Chapter 13
When Sheridan came to Delenn's quarters to consult with her, she listened without question or interruption as he described the revelations Abbie had made and the information they'd discovered as a result. When at last he finished, she immediately agreed that one or two Rangers should be summoned to the station to aid in the search for Jaeger. In light of Jaeger's hatred of aliens, they decided to call on Human rather than Minbari Rangers. Delenn was sure she could have them aboard within a day.
"So," she said. "It seems that Mr. Garibaldi was correct. This is not from the Shadows, but from one malevolent Human."
"Yeah. Count our blessings," the captain replied bitterly. "Michael was right about something else, too. One malevolent Human can cause a hell of a lot of destruction and misery, with no help at all from the Shadows." He paced up and down the room, shaking his head. "Dammit, Delenn—if you could have heard how that little girl was crying. I felt so—so—"
"Responsible?"
"Exactly!"
Watching him, Delenn commented, "Marcus felt much the same."
Sheridan whirled toward her. "Marcus is not in command of this station! I am! And as the commanding officer of this station, I am responsible for every single God-damned thing that happens on this station!" From the height of his rage, he abruptly saw that Delenn was watching him with tranquil, shining eyes, the soft suggestion of a smile curving her lips.
"Don't you understand?" he demanded. "Jaeger and his men terrorized that child and her father. They destroyed her whole world! And it happened on my watch!"
"Yes," she agreed. "It was done, as you say, on your watch." Her voice grew stern. "By men who worked by night, under cover of darkness. By men who concealed the foul thing they had done in every way they could. Who eventually hid themselves, who declared themselves dead, because they knew what would happen to them if you learned of it. They worked in darkness, and then fled before your light."
He gave a bark of sarcastic laughter. "And is that supposed to make me feel better?"
Delenn tilted her head regarded him curiously. "Of course not. If words could make you 'feel better' about such a thing, you would not be John Sheridan. But it is the truth; and, before you condemn yourself, you must take that truth into account."
Sheridan stood silent for several minutes. Delenn watched as his hands unclenched and his shoulders relaxed. His face and jaw remained set; then, one corner of his mouth rose in a hint of a half-smile.
"I guess I'd better not waste time kicking myself," he said. "When those Rangers arrive, let Garibaldi and me know right away."
"Of course."
He laid his hands on her shoulders, held her lightly for a minute, and left.
In reaction to the rigors of the morning, Marcus experienced a temporary but near-total physical and mental eclipse. Three pages into the Jungle Books, he felt compelled to close the volume, lay it carefully aside, and close his eyes to rest them for a minute. An hour later he woke, feeling somewhat refreshed, and tried to give serious thought to what he should do next for Abbie.
But his mind remained blank; not the wordless calm of meditation, but pure, teeth-gritting frustration, the sense of facing a blank brick wall. Finally, he gave up the effort and resigned himself to convalescence. After all, he reminded himself, he was much better today than he'd been yesterday, and he'd be better still tomorrow. Susan's generosity had won him a couple days' grace. Probably the best thing he could do for Abbie now was to do nothing at all.
The resolution was more easily made than kept. He resumed his reading and was interrupted, briefly, by a nurse who took his vital signs and changed his dressings. Marcus was quick to note every sign of improvement: the dressing change was a noticeably less painful process today than it had been yesterday, the scratch on his arm hardly counted as a real wound at all, and when the nurse said, "You're doing just fine," she really seemed to mean it. Tomorrow, he thought. I'll be able to take care of everything tomorrow. He reminded himself again that now it was time for him to be idle, and to rest. He picked up the book, determined to make the hours pass. Gradually, he became absorbed in the familiar tales.
He was in the middle of "Toomai of the Elephants" when Garibaldi poked his head in and said without preliminary, "Good, you're awake. Where's Abbie?"
"With Susan," Marcus replied, abandoning Toomai and the elephants at once. "Staying with her for a few days. Why?"
"'Cause she doesn't need to get mixed up in this. Charlie Remmick just got caught trying to swipe painkillers from an aid station Downbelow. They're bringing him in to Medlab Three. Seems he got his leg busted a couple days ago." Garibaldi's face was deadpan. "I thought you might like to have a little chat with him. I'll go clear it with Franklin."
Convalescence and restful idleness be damned! By the time Garibaldi had returned with Franklin's grudging permission, Marcus was up and dressed, the denn'bok tucked neatly away and ready to hand. He was grateful that the security chief was including him in this interrogation and wondered what, specifically, his role was to be.
