The Informers (The Stringers Book 2)
Page 12
“Ya need to stay in the newsroom. Come back and stay put. I ain’t sayin’ ya gotta stay there forever. But I am sayin’ that right now if ya keep runnin’ around stirrin’ up trouble where it ain’t good to do it ya ain’t gonna end up in a good place. Ya walkin’ on people’s toes and ya don’t realize it.”
“Like who?”
He sighed exasperatedly. “Really, ya not get it? It’s not one person. It ain’t a specific group. It’s a people who are everywhere.”
I offered a relaxed grin. “How am I upsetting anyone?”
Port slammed the table violently, which caught Tom’s attention. He lowered his head timidly, waited for Tom to look away.
“Ya comin’ back to the newsroom beginnin’ next week. I ain’t arguin’.”
“Neither am I.”
“So ya be there?” he asked hopefully.
“I’ll be there. After I take care of some business.”
“Cut it out, damn it!” he said, jabbing at my chest. “This is when ya listen to me! I ain’t Tom over there. He’s got that pie in the sky shit stuck in his head or somethin’. I don’t know what he’s got ya doin’, but it ain’t the way to make it here.”
“It seemed to work for him.”
“That’s the problem, Roy Boy. That’s the problem. Ya been here for a year, and ya don’t have a damn clue what’s goin’ on around ya.”
Something suddenly silenced him. I studied him carefully, intrigued by his withdrawn demeanor as he pulled away. Few things could silence Port besides a gun in his face or a drink on his lips. Or a woman.
“How can I say this in a way ya get it?” he said as he scratched his hair. “I’m lookin’ out for ya, Roy Boy. Ya a good pal. We love ya in the newsroom. Ya made life interestin’. But ya goin’ out there muckin’ up stuff, getting’ ya hands in things where they don’t need to be. It’s a game ya got to play. Just a game. Come on back to the newsroom. Let things calm down a bit. Ya already pissed off Shoreline. They ain’t happy with ya. Then ya got the ISA rainin’ hellfire everywhere. Who knows where they’ll hit next? Ya safe inside where ya belong.”
I acted as though I was giving his words considerable thought. He wouldn’t leave me alone until I said what he wanted to hear. But I had made up my mind long before he had finished. He asked for something I couldn’t give him. I didn’t dismiss his comments about Olan,
“So whadya say?” he asked.
“I’ll be there on Monday,” I said.
“Be there, kid. Trust me. Don’t do nothing stupid.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Port gave me a lingering gaze as he left, giving Tom an unfriendly nod as he returned to his table. There, his colleagues got up and shook his hand and greeted him, asking him where he had been all night. I lost the conversation from there as Tom came to the booth.
“I’m not even going to bother asking,” he said. “You won’t tell me.”
“Wrong. He thinks Olan is after me. He wants me to come back to the newsroom where he thinks it’s safe.”
“If Olan or anyone else wants you dead, it doesn’t matter where you are.”
“Which is why I want my father freed as soon as possible.”
“Then where are you going from there?”
“Wherever he wants to go,” I replied. “Wherever it is, we’re walking away from this.”
Tom pushed his fedora down and winked at one of the girl singers passing by as she headed to the stage.
“What if he doesn’t want to walk away from it?” he asked. “What if you don’t?”
Chapter Nine
After the incident with the Fifth Avenue Boys, I had sworn I would ever wear an ISA uniform again.
Fitted in one of those wretched costumes that had come to represent everything I despised, I sat in the front passenger seat of Cutman’s car trying to rationalize breaking my private oath for the sake of a greater purpose; the same way I had “betrayed” men in my own newspaper by working alongside the ISA for the same purpose.
The uniform also fit on me as well as a strangling fist around my neck. I had given Cutman my measurements, but it hadn’t done much good. The shirt was too tight, the pants wrapped around my legs. That I didn’t mind as much as the insignia on my chest and the armband stitched into the fabric on my elbow. I had to resist from tearing them off and throwing both out the window.
The time would come.
Cutman, on the other hand, appeared peaceful in his spotless uniform. Meticulous care and attention had gone into its maintenance. Not a single wrinkle ran across his trousers or shirt. The automatic driver did most of the turning decisions, though he took it upon himself to handle the wheel occasionally, purely out of personal fulfillment. A child-like smile appeared on his face, reliving the days of his past. Within the smile, I sensed the regret he worked so diligently to suppress.
In the back Tom and Jean said little. Tom’s head was an inch or two away from the ceiling and craned his neck to avoid hitting it as we encountered bumps on the road. I had offered to let him sit in the front, but he had declined.
Jean had a mirror in front of her face, observing herself as she worked on her expressions. Cutman has designated her as his personal assistant, and despite practicing for hours in the bathroom, she couldn’t quite capture the distinctive blank stare she presumed one would have in that position. She didn’t seem to be aware of Tom’s watchful gaze except when he spoke to offer some advice. When she failed to understand he turned away frustrated and sighed.
Tom was already wishing he hadn’t volunteered to come along. He had his arms folded against his chest, his large eyes peering out the window to take his mind away from the situation.
