Dire Means (37 page)

“How do you get this information?” Mark asked, his eyes locked onto the screen.

“You’ll eventually know the process intimately. For now, let’s just say our business is the acquisition of data, and we are proficient.” Morana looked at Mark as if the answer should have been obvious.

“You gather this private data from the paper you—we are paid to destroy?”

“Not in all cases, but if doing so serves a higher cause then we are in a position and under an obligation to serve that higher cause,” Morana said. “Watch more before you form your opinion.” She returned to the main menu and selected
Footage
. Three dates showed on the screen: August 12, August 17, and August 29. Morana selected the first date.

The video clip began and the bumpy footage steadied a bit, but still dipped in the rhythm of footsteps. “Keith Mendalsen did not know he was being filmed by hidden camera,” Morana said. “This enabled us to capture his true character—repeatedly.”

The person with the hidden camera approached Keith Mendalsen as he walked with another man who also wore a suit. They were crossing the courtyard of the ALCO building. Audio crackled on and then smoothed with the sound of traffic in the background.

“Spare any change for food today, sirs?”

Keith turned to the camera person. “I got a spare ass kicking if you don’t back off, bum,” Keith replied, raising his hand for the other man to swat in a high five. But the other man did not. Instead he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out some change.

“Geez, Keith, give ‘em some change and they’ll leave you alone.” He handed the cameraperson some of the change he had picked out from his open hand, keeping most of the quarters.

“You reward them for begging and they’ll never leave,” Keith said, checking his watch.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Keith’s friend said. “These guys don’t want to be out here—do you?” he turned his head toward the camera for agreement. The camera nodded.

“Thank you, sir,” the voice behind the camera said.

“Lucky my friend here has no sense,” Keith said to the camera. “If me and you were alone out here all you’d be getting from me is an ass whippin’.”

The camera backed away from the men as Keith nodded, saying, “Yeah, that’s right.”

The screen faded to black and then returned to the main menu where Morana selected
August 17
.

On the next clip, Keith appeared again, this time walking down a sidewalk, the ALCO building visible behind him. “Why don’t you give
me
some money, you scum?” he said. The cameraperson apologized and stopped moving, frozen on Keith as he looked over both shoulders to see who might be watching. He stepped toward the camera, his face reddened, and he shoved the cameraperson backward into something. The screen tilted and blinked, then went sideways against the ground for a moment before it steadied and turned to a light pole that had broken the fall. It refocused on Keith who was walking away with his middle finger displayed over his shoulder. Then the footage faded to black and the main menu reappeared.

“The cruelty of some people is unbelievable,” Mark said. He had seen people publicly shun the homeless, but he had never seen an assault from a first-person point of view, and the intensity of the encounter affected him so much his palms were sweaty.

“Pop looks for a pattern of cruelty—consistency over time—plus video footage of cruelty that validates our cause. Keith Mendalsen gave us both,” Morana said. She tossed the remote control on the table and turned to Mark. “Fodder candidates are not those who show passive indifference to those in need—although our mission cures them as well. Our best fodder candidates are proactive in their cruelty. They batter our brothers and sisters either physically or emotionally and, unfortunately, they are not only easy to find, but easy to record.”

“How many times did you record Keith?”

“We have footage of seven incidents. Three are in his official Deedlog archive.”

“How long ago did you begin recording him?”

“Four months. We had over sixty fodder candidates selected before the first one, Keith, was obtained.”

“Do you have this type of footage on all of them?”

“Pop requires no less than three taped incidents on separate days before a so-called person becomes eligible to be a fodder candidate.”

Morana gave Mark a moment before she selected
August 29
on the menu and pressed Play. The famous footage that had been shown throughout the world appeared on the screen, except that it was in full color and unedited. The ability to hear the cameraperson’s timid requests exacerbated the cruelty Keith showed.

“What sort of human being treats another human being with such cruelty?” Morana asked.

“Fodder,” Mark said, scowling at the screen.

Morana smiled like a teacher watching a student finally learn resolution to a problem that had eluded him. “Today we obtain fodder from the Pacific Grove building. This one is going to be interesting because we are obtaining our first fodder couple—together.”

Mark was getting used to the regular adrenaline rushes he got with each new bit of information he learned about the Trail Bladers’ processes. Obtaining two people at once in a city that was, essentially, in a police state seemed impossible. Morana talked of it as though the obtainment would be a walk in the park and different from the other only in that it was interesting.

“Do they have children?” Mark asked, and then realized the question revealed a concern for fodder that he probably ought not to show.

“No, they don’t. They are married, but not to each other. You’ll learn more in a few minutes. Time to prepare. Do you want something to eat before we go?” Morana asked.

“No, I’m not hungry.”

“Fine. Here we go.”

They went to a room whose door sign read, “Research.” Inside three chairs sat facing a large panel monitor. Raphael was already there. He stood and shook Mark’s hand. “Welcome, Mr. Denny.”

“Thank you,” Mark said. The last time Raphael had touched him, it was to body-slam Mark to the ground in a stairwell. Mark still resented it.

They sat at the small boardroom table and Morana began the briefing like a facilitator of a corporate seminar, complete with a large electronic chart and laser pointer to highlight the written details of the couple targeted for obtainment today.

Morana began the briefing. “Raffee and I have followed the Deedlog on this couple for some time now.” She looked at Raphael and they laughed together. “So this briefing is primarily for you, Mark. Denise Moutin and Serge Rostran work in the Pacific Grove building—a building from which we have obtained the fewest number of fodder due to our delay in mounting cameras in our third floor vestibule. We eventually installed some, and Bracks, our technology specialist, can insert stock footage of our ‘normal’ document destruction activities during time periods when we are performing an obtainment. If the police confiscate security footage, we control what they see—complete with any footage superimposed with any time stamp we need.”