"How does Remmick say his leg was broken?" he asked as they went toward the lift.
"It was the damnedest thing. Seems he got mugged. He's not sure where it happened. Never saw who did it. Can't explain why he's let it go for two days without reporting the mugging or getting the leg treated. He rigged up a sort of crutch to get to the aid station."
"You could pilot the White Star through the holes in that story," Marcus commented. "I take it he doesn't know we're on to him?"
"Don't see how he can be. Now, seeing that you and he have what you might call a special relationship, I thought you could maybe persuade him to cooperate with us."
"With pleasure."
"Okay. So far, he hasn't even given his right name. Just follow my lead. You're the one he tried to kill, so I guess you get to be the bad cop."
Remmick had been brought to the security ward of Medlab Three, where Zack Allan waited outside the door to report to his chief. Marcus stiffened a little at the sight of him, and for a minute the two men's eyes met. Zack hooked a finger under his collar and tugged it uncomfortably. Garibaldi, of course, noticed the silent interchange, but for now he chose to ignore it. "Okay, Zack, status?"
"He's still sticking to the fake name, and the mugging story. Dr. Sanchez did a nerve block or something, so the leg's not bothering him as much now. But she says we should make it quick so she can operate."
"Yeah? Tell her to take her time scrubbing up. You ready, Marcus?"
"Ready."
"Okay. I go in first."
Even behind his back, as he entered the ward, Garibaldi could feel the hostility crackling between Marcus and Zack.
Remmick waited on an exam table, the only patient in the security ward. The head of the table had been elevated so that he was half sitting up. A sheet-draped steel frame enclosed and concealed the injured leg. Remmick's unshaven face was pasty and drawn, and sweat gleamed through two-day-old stubble on his scalp. Dark circles, like bruises, were smudged beneath his exhausted eyes.
Garibaldi stepped in and said, "Robinson, isn't it?" using the alias Remmick had given.
"Yeah. Bill Robinson."
"Michael Garibaldi, chief of security. I just need to ask you a couple of questions." Garibaldi settled into a chair with the air of a man who intends to stay put.
Remmick ran his tongue nervously over dry lips. "I already answered about a million questions. They're gonna have to operate on my leg."
Garibaldi regarded the shrouded limb with an expression of deep sympathy and clucked his tongue. "Yeah, that looks bad. We sure want to get the son-of-a-bitch who did that to you," he added for the benefit of Marcus, hovering just outside the door listening for his cue. "Day before yesterday, was it?"
"Yeah. I've already answered all these questions."
Garibaldi shrugged. "Routine, you know?—how many of 'em did you say there were?"
"I, ah, I dunno."
"Can you give me a description?"
"No. I already told that other guy, I didn't see anyone."
"Uh-huh," Garibaldi nodded, taking notes industriously . "So how do you know how many of 'em there were?"
"I said I don't know how many!" the prisoner protested.
"Okay," Garibaldi soothed him. "Try and stay calm, okay? Now, where did this happen?"
The answer came back on a note of near-hysteria. "I told that guy already! I don't remember!"
Garibaldi looked up, keeping his eyes on Remmick's face, and said reassuringly, "That's okay. I brought someone I think maybe can help." He heard footsteps behind him as Marcus took his cue and made his entrance.
As Garibaldi watched, Remmick's pupils dilated wide. His jaw sagged, his pallor took on an even more pasty aspect, and he stared like one hypnotized at his intended victim. Marcus stood relaxed and confident, to all appearances whole and unharmed, bearing no resemblance to a man who'd been brought to the brink of death two days before.
"Hello," said Marcus affably.
The prisoner pulled his jaw shut, looked at Garibaldi, and said, "I—I've never seen this man before in my life."
"Really?" The security chief ostentatiously jotted another note. "See, he was mugged a couple days ago too. There's been a whole bunch of assaults Downbelow. I'm looking for a connection."
"I've told your people everything I remember." Remmick had brought his voice under control, but the sweat was beading fast on his forehead and upper lip.
Garibaldi leaned forward, concern personified. "Say, you don't look so good. Should I call the doc or something? Tell you what, you two compare notes. I'll go see if I can get you a drink or something. Okay? I'll be back in a minute."
Remmick's jaw wobbled in protest, but no words came. Garibaldi got up and turned his back, momentarily blocking the prisoner's view of Marcus. The Ranger briefly raised one hand, spreading the fingers once, then again. With a nod, Garibaldi left the ward.
Ten minutes; Marcus calculated he could win Remmick's cooperation that quickly. Garibaldi, a natural pessimist, decided to give him fifteen.
