The Informant (34 page)
Shapiro rubbed his face, then sighed heavily. “We all need to get some rest,” he said. “But before anybody moves, let me tell you where
I
think we are. Victoria, we need you to get Posten to give us the name of his source, assuming he knows. It’s obvious that Hannon is after the informant he used on that story.”
“David, I don’t think Posten is being cute with us. He told me he doesn’t know, and I believe him.”
“Why?”
“Because of the relationship we’ve developed, for one thing. But the main thing is that he didn’t just shut me out and say, sorry, I can’t tell you anything. He seemed to tell me everything he knew about this informant.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Enough for me to reach the same conclusion he did: Whoever she is, she’s not likely to reveal herself to anyone, ever—not under any circumstances.”
“Why is that?”
She grimaced, struggling for the right way to say it.
“Sometimes when you deal with a confidential source, 336
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a perfect stranger, they become very forthcoming, very trusting. I’ve seen that with some of my own informants.
Anyway, Mike and his informant had a very brief phone conversation, just long enough for her to give him Hannon’s description. She had a sock or something over the receiver, disguising her voice. He tried to get her to tell him who she was, but she wouldn’t. He passed her information on to the police and figured that was the end of it. But a few months later, he heard from her again.
They developed some kind of dialogue—still anonymous.
I don’t know the details, but it got to the point where she was totally open. Too open for her own good.”
Shapiro arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean she was totally open?”
“She confessed something very private about herself.
The kind of thing that, in my opinion, would make it impossible for a woman to ever admit she was his informant.”
“What did she say?”
Victoria hesitated, then looked Shapiro in the eye. “She told him she’d killed a man.”
337
a
t ten after eight Karen put on her robe and walked into the living room. The reading light was still on, just a glowing globe in a room already bright with streams of morning sunlight. Mike was asleep on the couch, with his head on one armrest and his feet hanging over the other. His shoes were off, but he was still wearing his shirt and blue jeans. Obviously, sleep had crept up on him.
Karen hadn’t slept much last night. She’d lain awake, wondering about a lot of things. She’d wondered, in particular, whether to invite him to bed. She missed the time they used to spend holding each other, talking in the dark. They might not have made the whole world right, but for a brief, safe moment, it would at least be irrelevant.
She stood over him and watched him sleep. She’d seen him like this before, more in a state of exhaustion than rest. He’d always been the type to put work ahead of sleep. He’d run for days on pure adrenaline, chasing 338
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down some story. Eventually, his body would shut down and scream “Enough!” When that happened, he could sleep through Mardi Gras.
She sat on the edge of the coffee table, then leaned over and stroked his head. She smiled as he stirred. Then she stopped suddenly. A weathered page of handwritten notes at the top of the stack of papers on the floor caught her eye. She recognized Mike’s handwriting marking it CONFIDENTIAL.
The date in the margin said it was twelve years old.
She looked at Mike. Still asleep. Discreetly, she picked it up.
His eyes blinked open just as she started reading. She quickly hid the notes behind her back, as if she’d been caught snooping.
“Morning,” he said with a disoriented smile. He propped himself up on one elbow.
She smiled and tossed her hair nervously. One hand was still behind her back. “Morning. I was just, uh…”
“Watching me sleep?”
She smiled sweetly, but her anxiety showed. “Yeah.
That’s all.”
He smirked. He could read her face. “What’s behind your back?”
She sighed and rolled her eyes, slowly producing the letter. “I
really
was just watching you sleep. It just caught my eye, okay?”
He stretched and sat up on the couch. He smiled at first, then turned serious. “It’s okay. Those are just some notes I jotted down after my last conversation with—you know, the informant from back then.”
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Karen looked away for a moment, then glanced back.
“You kept the notes all these years?”
“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “I guess when somebody really opens to you…Well, it didn’t seem right to throw them away.”
She nodded, seeming to understand.
He sat up and faced her. “I only talked to her twice.
