The Informant

by James Grippando

  The engine roared behind him as the Mercedes barreled down. He whizzed past gate after iron gate, all of them locked. The car was just twenty feet away when Mike reached the street corner. He faked left then cut right, but the driver didn’t go for it. The car screeched to a halt in the middle of the intersection and Mike nearly ran right into it. The passenger door flew open.

  “Get in,” Aaron Fields said sharply.

  Mike was sweating and panting, barely able to speak. “Why the hell are you chasing me?”

  “Why the hell are you running away from me?” he snapped. “Now get in the car.”

  Mike took a deep breath, then slid into the passenger seat and closed the door. Aaron pulled away slowly, heading back toward Bayshore Drive. Mike directed all the dashboard vents right at his sweaty face and cranked up the air-conditioning full blast. “You know,” he said, sucking in the cool air, “I’d much rather you fire me than stalk me.”

  “I’m not stalking you. I called from my car phone on my way downtown, and your roommate said you were out jogging down Bayshore. When I saw you I pulled off and waited—and then you headed off in another direction, like you didn’t want to talk to me. Which only makes me think there might be some truth to the rumors.”

  “What rumors?”

  He stopped the car at the corner and shot Mike a look. “That you’re holding out on me. I got a call this morning from Charlie Gelber. Tenth body turned up this morning in Virginia. And you didn’t print the story.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard about it,” he said with surprise.

  “I’d like to believe that. But the word down at the newsroom is that you’re pissed because I put you on probation.”

  The Mercedes pulled back onto Bayshore Drive, merging into the morning traffic. “Wait a minute,” said Mike. “You think I got a call from my informant, like usual, and that I blew the exclusive just to get back at you.”

  He grimaced, as if he hated to levy the accusation. “Do you expect me to believe it’s coincidence that your informant stopped calling on the same day I put you on probation? Put yourself in my shoes.”

  “No. Put yourself in my shoes. I came to you and Charlie with this proposal because I thought you’d care as much about stopping a serial killer as I did. The minute something went wrong you put me on probation.”

  “You’re still covering the story.”

  “Oh, thank you very much for letting me continue to write and pump up sales.”

  The car rocked as Aaron steered off to the shoulder of the road and slammed on the breaks, bringing them to a screeching halt. Two purple veins stood out on his temples. “Is that what you think, after thirteen years we’ve known each other? That I’m using you?”

  “No,” Mike said with a sigh. “It’s just that…this whole experience has me feeling like you’ve changed, or I’ve changed, or maybe it’s the whole damn profession. Back when you were editor in chief, we took risks, sure—but not the kind that made me question our own motives. There’s just a lot more emphasis on selling papers these days.”

  Aaron shook his head. “And what the hell is so wrong with a publisher who wants to sell newspapers?”

  “Nothing, so long as that’s not the only thing you care about.”

  “What do you care about, Mike?”

  “I care about the people I write about.”

  “Really? You care about them?”

  “Sure. My wife even commented the other night, how she’s heard me talking on the phone to them for hours. Victims. Their families. Witnesses to crimes. I’ve spent hours talking with them, consoling them. Karen sounded almost jealous about it.”

  “Okay. And out of all these thousands of people you’ve consoled over the years, how many have you called back after the story ran in the newspaper? You know, just to see how they’re doing. How they’re making out.”

  Mike looked down.

  Aaron smirked. “That’s what I thought.” He sighed heavily, then laid a paternalistic hand on Mike’s shoulder. “I’m not trying to make you feel like a shit-head, Mike. All I’m saying is that you don’t care as much as you think you do; and by the same token, I’m not as interested in money as people think I am. We’re journalists. We care about the story. And if we’re good journalists, we care about the truth. If, along the way, we make a little money and make a few friends, that’s a bonus. But those incidentals aren’t what drive us. They can’t be, or they get in the way of telling it the way it is. You and me, Mike, we’re driven by the same thing. That’s why I’m on my third marriage,” he said with a half-joking smile. “That’s why you’ve never worked for another publisher.”

