Hell's Maw by James Axler Page A

“A Magistrate?”
    Corcel studied him warily. “Yes—Pretor Corcel,” he said. “You speak Spanish, then?”
    â€œA little,” Grant lied. “Only a few words.”
    Corcel nodded sullenly, waiting before Grant with the blaster aimed at him. Grant stood like that for almost twominutes until Corcel’s partner came striding into the room in a suit similar to Corcel’s.
    â€œPretor Cáscara,” she introduced herself immediately, flashing an ID badge in Grant’s direction, too fast to read.
    Corcel rapidly explained the situation to his partner in swiftly spoken Spanish, and Grant began to understand what had happened. It seemed that Corcel had had reports of black men with shaven heads who were involved in a spate of murders, and that Grant fit the description. Cáscara stepped over to the sharp-edged disc that Grant had dropped, kneeling to examine it where it lay as the two officers spoke. Corcel explained that the suspect had been carrying the weapon when he had returned to the crime scene.
    â€œDumb mistake,” Cáscara lamented in Spanish.
    It would have been, Grant thought, except that I picked this up from the people who actually did do this. I think.
    â€œYou,” Cáscara said to Grant in lightly accented English once she had been brought up to speed by her partner, “hands down, here, behind your back.” She showed him, crossing her wrists together at the small of her back. “I’m going to cuff you. You try anything and Pretor Corcel will shoot you, okay? He’s a good shot.”
    â€œTop of my graduating class,” Corcel added, his pistol never wavering.
    â€œYeah, I get it,” Grant said, lowering his hands as instructed. “You’ve got the wrong guy, you realize?”
    â€œWe’ll figure that out back at the Sector Hall,” Cáscara told him emotionlessly as she placed a pair of plastic handcuffs on Grant’s wrists. Then she stepped away and produced a pair of latex gloves from a pocket of her jacket, which she slipped over her hands. Along with the gloves, she produced an evidence bag, into which she placed the metallic projectile that Grant had narrowly avoided.
    â€œHad that thrown at me,” Grant explained. “There’sanother one of those out there somewhere. Couldn’t see it, though.”
    The two Pretors did not respond to his comment.
    Once the first evidence pack was sealed, Cáscara returned to Grant, who remained standing close to the open ballroom doors. She reached for the bloodred feather that poked from one hip pocket of his jacket.
    â€œMore of these out there, too?” Cáscara challenged him. It was hard to tell with her not being a native English speaker, but Grant thought that she was employing a sarcastic tone.
    â€œLook,” Grant said, “I had a partner here. A friend. We came here together—”
    â€œWe’ll discuss that at the Sector Hall,” Corcel cut him off.
    â€œSure, I just—” Grant began.
    â€œQuiet now,” Corcel said in a warning tone, gesturing vaguely with his blaster. “Don’t make me shoot you.”
    â€œOkay,” Grant said, “I just want to know what happened to her. If she’s okay. Her name’s Shizuka.”
    Pretor Cáscara looked up at that from where she had been labeling the evidence bags with a marker pen.
    â€œShizuka…?” Grant repeated hopefully.
    Cáscara nodded firmly just the once. “She’s here. We’ll be bringing her in,” she confirmed. Then she moved closer to Corcel and whispered something to him in Spanish. It was too quiet for Grant to hear, but he guessed he might have inadvertently just turned Shizuka into a suspect. At least she was still alive.
    * * *
    G RANT WAS TAKEN via secure wag past the bullfighting ring to the local Sector Hall of Justice, a grand building in the center of Zaragoza that housed the authorities.