The first time she told me about Hannon. Very brief. I didn’t hear from her for another eight months, the day they picked the jury in Hannon’s trial. She was an absolute wreck.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was still trying to disguise her voice, and on top of that she was sobbing and breaking into tears. At times I could hardly understand what she was saying. But I understood what she was going through.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. She was terrified Hannon would go free because she wasn’t testifying at trial. She felt like she was turning her back on the woman he’d raped by not having the courage to do everything she possibly could to help convict him. I think she just wanted me or
someone
to understand why she was afraid to go to the police, why she couldn’t come forward and testify at trial. Why she had to be anonymous.”
“Is that something you could understand?”
“Sure. I told her that on the phone. We talked for a while, I really don’t remember how long. Naturally, I was pretty surprised by what she said. But I think it was cathartic for her to tell me, get it off her chest. Then that was the end of it. I never heard from her again.”
“Did you ever try to find her?”
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“I was confused about that. I wasn’t sure it was ethical for a reporter to search out someone who wanted to be anonymous. I spoke to Aaron Fields. He wanted me to pursue it. He thought maybe there’d be a story there.”
Her eyes clouded. “So this woman poured her heart out, and the only thing that crossed your mind was maybe there’d be another story?”
He looked her straight in the eye. For a split second he thought of that recent morning in his publisher’s dark blue Mercedes, with Aaron telling him they were exactly alike. “No,” he said in all sincerity. “That was Aaron. I’m not like that.”
He scooted to the edge of the couch, leaned forward and took her hand. “Remember when we were in Maine, and you told me, ‘The only people who can be truly open with each other are lovers and strangers’? That’s so true.
This woman was a total stranger, but she told me secrets she’d never told anyone before. She was in a lot of pain, and she had to tell
someone
what was inside her. And you know what? It felt…right. It seemed completely natural that
I
was the one she told. Who else could she turn to? I was the only one who knew her dilemma.”
Karen grimaced, then lowered her eyes. “So this woman told you everything. But your wife keeps secrets.”
He tried to smile, but it was a painful one. “I don’t fault you for that. For all I know, this women was married. I may know things about her that even her husband doesn’t know.”
“Maybe,” she said as she squeezed his hand. “But maybe it’s time my husband knew mine.”
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He didn’t move. Their eyes locked for what seemed a very long time, and then she began. For ten astonishing minutes, he just listened. Her body shook as she told him, but she told him everything. The curtains blowing in the open window. The brutal beating in the hallway. The unspeakable acts in the bedroom. And finally, the struggle for the gun and the shot that rang out.
Saying it aloud made the final moments more vivid.
She could see herself crawling on hands and knees across the floor, drawing closer to her rapist. His splattered blood covered her naked body. A gaping wound glistened like a crimson rose through his T-shirt. She touched his arm, and he groaned, causing her to start. She squeezed the gun in her hand. It felt so
big.
A sucking, gurgling sound came from his mouth. Still on her knees, she slid closer to him, then raised the gun with shaking hands, pointing it at his head. Then, once again, he spoke.
“Help me,” he said.
Her arms shook, her whole body trembled.
Mike watched in rapt silence as she told her story. She seemed almost in a trance.
“Help me,” she said, repeating the man’s words.
There was a long pause. Mike sighed, not sure whether she wanted to continue—whether she
should
continue.
“What did you do?” he asked.
She bit her lip, and her face swelled, as if something inside were about to burst. “It wasn’t self-defense,” she said flatly. “It was revenge.”
He blinked hard, trying not to judge. “Anyone would understand what you did.”
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Her voice was shaking. “No. Anybody would have understood if I’d just fired a second shot in the heat of the moment, out of fear or confusion or even anger.”
“That’s not what you did?”
“No.
No!
I listened to him plead. He begged me to call an ambulance. He begged me to give him the phone, to let him call. But I wouldn’t let him. Something inside me wouldn’t let him. Don’t you understand? All I could think about was what he’d done to me. I wanted him to suffer.
