Zero-G (15 page)

Roos laughed. “Of course we do. So does NASA. So does any business. Look, let's say you want to run for Congress but you're facing a squeaky-clean, longtime officeholder who the pundits say is unbeatable. You can announce your run to the media, let them do a few pieces on you, and maybe win a few votes.”

“Or?”

“Or you can work behind the curtain, privately lining up funds, positioning key volunteers, mapping your strategy, and waiting for the right time.”

“My opponent would know I'm running because I have to file election papers and documents.”

“True, but you don't have to respond to him or to the media until you choose to do so. Now, let's say you're good at what you do; you can kiss babies and shake hands with the best of them. Your opponent has already written you off. After all, there have been no campaign speeches, no position papers, no media buys. He thinks you're just some bozo who wants to see his name on the ballot. In the final month before the election, you open the floodgates. You buy enough media to make a splash, then hit the campaign trail in a full sprint. You catch your opponent off guard and force him into a defensive posture. Now he's playing catch-up. Add to all that the mystique your secrecy has created. People are now interested in you.”

“So you plan to just appear on the space tourism front?”

“Exactly, and when we do, the spotlight will shift to us.”

Tuck frowned. “Surely word is out about what you're trying to do.”

“We've had traditional and Internet media sniffing around, but so far we've kept the lid on.”

“What about employees?” Tuck pressed. “One of them could let the cat out of the bag. Some people can be bought.”

“
Most
people can be bought, Commander. I know that and I've taken precautions. For one, I deposit a large chunk of cash in an escrow account. Each employee will share in that money if he or she helps keep things under wraps. Each stands to make more money than anyone would offer as a bribe. So far, it's worked magnificently.”

“Sounds like you've given this a great deal of thought.”

Roos smiled. “Thinking is my superpower.”

Gary giggled. “Superpower. I like that. I want a superpower.”

“Most people have one or more unique powers. Take your dad; one of his superpowers is courage — courage and skepticism.” He looked at Tuck. “Yes, I said skepticism. It's a great defense mechanism.”

“What is my superpower?” Gary asked.

“I'm just getting to know you, buddy, but I know courage is one of them. Just like your dad, you have massive amounts of courage.”

Gary's smile evaporated. “I haven't done anything brave.”

Roos squatted to look into the boy's eyes. “Have you watched your father fly into space?”

“Yes. Every time.”

“How did you feel?”

He lowered his head. “Scared.”

“But you watched anyway, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, Gary, in my book, the only people more courageous than astronauts who fly rockets into space are the families of astronauts. Watching that takes more guts than anything I can think of.”

Tuck met Gary's eyes but said nothing. He knew both their minds had raced back to their earlier conversation.

Roos stood. “Come on. I'll give you a tour of the rest of the facility, then I believe I promised an autograph and game for someone who recently had a birthday.”

“Yeah. That'd be me.” Gary's smile returned.

Tuck smiled too, and then let his eyes trace the graceful lines of the interior of the strange little spaceship. She was a beauty, all right.

THIRTEEN

T
he news had come over the seventeen-inch color television in Garret Alderman's Holiday Inn hotel room in San Diego. A woman with soft Asian features delivered the story on the local morning news. Her face showed well-practiced sadness as she told of a mysterious death.

Alderman turned up the volume.

“Cindy Sellers died this morning at the county coroner's office. Ms. Sellers, twenty-five, had just completed her first year as a medical examiner's assistant. As yet, no cause of death has been given. Prior to her death, fellow workers said she seemed confused and complained of nausea and headache. Results of the medical examiner's report are pending.”

The young woman's symptoms were too familiar to Alderman. They were also further proof that he was in the right city. Alderman had tracked Edwin Quain across the country and narrowed his search to San Diego, but that wasn't narrow enough. Quain was a biotechnician with skills that laboratories and pharmaceutical companies demanded. The problem rested in the size of the biotech community in San Diego. Over eighty companies had set up shop in the county, making it the largest repository of such businesses in the state and one of the largest in the country. Alderman had, using techniques he refused to reveal to his MedSys bosses, found a firm that had hired Quain under a different name. He worked only three days and disappeared — a day before Alderman arrived.

The camera switched to the woman's coanchor, a middle-aged man with just the right amount of gray and a square jaw. “Another tragedy struck on our city's freeway when a car lost control and collided with a big rig.” The video image of emergency workers at the site of the accident filled the television screen. “CHP said Ronald Mason, a bartender, swerved into the semi on Interstate 8. He and his passenger died instantly. One witness said the car and driver seemed fine one moment, then became erratic. Officers at the scene said the strong smell of alcohol has made them suspect the driver of drinking and driving, but couldn't confirm the suspicion until after the autopsy.”

“We have video taken by an onlooker shortly after the accident.” A grainy image appeared on the television. Alderman studied it.

The reporter continued. “Here you can see several people gathered around the car to help — ”

“Quain!”

The video ended and the newscasters moved on to the next story.

Alderman switched off the television and started his computer. Within minutes he was searching the Net. First, he found the website for the local paper. Fortunately, the
San Diego Register
maintained an active Web presence, and he located the story of the accident. His eyes vacuumed the facts from the screen, his mind com mitting every detail to memory, including the names of the dead men in the car and the truck driver.

