“Isn’t she at home?” asked Trishman.
While Garibaldi was trying to decide how to finesse that question, Trishman clicked his fingers and added, “No, of course she wouldn’t be at home. She’s on her way to Mars or maybe she’s there by now.”
“Mars,” repeated Garibaldi without much surprise. That figured. “Are you sure?”
The older man shrugged and said, “That’s my job. A receptionist knows who’s in town and who isn’t.”
Okay, thought Garibaldi, he had gotten what he had come for. Now if he got anything else it would be gravy. “Do you know anything about a bill before the Senate that would place the Mix in charge of Psi Corps?”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “No. Do tell?”
Garibaldi started to say more, but then he realized that his job was to ask the questions, not answer them. Let this guy pontificate. “Is Mr. Malten around your office a lot?”
Trishman shook his head. “Not an exceptional amount. Perhaps half a dozen times a year. Surely you can’t suspect him of doing anything wrong.”
“Well,” said Garibaldi, “putting a bill before the Senate isn’t doing anything wrong. I suppose changing Psi Corps wouldn’t be all that wrong either.”
“Then you’re with us,” said Trishman with satisfaction.
“Wait a minute,” said the security chief. “We’re not talking about a political debate—we’re talking about two fatal bombings! If you know anything about this, I expect you to tell me.”
“I think you know about as much as I do,” said the old man, rising and taking his cup to the kitchen. “Do you want to spend the night?”
“What?” asked Garibaldi.
“It’s the middle of the night, Mr. Garibaldi. This is not the time to go running around knocking on doors. Don’t they have night where you come from?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?” asked the security chief. He yawned and decided that he was getting tired. He had to meet Gray in the morning, in all likelihood to fly to Mars. No, he didn’t have a hotel room; it just hadn’t occurred to him to get one. On the other hand, could he trust this guy?
“I don’t think so,” he said, rising to his feet. “So are you in favor of the Mix taking over Psi Corps?”
“Instead of the other way around, like it is now?” asked Trishman. “Who wouldn’t be? That doesn’t mean I know anything about how this takeover is going to happen. I don’t.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Garibaldi. “Do you know where Ms. Crane is staying on Mars?”
Trishman smiled. “I’m afraid not. You’re welcome to that couch, or not. But I’m going back to bed.”
Garibaldi felt as if he had been dismissed, so he moved to the door and pressed the panel to open it. As he strode out, he was looking over his shoulder to say good night, when strong hands gripped his arms and shoulders. They dragged him back into the room.
He struggled, but there were three of them. They took him by surprise and squirted some stuff in his face that made him swoon. Garibaldi staggered backward, losing his senses, but he managed a lucky swing that caught one of them in the stomach and doubled him over. The other two were still in his face, and one of them squirted him again with the sedative. Garibaldi windmilled his fists in the air, but he wasn’t connecting.
He was slipping, falling, going where no one could reach him.
Chapter 18
The lure of the bullet station and immediate passage to Boston was strong, but the lure of a bed and a shower was stronger. When Talia passed a homey, old-fashioned hotel before she reached the station, she couldn’t stop herself from going in and pressing the buzzer on the check-in counter. It was the middle of the night, but she hoped she would still be able to get a room.
A kindly older lady finally appeared. “What can we do for you, miss?”
“A single,” she said. “Do you have one?”
“Yes, my dear, only sixty credits for a single. Interested?”
Talia found herself nodding before she even thought about it.
“Fine. I’ll need your creditchit and your identicard.”
Talia passed them over, thinking that was the second time she had used the fake identicard. She only had two more times. But she was so dirty and weary that she would risk facing a million Psi Cops to be clean and rested. Tomorrow would be time enough to get to Boston, she told herself, time enough to confront Emily Crane, clear her name, and get her life back.
She dragged herself to the room and ripped off the dirty clothes and the wig. Talia felt like throwing the entire outfit away, but she doubted if she would get very far naked. In the shower, she let the lukewarm water run over her hair and body, and she watched a river of sand snake from her feet to the drain. She was too weary to even adjust the water to make it warmer, although she had the strength to rub some shampoo in her hair.
When she staggered out of the shower, she collapsed into the droopy bed with beads of water still clinging to her back. She fell immediately into a sleep that was so deep it was beyond dreams.
Garibaldi, however, was having a dream. A nightmare, to be exact. In this dream, people were tying his hands behind his back, tying his feet together, and stuffing a gag in his mouth. He wanted to wake up, but he couldn’t open his eyes. It wasn’t until he began to squirm against his bindings that the dream turned really ugly. Someone slapped him across the mouth, knocking him to the floor, and his eyes bugged open. Unfortunately, the dream didn’t end—he was still bound and gagged.
He was also still in Trishman’s white living room, only the older man was not in sight. Instead, there were two brawny young men, well dressed in suits. One of them was standing over Garibaldi, glowering at him. Ah, yes, he thought, that was the guy he had punched in the stomach. Well, why was he upset? He wasn’t the one bound and gagged, lying on the floor with a drugged-out hangover.
The man looked like he wanted to slap him again, when a woman’s voice intruded. “Don’t even think about it.”
Garibaldi craned his neck as best he could to see who had entered from the bedroom. Lo and behold, it was Emily Crane! Only she wasn’t dressed in her usual frumpy outfit but in a sleek gray jumpsuit, with her hair pulled back severely. He tried to ask her how her trip to Mars had been, but everything he said came out a mumble.
“Get him back on the couch,” ordered the woman. The two goons complied and lifted him back into a semicomfortable position.
“Mr. Garibaldi,” she said, “if you promise not to cry out, I will remove the gag.”
He nodded. Crying out wasn’t really his style, but he was looking forward to kicking the crap out of these guys at the first opportunity. She snapped her fingers, and the gag came off.
“That was a quick trip to Mars,” he croaked.
“Don’t blame Ronald for lying,” she said, sitting beside him on the couch. “Or for calling us. We only have another twenty-four hours before we can put our plan into effect, and then we stage a bloodless coup of Psi Corps. Don’t you want that—to get rid of Bester and his ilk?”
“Sister, right now, your ilk doesn’t seem much better.” One of the goons moved forward with his fists balled, and Garibaldi winced, awaiting the blow.
But Emily Crane waved the man off and looked back at Garibaldi. “Do you see why we have to keep you quiet for twenty-four hours, until the bill is passed and signed? Your detective work was quite good, but we can’t let years of planning go down the drain to save one telepath.”
She smiled pleasantly. “I’m hopeful you’ll come around to our way of thinking. In twenty-four hours, after you see all that we’ve accomplished, you might want to forget about your investigation. The public is happy with Martian terrorists as the bombers—why can’t you be?”
Garibaldi wasn’t going to argue with the lady, because the alternative to agreeing with them was probably winding up as fish food in the harbor. “What are you going to do with me?” be asked.
Emily Crane got up, strode to the picture window, and looked out at the sleeping city. “Maybe we should move Mr. Garibaldi while it’s still dark outside. If something happened to him here, it would reflect badly on Trishman. Gag him, untie his feet, and keep a PPG in his back.”
The thugs untied the rope around Garibaldi’s ankles and hauled him to his feet. They shoved the foul-tasting rag back into his mouth, but he was willing to give up his voice in exchange for having his legs free. His hands were still tied behind his back, but he could kick, he could run! He saw one of the goons pull a PPG out of his jacket pocket, and he felt the metal in his back. Maybe he wouldn’t kick or run right now, thought Garibaldi.