When the door had shut behind Garibaldi, Marcus turned to the man on the table. "Good job, Charlie—may I call you 'Charlie'? Or do you go by 'Charles'? We never were properly introduced before you tried to murder me."
A hoarse reply, fueled by the dogged, desperate courage of a trapped animal: "I've never seen you before. Never."
"Good. Very good! You stick to that story, Charlie." Marcus leaned casually back against a countertop near the exam table, arms folded across his midriff, and slipped the pike into his right hand. "Obviously, Mr. Garibaldi hasn't anything concrete against you. If he had, you'd have been charged by now. So—the only way he can get you for me to give you to him. And I just might decide to forget your face."
"I tell you I don't—"
Hiss! The denn'bok sprang to life in Marcus' hand. With a fluid movement he spun away from the counter. The pike whistled a circle in the air and hurtled down toward the frame protecting Remmick's broken leg. With superb control, Marcus stopped it just as it touched the frame, which vibrated faintly.
"Recognize me now, Charlie?"
Remmick stared at the pike in glassy-eyed horror. Before his eyes, it vanished.
"As I was saying," Marcus resumed genially. "We'll stick to your story. You've never seen me, I've never seen you. Mr. Garibaldi has nothing, and you walk out of here. Well—not walk, exactly. But you get the idea."
Remmick transferred his stare from the frame to Marcus' face and croaked, "Why?"
"Very simple. If Mr. Garibaldi gets you, you get a nice fair trial that follows all the rules. And if you give him something he wants, like—oh, I don't know—let's say information on Jeff Jaeger—the chances are good that he'll help you cut a deal with the Ombuds. Something like an assault conviction instead of attempted murder. All that, and a nice safe cell."
Marcus drew close to the table, looked down at Remmick, and went on very softly. "I'm not willing to settle for that, Charlie. Just stick to your story. We've never met. Mr. Garibaldi has to let you go. And then you're mine."
"N-no. You can't—"
"Can't I?" Marcus' voice was suddenly light, and he strolled casually to lean against the counter again. "Who's going to stop me? Jaeger?" Hiss! The pike reappeared in his hand. He reached it forward, toward the frame.
"Don't," Remmick pleaded, flinching. "Please, don't."
Marcus caught the sheet with the tip of the pike and flicked it off the frame, exposing Remmick's hideously swollen and discolored leg. "Doesn't look as though you've got any friends left, Charlie. And according to your records, you're already dead. So—a nice clear playing field for me." He retracted the denn'bok, tucked it away, and came forward to meticulously replace the sheet over the frame.
Remmick's throat muscles worked. "Listen," he rasped. "I'll cut you a deal."
"A deal?" Marcus leaned up against the counter again. He was tiring. His side had begun to throb in reaction to all this moving around, though he'd spared the wound as much as he could. "For what? What d'you have that I could possibly want?"
"Jaeger. I can give you Jaeger."
Marcus gave a derisive snort.
"I can!" Remmick insisted in a shaking voice. "Where he goes, times, places—you want him, he's yours!"
"But I don't want him," Marcus lied. "Sorry. Not interested."
"He was the one wanted you dead!"
"Was he," Marcus responded, with a show of interest, and he watched hope began to dawn on Remmick's face. "Or so you say. But, then, you were the one with the knife. I think I'll be satisfied with you."
And with that he fell silent, deaf to the prisoner's desperate, whispered pleas. He took out the denn'bok, toyed with it idly for a moment, and began switching it open and shut, open and shut. The weapon produced a rhythmic k'snick, k'snick as it expanded and contracted. Marcus, with nothing to do now but wait for Garibaldi, found the sound relaxing. Remmick eventually gave up and lay silent on the exam table. His wide, bloodshot eyes were riveted to the opening and closing, re-opening and re-closing, of the pike.
Garibaldi's indomitably cheerful voice jarred the stillness as he came back in. "Sorry it took me so long. Can you believe it, I can't find a doctor in this whole place who'll tell me if you can have something to drink—"
"I don't want a doctor," Remmick burst out. "Get me an advocate, dammit! I want to make a statement. I want to make a statement now. Get me a God-damned advocate. And get that maniac the hell out of here!"
Garibaldi, with a convincing show of surprise, said, "Okay. Okay, you want an advocate, I can get you one."
"Now!"
Since the security chief had started the wheels turning to find a public advocate as soon as he'd heard Remmick was in custody, one was quickly produced. Marcus left the room, feigning disgusted disappointment, nodding curtly when Garibaldi asked him to "stick around a few minutes—I might need to ask you something."
