Praise for the Henry Parker novels of

THE STOLEN

"A captivating and complex protagonist, one whose pithy

observations about New York are dead-on. Pinter's chunky

plot, rapid pacing and credible dialogue do the rest."

-- Publishers Weekly

"This thriller proves truly scary

as it explores every parent's worst nightmare."

-- Library Journal

"[An] exciting whodunit... Fans will appreciate this

entertaining suspense thriller with the right touch of

sexual tension to augment a fine read."

-- Midwest Book Review

THE GUILTY

"[A] suspenseful and shocking tale."

-- Library Journal

"A captivating and thought-provoking read and thoroughly

enjoyable. One of the great new voices in the genre."

-- CrimeSpree magazine

"[A] fresh tale with original characters...

Pinter knows what he's doing."

-- South Florida Sun-Sentinel

"A fabulous thriller...

will prove to be one of the best of the year."

-- Midwest Book Review

"Well-executed gritty action..."

-- Lincoln Journal-Star

THE MARK

"Pinter's a wizard at punching out page-turning action,

and the voice of his headstrong protagonist is sure to win

readers over; his wild ride should thrill any suspense junky."

-- Publishers Weekly

"From the opening sentence to the exhilarating conclusion,

Pinter's debut thriller gets the reader's heart racing."

-- Library Journal [starred review]

"An excellent debut.

You are going to love Henry Parker, and you're going to hope

he survives the story, but you're not going to bet on it."

--Lee Child

"[Pinter] dares to take the traditional thriller

in bold new directions."

--Tess Gerritsen

"A harrowing journey--chilling, compelling, disquieting."

--Steve Berry

"A stunning debut by a major new talent!"

--James Rollins

"It's 'Front Page' meets 'The Sopranos'

with a little Scorsese thrown in."

--Jeffery Deaver

"A top-notch debut... Fast-paced, gritty and often raw,

The Mark is a tale you won't soon forget."

--Michael Palmer

"A gripping page-turner you won't be able to stop reading."

--James Patterson

(r)

To Joe Veltre and Linda McFall

For yesterday, today and tomorrow. Thank you.

Beware the fury of a patient man.

--John Dryden

1

At nine in the morning, the offices of the New York

Gazette are quiet. Reporters read the morning papers,

prepare to call their sources and blink off hangovers

over steaming cups of coffee. Today, however, it was a

different kind of quiet. The kind of quiet where

everyone seems to be waiting for the roof to cave in, or

the floor to suddenly give way and fall out from under

you.

Every morning I would swipe my ID card, wave

hello to the security guards who'd gradually warmed to

me over the years and wait for the elevator with lots of

other people who also looked like they'd rather still be

in bed. I would exit the elevators at the twelfth floor,

passing the receptionist, always too busy to acknowl

edge staffers, and walk to my desk. The offices of the

New York Gazette towered over Rockefeller Center,

giving me a panoramic view of one of the busiest streets

in the city. Yet when I navigated the mess of chairs and

debris and entered the cubicle farm on this day, I noticed

the other journalists who shared my row were nowhere

to be seen. There were no faces hunched far too close

8

Jason Pinter

to computer screens, no whispered chats about the ump

teenth death knell sounded for our industry. No report

ers haggling over verb usage and tense like it was a

matter of life or death. It seemed every day across our

industry there were more layoffs, more cutbacks, more

reasons to fear the end. And it had been drilled repeat

edly into us by our corporate overlords and the media

that if the sickle wasn't already lancing the air above

our heads, it was in the midst of being lowered into

place.

I couldn't worry about that. Still a few years shy of

thirty, it had been my lifelong ambition to work at a pre

stigious, thriving newspaper. And while one could

debate whether the Gazette was thriving, in my short

time here I'd had the chance to work alongside some of

the greats, including my idol, Jack O'Donnell.

I'd also been wanted for murder and targeted by a

deranged serial killer. Hey, who doesn't complain about

their job sometimes?

