Webster City



  WEBSTER CITY

  by

  PETER MENADUE

  Almost any sect, cult, or religion will legislate its creed into law if it acquires the political power to do so. – Robert A. Heinlein

  Copyright 2016 Peter Menadue

  Cover illustration: copyright Michael Mucci at michaelmucci.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mark Conrad, captain of the Section 11 fire station, was widely reputed to be a loyal citizen of Webster City. However, the Internal Security Bureau received an anonymous tip-off that he worked for the Freedom Alliance and recently assassinated an army colonel.

  Such tip-offs usually led nowhere. They came from disgruntled employees, jilted lovers or envious friends. But the ISB had to check them out. So, on a gray Tuesday afternoon with the wind whipping off Lake Michigan, Major Carl Davidson and Captain Tony Delray drove to the drab ten-story apartment building where Conrad lived.

  Davidson knocked on the front door and waited twenty seconds until a muscular guy in his early forties, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, opened it. When citizens saw the black uniforms of the ISB, they usually went pale. This guy was no different.

  "Fire Captain Mark Conrad?"

  "Y-yes."

  "I'm Major Davidson and this is Captain Delray, from the ISB."

  "I see that. How can I help?"

  "Can we enter?"

  "Yes, umm, of course."

  They walked down a short hallway into a neat and tidy living room. Glass doors led to a balcony. Through them, Davidson glimpsed Lake Michigan.

  "Umm, how can I help?"

  Davidson nailed Conrad with a stare. "We've been told you work for the Freedom Alliance."

  Conrad's lower lip quivered. "Garbage - absolute garbage. I'm a loyal citizen. Who told you that?"

  "You don't need to know. Can I search your apartment?"

  "Umm, do you have a warrant?"

  "I don't need a warrant," Davidson said truthfully.

  "Well, of course - I've got nothing to hide."

  "Good."

  Davidson turned to Delray. "Stay here with Captain Conrad while I look around."

  Delray looked unhappy about being left to guard the suspect, but nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "Good."

  Davidson entered the kitchen and slowly looked through the cupboards, searching for evidence Conrad worked for the Freedom Alliance. He tapped all the walls for a false compartment and found none.

  Next, he strolled into the bedroom and searched through the wardrobe and chest of drawers, before looking under the bed. Nothing. He tapped his way along the skirting board until he reached a point where it sounded hollow. The board felt loose. He yanked it away to find a small cavity with two objects wrapped in plastic and a photograph of a man he didn't know. He sat on the bed and slowly unfurled the plastic to reveal a high-power two-way radio and .357 Smith & Wesson pistol. Was this pistol used to assassinate the army colonel? It didn't really matter. Ordinary citizens weren't allowed to own either item. They were clear evidence Conrad belonged to the Freedom Alliance.

  At one time, Davidson enjoyed catching subversives. He felt like he'd won a game. However, the human cost had started to depress him. He would have to take Conrad down to the ISB Headquarters and hand him over to the Interrogation Unit. If Conrad survived their brutal treatment, he would be executed or end his days working in a prison factory. A terrible waste.

  Davidson sighed, picked up the two objects and the photograph, and strolled back into the living room. Conrad sat on the sofa and Delray on an armchair opposite.

  Conrad's saw the objects in Davidson's hands and immediately knew he had only a left-over life, soaked in pain and misery. His eyes gleamed as he reached down behind the couch cushion, pulled out a hidden pistol, rose to his feet and fired at Davidson.

  Davidson had dropped what he was holding and was reaching for his pistol when the bullet buzzed over his shoulder and slammed into the wall behind him. Then he had his pistol out and fired twice. Both bullets hit Conrad in the chest and knocked him over backward onto the couch. Conrad's arm jerked back and threw his pistol against the wall.

  Davidson glanced over at Delray, still rising to his feet and trying to drag out his pistol. "Don't bother."

  "Shit."

  Davidson's heart pounded as he went over to Conrad. The two big red blotches near the middle of his chest said he must be dead. Davidson waved a hand over his open eyes. Not a flicker. Definitely gone.

  He felt a surge of anger at Conrad for trying to kill him and Delray for giving him the chance. He scowled at Delray. "You were supposed to keep an eye on him. Why don't you pay attention?"

  Delray's handsome features rarely betrayed self-doubt and didn't now. "I did pay attention."

  "Really? You should have checked the couch before he sat down and stayed alert. You did neither."

  "I'm not perfect."

  "No kidding."

  Davidson wondered if Conrad always kept the pistol hidden in the couch, or he somehow found out two ISB officers were about to knock on his door. He stepped out onto the balcony and looked over the railing. All ISB officers drove a distinctive black Cadillac. He saw his in the carpark below. Maybe Conrad saw them arrive.

  He stepped back into the living room, tension leaking from his system. "Alright, you'd better call the morgue and get them to send a clean-up crew."

  "OK. Are we going to search the rest of the apartment?"

  Davidson was desperate to get out of there. "No, you are. Order some help if necessary. I'm going back to headquarters."

  Davidson was about to leave when he noticed the photograph he found in the cavity, and dropped during the shootout, now lay beside the couch. He picked it up and looked at a photograph of a handsome man in his fifties, wearing a dark suit, holding a glass of wine and smiling at the camera. The guy seemed to be at a social reception of some sort. His identity was still a mystery.

  Davidson showed the photo to Delray. "Got any idea who this guy is?"

  A big shrug. "Nope - zero."

  "Alright, you're in charge." Davidson tucked the photograph inside his tunic and headed for the door.