I turned back to face the road ahead of us. It was still morning, just before ten o’ clock. I had forgotten how beautiful the natural landscape could be, what the region looked like beyond the concrete and asphalt and spray of saltwater. On the other side of the Cascades, thin golden rays filtered through cotton swab clouds hovering above the mountaintops. Behind barbed wire fences on both sides of the road the morning dew glistened like diamonds across the long stretch of grass fields. A majestic starkness covered the thousands of acres as though a magical spell had been cast upon the land.
It was the absence of civilization. No cities. No skyscrapers. No densely-packed neighborhoods. No endless traffic jams running up and down the freeways. Aside from rattle of the tires on the hardened road, all was silent. No honking horns. No screeching brakes. No train whistles. No one calling from crosswalks. The millions of different voices calling to us from our Prizms pleading for our attention were not there. Just the sound of unspoiled open space.
The grand sight had a somewhat less impressionable effect on Tom, who placed his hand on the window as he raised his eyebrows.
“Good God,” he said. “What a hellhole.”
“I think it is beautiful,” Jean said.
Tom laughed, muttered that it didn’t surprise him. Cutman broke away from his statue-like gaze and looked at me. His lips, as straight as a line, opened slightly.
“I’ve never quite taken the time to notice,” he said. “It’s quite remarkable.”
“What is?” Tom asked.
“It’s so….different.”
“Yeah, so is the North Pole. But who the hell would want to live there, except Eskimos and Santa Claus?”
Tom went to light a cigarette, stopping when Cutman admonished him as the flame touched the cigarette. Tom swore and tossed the cigarette out the window and folded his arms again after he had rolled the window back up. Strangely, he showed no animosity towards Cutman, no aloofness or sign of distrust.
“Will they ask me to use my Prizm?” Jean asked. “I am afraid if they ask me to use my Prizm I will not know how to use it. I am afraid they will then become suspicious of me.”
“Don’t fret,” I said. “It’s just for the sake of appearance. They won’t bother you about it.”
We came to the top and for a seemingly eternal moment the car was on flat terrain. From there, nothing was visible.
Then, we began the descent down into a vast valley stretching far in all directions. The barren landscape was filled with tumbleweed and golden-brown bunchgrass, and overlooking the valley were white-tipped mountaintop peaks brushing against the cerulean sky. There was only one road, the road we drove on. It led down into the heart of the valley, and as we followed its path our eyes fell upon a wonderful and terrifying sight.
A manmade structure stood among the flatlands as though it had been built a thousand years in the past, left undiscovered until just now.
It couldn’t be anything other than the ISA detention facility. But for a moment I feared we had come to the wrong place.
No walls. No fences. No barbed wires.
Then the terrible reality occurred on me. They didn’t require them because there was nowhere to go. Located miles away from any source of food or water, escaped prisoners were trapped. They could be easily found on the road or wandering among the fields.
The absence of security was a silent warning to the prisoners.
Abandon all hope.
The facility itself resembled a Roman temple with its broad façade a portico running out towards the road, where a guard tower was situated. Two extended stoas had been built on the right and left side of the building, the columns forming a colonnade ending with intricately detailed entablatures covered with figures and scenes. Except for a rooftop helipad on the roof and a short landing strip for aircraft, there was nothing to suggest it was a modern construction.
Inside the car, we were all silent. Driving down the hill we traversed the open ground between us and the facility, and we came to a closed gate blocking the road, but not the ground around it. A security officer appeared in the guard tower. Cutman offered him a formal stare.
“Deputy Director Cutman, here for a ten o’ clock appointment,” he said. “The appointment number is 9873247543.”
We waited for several moments. Even without looking back at him, I could sense Tom reaching for his gun. I had one tucked inside my jacket, as well. His sentiments had already been explained before we got on the road. He wasn’t going to take any chances.
Neither would I.
The gate lowered and we drove through to a round-about in front of the facility. In the middle of the round-about was a modernistic statue of two men, their forms and faces intentionally obscured by the artist, who gave it a crude design. One of the figures stood above the other, kneeling with his hands held out. I couldn’t tell if the gesture was intended to be an expression of gratitude or submission.
“What a piece of shit,” Tom said as Cutman parked the car.
“Remember you work for the ISA now,” I said. “You remember your alias?”
“Yeah. And where is it written that you have to appreciate this bullshit to be an ISA member?”
“Most members don’t possess the sort of interest to comment,” Cutman remarked. “Who knows? Fear is most of it. You have to be afraid.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Gotcha. I gotta be a chicken shit? Got it. And while we’re still here alone, the statues are ugly as sin. Don’t ask me what sin looks like, except for this one time―”
“Nice to know you have your sense of humor,” I said sternly as we all got out.
We went to the top in the portico and continued towards the large dual doors that made up the entrance. As we approached the doors opened automatically and swung outward, allowing us to walk inside. There, we were met with another surreal scene as we gazed at what appeared to be the foyer to a hospital. The air was inundated with a sanitized odor, the floors and walls an ashen white. In the background, a peaceful, slow serene piano concerto played. In front of us was a front desk and a receptionist sitting behind it. To the left and right were tinted glass panels with security locks on the doors that hid from us more details of the facility.