Zack Allan, shifting his weight uneasily from foot to foot, eaten alive by guilt, was waiting outside the door for him.
Two days before, when the little girl had panicked and run from him, Zack had been baffled. His bewilderment had soon been subsumed by the business of the investigation: the potter to be interviewed, blood samples to be collected from corridor and plaza, the knife to be bagged, all the physical evidence to be logged in and processed by the lab. He'd wound up hardly giving the kid a second thought. Until this morning, when the mere sight of him had sent her into screaming hysteria.
Until this morning, he'd managed to forget the raid on Becker's Books.
Sure, Nightwatch had sounded great—safeguarding Earth's interests, which was his job anyway, right?—plus an easy extra fifty credits a week. But Zack Allan wasn't cut out for what Nightwatch proved to be. His essentially generous and good-hearted nature was unable to dedicate itself to a continual search for disloyalty, trying to find sinister hidden meanings behind the most casual comments, and especially to things like the bookstore raid. Eventually, his stomach had turned against the whole deal.
I didn't know, Zack reminded himself now. I didn't know. When I found out what it really meant, I got out.
He'd been reminding himself all day, and it hadn't helped a bit. What he really wanted to do was find the kid, apologize, try to make her see how sorry he was, how rotten he felt. Except that the sight of him would send her running for cover . . . .
When Marcus stepped out of the security ward, alone, then stopped to wait for something, Zack decided to seize the opportunity. It didn't occur to him to consider what state of mind the Ranger might be in immediately following an interrogation. Marcus was the person the kid trusted; therefore, he was Zack's key to making his apologies and getting himself off the hook. Zack cleared his throat.
At the sound, Marcus glanced over with a fleeting scowl.
"You, um, got him talking, hunh?" Zack ventured.
Marcus didn't answer immediately. For a full minute he stood contemplating Zack, as though he were deciding whether or not to favor him with a reply. "We'll have to see," he said at last.
Subject closed.
Zack tugged at his collar again and plowed on, "Um, look—Marcus—about the kid—"
"'The kid', as you call her, has a name."
"Yeah—I mean, sure she does—" Zack stammered, trying urgently to remember the kid's name, or whether he'd ever even heard it.
"Abbie," Marcus supplied, elaborately helpful. "Her name is Abbie."
"Yeah, right, sure. Abbie. I wanted to—I mean, I know I can't talk to her—" Zack floundered to a halt.
Marcus just looked at him, steadily, with undisguised disdain.
"What I mean is—look, tell her I'm sorry, okay?"
"'Sorry,'" Marcus repeated. "For what?"
"For—for—" Zack found himself increasingly tongue-tied. "Oh, c'mon. You know."
"For helping destroy her life, is that it? 'Sorry'?"
That wasn't fair. That was going way too far. "Hey, I was standing lookout, okay? I never even knew there was a kid there."
The protest was met with silence again, and the look.
With mounting frustration, Zack said, "Jaeger put me on lookout first thing. I was just there."
"Just following orders?"
"Yes!" An instant too late, Zack realized that he'd just been suckered. That ancient excuse had been offered over centuries for each new despot's atrocities. "I mean, no! I mean—"
He felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for Remmick if this was what dealing with Marcus had been like for him.
Trying hard to calm down and start over, Zack said, "Look, I didn't do anything, okay?"
The silence again, and the look. Then Marcus spoke. "Mr. Allan. All that is required for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing."
This was impossible! Zack knew he wasn't getting anywhere, but still he pressed on. "Look, all I'm asking is—if you could just tell her for me—"
"Mr. Allan," Marcus interrupted, and his quiet voice cut like a sword. "I am not a diplomatic courier. I don't carry messages. Neither am I a priest, so if it's absolution you're looking for, I suggest you talk to Brother Theo." He took a single step closer. "All I have to say to you, is this: Salve that laggard conscience of yours however you can, but not at Abbie's expense. If you try to see her—if you try sending her any messages—if you attempt to contact her in any way—then, I promise, you will regret the day you were born. I hope I've made myself clear."
Zack trembled with rage. It was all he could do to keep from driving a fist into the condemnatory, bearded face before him.
Stepping back, Marcus said, "If Mr. Garibaldi wants me, he knows where to find me." He turned on his heel and stalked off. Zack glared after him until the long Ranger coat swirled around a corner and vanished. Then, in a futile fury, he turned and kicked the bulkhead.