  Mike ran a sweaty hand through his hair, and goose bumps covered his arms. He’d always liked Aaron, but the thought of being like him was suddenly disquieting. He reached for the handle and popped open the door. “I promise you, Aaron: I’m not holding out on you. If I hear from this guy, the Tribune gets the story.”

  He smiled as Mike stepped down from the car onto the gravel shoulder. “That’s my boy,” he said with a wink.

  Mike forced a return smile, then quickly closed the door. He was suddenly thinking about the secrets Karen had never told him, and the way he was always rushing off at the beck and call of people like Aaron whenever she tried to talk.

  Still damp with sweat, he stood alone in the cloud of dust, feeling that he’d just gotten more than a workout.

  Chapter 30

  frank Hannon woke at ten minutes till two that afternoon. He found a note on the lacy white pillow beside him on the bed. Valerie had a luncheon at the country club, then shopping at the Chevy Chase Mall. She probably wouldn’t be back until dinnertime. Perfect.

  He stepped naked across the polished oak floors to a walk-in closet that was bigger than most bedrooms. Her slacks hung neatly from a rod that ran from one end to the other, with another for party dresses and two more for casual wear. A wall of shelves displayed shoes and purses. Along the far wall was a set of built-in drawers with Plexiglas facades, making hose, belts and underwear impossible to lose. A tiny quadrant in the back was the precious space Valerie had given him, but it was all he needed.

  He put on a pair of khaki chinos and a blue oxford-cloth shirt with button-down collar—the preppy look that had melted Valerie’s heart. Yesterday’s high temperature had been in the fifties, so he took the Ralph Lauren jacket with the plaid lining that she’d bought for him, then grabbed the car keys from the nightstand and headed for the garage.

  He stopped at the kitchen table, where Valerie had left her copy of the Washington Post beside an empty cup of coffee with red lipstick on the rim. He flipped through it with interest, noticing immediately that he’d made the front page. Tongue-Murderer Strikes Capitol Area, read the headline. Tenth Victim Found in McLean, Va.

  He skimmed the story, smiling. Nowhere was Mike Posten or the Miami Tribune mentioned. That confirmed it: Rollins was definitely the source.

  He grabbed a V-8 from the refrigerator and walked with purpose from the kitchen. He’d left the space heater on inside the garage all night, so it was nice and warm. Valerie’s Jaguar was still there, which meant one of her snooty friends had picked her up. He took the Volvo and drove to the strip mall just a few blocks away.

  A light rain started to fall as he pulled into the parking lot. The hypnotic sound of the wipers streaking across the windshield had him thinking back again, to that night he’d spent in jail. It brought back all the old feelings, his hatred for cops, his old man—and Curt….

  Twenty-some years ago, the very morning he’d gotten out of jail, he went right to Curt—the rat. The night in jail was supposed to teach him a lesson, his father said. It had. And he went right to Curt’s house to teach him what he’d learned.

  Curt had spotted his friend coming up the driveway and tried to run, but his crutches didn’t take him far. Frank tackled him behind the house. The crutches flew as they tumbled to the ground. He ripped Curt’s pant leg and tore off the bandage. Curt s
creamed, but it only excited him. With his bare hands he gouged the stitches from his leg. Curt cried out for his mother, as if to invite more. Frank punched him wildly in the face, beating him to near unconsciousness, stopping only when the blood from his nose and mouth completely covered his face. He was panting with exhaustion, but his rage still hadn’t subsided. Curt was on his back, moaning. Frank was on top, pinning him to the ground. The sheriff’s story about that other boy cutting out his own tongue was still fresh in his mind, feeding his anger and giving him strength. He grabbed Curt by the hair and spoke right into his face.

  “You’re a girl!” he shouted. “A little girly tattletale.”