Alderman Googled the names of all involved. He found a citation for the ME tech at the county website, then something struck him. Could the dead bartender and his buddy be related to the tech's demise? Wouldn't the authorities transport the accident victims to the county ME? He did a search for the bartender's name but found nothing. He discovered the truck driver's name listed on his company's website, but it offered very little information beyond his experience and training. He spent the next twenty minutes scouring the Net for more details, and then tracked down the address and phone numbers of the men. Fortunately, they had not taken precautions to maintain their privacy. He used several sources for the address, knowing that online white pages information could be, and often was, out of date.

Alderman left his hotel room.

“I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Hammond. I know you've had a difficult time.”

Dick Hammond's thick, barrel-shaped body filled the doorway of his small post-war house in Linda Vista. Despite his fireplug build, he looked fragile, like a huge egg in a vise.

“How can you know what it's like?” The trucker forced the words.

“Like I said, I'm an insurance investigator. I see tragedies like this every week.”

“How do I know you are who you say you are? Maybe you're another reporter.”

Alderman shook his head. “This is old news to reporters.” He reached into the pocket of his dark blue sport coat and removed a business card. “As I said, my name is Oscar Tillman. I'm with the National Insurance Consortium for Highway Safety.”

“Never heard of it.”

“That's good to hear,” Alderman said. “We like to work beneath the surface.”

“So what? You here to put the blame on me? Those guys were drunk and caused the accident. There are witnesses and the Chippers said so too.”

“I've read the CHP report, Mr. Hammond. They hold you blameless. Besides, we're not an insurance company in the usual sense. I'm not here to assign blame. My organization gathers information on deaths that occur on freeways in an effort to influence the various governments to make improvements.”

“Someone needs to tell them what to do. I pay a boatload of money in taxes and I don't see much return on it.”

“Exactly our point, Mr. Hammond. Guys like you fork over lots of money then get blamed for accidents that are really the fault of Cal Trans, local and state governments, and even the federal government. Our nonprofit organization is trying to hold the right people accountable.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“May I come in and ask a few questions? I promise not to take too much of your time.”

“I guess. I gotta tell ya, I don't much like talking about it.”

“No one does, Mr. Hammond. May I call you Dick?”

“Sure, if I can call you” — he looked at the card —“Oscar.”

“That'll be fine.” Alderman stepped across the threshold and entered a living room dark as a cave.
To
be expected. The man is trying to shut out the world.
The room was tidy and well organized. The furniture looked to be less than two or three years old. A tall glass of beer rested on an end table next to a leather recliner. The clock had yet to pass early afternoon. Hammond was trying to take the edge off the shock of having been involved in something that snuffed out two lives.

“Is your wife around?” Alderman asked.

“Died two years ago. Just me now. The kids all moved away. They call now and then. Sit there.” He pointed at a padded rocking chair.
His wife's?
Alderman did and Hammond returned to his chair and reached for the beer, then, as if he realized how it must appear, replaced it on the coaster.

“How are you holding up?”

“Didn't sleep last night. I doubt I'll sleep tonight.”

Alderman nodded. “Not unusual. Just remember, you did nothing wrong.”

“Maybe so, but two men are dead.”

“Can you tell me in your own words what happened? Take your time.”

Hammond sighed and tears filled his eyes. He started slowly, then gained steam as the telling went on. Alderman listened to every word, sifting through the emotional tale for any helpful clues. He waited patiently. Hammond would have little to offer, but Alderman needed to play the game. Thirty minutes later, Hammond finished.

“You've been very kind to give me your time. I just have one last thing and it's going to seem a little odd.” Again, Alderman pulled something from his coat pocket. “I want to show you a photo of a man and ask if you recognize him.” He handed the small photo to Hammond.

“I know this guy. I recognize his face. And who could forget that ear. That moron ran off after the accident. Told me he was going to his car to get his ID, and then drove off. Left me standing there to explain everything and that after he told me he had witnessed the whole thing. Good thing for me there were other witnesses who stayed around. Who is this guy?”

“I wish I could tell you. We think he might be part of a truck piracy ring. He may have been following you.”

“You said you are with some insurance company, but now you're talking like a cop.”

Alderman shook his head. “I'm not a cop. We're not even sure this guy is involved in anything nefarious. It's just that he was at another accident and left. My people thought it might be a good idea to ask around. Looks like we'll be turning this guy's activity over to the police.”

“You really think he was tailing me?”

“Maybe. Or he may just be a very shy Good Samaritan. We don't know. It will be up to the police to find out. In the meantime, I'll file my report. I appreciate you taking the time to help us.”

“No problem.”

“Sure it was. To tell the story is to relive it. You're a brave man, Dick. Stay brave. Don't let this alter your life. Remember, you're one of the victims, not the perpetrator.”

More tears filled the man's eyes. “Thanks. I . . . just thanks.”

Alderman rose and shook the man's hand. “Guys like you don't get enough credit. Stay strong. I'll see myself out.”

As he closed the door, he thought of Quain. “I'm coming for you, chum. I'm coming hard and fast.”

FOURTEEN

F
or the second time that day Alderman pulled a card from his coat pocket and handed it to the man in front of him.

“Private investigator, huh?” The medical examiner was unusually tall, but too thin to have ever played basketball. “You're not expecting me to be impressed, are you, Mr. Scofield?”