The Redeemers

by T. J. Martinell

  Someone appeared behind him and announced themselves with the very familiar clicking noise of a gun barrel.

  “Don’t move,” the person said.

  Had he had his revolver, Carl would have gone for the shot, taken the chance at hitting him with a stray bullet. But it was not to be.

  He obeyed, for the most part, unable to resist turning his head to see the man emerging from a pile of metal wreckage with a slight gimp in his stride. His side vision was blurred, but he recognized the ISA badge on his chest.

  “Hands up,” the agent commanded. “You do anything weird, I’ll kill you. Get me?”

  “Yeah,” Carl said he was brought his hands above his head.

  His heart began to beat furiously as he slowly came to terms with the reality of his situation. Now there was only one man, but within minutes he’d be surrounded by an entire ISA task force and escape would be impossible. However, there was not much he could do, even with the man’s apparent physical impairment. A jump in the water would not help much. Not only would he lose the briefcase the contents therein, he did not have the strength to swim to Mercer Island. Even if he did, the ISA would have half a dozen boats launched from their fleet sitting on Meydenbauer Bay.

  The ISA agent approached slowly, hesitantly. It wasn’t obvious why he favored the one leg. He kept his pistol up high with a stiff arm, as though expecting Carl to make a desperation attack. Years ago, Carl might have been willing to try it, foolish enough to think he was invincible. But Fred’s death had taught him an important lesson to the contrary: Death comes for all.

  The ISA agent laughed, his head cocked with intrigue. “Carl Farrington.”

  No reply.

  “It really is you,” the agent insisted. His tone was odd, like they were long-lost friends.

  “If you say so.”

  “I know that face anywhere.”

  Carl blinked, his hands still up. “Were we drinking buddies at some point or what?”

  The agent spoke into his earpiece phone, proudly announcing he had the dreaded “Killer” Carl Farrington in custody. He ended the brief call with a large smile.

  He seemed genuinely pleased to see Carl. There was no mockery in the agent’s demeanor as he led him off the bridge and placed restrainers on his hands now bound behind his back.

  “What were you doing there?” Carl asked. “Having a private lunch break?”

  “As it turns out, I was having lunch when the call was made to go after you,” the agent replied. “But when they said Carl Farrington was on the loose, here in Bellevue, I suddenly lost my appetite.”

  “You were eating over there?”

  “No, I was waiting for you to come.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I knew you would. I know you better than you might imagine.”

  “Considering my current circumstances, I’d imagine pretty well.”

  The agent chuckled. “Everyone else relied on their gadgets and equipment to track you down,” the agent said wryly. “All that money spent on stuff to do our thinking for us. But all it took is knowing you, knowing you wouldn’t let us have that advantage. You would make us earn it. We had to get down to your level. I had to act like you to find you. And I only know that by the way you operated in Seattle.”

  “How did you know?”

  The agent took the cigarette pack from Carl’s pocket and used his own Zippo to light one. He choked on the first puff and doubled over, giving Carl a fleeting moment of amusement.

  “Never figured how you guys did that,” the agent said as he shoved the pack back into Carl’s pocket.

  “You get used to it.”

  A pair of drones appeared and flew above them in circles vultures. The agent got another phone call and spoke calmly as he gave his location a second time. When he gave his name, rank, and serial number it all sounded familiar to Carl. Where had he heard it before? Or was it repetition of a common routine performed by agents when reporting in?

  The ISA convoy arrived in a blitzkrieg-like show of force as though to make it evident to Carl he had no chance of escape. Armored cars plowed up the road behind three covered jeeps. At the end was a large truck loaded to the ground with ISA agents who poured out the moment the vehicle started to slow down.

  “Tell me something,” the agent said to Carl as he brought him over to where the convoy had stopped. “Why didn’t you try to run away? You know what this means for you?”

  Carl held his head high proudly as the ISA agents closed rank around like a pack of wolves, muttering their insults and threats. They couldn’t keep their emotions in check. Chances were, he had killed at least one of their colleagues, if not more.

  Carl whispered in the agent’s ear. “I’m not afraid.”

  The agent nodded. “I hope so.”

  ***

  Carl sat silently inside the ISA interrogation room. It was a small, confined space, the lights dimly lit. The walls were a sterile white, the air reeking of disinfectant. On top of the square table in front of him was coffee in a foam cup, along with a small creamer packet and sugar. It was one of the many formal amenities the ISA engaged in that he never quite understood.

  His hands were still bound, but he could still hold the coffee. Yet, he wouldn’t touch it. He didn’t want them to think he was thirsty, or that he had any desire they could satisfy. He couldn’t offer the slightest sign of weakness.

  The door slid open. The agent who had captured him entered with a stack of papers under his arm. He appeared offset by the added weight, which accentuated a peculiar gait Carl had not noticed before.

  Slapping the papers on the table, the agent took the remaining chair and sat. Wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant odor, he called out and asked them to remove the smell and turn up the lights. Suddenly a gush of warm air swept through the vents, the room brightening like a theater stage.