  “They made me tell,” Curt grunted, barely able to speak. “They made me—”

  Frank spit in his eye. “They made you into a girl! They thought they could do the same to me, but they couldn’t, and they never will.” He grabbed Curt by the throat, and his voice seethed with new menace. “’Cuz if anyone ever rats on me again, I swear I’ll rip the tongue right out of their mouth.”

  Frank jumped up and kicked Curt in the leg, leaving him on the ground writhing in pain….

  The rubber wipers screeched across the windshield, rousing Hannon from his thoughts. The rain had stopped, so he killed the wipers. He parked the Volvo in a secluded no-parking zone by the Dumpsters, off to the side of the strip mall. Plastic bread crates and a stack of compressed cardboard boxes from the supermarket towered over the car like a big castle wall. He walked around the side of the building, past the automatic doors at the supermarket entrance. In the busy pet shop next to the liquor store, a pack of two-week-old Collies tumbled in the display window. A little girl watched with glee, but Hannon didn’t seem to notice as he stepped inside. It took him only ninety seconds to get what he needed. He carried the cardboard box out by the handle and headed back to the car.

  He checked over his shoulder as he dug the keys from his pocket. Seeing no one, he popped the trunk open. His cargo stirred in the sudden burst of light. He was hog-tied, hands and feet bound behind his back. Silver duct tape covered his mouth. The syringe and bottle of ketamine, an animal tranquilizer that Hannon had used to render him unconscious, were lying at his feet. Rollins was staring right up at him, still groggy, still wearing his black rubber wet suit. His eyes squinted painfully in the daylight. The smell of urine filled the air.

  “You stink like hell,” he said with a snarl. “Keep it up, and you’ll have the hounds after us.” He opened the cardboard box, smiling deviously with his eyes. “This should throw them off the trail.”

  He pitched the box like a bucket, and something furry flew out. Rollins squirmed and let out a muffled cry as one landed on his chest and the other scampered down his leg.

  Hannon laughed to himself, looking down with disdain. “They’re just rodents. Harmless, little white lab rats.” His black eyes narrowed, showing utter contempt. “Think of them as family, Curt.”

  He slammed the trunk closed, then got behind the wheel and quickly drove away.

  Chapter 31

  the winding mountain road reached a dead end at a thick stand of birch and bare elm trees. In summer the foliage blocked the view of the lake in the valley below, but in February the leaves were a soggy, decaying carpet on the forest floor. Sunset was less than an hour away, and the overcast sky was as dreary and gray as the rounded granite peaks of the Shenandoah Mountains bulging above the evergreens.

  Frank Hannon steered left into the muddy entrance drive, following the signs to the Merry Moose Inn and Cottages. The Volvo rocked like a dune buggy as it splashed from puddle to pothole. The access road was nothing more than an extrawide footpath twisting through the forest. He chuckled to himself, imagining Rollins and his furry companions bouncing around in the trunk. At the clearing in front of the inn he killed the engine and stepped out of the car.

  The inn was an old mountain home with a stone facade, high-pitched roof and screened-in porch. The rushing sound of a nearby brook filled the chilly air. There wasn’t a car in sight, just a fishing boat on a trailer beneath a canvas tarp.

  The screen door squeaked as Hannon stepped through onto the porch. He peered through the diamond-shaped window on the door, seeing nothing. He knocked once, then again, giving it a good pounding. Just as he’d hoped: closed for the winter.

  He got back in the car and drove farther down the road, past the main inn toward one of the more secluded cottages closer to the stream. The road twisted and grew more bumpy. He stopped at the fourth cottage, which was surrounded by evergreens. Even his car would be hidden from the inn and other cottages.

  It was a small, wood-frame cottage with shutters on the windows. The door was padlocked, but it had plenty of play. Hannon put his shoulder into it, and with two powerful shoves the lock ripped from the doorframe. He brushed the cobwebs aside and stepped inside. There was one main room with a rustic wood floor and an old wood-burning potbelly stove. In back was a separate kitchen area and bathroom. The bed frame on the other side of the room had no box spring or mattress. A wood table and chairs were stacked neatly in the corner for storage. He flipped the switch, but the electricity was off.

