Timothy Zahn - The Green And The Gray

All eyes turned to him. "But he's the one who was working with Cyril toward a peace agreement,"

Laurel pointed out.

"At the cost of your daughter's life," Roger reminded her. "If we're going to take this to anyone, I say we go to Torvald."

"You must be joking," Zenas said with a snort. "Torvald was the one who kidnapped Melantha."

"He told me he did that for her own protection," Roger said, looking at Melantha. "He told me he tried to tell you that, too, Melantha."

Laurel craned her head to look into her daughter's face. "Melantha?"

"He did say that," the girl agreed hesitantly. "But I thought he was just lying to keep me from making trouble."

"You did look more or less comfortable when we found you," Roger pointed out. "You weren't tied up or gagged."

"You're not seriously taking Torvald's side in this, are you?" Zenas demanded. "He's the one who moved into the middle of the Green homestead in MacDougal Alley, forcing out people who'd been there for decades."

"Did he force them out?" Roger asked. "Or did they leave on their own?"

"With a Gray in the neighborhood?" Zenas countered. "None of those people were Warriors. What else could they do?"

"He also grabbed you off the street, remember?" Jonah added.

"So did Nikolos," Roger countered. "So did Halfdan, or at least he tried. Look, I'm not saying Torvald's not a little ham-handed in how he deals with people. But I don't think he necessarily wants to wipe out the Greens, either."

"There's a ringing endorsement," Jonah muttered.

"I think he's an honorable man," Roger said doggedly. "And frankly, I don't know what else to do. I just can't agree with trying to work a deal with someone who was willing to watch Melantha get murdered in cold blood."

"Then you can't trust any of the Greens, either," Laurel said.

"I certainly don't trust them," Fierenzo agreed. "Present company excepted, of course. For all this talk about leadership and Gifts and cooperation, there seems to be a lot of finagling beneath the surface of Green society."

"Because we don't have a Leader," Laurel said tiredly.

"Now we're just going in circles," Ron said. "What exactly—?"

"Hold it," Fierenzo said, lifting a hand for silence as he pulled out his phone and punched it on.

"Yes?... Great." He pulled out his notebook and a pen. "Go."

For a minute the only sound was the scratching of Fierenzo's pen as he scribbled notes. Then, to Roger's amazement, a taut smile began to spread slowly across his face. "Two lanterns, huh?" he said. "How nice. Yeah, I've got it. Thanks."

He punched off and lowered the phone. "Two lanterns?" Roger repeated, frowning.

"That's right," Fierenzo said, continuing to write in his notebook.

"So what does it mean?" Roger persisted, not in the mood for word games.

"It means, my friends," Fierenzo said, an edge of grim satisfaction in his voice, "that we may just have them."

When he got right down to it, Smith had to admit, he really didn't know very much about what was going on. Still, it was more than Chief Fishburn did. "I'll be damned," he said as Smith finished his recitation and bit into a cheeseburger just slightly smaller than his mouth. "So you think these are the guys who kidnapped Detective Fierenzo?"

"Kidnapped or killed," Smith said grimly. "The longer we go without hearing anything, the less likely he's still alive. If he was nosing too close, they wouldn't gain much by keeping him alive."

"Except you get the needle in this state for killing a cop," Fishburn said. "But then, maybe they don't give a damn."

"Maybe not," Smith said, taking another bite of his burger. Suddenly, the food didn't taste as good as it had a minute ago.

"But you do think they still have the Whittier woman?"

"As of the moment they drove me off the road they did," Smith told him. "I suppose they could have dumped her somewhere after that—"

"Chief?" a voice came from the radio at Fishburn's waist.

Fishburn unhooked it and lifted it to his cheek. "Yeah, Adam, what have you got?"

"Nothing on the canvass," Adam reported. "But I pulled a bunch of the charge slips from this morning, and I found a customer who remembers seeing two women leaving that truck: one old, probably sixty or better, the other much younger, probably mid-twenties."

Fishburn lifted his eyebrows at Smith. "He happen to notice which direction they went?"

"Nope," Adam said. "But from the time-stamp on the charge slip, we know it was just after ninethirty this morning."

"Five hours ago," Fishburn commented, glancing at his watch.

"Yeah," Adam said. "Oh, and we did check the VIN against the plate Smith gave us. This is definitely the right truck."

"After all this, it sure as hell better be," Fishburn said. "You call it in?"

"As soon as we got the confirmation," Adam said. "There's a bunch of State cops on the way to give us a hand."

"Good," Fishburn said. "Try a few more of those charge slips and see if you can find someone who saw what direction they took when they left the parking lot. What's happening with the car-rental places?"

"Kate's on that," Adam said. "I haven't heard anything from her since she started."

"Check on her progress," Fishburn ordered. "And have someone run through the blotter for stolenvehicle reports. They may have taken the plates off the pickup to use on something else."

"Got it."

Fishburn returned the radio to his belt. "Well, she was alive as of nine-thirty this morning," he commented.

"That's something, anyway," Smith agreed, taking another bite of his burger and dropping the rest back onto his plate. "But they've already got a five-hour head start," he added, wiping his hands on his napkin. "No point in letting them get any more."

For a second Fishburn seemed inclined to argue the point. But a look at Smith's face, and he simply nodded. "Okay," he said, getting to his feet. "I'll take you to the station where you can get a better idea of what we're doing and what still needs to be done." He looked around and caught the waitress's eye. "Marge, put this on my bill, will you?" he called.

"That's all right," Smith said, shaking his head as he reached for his wallet. "I can cover it."

"You're in my town, Officer," Fishburn said firmly, reaching over the table to put a restraining hand on his arm. "Your money's no good here. Come on."

They stepped back out into the afternoon sunlight. "I'm sorry you couldn't have seen our town under better circumstances," the chief commented as they headed for the car. "It really is a nice place."

"I don't doubt it," Smith assured him. "What is this Historical Rondout Section I see on all the signs, anyway?"

"It's the old riverfront area," Fishburn said. "The docks and museum and lighthouse and all. We had a pretty thriving waterway business along the Hudson a century or so ago."

Smith froze. "You have working docks?" he asked carefully.

"Yes, but you can forget what you're thinking," Fishburn said with a faint smile. "We've got a dock manager who keeps an eye on things down there. I phoned him as soon as I got the alert and told him to call me right away if anything docked here. Every cop along the Hudson will have done the same thing."

"What time exactly did this alert come in?"

"About nine," Fishburn said, frowning. "I called Tompkins as soon as I'd alerted my own force."

"About nine," Smith said, the back of his neck starting to tingle. "Has anyone seen or talked with Tompkins since then?"

Fishburn's face went rigid. "Oh, my God," he breathed as he yanked open his door. "Get in."

They reached the dock and the Port Authority building in two minutes flat. With Smith right behind him, Fishburn strode down the walk and threw open the office door.

And came to an abrupt halt as the room's lone occupant jerked in surprise. "Wha—? Oh, it's you," he said. "Hello, Chief."