  Carl looked at the agent now dressed in a clean, formal uniform. He spotted a series of medals pinned to his chest. One of them was the Veritas Star, the highest award possible for a field agent. It was only given out to those who had demonstrated incredible courage.

  The agent removed Carl’s hand restrains then returned to his chair. He kept smiling. Carl’s face did not change.

  “You have no idea who I am, do you?” the agent said. “My name is Kenneth Cutman.”

  Carl kept staring.

  Cutman went on. “I was temporarily stationed in one of the ISA’s Seattle offices several years ago.”

  “And?”

  “We’ve met before.”

  Carl shrugged. “I’ve met a long of ISA agents before. I’ve shot a lot of them, too.”

  Cutman grinned, pulling his leg out from the chair as he tapped it gently. “I know. I’m one of them.”

  Studying the man’s face carefully, Carl gradually pieced together the memories he had long put aside. He recalled the sight of the young wounded agent on the ground after ambushing the ISA unit responsible for Usher’s death. He had left the agent presumably to die while trying to reach Bellevue.

  “I remember the look in your eye when you left me there,” Cutman said. “You thought I couldn’t make it, that I didn’t have the right stuff. I could spend the next hour telling you how I made it back, what I went through. What matters is that I survived to prove you wrong, that I am that strong.”

  “I didn’t know I could inspire a man like that. I should have gone into motivational speaking.”

  Cutman laughed, unconcerned about how he appeared to those watching on the other side of the mirror. “Why didn’t you kill me? I want to know.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me when you found me? You wouldn’t have received another medal to cover that uniform of yours.”

  “I am getting another medal. Which one it is, well, that depends on what you do right now.”

  “Forget it. I ain’t gonna tell you anything. Doesn’t matter what you do. I won’t sell out my people for a better hellhole or better food or anything like that. I’ll live
in the same cell as the next man.”

  Cutman seemed pleased by the answer. He glanced up at the cameras, then at the mirror, nodding his head. He then took the stack of papers and brought it to the center of the table.

  “I appreciate your loyalty,” he said. “But that is not what I am about to propose.”

  “What, then? Hurry up and get it over with so I can tell you why I won’t do it.”

  “You expect to live the rest of your life in one of our detention facilities. And you should. Right now, our review board would have no trouble voting to delay any charges against you in federal court for fifty years and detaining you in the meantime under the NDAA. However, I want to give you another choice.”

  “Why?”

  Cutman was solemn. “You spared my life. I want to spare yours in exchange. I’ve spoken with several board members. I have curried enough favor with them to get a special vote to drop charges entirely.”

  Carl turned his head to the side. “What?”

  “You’d receive a technical pardon.”

  He chuckled darkly. “So, what’s the catch?”

  Cutman flipped the documents around and pushed them toward Carl. “The catch is that in exchange for a pardon you come work for us.”

  The papers kept coming, one after another placed beneath Carl’s narrowing eyes. They were all terms of the deal.

  “You’d stay on for twenty-five years,” Cutman explained. “You’d work in our media branch copy-editing and rewriting any news articles that need refinement and polishing up.”

  “By ‘refinement and polishing’ you mean ‘censoring’.”

  Cutman shook his head. “Unfortunately, I cannot entertain you with a debate over this matter. That is the deal. That is the choice. You can live the rest of your life in one of our detention facilities several hundred feet underground, or you can work with us. If you take the pardon, it will be as though you did nothing. Your official record will be cleansed; only our classified dossier will remain. You will get your life back.”

  Carl snorted. “Gain my freedom so I can go work for you people? Do you honestly believe I’d ever find this deal attractive?”

  “More so than Tony Marconi did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We offered him the same deal when we caught up with him years ago. He wouldn’t take it. We tried to bring him in alive, but he preferred justice meted out in the street. As you can see, that was a foolish choice to make.”

  Sliding back in his chair, Carl’s undaunted veneer fell off his face. He could see Tony cornered like a fox up a tree, unable to get away. Rather than let them take him quietly, he had made himself a martyr. Carl wondered if Tony’s father ever knew about the offer. If he hadn’t, the knowledge would have only added to the pride he had for his son.

  “I wanted to give you that choice, too,” Cutman stated.

  “That’s fantastic. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather rot.”

  His answer failed to perturb Cutman. With a clever grin tactfully restrained, he put a hand to his chin and studied Carl. He then nodded at the mirror and cameras before returning to the door.

  Before he stepped out, he turned back to Carl. “If I cannot convince you, perhaps there is someone else who will.”

  He left. The door gradually reopened until a narrow silhouette formed between the doorframe.

  The person did not move at first.

  “Hello, Carl.”

  He got up, unable to recognize the face or that frail, timid voice.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  The person abruptly entered the room. Before Carl could take in everything, he found Kaylyn clinging to him with arms wrapped around his neck, her long hair flinging across his face and shoulder. He stood there motionless as she kissed him and whispered affectionately in his ear. Soon his cheeks were wet from her tears.

  “I thought I’d never see you again!” she cried.