I told him I’d shoot him if he so much as twitched a finger. I just sat there and watched him die.”
“Lots of women would have done exactly what you did. He raped you, beat you bloody. Who’s to say he wouldn’t have killed you?”
“He did kill me,” she said in a hollow voice. “Right before he died.”
He paused, then asked, “What did he do?”
She swallowed hard and hugged him as tears filled her eyes. Her chin rested on his shoulder as she spoke, as if she could only look past him, not at him. Her shaky voice cracked with emotion. “He looked at me and said, ‘Please, lady. Don’t let me die. I’m only fifteen years old.’”
Mike didn’t move, couldn’t move. Her whole body shook violently in his arms. He fought back his own tears, feeling her pain. He held her close, with all his strength, then brushed her wet cheek. “It’s okay. Everything will be all right.” He spoke softly, shutting his eyes tightly.
Then his eyes blinked open, as the full weight of her words sunk in. He remembered that painful telephone 343
THE INFORMANT
conversation twelve years ago. The woman with the disguised voice who’d seen Frank Hannon. The woman who’d called to explain through tears why she couldn’t come forward to testify against him. The woman who’d confessed to having killed her own rapist.
The informant.
“It’s okay,” he said with a lump in his throat. “I’m very protective of my sources.”
344
t
he luxury cruise ship MS
Fantasy
sailed from the Port of San Juan at 10:00 A.M., bound for Miami. Gray-white smoke curled from the stacks into a cloudless blue sky. Foghorns bellowed as legions of smiling tourists clad in straw hats and sunglasses waved from crowded decks on five different levels. In the harbor below, brown-skinned men treading crystal-clear waters waved back eagerly, diving for the pocket change the passengers deigned to throw. In thirty minutes, the big white ship was gliding out to sea.
The
Fantasy
boasted eleven different onboard bars and lounges. The Tiki Bar was a shaded outdoor bar on the Pool Deck, done in a Tahitian bamboo and palm tree decor. Seated on a stool at the end of the bar was a calm and collected Frank Hannon, comfortably disguised in full tourist regalia.
Hannon knew Antigua was a member of Interpol. He wasn’t sure what kind of international manhunt they’d mounted, but he was taking the necessary 345
THE INFORMANT
precautions. His alias was now Keith Ellers, taken from the sailor he’d fed to the sharks. Big mirrored sunglasses and a broad straw hat covered most of his face. Purple zinc oxide distorted his nose. Rubber sandals, Bermuda shorts and a loud Hawaiian print shirt completed the ensemble, with a frothy piña colada in a hollowed-out coconut shell for good measure. Even with his height, people would mistake him for Norton on
The Honeymoon-ers
before they’d spot Frank Hannon the serial killer or Eric Venters the bank robber.
Hannon had debated whether to fly or sail back to the United States. With the captain’s credit card, he could have afforded either. Flying was faster, but he knew immigration was tighter at the airports. Seaports were no-toriously lax border-control points.
Hannon glanced toward the women sunbathing at the pool. A shapely young brunette smearing lotion on her thighs caught his attention. The television was playing behind the bar, and he whirled around quickly at the sound of his name.
Flashing on the screen was a grainy color photograph of a blond-haired man with blue eyes and a well-groomed beard that hid most of his face. Hannon recognized it as his old mug shot.
“According to exclusive CNN sources,” said the anchor-woman, “all of Hannon’s alleged victims were passengers on the cruise ship
Peninsular II,
which sailed twelve years ago on a three-day cruise from Miami to Nassau on April sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth. Reportedly, the FBI is now secretly making contact with all passengers and crew from that specific three-day cruise, for their own safety.
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“In addition to the ten so-called tongue murders, CNN
sources reveal that police are also investigating Hannon’s possible connection to the robbery of an Atlanta woman in which the perpetrator mutilated the victim’s hand.
“You’re watching
Headline News
on CNN. More news in a minute.”
Hannon stared blankly at the screen as the news broke for a commercial. He sipped his piña colada, deep in thought.
