The Informers (The Stringers Book 2)

by TJ Martinell

  “The Milgram test.”

  “Yes.”

  I was still stuck in a daze when the car struck us. It clipped our front right side, forcing us against the sidewalk. The car electronic motor struggled to stay on. I slammed on the brakes while Ronnie clung to his seat. The momentum was too great for me to handle.

  We struck the curb and stopped. The impact was minimal.

  Looking back, I saw the car that had hit us. The automatic driver should have recognized us. To my horror I recalled that the software Hernandez had disabled was how cars recognize one another.

  The front seat passenger in the other car was stunned. His morning coffee was splattered all over his windshield.

  “What are we going to do?” Ronnie asked.

  I peered over the steering wheel to examine the damage. Right away, I knew it was critical. The right section of the hood was dented and bent. The electric motor was most likely damaged, too. It might still run, for now.

  It had to do. We couldn’t switch to gas. Yet we had to leave right then. Our cover would be blown as soon as the other driver tried to access my driver’s license. If not, the police would arrive to take a report.

  As the man got out of his vehicle I restarted the engine and drove off. He stood bewildered in the middle of the road. The engine vibrated erratically as I fought to get more juice out of the battery.

  Attempting to reach the top of a hill, the engine rumbled violently and then for a moment stopped. I got out and inspected beneath the hood. When I saw the damage to the combustion engine I almost cried. Repairs had to be done.

  There was only one shop in town that could do it.

  Going to O’Donnell’s was also a risk. The manager’s loyalty had been to Cutman. I couldn’t know for sure if it extended to me.

  Except we had no choice. The accident had been caught on the street camera. It wouldn’t be long before police cars would be dispatched to search for a car matching our description. Once they realized the car wasn’t in their records it would automatically alert the ISA as a possible newspaper vehicle.

  Heading there I stuck to the side streets. I had memorized all the roads where the cameras were poorly maintained or blocked by trees and foliage. We quickly reached O’Donnell’s shop. To my relief no cars were found inside the maintenance bay’s open doors. I parked in the bay and told Ronnie to get out. I snatched the briefcase from the trunk brought it with us into the main lobby.

  The manager was in there conversing with his mechanic. They saw us and the briefcase.

  “We don’t want trouble,” the manager said. “If that’s what you brought get it out of here.”

  “We’ll leave as soon as you repair my car,” I replied. I set the briefcase at my feet as I gestured out the window. “Check the engine. I don’t care about the electric motor or the hood. I just need to get across the lake.”

  The manager shoved his hands in his pockets and frowned at me, but then nodded to the mechanic. The mechanic rubbed his hands with a towel and headed into the maintenance bay. The sound of power tools and swearing resonated through the door. Though he uttered vile words as he examined the engine his tone indicated the damage was significant but not beyond his capacity to fix.

  “Coffee?” the manager asked, pointing to the pot filled to the brim.

  “Sure.”

  I hauled the briefcase over to my feet and sat down. A combination lock required the numbers from Ronnie. I flicked the locks back and opened it up. Stuffed inside were stacks of documents. Sure enough, they were typed in such a small font that after I brought one of them up to my eye I could still not read it without laboring over each word.

  I went back to my car and retrieved my small magnifying from out of a kit in the trunk. I brought it back and held it below my eye as I scanned the document once again.

  When I had finished reading it I grabbed another document and read.

  Everything Ronnie had said was true.

  The Milgram Test. There wasn’t even a clandestine name for the operation. It was considered standard procedure under their training methods. The reason it had never gotten out was because only certain ISA interns were required to kill prisoners. All were sworn to secrecy about the whole affair.

  The prisoners first executed hadn’t been newspapermen. Men who had been convicted for making petty remarks online. Women who had written rash comments against another. Children who had made foolish claims to another student.

  All were considered enough of a threat to society to be killed.

  The person to propose and implement this had been none other than Mr. Novak.

  Perusing the documents again I searched in vain for the record of a dissident. Surely there had to be an intern who had possessed the moral courage to defy their orders even if he had been punished. Had he been shot it still would have been some consolation for me to know that there were in the ISA who had a vestige of human decency.

  But there were none.

  Not one recorded incident. Not one unfortunate intern who had been turned away because he had refused to do it. All had complied. All had done what someone had told them was their duty.

  I tossed the documents back in the briefcase and covered my face. They had brought back a vague and dormant memory from a day at the Meydenbauer Record office. There Casey had hinted something that had tormented him.

  Now I knew what. And why.

  It was what his father would have wanted of him.

  “Are you alright?” Ronnie asked cautiously.

  “I’ll live.”

  I pointed at the briefcase. “You know what this will do?”

  Ronnie nodded. “That’s why I brought it to you.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do?”

  “How do you know that?” I asked solemnly. “How do you know for sure that you’re doing the right thing? You had to be sure to do it, didn’t you?”

  “It isn’t hard to know what is right and wrong.”

  “What about when someone orders you to do something you think is wrong?”

