Notwithstanding his generalized anxiety and the grief that still clawed at his heart, Kyle felt better overall than he had since before the attack on Starbase 311. Even with all the horror he experienced there, the time on Hazimot had been healing and restful. He felt sharp, alert, and clearheaded. The hard manual labor he had done there had left him strong, with stamina he hadn’t enjoyed since he was much younger. And being back in San Francisco helped, too. He loved the city; always had. Its cool breezes, crazily diverse architecture, and almost uniquely polyglot population sang to him. As he walked down the street, confident that whatever Italian restaurant he came to first could provide an excellent meal, he felt almost happy again. He felt, at least, the possibility of happiness; no, the inevitability of it.
Inevitability. He liked the sound of that. He even tried saying it out loud. He repeated it, almost like a mantra, inside his head as he approached a small storefront restaurant called Paolo’s, its sign glowing golden and inviting in the twilight.
But before he reached Paolo’s, he saw a man coming toward him in an ill-fitting blue suit, a glazed expression on his face. This, he was pretty sure, was it. Maybe the first of many, but definitely an attack. You should have armed yourself,he thought bitterly. A phaser would make short work of this guy.He hadn’t wanted to be overly impulsive, though. Maybe the man was just lost, a stranger in town, confused and looking for a hand. The way Kyle had been feeling lately, he might have fired first, leaving San Francisco with one less tourist and himself with an even bigger problem.
His muscles tensed, his heartbeat and respiration quickened. Still the man came toward him, not deviating from his path. His hands were clenching and releasing, and Kyle knew then that he was not wrong. He glanced around himself, rapidly, trying to determine whether or not this person was alone. It appeared that he was, so Kyle froze in position and let the man come to him.
As he neared, steel flashed in his hands. The man carried a Ligonian knife, its blade wickedly curved, in his right hand. Kyle barely had time to register that when the man in blue sprang at him.
Kyle dropped to a partial crouch, minimizing his target area and bringing his arms in front of himself for defense. Now Kyle recognized him: Carson Cook, the supposedly comatose security officer; Owen had sent over an image of him last night. Cook moved in fast, blade slashing wildly toward him. Kyle blocked the first attack with a blow to Cook’s forearm. Cook almost dropped the knife, but he recovered it and brought it down below Kyle’s waist level, then stabbed up, aiming for the ribs. Kyle caught Cook’s wrist, the knife’s point just nicking his own forearm as he did. With his other hand he reached for Cook’s throat. Cook dodged the arm, so Kyle, still gripping the wrist, kicked at Cook’s knee instead. The kick connected, hard, and Cook lost his footing. He fell to one knee and Kyle jerked his arm skyward, twisting as he did. Cook’s hand spasmed and the Ligonian knife went flying, landing on the street with a clatter.
As soon as Kyle released his wrist, Cook lunged forward again, this time from his kneeling position. His mouth opened and he snapped at Kyle’s stomach. Kyle brought a knee up, smashing it into Cook’s jaw. Cook’s teeth crunched sickeningly and he swayed backward. Blood appeared at the corners of his mouth and he spat bits of tooth into the street, but he didn’t go down.
Rather than wait for the next attack, Kyle doubled his fists together and swung them like a baseball bat, catching the side of Cook’s face. Cook’s head snapped sideways and the fight went out of him. He slumped to the street.
Before Kyle could catch his breath, two Starfleet security officers ran up to him, phasers out and pointed at Cook. “You’re a little late,” Kyle said. “I thought you were supposed to protect me, not just clean up the mess afterward.”
“Sorry, sir,” one of the security team said. Her hair was a mass of tight blond coils and her uniform sleeves bulged at the biceps. “We were trying to stay out of sight, to draw out your attacker. And then, well, it looked like you had things under control.”
The other officer, a male with dark hair and a somber face, knelt down next to the body in the street. “It’s Carson Cook,” he said.
The blonde nodded. “He escaped yesterday from the mental care facility he’s been living in,” she explained to Kyle. “Nobody thought he could so much as open a door.”
“Apparently he’s better.”
“Doesn’t look like it from here,” the male officer said. He held up Carson Cook’s head. Cook’s eyes were open but there was no spark of life in them. His mouth was slack, a mixture of blood and saliva running down his chin. The officer waved his hand in front of Cook’s eyes but they didn’t track, didn’t even blink. “He looks just the same as ever.”
“But you saw him attack me,” Kyle insisted.
“Yes, we saw it,” the blonde said. “Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“Not a bit,” Kyle agreed. “But then, a lot of things about this whole situation haven’t made sense for a long time. That’s the only consistency, in fact.”
“Well, maybe this will put an end to it,” the blonde officer suggested.
Kyle shook his head. “No, it won’t. Cook’s just one man. He’s a tool, somehow, but he’s not what this is all about.”
The officer shrugged. “One thing at a time, I guess. We’ll get him picked up and put back into custody. In a more secure facility, this time—he’s a murderer, now. And we’ll stick a little closer from now on.”
“Sounds good,” Kyle said. “I was just going to Paolo’s there for some dinner. That shook up my appetite a bit but I think I can still eat.”
“Let me have a look inside first, sir,” she said. “Just in case.”
“Fine,” Kyle said. “Go ahead.”
He glanced back at the male officer, who had just used his combadge to call for “help removing Cook’s comatose body. But as Kyle watched, Cook—his eyes animated again—snatched the phaser from the officer’s holster and triggered it. The beam caught the male officer full in the torso. He screamed once and then fell onto the sidewalk, his uniform shirt smoldering.
Cook turned the phaser toward Kyle, who dropped flat on the sidewalk just in time to miss the beam that shot over his head. Cook tracked him down and fired again. Kyle rolled to the side and the beam missed again, but not by much. Before Cook could aim again, a phaser blast caught him in the head. Cook twitched once, dropped the stolen phaser, and was still.
“Damn!” the blonde said as she rushed to her partner’s side. “How do you keep up with that? One second he’s basically an empty shell, and the next he’s alert and deadly.”
“I wish I knew,” Kyle admitted.
She held two fingers against her partner’s neck. “He’s gone,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “Mack’s a great guy. Nice wife, terrific kids, the whole package, you know?”
“I’m very sorry,” Kyle said. He wanted to be sympathetic, but at the same time he didn’t take his eyes off Cook, just in case.
When the female officer spoke again, there was a new edge in her voice, of anger, even rage. “I don’t know what you’re mixed up in, sir, but it’s getting pretty expensive. First the attendant at the care facility, and now Mack.”
Kyle put a hand on her shoulder, but kept an eye on Cook. He had hoped to be able to question his attacker—whoever it turned out to be. But even if Cook had survived the phaser blast, wherever his mind was, he was beyond interrogation. “I know it is,” he said softly. “It’s been expensive for a long time: If there’s a way to finish it, I’m going to find it, though. You can count on that.”
Chapter 34
Will was exhausted.
The away party had taken more energy out of him than he’d anticipated. He hadn’t had to do much of anything, but the level of tension had been draining, and now that his shift was over all he wanted to do was hit the rack and sleep until he had to report for duty the next morning. The last hour or so on the bridge, flying out of the Candelar system, he’d barely been able to stifle his yawns. Captain Pressman, though, looked alert and crisp as ever, and Will hadn’t wanted to let on how tired he was.