The Informers (The Stringers Book 2)

by TJ Martinell

  The bared walls made sense. The memorabilia, worth an untold amount of money, had been taken during the raid. Even if the owner was released, he’d never see them again. Forfeiture laws allowed them to seize whatever they wanted and sell it, or keep it for themselves. I suspected one of the officers had a Norman Rockwell illustration or an autographed picture of a NASCAR racer driver on the wall inside his home.

  “So how is this place safe?” I asked sarcastically.

  “They won’t think of coming here.”

  “Wouldn’t they have the place monitored?”

  “I hacked into the surveillance system and set it to replay prior recordings when the restaurant was empty. It will replay until we leave.”

  He tapped the Prizm on his head. “I did the same thing with my IGP. We’re required to keep them on at all times and have the visual recording programs to see what we’re doing. I reprogramed it, too, so it will replay a recording I did earlier today when I was working remote from my house. I wrote my own program to trick the GPS if they looked further into it. If they want to reach me they can get a hold of me right now, but they will think I am at home. Also, even if they wished to watch me, they would have to wait several hours. The new requirement puts a lot of strain on Prizms and slows down the streaming process.”

  “Where did you learn to do all of this? I asked.

  “The same way I suppose you learn anything.”

  He kept looking at me curiously. “I was wondering something. What made you become a stringer?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “People speculate.”

  “And you don’t believe them.”

  “Of course not,” he said.

  I pushed my empty coffee mug away. The waitress took it with an amused grin.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the intern. “I’d like to call you something instead of kid.”

  “My name is Ronnie.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m helping you because people should know what they’re doing,” he replied.

  “Aren’t you betraying your people?”

  His soft mouth hardened. “They are not my people.”

  “You work with them.”

  “So? That doesn’t make them my people.”

  “You have no loyalty to them?” I asked.

  “Why should I? They have no loyalty to me.”

  “Isn’t it a betrayal to turn against them?”

  “I never swore loyalty to them. Especially when they’re doing something morally wrong.”

  “Don’t they get to decide what is moral?”

  “No.”

  “Then who does?”

  His eyes roamed as he searched for an answer.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I guess no one does. No one decides what gravity is. It just is what it is.”

  “So why do you want to know why I became a stringer?”

  He inhaled deeply, a nervous twitch in his hands.

  “I want to come with you,” he said.

  “Now?”

  “No. When you come for the information you want, I want to go with you. I want to join your newspaper.”

  I regarded him with pity. The same pity Tom had given me the night we had first met. It didn’t seem right to take his request seriously. He couldn’t possibly know what the life entailed. It was apparent, however, he didn’t belong in that society any more than I did.

  “Do you know what this might mean for you?” I asked.

  Ronnie nodded his head. “People have talked about it.”

  “People who haven’t lived there.”

  “You have. What do you think?”

  “It isn’t a picnic,” I replied. “But I just met you. I’m not qualified to make that decision.”

  “Then who is?”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Well, if you want what I have to offer, you have to take me with you,” Ronnie said.

  I couldn’t help but admire his determination. Still, I had to test him.

  “What use will your skills be in a world like that?” I asked. “They don’t use the Net. They don’t use Prizms. It’s the price of the freedom.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Perhaps not. That doesn’t make it wise.”

  He cleared his throat. “I heard they offered you a pardon if you came back. Is it true?”

  “So?”

  “Why?”

  “Never gave it much thought.”

  “You didn’t want to come back. You wanted to stay there. You liked it there. You spent your entire life here, but when you had a chance to come back with the slate cleaned, you turned it down. It wasn’t the pardon you rejected. You rejected the life you’d have to live. You’d rather die trying to live the life you have now than survive and live in a world where you don’t belong.”

  “You sound quite certain of your theory.”

  “I’m not dumb. People told me how you used to be. That’s why I wasn’t sure what you would be like now. But I know you used to be a part of this.”

  “Rumors.”

  “I’ve found rumors are closer to the truth than the official story. I choose to live by reality, not the official story.”

  “I fail to see your point.”

  His demeanor was more aggressive. “Whatever that place is, however bad it is or how great the imperfections are, it’s better than here. I don’t know what it’s like entirely, but I know if it were not the case you would still be working at that news site. So please stop wasting my time and yours by pretending otherwise.”

  His thin body swayed as I clapped him on the shoulder. He smiled nervously and rubbed his upper arm.

  “You sure are something, kid,” I remarked. “You got no family to leave behind? No girl?”

  “I’m coming alone. That should answer the question.”

  “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll let you come with me. In the meantime, you figure out how you’re going to get your hands on those documents and smuggle them out of the office without getting caught. I’m going to plan our escape route from there. I’ll contact you when I’ve got the details hammered out. When I do, I need you to be ready to go.

  He bobbed his head up and down excitedly. “Of course.”