Externally, you might think I looked the same. Inter

nally, though, I was a different man. A man learns who

he is when his life, innocence and freedom are chal

lenged. I was stronger than I ever knew I could be, but

deep down I wished I hadn't needed to find that out.

When I navigated the maze of empty desks to arrive

at mine, I put my coffee and muffin on the desk, sat

down and debated whether to ignore the silence or see

what was causing the sound vacuum. I reached for the

plastic tab on my coffee, but immediately thought twice.

To ignore the strange stillness of the office would have

gone against every bone in my body, and probably trig

gered some sort of spontaneous combustion. Curiosity

The Fury

9

not only killed the cat, but made my breakfast grow

cold. So I stood back up and took a lap around the news

floor to see what the hell was going on.

I didn't have to go far.

A group of half a dozen reporters were huddled

around the desk of Evelyn Waterstone, the Gazette's

Metro editor. They were talking under their breaths,

worried looks in their eyes. I wondered if there were

going to be layoffs. If some of my colleagues--perhaps

even myself--would be out of a job. That Evelyn's desk

had seemingly replaced the watercooler as center of

office scoop was itself noteworthy. Evelyn stayed as far

away from gossip as those who gossiped stayed away

from her. Whatever happened had to be big enough to

pique her interest. I walked up casually, inserting myself

into the conversation through proximity alone.

Evelyn Waterstone was a short, squat woman whose

haircut resembled a well-manicured putting green--

only this particular green was gray with age--and

whose broad shoulders would have been a welcome

addition to most offensive lines. She was a discipli

narian in the gentlest sense of the word. It took several

years for her to warm up to me, but when my work ethic

and the quality of my reporting became clear, Evelyn

began to grudgingly show me a modicum of respect.

Still, I don't think you'd ever see the two of us tossing

back a couple of longnecks after hours. I made an effort

never to stop by her desk unless I had a specific

question, and Evelyn never stormed by mine unless I'd

made some terrible grammatical mistake that, to

Evelyn, was only slightly worse of an offense than

treason.

10

Jason Pinter

"Morning, Parker," Evelyn said. She held a black

thermos between her fleshy hands, and took a long,

drawn-out sip. "Another beautiful day at your friendly

local newspaper." She sniffed the air. "Glad to see

you've begun showering regularly again."

"Morning, Evelyn," I said, nodded to the other re

porters, who offered the same.

"You hear about Rourke?" she said. I hadn't, and

told her so. She raised her arms dramatically as if re

counting some heroic tale. "This paper's most contro

versial sportswriter--who incidentally once told a

linebacker he would 'whup his ass like a donkey'--got

mugged yesterday on his way home from the office.

Well, I shouldn't say mugged, because the guy didn't

take any money, but Frank ended up getting the donkey

side of the whupping."

"Really?" I said, incredulous. "Rourke?" I had no

love lost for Frank Rourke, considering the man had

once left a bag of excrement on my desk--but the man's

swagger seemed to come from years of always being the

one guy who was able to leave the fight on his own two

feet.

"Seems some hothead took umbrage to Frank's

calling the Yankees 'the most poorly run organization

since FEMA.' Some disgruntled asshat from the Bronx.

Anyway, this guy waits outside of the office until Frank

leaves. Then he yells, 'Yo, Rourke!' Frank turns his

head, and gets a sockful of quarters up against the side

of his temple."

"That's terrible, is he okay?"

"Concussion, he'll be fine. Police arrested the fan,

I'm just hoping he might have damaged the area of

The Fury

11

Frank's brain that makes him such an asshole. Maybe

he'll have one of those Regarding Henry kind of

epiphanies and come back a better man."

"That's probably too much to expect."

"We can dream, Parker. We can dream."

As we chatted, I noticed another group of reporters

huddled together in the hallway looking like they'd just

been told management had decided to restructure by

throwing them out the twelfth floor windows. The group

shifted nervously, whispering amongst themselves.