  “Just because you have a badge doesn’t make it right.”

  “Where did you learn this?”

  “I was taught it, but I never believed it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Nobody could explain it when I asked. I was told to stop asking such questions. So I did. But I never quit thinking about it.”

  “So why did you want to become an ISA officer?”

  “I saw what the newspaper gangs did. You know they’re not innocent, either. They have blood on their hands. I thought that was wrong, too. I didn’t understand why it was, or what caused it. I’m sure you can forgive me for my ignorance.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “So why do you not sound convinced?”

  “I don’t understand why you’re so willing to leave what you know for what you don’t know.”

  He sighed. “I told you.”

  “I don’t believe you.”.

  “Then believe what you want. I decided what I’m going to do. Nothing’s going to stop me. When I make up my mind I don’t look back and I don’t hesitate. When I decided I didn’t want to live in this place anymore, I realized that however bad things are in your city, what I need is over there. I know it will be hard, but I’m ready.”

  “I hope so.”

  I went over to the counter and knocked on the door. The manager opened it and frowned at me. His weathered features accentuated his displeasure with me.

  “I’m risking everything helping you,” he said. “Why should I?”

  “For Cutman.”

  “Don’t bring him into this. He died helping you.”

  “Then you know he would want me to get away,” I replied.

  “I know he died helping you.”

  “Then go ahead and blame me. It was my fault. If I hadn’t convinced him to help me he’d still
be alive. But I didn’t force him to do it. He chose to help me. If you want to keep blaming me, fine. I’ll accept it. But this involves more than just my life. It’s about getting something out there he would have wanted published.”

  The manager sighed and placed a hand against the doorway. “My guy is working on the engine right now. It’s not horrible, but some parts have to be replaced. He’s taking the part ones out right now. Fortunately, that car of yours has a pretty basic engine. Nothing fancy about it. Whoever put it together knew their stuff.”

  “That he did.”

  The manager went into a backroom. I took out my cigarette pack and toyed with smoking one to pass the time.

  No. I’d wait until we got back. A celebratory smoke seemed more appropriate.

  The front door opened. Strangely the bell above it didn’t jingle as it should have.

  I looked back to find Casey standing tall in his spotless ISA uniform. His deputy director insignia was proudly displayed on the left side of his chest. His black boots sparkled from a flawless shine.

  He aimed the pistol at me with a bent elbow. He glanced over at the door to the maintenance bay where the mechanic worked with a drill. A particularly nasty look was directed at Ronnie.

  “I knew I would find you here,” he said.

  It was clear who he meant.

  “The car was damaged,” he went on. “There is only one place to take it.”

  “Figured that all out ahead of the pack, eh?” I remarked.

  “No one knows we’re here. I didn’t alert anyone. I didn’t want anyone else to know.”

  “How kind.”

  “This is between the two of us. It doesn’t concern them.”

  I crossed my arms and grinned. “As deputy director, you ought to know better than to let personal feelings interfere with your professional responsibilities.”

  “Then consider yourself under arrest.”

  I raised my hands. Still grinning.

  “You don’t understand,” Casey said. “I wasn’t talking to you.” He waved the pistol at Ronnie. “You’re under arrest.”

  Both of us gawked at him.

  “You’re letting me go?” I asked.

  His tone left no room for confusion.

  “In a way, yes. I’m going to end this for both of us.”

  “You can’t shoot him!” Ronnie protested.

  “I can do whatever I want!”

  “I guess so,” I replied. “I figure you’re willing to do just about anything. Isn’t that right?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you pass your Milgram test with flying colors or did you scrap by with a passing grade?”

  Casey’s hand trembled as he looked at the briefcase. His eyes grew wide and bright. He ordered Ronnie to move away from me. Snarling at Casey, Ronnie stood up and stepped to the side. His hands were clenched into fists as though to strike if the opportunity arose.

  I remained in my seat and oddly at peace with what was coming. It was a comfort to know death could only take me once.

  The door to the maintenance bay creaked. We all turned to it. The manager’s face was hidden behind a large shotgun. Its double-barrels were aimed at Casey’s head.

  “Drop it,” he said.

  Casey turned slowly towards him but before that lowered his pistol.

  “Do you have the slightest idea who I am and what I can do to you?” he asked incredulously.

  “Completely,” the manager said. “I can shoot you. Then you can’t do anything to anybody ever again. Do I get it right, or did I miss something?”

  “Fool! When my office finds out they will confiscate this place and sell it off tomorrow morning at auction!”

  “Not if they don’t find the body. Now shut up and drop the weapon.”

  Casey deliberately placed his gun on the ground. He then raised his hands and clasped them behind his head. The manager and I exchanged looks. He was resigned to what would certainly come.

  “Should I kill him?” he asked.

