When we emerged from the Mother Earth, it might as well have been into a new world. Eyes that had watched me approach now turned away in shame. Even Mr. Shank retreated into his store, his attention suddenly preoccupied with a bit of lint on his vest. I ran for home, heedless of Watson’s efforts to keep up. I had to tell Father, in case he didn’t know. Whether it was the cultists again—with the aid of that traitor Joe Reilly—or the miners seeking revenge, surely he would understand that measures had to be taken, with or without the sheriff’s help. Even if he already knew about the looting, he would be wondering where I was, whether or not I was safe.
The door to our hab was closed. Small, covered ferns hung from suspended planters on either side of it, giving the impression of untroubled domesticity. I opened the door and knew immediately that Father wasn’t home.
The space felt empty. There was no smell of coffee or eggs, no bustle from his room as he roused himself to meet me.
I had known, though. Somehow I had known.
Watson at last caught up to me, his feet crunching the sand underneath. “Miss Crisp,” he said. “Here I am.”
“He’s not here.”
I felt a peculiar urge to retreat to my room and go to sleep. I didn’t know what was happening, and I didn’t know how to face it. I sat at the kitchen table and stared at the wall. The artwork of my childhood years, depicting the saucer traveling through a star-littered spaceway, seemed suddenly cruel in its innocence.
“Shall I brew coffee, Miss Crisp?”
“No.”
The very mention of the word brought back the events of the previous night at the diner. I heard the dull sound of the skillet connecting with the miner’s head. I remembered the rust-colored stain on the floor. An unhappy notion stirred in my brain, and I said, “I have to go see the sheriff.”
“Shall I accompany you?”
Even though he was only an Engine, I did not want Watson to bear witness to what I knew I would find there. “No. You go back and start cleaning the diner. I’ll be along shortly.”
He went off to do as he was told, and I took the moment of isolation to rest my head on my arms. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. There was a knot of fear and anxiety blocking that release. Eventually I got up and left the hab, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to shake it until I went to the sheriff’s office and faced what waited for me there.
ALTHOUGH MOST OF New Galveston was composed of metal habs and the earthen structures of the Taproots, the municipal buildings at the center of town were permanent structures made of brick and wood. If the government was permanent, so the reasoning went, then the town was permanent, too. Here were the town hall, the courthouse, the First Martian Bank, the governor’s house, and the sheriff’s station. This latter was a modest single-story affair, squat and solid, as though it had been built to withstand a siege. The cells had been dug out underneath. There were ten of them, and at the time that number seemed insultingly large. It was almost as though someone didn’t trust us.
I had never been in the sheriff’s station, nor had I ever imagined I would need to be. It was for other people. Bad people. Not people like us. It intimidated me now; I felt as though crossing that threshold would formalize the calamity that had befallen my family.
I pushed through the door into a narrow receiving room. The walls were raw wood, and a photograph of a collection of tents on red sand decorated one of them. A thin young man sat behind a desk. When he saw me come in, he leaned back in his chair and sized me up, like he was wondering how hard it would be to take me down if he needed to. I resolved that it would be difficult, if it came to it.
Before he could speak, I said, “I need to see the sheriff.”
“You wouldn’t be Anabelle Crisp, would you?”
“I would.”
“Well, the sheriff needs to see you, too. Go on through that door.”
It led into an open area crowded with file cabinets and small desks. Papers and folders were stacked onto every available surface, with small spaces cleared here and there for work. There were two office doors in the back of the room, but it seemed the real work of the station was done out here. On the floor I could see the dark scuff marks of Jack’s treads. I wondered where he was.
Sheriff Bakersfield rose from the chair behind one of the desks and gave me a smile somewhere under that big mustache, as though I were a neighbor stopping in for a chat. He gestured to an empty chair. “Heya, Belle. Have a seat.”
I did. One of the office doors opened behind him and Deputy Mae Ackerman walked through. She spared me a quick glance before taking a seat at a second desk behind me. I felt small. I felt like the focus of dangerous attentions. “The Mother Earth Diner was robbed again,” I said. “They took everything this time.”
The sheriff nodded and looked at his desk. He moved some papers around. “Yeah, I know it. We’re going to address that.”
“I want to go with.”
That gave him a pause. “Go with, where?”
“Out to Dig Town, or the crater, whichever is your first stop.”
He pulled a hand across his face and glanced over my shoulder, at the deputy. I did not turn around, but suddenly I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my head. “Let me get to that in a minute. First, I need to ask you about last night.”
I felt ill. I didn’t want to talk about that. I wanted to stay on the offensive, where I was comfortable.
“I want you to tell me what happened.”
“Where do you want me to start? A lot happens in a diner. I guess first Watson goes in and turns on the fryer oil so it gets hot by opening time.”
“Don’t be smart, Anabelle. You know what I’m talking about.”