Never wanting to be the last one in the know, I ap

proached, said, "I thought Frank was going to be fine,

what gives?"

Jonas Levinson, the Gazette's science editor, said,

"Frank is the least of our concerns. Though, as a matter

of fact, something has died this morning. Something to

be mourned as long as we're employed by this godfor

saken newspaper. As of today, good taste, my friend, has

kicked the bucket."

I stared at Jonas, waiting for some kind of an expla

nation. Levinson was a tall man, balding, who wore a

different bow tie to the office every day. He very seldom

exaggerated his feelings, so at Jonas's remark a flock

of butterflies began to flutter around in my stomach.

"I'm not following you," I said to Jonas. "Good

taste? Jonas, care to explain?"

"Just follow the eyes, Parker," Jonas said. "Follow

the eyes."

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but then

I realized what he was saying. The eyes of every

member of our group were focused on two individuals

making their way across the Gazette's floor. They were

12

Jason Pinter

stopping at every desk, popping into each office for a

few moments. It looks like some sort of introduction

ritual was taking place.

Immediately this struck me as odd. I'd never met

another employee during a walkaround, and had not

received one myself. The fact that this one person was

being given the grand tour made it clear he was

someone the brass wanted to coddle.

One of the two men I recognized immediately as

Wallace Langston, editor in chief. Wallace was in his

midfifties, lean with a neatly trimmed beard. His brown

hair was flecked with gray, and he had the slightly bent

posture of a man who'd spent the majority of his years

hunched over a keyboard. Wallace had been a staunch

supporter of mine in the years I'd been employed by the

paper, and even though now more than ever he was

feeling the crunch of his corporate masters insisting on

higher profit margins, he knew what it took to print

good news. If not my idol, he was a good, loyal mentor.

"Is he," I said, "introducing someone around the

office?"

"That is precisely what it looks like," Jonas replied.

Evelyn walked up and said, "I never met a damn

person until my first staff meeting. I got as much of an

introduction as my stove has to a cooking pot."

"Me, neither," I said. When I started at the Gazette,

I didn't know anybody other than Jack O'Donnell. Jack

was my boyhood idol, the man most aspiring reporters

dreamt of becoming. He and I had grown close over the

last few years, but recently he'd lost his battle with the

bottle and left the Gazette. I hadn't spoken to him in a

few months. I'd tried his home, his cell phone, even

The Fury

13

walked by his Clinton apartment a few times, but never

got a hold of the man. It was clear Jack needed some

time alone with his demons.

Ironically the first reporter I'd met was a woman

named Paulina Cole. We worked next to each other

when I first started at the Gazette. Soon she left for a

job at the rival Dispatch, where through a combination

of balls, brass and more balls she'd become one of the

most talked-about writers in the city. Paulina was cold,

calculating, ruthless and, worst of all, damn smart. She

knew what people wanted to read--namely, anything

where if you squeezed a page, dirt or juice came out--

and gave it to them. She was part of the reason Jack had

left the Gazette. She'd managed to pay off numerous

people in order to discover the extent of Jack's drinking

habits, and then ran a front-page article (with unflatter

ing pictures) depicting Jack as the second coming of

Tara Reid. Saying there was no love lost between us was

like saying there was no love lost between east and

west coast rappers.

Wallace was still too far away for us to make out just

who he was introducing around the office, but I got the

feeling he would prefer if he didn't have to do it en

masse.

"I'm going back to my desk," I said. "Jonas, if you

see good taste anywhere, I'll get the paddles and we'll

resuscitate the bastard."

"Thank you for the offer, Henry, but I do believe

it's too late."

I walked back to my desk, trying not to think about

what this could mean. Since Jack left, the Gazette had

been on a hiring freeze. We were in a war with the

14

Jason Pinter

Dispatch over circulation rates, advertising dollars and

stories, and our expenses were taking a toll. If Harvey

Hillerman, the president and owner of the Gazette, had

hired a new reporter, he or she had to be important

enough to cause a stir. Not to mention someone who

would be approved of by the other reporters whose pay

raises had been nixed last holiday season.