  “This is going to be a fast act. My guess is we won’t have much time. The window of opportunity will be limited.”

  “We can manage.”

  “Also, I’ll need some way to get in touch with you.”

  “How is that going to work?” he asked worriedly. “I won’t risk my Prizm. They might be able to trace where it’s coming from. It’ll have to be done off the Net.”

  “No worries. Give me your address.”

  I took out a notepad and pen and wrote it down. When I looked up Ronnie was staring at it like it was an ancient artifact. His mouth was open with wonder.

  “You can write?” he asked.

  “Yeah. It’s not hard.”

  “Could you…could you teach me?”

  “Sure. By the way, do you know Morse Code?”

  “Yes. Everyone thinks I’m a nerd for it, but I think it’s fascinating. Why?”

  I slipped the paper into my pocket and told him to look out of his bedroom window every night at precisely eight o’ clock and watch for flashing lights, three long, one short, then two long.

  “Have a flashlight handy,” I added as I got up. “They might want a reply. Just remember to read it correctly.”

  I held out my hand. He took it this time with a firm grip.

  “Until we meet again,” I said. “Remember, don’t get caught. Believe you me, I’ve seen where they take you if they catch you. It ain’t pretty.”

  “Ain’t isn’t a word, Mr. Farrington.”

  “Whatever. There ain’t no law against using the word yet.”

  “Don’t give them any ideas.”

  Chapter Twenty

 
I watched Hernandez tinkering with the underbelly of the once driverless car. His face was dripping with sweat. He gritted his teeth as he fumbled with the wrench in his hand. Every other sentence out of his mouth was a grumble or curse.

  I sat beside him, amused as he rolled up the sleeves on his oil-stained shirt. It was all part of his routine. He thoroughly loved his work. The only thing he loved more than tearing and putting together vehicles was the entertaining performance he gave while doing it.

  He yanked the wrench counterclockwise and then twisted it with both hands as he nodded to me to move away. I stepped back as he pulled himself out from underneath the car and wiped his forehead with a dirty rag. A tired but pleased look appeared on his face.

  “All done,” he said. “You now have total control over the steering. All the software has been erased on the other controls, too.”

  We both silently admired the car. Its appearance concealed the gas engine Hernandez had installed. The car still ran on an electric battery. But if need be I would be able to switch over and get the necessary horsepower to outrun the ISA or police. The exhaust pipe would pop out only when the gas engine was on.

  “How much fuel can you get me?” I asked.

  “A couple of gallons, maybe.”

  “A couple?”

  “It isn’t easy to find what you’re looking for. I’ve called all the usual sellers, and they offered all they have. The rest of it goes to bigger buyers. Can’t you buy some from them?”

  “I could. But I’m trying to keep this thing quiet.”

  “Why?”

  “Perhaps it’s best if you don’t ask.”

  Hernández left it at that. He was a man of few curiosities outside of mechanical work.

  He opened the hood to the car and called me over and began listing off all the changes he had made. He also listed off persistent troubles with the engine and how I would need to handle it if problems arose.

  “Do you plan on bringing it back in one piece?” he asked.

  “Ideally.”

  “And how much do you plan on paying me for this?”

  I handed him a small leather bag. He pulled back the strings and poured a large pile of coins into his hand.

  “There’s more when I get back,” I said. “Just make sure this thing is as light as a feather and as fast as a hawk.”

  “Of course!”

  Hernandez stuck his head back into the hood and started tinkering with the engine again. If he could make it go just that much faster, another hour was worth it.

  Back home I called up Ian, one of the stringers in Bellevue. I had put him in contact with Ronnie. Ian had a strict schedule he liked to keep. Right now, he was confined to the safe house near the waterfront.

  “Any news on our boy?” I asked.

  “He’s freaked out, alright. He sends out the message every night. Knows his Morse Code.”

  “Any news, though?”

  “Yeah. He says that he knows what’s in the files. Or at least who they’re about.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Some guy named Novak.”

  I stopped and let my heart pace slow back down.

  “What’s the first name?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. All I know is the guy’s dead. Been dead for a while, I mean.”

  “Anything else about it?”

  “Nope. Apparently, he has a lot of documents to give you.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Figure it might work for a little background research,” Ian said.

  “Do me a favor. Find out everything you can about Novak. Where he was born, where he was educated, his work in the ISA, everything.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “I’m not your boss anymore.”

  I got a hold of Olan and told him to put together a dossier on Casey’s father, anything they might have written about him. I then took a stroll. It was one of my new habits to resist the tobacco urge. There had been a few hard nights without brandy or bee, too. Thankfully the temptations were less frequent.

  I was pausing on the street when I recognized Miles Jackson, a Seattle cop. His police badge was clipped on his leather jacket. The bulge on underneath the badge gave away his large caliber handgun. He was neutral party as far as we were concerned. He took no bribes from either side.

