The Vaults - By Toby Ball Page 0,42
from nerves.
“That’s right.”
“Christ, it’s cold tonight.”
Frings didn’t know what to say to this. Bernal fumbled in his coat pocket for something and produced a silver cigarette case at the moment Frings realized he could very well be pulling a gun. Bernal held the case open to Frings, who took a cigarette, then Bernal lit both. The flame illuminated Bernal’s face, and even in the orange glow it was pale and perspiring. The authority that he had emanated that afternoon was gone, his hunched body enough for Frings to know he was terrified.
A minute passed in silence, then another. Bernal did not seem ready to begin the conversation, and Frings knew enough not to force the issue. Finally, Bernal coughed into a gloved fist and Frings took that as a cue.
“What are we here to talk about?”
“Corruption in the mayor’s office.”
Frings barked a laugh despite himself. “Thanks for the tip.”
“You don’t understand,” Bernal said wearily, “this is different.”
Everybody always thought that his information was different, and Frings’s experience was that it rarely was. Still, Bernal was taking a big risk being here. “I’m listening.”
Bernal sighed. “Not tonight.”
If he had not been high, Frings would have been angry. But in his current state it merely seemed odd that Bernal would take this risk in order to tell him nothing. “Why are we here then?”
“I do want to tell you things. If all goes well, I’ll tell you more later. But I need to know that I can talk to you. That you’re safe. For me to be sure, you’re going to have to find the information on your own. I’ll point you in the right direction, but you’ve got to find it for yourself. I can help you understand it once you’ve found it. This way, there is no trail back to me.”
“Okay.”
“First, so I know I can trust you and you’re as capable as I believe you are, I’ll point you towards a story. You find it, come back to me, and then we move forward.”
“Why should I take the time?” Frings asked, surveying the silhouette of the hill above them, but finding no observers.
“Because this is worse than you think. You don’t know what has happened—what is happening. The Birthday Party Massacre, the move on the Whites, the Navajo Project, hospitals that are really prisons, the disappearance of whole families. These are all of a whole.” Bernal spoke quietly but with an intensity that startled Frings.
“I don’t know what—”
“You’re right. You’re right. You don’t know. Nobody knows. That’s why I’ve come to you. You can expose the truth.”
It was all melodramatic, but Frings could see that this was Bernal’s personality. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”
“Otto Samuelson. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“This I’ll tell you. He murdered someone in 1928. Find him, talk to him, and then come back to me. I’ll be expecting a piece of information. You have it for me, we’ll begin to dig further.”
“Okay. I find Otto Samuelson, get his story, then what, I contact you?”
“In your column, I’ll look for the words golden age. When I see those words, I’ll meet you here the next night at this same time.”
Frings nodded. He’d received this request—a code phrase in his column—from others in the past. It seemed overly complicated. He did not want to scare Bernal off, however, so he acquiesced. With the meeting over, he extended his hand. Bernal looked at it, then at Frings. Frings thought he saw a sad smile on Bernal’s face.
“Why are you doing this?” Frings asked.
“Because there will be trouble when the mayor’s arrangements fall apart, and I want to know when that will happen, as it must. I don’t want to die, Mr. Frings, and people will die before this ends.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
A uniformed officer met Puskis just inside the front door of Headquarters and escorted him down a flight of stairs into the basement. Puskis was aware of officers glancing at him as he walked by. He had not experienced this before, though he attributed it to his heightened awareness rather than any increased interest in him. He was noticing things that he had not previously. That night he had been disturbed by footsteps on the stairs outside his door. Again he had felt fear. He was becoming accustomed to it. The footsteps had continued up to the next floor, and a door had opened as the man who lived directly above him received a guest. Puskis had awoken in the night to the sound