I sat down and continued working on a story I'd been

following up on for several weeks, about the homeless

population of New York. According to the New York

City Department of Homeless Services, there were over

thirty-five thousand homeless individuals living within

the city's borders. Including over nine thousand

families. That number had increased by fifteen percent

in the last five years.

I was about to pick up the phone, when I heard the

sound of footsteps approach and then stop by my desk.

I looked up to Wallace Langston. And his mystery hire.

"Henry Parker," Wallace said, hand outstretched,

"meet Tony Valentine."

Tony Valentine was six foot three, looked to be a

hundred and eighty svelte pounds and had the smile of

a cruise-ship director. His hair was bleached blond, and

his teeth glistened. His tan was clearly sprayed on, as I

noticed when he extended his hand to shake mine that

his palms were a much paler shade. He wore a designer

suit, and wore it well. A red pocket square was neatly

tucked into his suit jacket. The initials T.V. were em

broidered in white script on the cloth.

As he offered his hand, I noticed his sleeves were

held together by two gold cuff links. Also mono

grammed with T.V.

The Fury

15

Clearly this man did not want his name to be for

gotten.

"Henry Parker," Valentine said, gushing insincere

admiration. "It's just a pleasure to finally meet you. I've

been following your career ever since that nasty

business of your murder accusation. All those guns and

bullets, and now here I am, working with you. Sir, it is

an honor. "

While I pried the goop from my brain, I shook Valen

tine's hand, then looked at Wallace. The name Tony

Valentine did sound familiar, but I couldn't quite place

it...

"Tony is our new gossip reporter," Wallace said en

thusiastically. "We were able to pluck him from Us

Weekly. Today is his first day."

"And not a day too soon," Tony said, pressing the

back of his hand against his forehead, as though diag

nosing a strange malady. "As much as I admire your

paper--and Wallace, please don't think otherwise--it

was lacking a certain pizzazz. A certain panache, if you

will. A certain sexiness."

"Let me guess," I said. "You're here to bring sexy

back."

Tony pursed his lips and smiled. "You're a clever

one, Henry. I'm going to have to keep my eye on you.

So, guess what my new column is going to be called?"

"Do I have to?"

"You most certainly do." Tony waited a moment,

then blurted out, "'Valentine's Day.' Isn't that a riot?"

"Better than the ones in L.A."

"True, true. By the way, Wallace told me you covered

the Athena Paradis murder a while back. Is that so?"

"You heard right," I said. Athena Paradis was a pro

16

Jason Pinter

fessional celebrity/diva who was gunned down outside

a nightclub where she was performing tracks off her

upcoming album. I investigated the murder, and nearly

lost my life in the process.

"Let me tell you, the day that girl died, it was like

the day I learned Diana had been killed. Athena was just

one more reason for me to get up in the morning. I

don't think I slept for a week after that. I can't imagine

how you must have felt."

"Sure," I said. "Lost tons of sleep."

"No doubt," Tony said. "Listen, Henry, it's been a

pretty pleasure. We'll have to go out for a dirty martini

one of these nights. I want to hear all about what you're

working on. Okay?"

"I'll be checking my calendar right away," I said.

"Terrific. Wallace, on with the show?"

As Tony and Wallace walked away, I saw Wallace

turn back to me. There was a remorseful look in his eye.

Immediately I knew Tony's hire was at the behest of

Harvey Hillerman. Gossip was a commodity in this

town. I knew it; I'd been the subject of it. For the most

part, the Gazette had kept its beak clean, relegating

society and gossip stories to the weekend Leisure

section. Now we would all be fighting tooth and nail to

compete for page-one space with Mr. Tony Valentine. I

wondered how much an embroidered pocket square

cost.