  As he made his way up the street he came near a man with a newspaper opened, unaware of Jackson approaching him. When the man lowered the paper from his face he panicked. Jackson flashed a bemused glance, then kept on walking. The man was naturally suspicious. He threw down the newspaper and moved away from the curb in anticipation of more police. When none came, he picked up the newspaper and sheepishly walked into an alley.

  I jogged across the road and caught up with Jackson.

  “Didn’t think I’d see you outside your building,” he remarked dryly.

  “Looks like you’re treating my customers better,” I noted.

  “What did you expect me to do?”

  “Arrest him?”

  Jackson grinned, licking his lips in delight. “You didn’t hear? The City Council voted to decriminalize reading newspapers. It’s a nonbinding resolution, but the chief told us they don’t want us enforcing that law anymore.”

  “Maybe there is hope after all.”

  “Don’t give your hopes up.”

  I was going my own way when Jackson suddenly called out to me.

  “We always thought it was a stupid law,” he said.

  “Too bad you all didn’t treat it like one from the beginning.”

  ***

  I came across a group of people humming a song together. I listened closely, vaguely recognized it from somewhere. I asked them where they had heard it. A woman among them explained that a new busker at Pike Place played it on some instrument they hadn’t seen before. A brief description was all I needed to know who it was.

  I was still a block away when I heard the plucking of the balalaika traveling up the road. Around the corner there was a large crowd gathered around a section of the street and more were coming from other sides of the market. The tallest heads looked down while the young children fought their way between legs to get a glimpse. I tried to be discreet but my face had become too well known. They swiftly moved aside for me.

  Jean sat on a small stool in the center of the crowd. She wore a long blue skirt and an enamel white shirt. A white rose pedal was slipped into her hair. Bent down, she cradled the small instrument in her lap. In her tiny hands, it seemed personally designed for her. Her hand swept across the strings with such rapidity that the forceful yet melodious sound seemed to flow off her fingertips.

  As she played people tossed coins into the case at her feet. A large pile of money had already accumulated. However, she did not seem to notice or care or even hear them. She did not ever look up or acknowledge anyone was listening to her.

  The song ended with a slight flick of the strings and her hand swept across through the air and then came to rest on her knee. The last note lingered as the breeze blew her hair off her shoulder and across her face. The crowd broke into applause and begged her to play another song.

  Granting them a small smile, she brought her head up and faced the crowd. She saw me but carried on as if she hadn’t.

  “Thank you for listening,” she said. “I will play in a few minutes.”

  People waited, anyway. When it was clear she had no intention to play for a while they finally dispersed. She scooped up the coins and put them in a bag near her stool while children gawked at her in wonderment. The whole time she purposefully avoided looking at me. If she was waiting for me to apologize she was mistaken. I had nothing to regret.

  I started walked away.

  “Roy!”

  I did not stop until I heard my name repeated a third time. I turned to see Jean hurriedly placing the balalaika in the case. She then ran over to me and just stared. She hadn’t had anything to say. She
just wanted to keep me from walking away.

  “I wrote that song myself,” she said.

  Something was different. Her elocution was precise, smooth. The flatness in her tone was gone.

  “When did you start playing here?” I asked. “I come here often and I’ve never seen you or heard you play.”

  “I just started yesterday.”

  “What were you doing before?”

  “Learning how to play.” She tossed her chin a little. “You see? I can teach myself something new.”

  “I never thought otherwise.”

  “Are you here to meet someone?”

  “No.”.

  “Oh. Are you here to buy something, then?”

  “No.”

  She waved to one of the vendors down the sidewalk selling electronic gadgets. “Would you like to look?”

  “Aren’t you worried about your balalaika and money?”

  “No. I leave it in good hands.”

  She picked up the case and the money and her other bag and brought it with her to a female vendor. She handed it off to the woman and thanked her, then came back to me.

  I anticipated her reaching out for my hand. To my curiosity she maintained unmistakably personal space. At the booths one man tried to convince her to buy an electronic tuner to help with her balalaika. She agreed only after asking me several times if I approved. She paid and asked if I could carry it for her.

  I did so but her voice confused me. It was definitely hers. Yet now it was softer, peaceful. Like nothing troubled her anymore.

  I stopped her with a hand on the shoulder.

  “When did you start speaking like that?” I asked.

  “I paid someone to teach me,” she said. “I saved up a lot of money, so I could afford to spend it on what I wanted. They taught me how to speak normally and not sound so…odd.”

  “I didn’t know you disliked the sound of your own voice.”

  “It wasn’t the voice. It was me.”

  She finally looked me in the eye, tentative about how I would react.

  “I’ve heard about your father, Roy. I’m so sorry.”

  I muttered something.

  “Do you not want to talk about it?” she asked.

  “Not exactly the best place to chat about it, is it?”