Chapter Two

'No tape recorders.'

The diner was empty. Iker Hernandez was in the corner of the room, by a large bay window, lit by red neon from outside. The establishment was unusually dim; Walker had no experience of the place with the exception of driving past a couple of times. All the same, it appeared odd: Hernandez was the only customer, there was no All-American-aproned girl to take their order. Even the shrill trumpet music in the background seemed displaced somehow. He drew closer to the red-cushioned cubicle where the shadowy figure resided.

'No tape recorders,' he repeated by way of introduction.

'Mr Hernandez, glad to meet you at this ungodly hour'. He held out a welcome hand to the man opposite as Walker sat on his side of the cubicle. Hernandez' hands, held underneath the table, moved slightly and then stopped, as though remembering something. He wore an unkempt beige puffer jacket. His Latino face looked gaunt and hollowed out, a shade of the healthy face Walker had seen in the news articles. This was Hernandez, all right, the ghost of his former self, but it was him for sure. He knew, only then, that he was not being duped.

'You British people like tea, right? I got you tea,' and he nodded at the mug in front of Walker. 'I'm sorry I'm making your journalism a stretch without a tape recorder... I can't be traced back. I don't want them finding me.'

'That's fine, I'm glad you're here all the same.' He swirled his tea for a bit.

'It was risky for me coming here tonight. Not only do the FBI not want me coming to the sweet old town of Midwesterley due to me passing out the truths of that day, but I'm practically an outcast here.' He smiled wryly. 'The molesting charges they came up with, faked. If the town saw me here I would not put it past them to get the pitchforks and rotten tomatoes out'. He laughed hollowly. It was not a pleasant sound.

'What made you decide  to see me tonight?'

'Ah, now we're getting to the nitty gritty of things, here. I keep in contact with all the Midwesterley key figures, all the people who were there on that day and knew the truth. I try and keep in contact, you see, but the higher forces that be don't want us witnesses spreading heresies, perpetuating the truth, keeping in contact. Nu-uh. Mr Jenkin's, the school's biology teacher back then, smuggled me a letter into my prison-cell. It was sent in code you see, took me a couple years to work out. But I never give up. It said this name: BEN WALKER, accompanied by his name, so I knew it were from him. Well, I didn't know the fuck that name was, this was round 2008, but eventually it clicked- the library.'

Ben Walker sighed and a took a sip of the lukewarm tea. 'You found my book in the prison library?'

'Ha, that autobiography was a hoot,' he said sardonically. 'You grovelled so bad for your high-flying career at the Times. But, man, you were bad: the way you lied-'

'I know what I've done!' Walker shouted. 'A disgraced investigative journalism who did some pretty shitty things in his time, yeah, that's the one, that's me.' He took a breath. Perhaps it was the moral judgement being passed by this bum sitting across from him that caused the sudden outburst. He pounded his finger on the table. 'I'm sorry. It's just, this book, this book about the school is going to be my redemption. Get my career back on track. I know the truth, I know what the government is hiding-'

'You don't need to talk to me about knowing truth from false! Look, as soon as I got the clue I needed to talk to you.  See, the network of people at Midwesterley that day who saw everything, that understood what really happened, we call ourselves the Candour's- wait, you must have come across that term in your journalism-'

'Yes',

'The firefighters, police, teachers, the kids-grown-up',

'I've interviewed many of them',

'Ah, but you haven't interviewed an interviewee worth his salt actually in Midwesterley, have you? Because you know the FBI, by hook or by crook, have separated the Candour's up, put them in different states, different countries even, to keep them from rebelling',

'I, too, have also come to that conclusion',

'Then, evidently, you don't believe in the Government-asserted lies, you don't believe Lee Mason had anything to do with it.' He paused, dramatically. 'You don't believe there was even a gun involved at the Midwesterley Grammar 'shootings', do you?' 

'No, I don't. I do believe it was a bloody good cover-up, though'.

They stopped talking for a moment. A sense of recognition, of kinsmanship, dwelled.  

Hernandez spoke up, and this time seemed less focused, perhaps more contemplative. 'You know, I've been looking for someone like you for a while. A voice. I spent years in that prison cell waiting for somebody to blow the whistle. But I've got to ask you, why did you pick this case? Why move out to Midwesterley? It's a dangerous place you know,' he said implicitly.

Suddenly, the pair in the diner heard the roaring on engines. Sundown diner was placed on an cross-section of roads that in the daytime would be busy, but surely not this busy at 3AM? A huge collective roar of motor engines sounded all at once and- was that a helicopter engine? The blinding overhead light that slanted through the blinds seemed to answer Walker's questioning.

'You have to leave,' stated a voice. Her head peered through a crack in the kitchen door, silhouetted by pale yellow light. The chopping sound of the helicopter reverberated the entire diner, shook them. The engine roars grew louder still. 'There were men here earlier... you have to leave now.' Iker Hernandez searched under the table, for what, Walker didn't know, and then Hernandez showed it to him. a tiny black mark in the palm of his hand. They had been bugged. They, whoever 'they' were, had heard everything.

Walker now saw them. Legions of black sedans, stretching as far back as the streetlights on all four sides of the intersection. A sleek-looking Mercedes led the inner-most cavalcade of vehicles. Walker stood up and drew back from the helicopter-light. He clasped his hand to his forehead. Hernandez was the twelfth Midwesterley Candour he had spoken to, and yet he had already started the book. Even if he was written from the records, he might needn't have required his input. But that wasn't true. Iker had promised new information, something that was worth risking life and limb for. 'What did you need to tell me?' Walker said in a quiet voice, just audible above the chopping and the engine and now the speakerphone telling them to 'Stop where you are' in a tinny voice. 'What did you need to tell me?'

Iker hadn't moved at all. He still had the hidden-mike held out in his hands, fragmented light spilling through the blinds, onto his face. He furrowed his eyebrows, searching for a means to condense what he had to say. The bay window smashed loudly and his thoughtful features suddenly emptied. His face fell forward onto the table, blood pooling around his slumped body. 'Mr Hernandez! Mr Hernandez!' Walker yelled, uncaring, reaching out to him. 

But the only voice that replied to him, with the exception of the waitresses uninhibited screams, was the monotone of the loudspeaker: 'PUT YOUR HANDS UP!'