  I couldn’t look Casey in the eye. Nevertheless, I sensed the rage simmering in him like boiling water. He wouldn’t give up. It was best to finish it. Let be done with and over. I shook my head as I told the manager to take Casey over to the counter and keep him there until we had cleared. Everyone including Casey reacted surprised. I ran into the maintenance bay and asked the mechanic the status on the car.

  His reply was grim. Still an hour’s worth of work.

  Too long. We had to leave right away.

  Gazing out the window, I saw Casey’s nondescript, unmarked ISA car parked along the curb. I approached Casey and suddenly noticed that he didn’t have his Prizm on.

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you let him kill me?” he asked.

  “You don’t have your Prizm with you?”

  “You don’t have one, either.”

  I struck him across the face, hard. The blow left a faint red mark across his cheek.

  “We’re borrowing your vehicle,” I declared. “Either you make this easy or hard, but it’s going to happen.”

  “We don’t need his help,” Ronnie said as he approached me. “I can access the controls and bypass the automatic driver.”

  “Then do it.”

  Casey’s cold eyes stabbed at him while he ran to the car and broke in. I told the manager to keep Casey hidden and out of sight until we had made it back over to Seattle. Once there, I would have some of our Bellevue stringers come and deal with him. They’d also get the manager and his mechanic out of there.

  When I got to the car Ronnie had removed all the restrictions on the driver controls and disabled various fail-safe devices. I tossed the briefcase into the trunk and slid into the driver’s seat after telling Ronnie to move over. The electric motor was already on but I could hardly sense it as I drove onto the street.

  A close call.

  ***

  As we drove through Bellevue we kept getting stopped at the intersections. We waited for the people to move through the crosswalk as I handed Ronnie another cigarette. He smoked it without complaint and a minute later asked for another one.

  “You know Deputy Director Novak?”

  “Yeah. We went to school together.”

  “We always used to talk about him in our office. They even had a nickname for him; the Zealot.”

  I chuckled sardonically before I fell silent in grim realization. Suddenly everything made perfect sense. The officers who carried out orders with their robotic stares. The strict adherence to statues and laws.

  They were all acts of worship.

  The thousands of people arrested and imprisoned and detained and hunted and killed had been human sacrifices offered to satisfy their god.

  For so long I thought I had been fighting an idea. All that time I had been battling a religion and its followers. They were the zealots. We were the heretics.

  “What are we going to do now?” Ronnie asked.

  My first thought was to go to the nearest safe house. We’d switch vehicles, then contact the newsroom to give them an update. That was the smart move.

  Pulling into a neighborhood, I parked the car at a dead end and told Ronnie to get out. Before he did he disabled the software so the car couldn’t be driven again unless taken to one of their repair bays. Throwing the pack over my shoulder, I gestured for Ronnie to follow me as we hiked through a backyard and climbed over the fence. I tossed the briefcase over first and then followed it. Ronnie threw a perplexed look at me before climbing the fence.

  “What are we doing?” he asked.

  “We’re walking. Cars are too obvious. They’ll find it in minutes.”

  We moved through backyards before coming up a street. From there the waterfront was visible and further south was the Meydenbauer Tower, where my old news site still churned out articles under the watchful eye of the ISA. Our stringers kept me informed of the Record�
�s activities, and to my dismay little had changed there, either.

  “Where are we going?” Ronnie asked.

  “We’re heading to the old I-90 Bridge.”

  Ronnie gasped. “The bridge? But it’s unstable!”

  “It’ll hold, at least for us.”

  “But it’s miles away!”

  “No, it’s not. We’re close.”

  “Aren’t we conspicuous in these clothes?” he asked.

  “That’s why we’re changing,” I said.

  “How?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  Beyond a cluster of trees there was a large parking lot full of cars, the train station directly across from it. We avoided the security cameras installed near the parking lot. Beyond the entrance to the old interstate highway there was a large grove of firs and cedars. We came upon a patch of dead grass near the single oak stump surrounded by the fir trees. There I set the briefcase down as I got on my knees and felt around the side of the stump.

  “What are you doing?” Ronnie asked.

  “Wait.”

  Behind one of its severed roots I felt the latch and pulled it violently, then pushed against the stump. It slid on a panel out away from the ground, revealing a hole beneath the stump. I reached in and brought out a large wooden box and opened it on the grass. Inside were several pairs of vagrant clothes, shoes, and fedoras.

  I handed one of the pair of clothes to Ronnie, who gaped at me after smelling the musky stench seeping from the aged fabric.

  “You must be joking,” he said.

  “Get in ‘em.”

  I stripped down and threw off my formal wear. I slipped on the well-worn leather shoes a size too big and was forced to take the laces from my other shoes. I shuffled around and buttoned up my shirt as I watched Ronnie struggle with his new wardrobe. The smell was bad enough. The rough fabric wasn’t helping.

  I was unsympathetic. He would have to endure far worse when he got to Seattle. Far worse.

  “Hurry up,” I said.

  I shoved the crumpled fedora onto my head and pushed over it over my face.

  “How can you wear these things?” he whined. “And how did you know these were here?”