  He went back to the car and took a duffel bag from the floor in the backseat. From under the front seat he pulled a revolver. He checked the chamber, making sure he had six bullets. Then he went around the back and opened the trunk.

  A foul odor escaped, forcing him to step back. One of the rats squeaked as it scurried beneath the spare tire. Rollins lay still, bound and gagged. He looked up pathetically, squinting at the sudden burst of daylight. He whimpered through the tape over his mouth as Hannon pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple.

  “Shut up,” said Hannon. He reached down with his free hand and untied the rope around his ankles. “Get out.”

  Timidly, Rollins threw one leg over the back of the car, then the other, sliding out of the trunk. His legs wobbled, and he couldn’t seem to stand up straight. Hannon put the gun to the back of his head and gave a quick shove from behind, toward the cottage.

  “Inside,” he ordered.

  Rollins stumbled forward. Hannon followed right behind with the gun in one hand and the duffel bag over his shoulder. He shoved Rollins to the floor as they crossed the threshold. He fell against a vertical support beam in the middle of the room. He sat on the floor with his back against the post. Hannon tied him tightly to the post with a rope from the duffel bag. Then he pulled a kitchen chair from the stack of furniture in the corner and sat facing Rollins with his back to the wall. He leaned forward and in one quick motion ripped the duct tape from Rollins’s mouth.

  Rollins grunted at the sound of whiskers ripping from his face, then stretched his mouth open like a man trying to yawn.

  “Hungry?” asked Hannon. He took a pack of Fig Newtons from his bag and shoved one in Rollins’s mouth. The prisoner gobbled it up, so he fed him a few more. They went through half the pack before Rollins finally spoke.

  “What are you gonna do with me?” he said as he chewed his last mouthful.

  He stuffed the rest of the Fig Newtons back in his bag and opened a bottle of Pepsi. “Thirsty?” he said.

  Rollins tilted his head back as Hannon poured. Some of it spilled down his chin, but he chugged down most of it. He looked up warily at Hannon and swallowed hard.

  “Can I use the bathroom?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’d rather have you pissing in your pants than walking around the room. Think of it as a control thing.”

  Their eyes locked, then Rollins looked away. “I want to know. What are you gonna do with me?”

  He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms smugly, saying nothing.

  Rollins licked a drop of Pepsi from his lip. “Don’t kill me, okay. Please don’t kill me.”

  “Funny,” he said with a confident smirk. “In thirty seconds I could have you begging me to kill you.”

  Rollins’s eye twitched, and he answer
ed in a nervous, shaky voice. “You don’t want to do that, man. I’ve been thinking while I was in the trunk, you know. You and me. We could be partners in this thing. Split the money, you know, fifty-fifty.”

  “Partners?” he said with amusement.

  “Yeah. I got a quarter million out of those suckers at the Miami Tribune already. We can keep this up forever. You’re smart. You’ll never get caught.”

  “That’s real interesting. The problem, though, is that two people have to trust each other to be partners. There has to be honesty, openness.”

  “I could have turned you in a long time ago. I didn’t. Why would I turn you in now? You can trust me, man.”

  Hannon sighed and shook his head. “I can’t really trust you or anything you say. Only one thing can change that.”

  “What’s that?”

  He reached inside his bag, past the Fig Newtons and empty Pepsi bottle. Slowly, he pulled out a long shiny diving knife with a serrated edge.

  “Pain,” he said, brandishing the knife before Rollins’s eyes. The steel blade flickered in the last remaining daylight. “Pain is an amazing truth serum.”

  Rollins squirmed. “Come on, man. What you want to do this for? Really, you can trust me. I’ve always been your friend, always respected you. Even when we were in school I never even teased you, not like the other kids did.”

  Hannon shot a quick, piercing glance. “Remember what they used to call me?”