"

Smith checked the data stream. "Just outside of the crime scene, Professor."

"How far outside? he asked suspiciously. "Do you have a long-range view of the area?"

"Let me see... yes. Bringing it up now."

The screen became a scene of the field where the dead woman had been found. The Professor pointed. "What is that, there? Is that some kind of flying machine?"

Smith ran a profile check. "I'm not sure... the shape is not on any American aeronautical database. I've never seen anything like it. It has wings so it must be an airplane, sir."

"Get closer."

Smith typed instructions and the mobile camera began to fly, bug-like, approaching the odd craft until it filled the screen. Lab coat suddenly shouted, "Power down the flycams within that ship!"

Working quickly, Smith entered the codes to shut off the cameras at that location. "Why, sir? I thought we wanted clear images of everyone at the scene."

"That's one of Aden's Science planes... which have sensors that can pick up flycam transmissions! Shut them down!"

"They will most likely all be destroyed, sir... without location and gyroscopic stability software they will plummet to the ground. They're very fragile."

"Now!"

"Powering down, sir. Sir...?"

"What is it, Smith?"

"You are going to great trouble to cause Altibar Rennedon and others extreme damage, and yet you declare a great affinity towards Aden itself."

The Professor turned to him and stared. "Yes." It was more a statement than question.

Feeling suddenly warm, Smith shifted his stance and then continued. "Why? Why do both? One action seems to counter the other."

The Professor sat heavily at his workbench littered with electrical components and memory chips and let a burst of air out through pursed lips. "I know what I have planned... it will all make sense in the end, Smith." He changed the subject. "Is the security perimeter engaged?"

"Yes... at 10%-- enough to keep out crazed elephants roaming the Serengeti."

"Bring it up to 70%."

"Are we expecting an attack of dinosaurs?"

"70% goes right through standard insulation, Smith. Anyone trying to cut wires will instead become barbecue."

Smith shivered. "Remind me never to cross you, sir."

"You need to be reminded?"

"Barr!"

"Johnny!" Altibar Rennedon was alone in a small block of cells, in a sterile white room which resembled a dog pound.

The windows were barred, and high. What wasn't made of steel was concrete and cinder block. He looked ashen.

"Sheriff Stait, could you please open the door? I need to consult with the prisoner." Lane's face showed dead calm.

"Okay, Mr Lane. Normally we wait for legal counsel, but the nearest lawyer is at a very important golf meeting 50 miles from here, so we'll have to play fast and loose with the regulations. Give me your weapon. Keep in mind the room is wired for video and sound." Stait unlocked the door with a jangly clank, locked it back up with both of them inside and left the room.

Once the outer door clicked, Lane approached the other man and put a hand on his shoulder. "How are you holding up, Barr?"

Rennedon flung his arms around Lane and sobbed, "I didn't do this! I just found her! I have no idea how my fingerprints ended up on the murder weapon!" He buried his face in Lane's chest, tears soaking into his shirt.

Lane hugged the distressed man, rocking him gently. "I know you didn't, Barr. We're busy proving that right now. I've got SNM on it in the labplane."

Rennedon sniffed. "She's a bulldog."

"Oh yeah. If there's anything to find, she'll find it. I brought Jake along, too."

"Where is he? I have to tell him I didn't kill anyone!" He began crying again. "He's gonna be so disappointed!"

"Easy, Barr, easy. He already knows. Your character was never called into question." He tousled the handsome young man's dirty blonde hair and kissed his cheek gently. "You'll be out of here before you know it and back home with me. What can you tell me that I haven't heard already?"

Rennedon took a deep, quavering breath. "You know I'm on a working vacation here. I was taking my daily run from the resort... I'd take the same path every day for two weeks now... and suddenly I see clothing off to one side of the path. So I slow down and run over to take a look. That's when I saw her. It was terrible!" He sniffed and began sobbing again. "Her head was covered in blood! I couldn't see her face. I didn't touch her, just fished out my phone and dialed 9-1-1. I couldn't tell them exactly where the place was except off the main road near the resort, but an ambulance and the Deputy showed up right away. One look at the body and they knew she was dead-- they took a few pictures and put her right in the ambulance. I went in the sheriff's car to the station to answer some questions-- I wasn't here for more than 10 minutes when the news of my fingerprints being on the wallet and murder weapon came in and he arrested me. That's when I asked to call Aden. He wouldn't let me make the call, but dialed and spoke for me."

"Yes, I got that call."

Rennedon dropped to the hard elevated slab that passed for a bed and put his head in his hands. He sobbed, "I can't go to prison, Johnny-- I don't have the constitution! I'll be killed before the week is out."

"Oh, I hardly think you'll be appearing before a judge, let alone doing any time, Barr. Something stinks here, and if it takes every member of Aden to find out what it is, then that's what will happen."

"Thank you, John."

Lane sat down, gazed into Rennedon's large brown eyes, lightly touched his face and kissed him. They held each other quietly for a long moment.

Rennedon remembered, "I overheard a conversation before. Just one side of a conversation-- it was a phone call. But it sounded very unofficial in nature-- I think the Sheriff or his deputy may be dirty."

Lane snapped urgently, "Tell me everything you heard. I have that same feeling."

(END OF PART ONE- watch for the stunning conclusion)

Copyright 2010 Bruce Ian Friedman