Part 6 (1/2)

Obviously, she had taken his att.i.tude as an affront as well. She seemed like a timid thing; maybe anger was the only emotion that got her to stand up for herself. It certainly put some color in those round cheeks of hers, and added an even richer timbre to her already deep voice.

He was determined not to ask questions, to listen to her and then get her out of his office. If she had already seen eight Retrieval Artists, then she had failed to engage them as well.

Although this time, he wouldn't use the ignorance as his reason to turn down her case. He'd find something in this litany of woe that would sound plausible. Rudeness seemed to get her back up; maybe she would respond better to kindness.

After a few minutes, he held up a hand. ”Enough. I want to know about the case. The background can come later.”

”The background is very important.” She s.h.i.+fted from foot to foot, but unlike most of his visitors, did not ask for a chair. It was as if she hadn't even noticed the chair's absence because she had been so focused on convincing him to pay attention to her.

”I can't understand the relevance of the background unless I know why I'm hearing it,” Flint said.

She nodded and said, ”I was called to Mars to view a skeleton, Mr. Flint. Bodies that decay in the Martian soil should mummify, just like they do in the real Sahara.”

”This still feels like background, Ms. Costard.”

Her face flushed. ”It's not.”

”I deal with Disappeareds, Ms. Costard, not skeletons. You mentioned a Disappeared. You also said she was dead. If you know that, and know who she is, then you don't need a Retrieval Artist. A detective maybe, or even a lawyer if the problem is with the estate, but-”

”My skeleton is the Disappeared,” Costard snapped. ”She was planted in Martian soil like a clue to a crime I don't even understand. She was killed somewhere else, probably stabbed, judging by the slash in one of her ribs, and then whoever killed her cut the skin off of her. This was deliberate.”

Flint winced at the description. He had seen a lot of violent death during his years with the police force, and the sheer creativeness of it never failed to disgust him.

”Her real name is Lagrima Jrgen. She's been missing for the last thirty years, and I think she's been dead at least that long.”

Flint shrugged. ”I'm sorry to hear of it, but there's nothing I can do. You have her body, her name, and probably a lot of her history. I find people, Ms. Costard.”

”I know,” she said. ”I may have made a mistake about Trackers, but I know what Retrieval Artists do, Mr. Flint. I really do. Lagrima Jrgen angered a group of M'Kri Tribesmen by selling the mineral rights to their homeland. She tricked them out of those rights, and when BiMela Corp's engineers arrived to stake their claims, the Tribesmen killed them. The case went before the Fifth Multicultural Tribunal, who ruled for the corporation-which was no surprise, because the doc.u.ments were in order. But the Tribunal noted that the Tribesmen actually had a case against Jrgen under tribal law for using a type of language that they had forbidden in negotiation. They had lost the rights because they had failed to engage an Alliance lawyer to protect them-which is simply incompetence, not illegality-but they still had redress under their law for the actual trickery itself.”

Flint frowned. ”The M'Kri aren't known for their inhumane treatment of people who break their laws.”

”The Tribesmen are a subculture. They follow different laws-which is, apparently, another reason they lost their case. They weren't the dominant culture of their region.” She sounded a lot more confident and authoritarian than she had before.

”As a subculture, they allowed killing to redress crimes?” Flint didn't understand. Usually-although not always- subcultures were subject to the dominant cultures laws.

”The Tribesmen don't kill, Mr. Flint. They enslave. And that is legal. They call it servitude, and the punishment lasts as long as the effects of the crime itself. A week for a damaged pot, until that pot can be remade, all the way to life and beyond if the crime has changed the very way the Tribesmen or the ones affected live.”

”The loss of the mineral rights was permanent?” he asked.

Costard nodded. ”So Jrgen's children and her children's children would be in service to the Tribesmen, unless the mineral rights could be released to them. Even then, her family might not have gone free. If the minerals were taken, then the effects of the crime continued.”

Flint sighed. He understood why Lagrima Jrgen had disappeared. But he still didn't understand what Costard thought he could do about this case. ”Tell me, in one sentence, why you believe you need a Retrieval Artist.”

”I'll give you two,” she said. ”I don't think Lagrima succeeded in disappearing.”

Flint wouldn't necessarily agree, but he didn't say that.

”But no one has seen her two children in thirty years either.” The color had risen even further in Costard's face, making her eyes seem incredibly bright.

”You think she got her children to disappear?” Flint asked.

”They're not with the Tribesmen,” Costard said. ”The SDHPD already checked that. And the warrant is still outstanding.”

”They were probably murdered then,” Flint said.

”There's that chance,” Costard said. ”But their bodies haven't turned up anywhere.”

”You've checked the site where you found hers?” Flint asked.

Costard nodded. ”The SDHPD is still looking, but they doubt the children are there. The team has already gone through too many layers of soil. They're convinced that no more bodies were buried at the same time as Jrgen's.”

”But you say she wasn't killed there,” Flint said.

”And therein lies my problem, Mr. Flint. I can't prove anything. I know she tried to disappear. I know she took her children with her and no one saw them again. I know she ended up dead, probably murdered. Clearly, her corpse has been violated, and done so with a probable intent to upset the Disty. And that's all I know.”

Flint frowned, feeling a mixture of irritation and excitement. She had certainly aroused his curiosity. He was interested, partly because the case was so different from anything that anyone had brought him.

But several things still nagged. ”Do you know how expensive my services are?” he asked.

”Not exactly,” she said. ”But I hear that a Retrieval Artist can cost a small fortune.”

”I take a retainer of two million credits,” he said. ”I always investigate the information you gave me myself. If I decide, after my investigation, not to take the case, the two million is all this will cost you. If I decide to take the case, I bill weekly for expenses, which can run into a great deal of money. I also collect a weekly fee. I may terminate our arrangement at any time. If I take your case, you cannot terminate. If it takes me five years to solve this case, you will pay the weekly fee and expenses for those five years-”

”Five years?” She took a step backward. ”It could take that long?”

”It could take longer.” He folded his hands together. ”Why should that matter you, Ms. Costard? This is an intellectual puzzle to you, right? Nothing more.”

Except maybe the money. But if it was just the money, she would probably have left when he mentioned the two million credits. He had no idea how much forensic anthropologists got paid, but he doubted it was enough to indulge an intellectual whim.

She blinked hard several times. ”Five years, Mr. Flint. I don't have five years.” ”To solve the case?”

She shook her head, swallowing visibly. ”To live, if we don't find those children.” ”What do the children have to do with it?”

”They're the only ones who can clear the contamination,” Costard said. ”I have to give them to the Disty in order to go free.”

10.

Sharyn Scott-Olson couldn't shake the feeling of deja vu as she walked in the freshly dug Martian soil. The hole was deeper now, still square, and still a wide-open s.p.a.ce inside the Disty area.

The main difference was that the buildings looked abandoned, not empty. Amazing what a few weeks could do.

Petros Batson leaned against one of the backhoes. The human-made machines were bigger than the Disty ones. Scott-Olson wondered how they had been brought into the Disty section. Probably in pieces-that was how large things made their way in here-and probably at considerable effort on the part of the human workers.

”I don't believe that you found another body,” she said as she got close.