Deputy Ackerman spoke up. “Watson’s your Kitchen Engine, right? Where is he now?”
I turned around in my chair. She was directly behind me, writing on a pad of paper. I noticed she had a little star-shaped scar by her left eye; it gave her a sinister aspect. “He’s cleaning up at the diner,” I said. “The one that was stripped down to the bone last night. Remember that?”
She just stared at me. Sheriff Bakersfield spoke again, and I swung my attention back around to him. “One thing at a time, okay? First. What happened last night? Between your daddy and the miners.”
A sliver of fear slid through my guts. “Where is he, anyway?”
“He’s downstairs. He’s fine.”
“In jail? He ain’t done anything wrong!”
“Well, that’s what we’re trying to establish, okay? I need your help. So please, answer my questions.”
“They attacked him!”
“All three of them? They just—jumped up and attacked him?”
“That’s right.” I needed him out of that cell. I needed him home. I resolved to say whatever I could to make that happen.
“Why?”
“Probably they were working with the cultists who robbed the place. And with Joe Reilly, too.”
This seemed to catch the sheriff by surprise. “Now what does Joe Reilly have to do with any of this?”
“He’s working with the cultists. The moth ones. I saw him.”
He exchanged another look with the deputy behind me. I turned around and watched her writing in her notebook. “I can tell you all about it,” I said.
“And I’m going to want to hear it,” said Bakersfield. “But right now we’re talking about your daddy.”
“I know it, and I’m telling you what happened! They attacked him because they wanted to rob the place like those others that came before! That Silas Mundt I told you about, and that Sally Milkwood, who everybody in this town already seems to know about! They’re all working together!”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking underneath his weight. He studied his intertwined fingers for a few moments, and then looked over my shoulder. “Mae, why don’t you get ol’ Jack in here.”
The deputy rose from her chair behind me and went outside. I sat for a few frightening minutes with the sheriff, wondering what ol’ Jack would do to me to get the answers Bakersfield wanted to hear. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of my neck. I’d been burnt and cut in the kitchen over the years, but I’d never had to withstand real pain before. I fought back a wave of tears. I resolved to hold out for as long as I could.
The deputy came back into the office, and Jack rolled in behind her. He was taller and sleeker than Watson, and cleaner, too, since he did not have to spend his existence in a grease-filled kitchen. He looked like an upright bullet, the shine long gone but still prepared to fulfill his deadly purpose. Mae resumed her place behind me, and Jack rolled over to the sheriff’s side like any good hound.
The sheriff opened a drawer in his desk and retrieved a cylinder, which he slid into Jack’s chassis. “I want you to listen to this, Anabelle.”
Mae said, “Wally—”
Bakersfield held up a hand. “It’s all right.”
I knew I didn’t want to hear it. But there was no stopping it.
“Go ahead, Jack.”
TRANSCRIPT OF THE ARREST OF SAMUEL A. CRISP BY SHERIFF WALLY BAKERSFIELD, AS RECORDED BY THE LAW ENGINE DESIGNATED “JACK.”
BAKERSFIELD: Sam, my God, what happened here?
CRISP: (unintelligible)
BAKERSFIELD: Mae, round up some statements from those folks there, okay? Just leave us alone a minute. (…) Sam? Sam, I need you to talk to me. Come sit over here.
CRISP: Where’s Anabelle?
BAKERSFIELD: Was she here for this?
CRISP: Yes. Oh God.
BAKERSFIELD: I’m sure she’s fine. Probably just run home. I’ll send Mae down to check on her in just a minute or two, okay? Come on over here, sit down and talk to me.
CRISP: I can’t, I have to—I have to find—Oh, my God, is he dead? Is that man dead?
BAKERSFIELD: Sam, sit down. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. (…) When are you going to put some wider seats in here? I can’t hardly fit in these things.
CRISP: I don’t know.
BAKERSFIELD: Maybe I ought to cut back on those pancakes some, huh?
CRISP: He’s dead, isn’t he?
BAKERSFIELD: Yeah, he’s dead all right. I’m afraid so. I got a couple miners waiting at my office who say you was the one who did it. One of them has an arm broken so bad he might not be able to work again. Is what they’re telling me true?
CRISP: (…)
BAKERSFIELD: Now these boys, I know how they are. It’s not the first time I’ve had trouble from Dig Town. I know you remember Garrison and Cone from a while back. So, what I’m saying to you, Sam, is that I know what they told me might have a little mustard on it, okay? I don’t expect it went down exactly how they say it did.
CRISP: (…)
BAKERSFIELD: Do you understand me?
CRISP: I don’t know. I think so.
BAKERSFIELD: It ain’t algebra, Sam. It’s pretty simple.
CRISP: Okay.
BAKERSFIELD: Just tell me what happened.
CRISP: I killed him.