  He was unable to think or speak for a while. The scene had all the surreal elements of dreams he had dreamed countless times. However, Kaylyn had changed greatly. There was still that youthful glow emanating from her face, but it had greatly dimmed to where he hardly noticed it. A sense of age had taken over her countenance, her face fuller than before. She didn’t appear quite as energetic, either. Her sad yet cheerful smile was filled with poignancy.

  Filling her hand with his, she stroked his calloused fingers as she dabbed at her eyes with her other hand. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to beg you, plead with you. Take the pardon. Let’s get out of here. They’ll let us be together if you do.”

  “I don’t – I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t worry, darling. Just sign the papers and we can leave together.”

  He couldn’t believe it. His gut instincts rebelled against what he was told. Yet his heart yearned for it all to be true.

  “What say you, Cutman?” Carl called out.

  The agent’s voice appeared in the room. “Everything she said is true. That is part of the deal. Sign the papers, and you both can leave as soon as he we have everything arranged.”

  He looked at her longingly, his hand weaving through her hair like a loom. He held her tightly against his body and kissed her. He tried to bring back the old passions he had long suppressed. But even though he still loved her as much as he ever had, he couldn’t conjure those sentiments up.

  “Let’s go, Carl,” she said, stroking his hand again. “It’s been long enough.”

  He smiled and went to kiss her hand. He paused and frowned when he saw the traces of fingernail polish.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Where did you get the fingernail polish? I didn’t know the ISA gives prisoners that stuff.”

  “They let you have some things.”

  A weird feeling crept into his gut. He looked at her filled-out figure. “Do they feed you a lot, too?”

  “What’s wrong, darling?”

  “You don’t look like you’ve been in a detention cell for years. You look just fine.”

  Guilt formed in her eyes. She turned from him and toward the mirror. Carl grabbed her and spun her around, his fingers digging into her arms.

  “How long have you been here?” he demanded. “Are you still a prisoner?”

  She couldn’t look at him. “No. I was let out a long time ago.”

  “How?”

  “Through a pardon – like you’ll be when you sign those papers.”

  “How long did they imprison you before you got a pardon?”

  “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “Why lie about it? Why pretend that me signing this thing would get us both out?”

  She drew near to him, her arms spread open to accept him. “Because I’ll say or do anything to get you to sign those papers. Because I can’t bear the thought of you living the rest of your life in those of cells. Because I don’t want to be away from you ever again. Because I want us to be together. Does any of that mean anything to you?”

  Carl didn’t move. “Why did they pardon you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yeah. They don’t give them out for nothing. What did you have to do? What did you tell them?”

  He seized Kaylyn, not giving a damn if they beat him for it. He had to learn the truth.

  “Who did you sell out?” he said. “What did you tell them about us?”

  “Nothing, nothing.”

  “Somebody got sold down river. Was it me?”

  “No, no, no!” she blurted. “I protected you from them!”

  Carl froze, then spoke slowly. “What do you mean?”

  He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. Her eyes gradually opened, a despondent air about her. “I love you.”

  “What did your pardon cost you?”

  She stammered. His face turned white as he stepped back. His voice was a terrified whisper.

  “You gave them Tony. Both of you vanished the same day
. They came for you because they knew you were with me. And you told them where Tony lived in exchange for a pardon, to save your own skin.”

  She started to cry.

  “Did they know it was Tony’s place they arrived at?” he asked. “Or did they think they had me in a bind when they first got there?”

  “I didn’t lead them to you. I wouldn’t do it.”

  Carl approached her and took her in his arms. She rested her head against his chest. Tears swelled in his eyes. She laughed as she tried to wipe them away. “Don’t cry. Everything’s going to be fine now.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  Carl called for Cutman.

  “Yes?” Cutman said on the room speaker.

  “I’ll take that pardon.”

  “Excellent!”

  Gazing at Kaylyn, Carl added, “However, I’ll accept it only on one condition.”

  “What is that?”

  “I want a permanent restraining order placed on this woman.”

  The room went quiet. They would have laughed it off as a joke, but the quiver in Carl’s lower lip revealed how difficult it was for him to say it.

  “What’s going on?” Kaylyn asked, her eyes widening. “What are you talking about?”

  “How did you know where Tony lived?”

  Her eyes betrayed her before she could create an excuse. It all made sense now. In the time leading up to her arrest, she had been acting strange, aloof. During intimidate moments she had been tense and withdrawn.

  And now he knew why.

  “When did you start seeing Tony?” he asked.

  She sobbed.

  “When?” he repeated.

  It didn’t matter. The details were unimportant.

  “What’s going on, Farrington?” Cutman asked through the speaker.

  “You heard me! I want that damn restraining signed and delivered to me in five minutes or no deal! You hear me? I’ll tear this agreement up and head to a cell myself!”

  Kaylyn clung to him, her face full of pleading. “Darling, please don’t do this. Please don’t. Why? Why are you doing this?”

  He quietly laughed. He was composed, a grim expression etched onto his face. “It’s simple. I’m going to make a deal with the Devil, but in return I’m going to preserve the last trace of dignity I have by keeping you away from me. You betrayed me. You lied to me.”