Cutman paused, sharing our mutual bewilderment at the friendly smile directed at us from the front desk. The smile belonged to a middle-aged woman. She was petite and had long blonde hair tied into a ponytail. The smile was like the smile of a doll, manufactured and permanent. Her azure eyes sparkled as she greeted us with a hand wave and approached us and shook Cutman’s hand without waiting for him to accept it.
“Welcome to our rehabilitation facility! My name is Beatrice. I’m the receptionist for this facility. I’m here to make your visit as pleasant possible.”
Cutman informed her of the purpose for our visit. She smiled even more and shook his hand.
“Absolutely,” she said. “I will just need to get this approved and we can get you all on your way. Normally I would be showing you around, but unfortunately my duties are detaining me for the day, so I will have contact one of the doctors, and they can act as your guide and show you around!”
She stared blankly beyond us as she used her Prizm to authorize the prisoner delivery. Seconds later, one of the doors hissed open and a large security guard entered. He had a bulletproof vest strapped to his chest, an automatic rifle slung over it. His thick arms waved back and forth as he approached us. With the abstract stare of a wild animal, he looked at the receptionist who seemed oblivious to his coldness, then turned to us with a natural leeriness.
“I’m going to need to search you all,” he said.
My back stiffened, and I could feel the tension in Tom as he prepared for the worst. This hadn’t been expected.
Cutman stepped up to the guard, his tone polite, but firm. “I’m the deputy director for the regional office. I assure you it won’t be necessary. We have already passed through the entrance. I’m certain there is a scan there for weapons.”
The guard was unfazed, either out of arrogance or stupidity. Or both.
“Rules are rules,” he said.
“I make the rules,” Cutman said.
The two men stared at one another, facing off in a wordless duel between their eyes. The guard was taller, bigger, but Cutman’s stiffened posture conveyed his authority.
The receptionist put a hand over her mouth, unused to the conflict. The guard’s spine began to bend. He shifted his weight from one foot to another.
“It’s protocol to search everyone,” he said hesitatingly. “No exceptions are supposed to be made.”
Cutman exploited the vulnerability.
“I’m not asking for exceptions,” he said. “I’m asking you to not insult me. What exactly are you afraid of me doing?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t make the rules.”
“Let those who make the rules worry about it.”
“What if my manager hears about it?”
“Then have him contact me. I’m sure we can reach an understanding.” He paused for effect, then added, “Of course, I could also tell him that you made my visit unnecessarily unpleasant.”
Fear filled the guard’s eyes. His lips quivered as he spoke up quickly, offering an apologetic hand.
“No, no, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve just been trained to follow the rules and not violate them.”
Cutman smiled. “Of course not. I appreciate your understanding.”
The guard walked over to the door and a moment later a green light turned on and the door opened. He escorted us inside, where the piano concerto grew louder yet still retained a gentle resonance. The guard led us down a long corridor. Though he had acquiesced, he was still intimidated by Cutman, who strolled with his hands behind his back as if to admire the blank walls and floor. At the end of the corridor the guard stopped us and a woman arrived with the same obnoxious smile on her face as Beatrice.
She was also stunningly beautiful, amber bro
wn hair cut just below her shoulders and a generous figure slightly concealed behind her white coat. She grinned at the guard and told him he could leave us.
“Hello,” she said, showcasing her flawless white teeth. “My name is Dr. Vurgel. I’m the lead psychiatrist here at the rehabilitation center. I understand you’re here to see a patient of ours.”
“You mean a prisoner?” I asked.
She treated me to a weird grin and a patronizing voice. “We’d rather not use that word here. It’s very negative. We want to promote a healthy and positive environment for the people who live in the facility. We also like to think of them as guests. We’re here to serve them and help them.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tom trying not to laugh.
With a click of her heels, she spun around and walked around the corner. We followed her and as we made the turn we found ourselves in the midst of dozens of people walking around or standing still and swaying back and forth in place.
Jean nearly cried out in horror. Tom froze and stared at them with his hands up ready to defend himself. Cutman managed to remain composed and moved through the crowds, while I looked down and tried not to glance at them. I knew what I would see.
The temptation was too great, however, and when I lifted my eyes I wondered if they deceived me. In one way, the people looked no different than anyone else. They had same absent expression. Yet there was something unmistakably wrong with them.
Drugged. All the telltale signs were there. Limp limbs, dilated pupils.
Other than red shirts and trousers, the people shared few other similarities. They sat in sofas and on benches and gaped aimlessly out the windows. Walking among the people were doctors and assistants marked by their white coats and unusually large smiles and the childish voices they used as they spoke and gave instructions and commands to the people, all of whom reacted submissively, complying with whatever demand was made of them.
Cutman walk besides Dr. Vurgel, masking his disgust with remarkable skill.
“Tell me,” he inquired, “how is the facility designed to hold all the, um, patients?”