BAKERSFIELD: Sam—
CRISP: Are you looking for something else? He attacked my daughter, so I killed him.
BAKERSFIELD: Now… what the boys tell me is, there was an argument. But Charlie says he was the one that got into it with Anabelle.
CRISP: (…)
BAKERSFIELD: Sam?
CRISP: So what?
BAKERSFIELD: Well, so what is, if Charlie’s the one that lipped off, how come it’s this other fella lying dead on your floor? Did this guy attack Anabelle?
CRISP: I don’t think so. I don’t know. It happened so fast.
BAKERSFIELD: Charlie says you hit him with a skillet and that’s how his arm got busted.
CRISP: Yeah.
BAKERSFIELD: He says they was on their way out the door when you did it.
CRISP: They were… they were making threats. He was making threats.
BAKERSFIELD: “He” being Charlie?
CRISP: Yeah.
BAKERSFIELD: Threats against Anabelle?
CRISP: Against me. Against us both.
BAKERSFIELD: And where was Daniel this whole time? What was he doing?
CRISP: Who?
BAKERSFIELD: The man you killed, Sam. His name was Daniel. He was married. He had a wife. Turns out she’s got a name, too. You want to know it?
CRISP: (…)
BAKERSFIELD: Her name is Constance.
CRISP: Are you mad at me, Wally?
BAKERSFIELD: I’m just—I’m trying to figure out what happened here, and you’re not making it easy on me. What you’re telling me doesn’t sound too good, I have to be honest with you. Where was Daniel?
CRISP: He—he was standing behind Charlie, I guess.
BAKERSFIELD: Trying to lead him out?
CRISP: (…)
BAKERSFIELD: Goddamn it, Sam, answer my question.
CRISP: I don’t know.
BAKERSFIELD: Yeah, okay.
CRISP: Am I in trouble?
BAKERSFIELD: Well, maybe a little bit, Sam. I think maybe a little bit. Let’s go on down to the office, okay? (…) Mae, why don’t you head on out to their hab and gather up Anabelle? She’s probably pretty scared, so go easy. Bring their Engine, too. Jack, initiate arrest proceedings against one Samuel Alfred Crisp, proprietor of the Mother Earth Diner, on a charge of murder. Goddamn it, anyhow.
IT TOOK ME a minute to realize Sheriff Bakersfield was staring at me. I rubbed the mist from my eyes with the heel of my hand and scowled at the floor. I hated him at that moment. I felt ambushed.
“Now listen,” he said. “That boy Charlie Jackson has been a thorn in my side for a long time now, even before they got all weird up there, and if there’s wrongdoing on his part, I will land on him with both feet and a song in my heart. You understand? I ain’t no friend of his. Mae, am I telling the truth?”
“Yes, you are.”
“See? Corroboration. But Anabelle, your dad just confessed to murder.”
I couldn’t take in the magnitude of it. Even when Father told me that Mother wasn’t coming home, that no one on Earth was ever likely to come here again, it hadn’t felt this bad. At least then there was time for disbelief. But here, the ugly truth of it squatted in front of me like some great toad, fixing me with unblinking eyes.
“Charlie started talking about robbing the diner,” I said. “I was rude to him and he made a grab for me. He made a scene. That’s when Father came out.”
“Did Charlie strike you?”
“He knocked the coffeepot out of my hand.”
“Did he hit you, Anabelle?”
The question infuriated me. Couldn’t he hear what I was telling him? “He didn’t get the chance. Other folks was on him. Why don’t you talk to them? Mr. Lewis was one of ’em.”
“Don’t worry, we did. Mr. Lewis didn’t have anything nice to say about Charlie, I can tell you that.”
I felt dizzy, and curled up in my chair, cradling my elbows and lowering my head. I heard a rush of wind. The sheriff spoke my name, his voice coming to me across a great expanse. It was all too much. Everyone was telling him how rotten this man Charlie was and yet it was still my father in the cell downstairs, and no one was moving to let him out. The diner was still trashed and no one was talking about Joe Reilly or the cultists. I needed Mother. Mother should be here for this.
“I want to see him,” I said, finally.
The sheriff exchanged a glance with Mae. He said, “Well, I guess that’s all right.”
Mae stood up behind me. “I’ll take her down.”
“Does he know about the diner?” I said.
“I ain’t got around to telling him yet,” the sheriff said.
“I guess you left that for me. Let no one accuse anyone else in this town of bravery. Can I at least tell him that this time you’ll send a force out after them?”
Sheriff Bakersfield leveled his gaze at me. Whatever he was about to say next, I knew he didn’t want to say it. “It wasn’t any cultists that hit the diner, Anabelle. It was people from town. It was just regular folks.”
Once again, I felt like I had been cut loose from something solid. I felt like I was floating away. “What? Who?”
“Too many to count,” he said. “Just about everybody.”