Mark recognized Bracks’s name as the man who harassed Cody into providing access to the cameras that Mark had installed.

Morana clicked the flipchart remote, revealing photos of Denise and Serge. “Now to the double obtainment,” she said. “They are both married, but not to each other. Denise is Serge’s administrative assistant. Serge is a workaholic who, for the last two years, regularly worked alone until late into the night. Within a few months of hiring Denise, Serge’s late-night work became play—for them both.

We targeted Serge for research since he was easily isolated while leaving his office alone at night. Placing an actor in his path outside his building was easy, and he proved to be ideal fodder by his treatment of our actor.” Morana waved the remote control toward the screen and launched a clip showing Serge flipping off the camera-toting actor and spitting toward him. “Over a series of weeks, Serge’s behavior consisted of much more abuse any time he was approached by the actor. In fact, his behavior epitomizes homeless abuse. Denise, his mistress, is no different. She used a plethora of standard clichés that she barked at the homeless: ‘Get a job,’—and my favorite, ‘If I give it to you, you’ll only spend it on alcohol’—as if the spare change she withholds somehow rehabilitates each alcoholic she denies it to.”

Morana’s face became cold and she clenched her teeth. She pressed the remote to stop the clip and took a big breath. “We control all the elevators in the Pacific Grove building,” she continued. “Denise and Serge began their affair within their suite, but soon their encounters expanded to include more daring locations like the stairwell, their parked cars in the garage, and the occasional rendezvous in a janitor’s closet. Lately they’ve begun to enjoy long elevator rides, which should make this obtainment one of our easiest. Last week they stopped our main elevator twice during business hours for what you might call ‘emergency service’.”

Raphael laughed as Morana began the footage showing the interior of en elevator with a partially-clad man and woman on the floor, the woman’s skirt hiked up and her legs wrapped around the man’s waist. Fingers combed through each other’s hair and their hands groped one another.

“They don’t waste any time,” Morana said, “but watch what happens when our man, Bracks, overrides the elevator’s emergency stop and sends it up a floor.”

Denise and Serge froze, their heads turned to the elevator control panel. Serge jumped off Denise and hopped about the elevator, trying to re-insert his exposed leg back into his pants. Denise pulled herself up by grabbing the elevator handrail and pulled her skirt down. She adjusted her waist belt, buttoned three buttons of her blouse, and finger-combed her hair into place all within ten seconds.

After they removed all visual signs of their attempted quickie, they leaned to one another for a gentle kiss—a last daring act before the doors opened. When their lips drew apart, they laughed. Denise covered a smile with her hand and Serge put his hands into his pockets and whistled a tune while looking up at the elevator’s floor display. They were ready for the door to open now, and were proud of their successful risk management.

Morana stopped the tape. “I don’t think Serge and Denise’s spouses would find our footage funny.”

“Will you send it to their spouses?” Mark asked.

“No. That would be cruel since, after today, their spouses will have no opportunity to confront Denise and Serge on the matter. The adultery isn’t our focus. The cruelty shown by Denise and Serge to their fellow man is what earned them a vacation in our resort. Because of their egregious behavior toward our brothers and sisters, we will obtain them today.” Morana spoke in an almost rehearsed way.

“The Pacific Grove Team is already waiting so we need to get going,” Morana said. “If things go well, our lovebirds will get their usual urge for some elevator passion somewhere around 10:00 a.m.”

Mark shuddered at the thought of participating in his first abduction. It repulsed him. He focused on the knowledge he would gain. If only the living people the Trail Bladers had captured could hang on for a short while longer, perhaps he could manage a way to end Pop’s terrorism. The more Morana taught him, the closer he’d come to finding a crack in the Trail Bladers’ armor.

§

Their armored truck pulled to a stop at the Santa Monica entry checkpoint and the rear doors swung open. Mark was hidden, tucked in the secret bay under the floorboards. Two officers peered into the back. One pulled a flashlight from his hip belt and aimed it into each corner of the truck bed. Morana and Raphael greeted the men with a wave and thanked them for the terrific job they were doing. “If all residents traveled in locked trucks like ours, wouldn’t that frustrate this madman?” Morana said.

“Yes, ma’am. Is your company going to supply enough armored trucks to transport everyone?”

“We’d love to,” Morana laughed.

“Okay, let’s close ‘em up,” the other officer said. “And we remind you to please report any suspicious activity that you see while in the city. You folks have a good day.”

As the truck grumbled away from the checkpoint, Raphael opened the bay and helped Mark out, pulling him up to his feet with an easy yank of his powerful arm.

At the Pacific Grove, the truck swung a wide circle and backed toward a covered freight dock. Previous trucks had chipped away rough hunks of concrete from the edge of the dock. The freight dock was darkened by its enclosure and protected on top and all four sides by wire fencing.

The truck’s rear bumped the dock and the engine cut off. Morana and Raphael stood and went to the back of the truck. Raphael consoled from the inside and the driver opened the doors. After Morana and Raphael checked the area for possible witnesses, they motioned for Mark to exit the truck. He ran to the open freight elevator that was held open by another uniformed Trail Blader. Morana followed.

“Before we get to our floor, I want to show you something,” Morana said. She pressed a button labeled Roof Access. When the doors opened, they stepped out onto the roof to a spectacular view of the city and ocean.

Morana said, “We do some surveillance here.” She pointed to an odd, makeshift aperture within several stacks of bricks on the roof’s ledge. To one side was a storage locker with its doors opened wide. It contained some boxes, a pair of binoculars hanging on its wall, and several long, zipped canvas bags.