After a long day I left the Gazette thoroughly ex

hausted. I checked my cell phone, found one voice mail

waiting. It was from Amanda. We'd been seeing each

other steadily over the last few months, trying to start

The Fury

17

over on a relationship that broke from the gate too fast.

I didn't want to screw things up this time, so I was more

than happy to take it slow. Dinner and movies, walks

through Central Park. I sent flowers to her office, she

sent me meatball subs for lunch. It was harmony.

As I put the phone to my ear to listen to the message,

I heard a strange voice say, "Henry Parker?"

I turned to see a man approaching me. He was dirty

and disheveled, wearing rags that looked about to fall

off his deathly skinny frame. A black briefcase was

slung over his shoulder. He carried it like it either

weighed fifty pounds, or he was just barely strong

enough to hold it to begin with. His eyes were blood

shot, fingernails dirty. His eyes glowed wide from

sunken-in sockets--a skeleton with a pulse. Despite

his haggard appearance he looked to be young, in his

early thirties. I'd never seen the man before in my life,

yet for some reason he looked oddly familiar.

"The city's gonna burn," he rasped. "I need to talk

to you."

"You can send any press inquiries through the

switchboard," I said, picking up my pace.

"Are you," he said, the words coming out through

yellowed teeth, "Henry Parker?"

I started to walk faster. I had no idea how this man

knew my name, but from the looks of him I certainly

didn't want to find out. The image of Frank Rourke--

a pretty strong and belligerent man to begin with--

being beaten by a crazed reader with a homemade

weapon crossed my mind. In my few years at the

Gazette I'd received plenty of mail from readers. Mostly

positive from people who enjoyed my stories, but still

18

Jason Pinter

plenty from people who thought I was either a hack or

still remembered all the unwanted attention I'd received

a few years ago when I was thought to have killed a

police officer.

It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in

minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe

indefinitely.

"I am," I said, offering my card. He looked at it, just

stared at me with those sunken eyes. I turned to walk

away, speeding up as I headed through Rockefeller

Plaza. I turned back. The man began to walk faster, too.

The rubber on his sneakers was falling apart, and the

gray overcoat he wore was tattered and soiled.

"Please, Henry, I need to talk to you. Oh God, it's

important. You don't know what's going on. You don't

know what's going on. Never seen anything like it."

Suddenly he closed his eyes and retched, a cough

threading beads of phlegm through his gaunt fingers.

"Call the Gazette tomorrow," I said. I gave him the

switchboard number. He didn't seem to care. I walked

faster, a slow trot, but my heart began to race when I

saw that the man was matching my pace.

"Henry," he said, his eyes now terrified. "We need

to talk! I'm begging you, man!"

"Sorry, don't have time," I said. I picked up the pace,

broke into a run and crossed the street just as the light

was turning red. As I reached the other side I looked

back. The man was about to race through the oncoming

traffic, but then apparently thought better of it.

Our eyes met for one moment. His were pleading,

scared, and for a moment I debated crossing back over

to see what he wanted. Then I saw him reach into his

The Fury

19

pocket, put something to his nose and take a quick snort.

That was all I needed to see.

I turned around and headed toward the subway. If he

really needed to reach me, he could call. I'd been

through enough over the last few years to know there

were some things you needed to turn your back on.

2

I arrived home half an hour later. I left Amanda a

message. We had plans to have dinner and catch a movie

tomorrow night, and I wanted to order tickets in

advance. New York prices being what they were,

between service charges, snacks and tickets themselves,

you practically had to win the lottery to afford them. A

few months ago Amanda had received a nice year-end

bonus, and Wallace Langston had told me to expect a

promotion in the near future. Both of our salaries had

crept higher over the last few years, and we'd begun to

think more about where we wanted to be. This apart

ment had served its purpose, but I wanted more space.

We weren't living together, but she would spend

three or four nights a week here and then crash in her

friend Darcy Lapore's guest room the rest of the time.

The number of nights spent next to each other had

begun to creep up over the last few weeks. It was still

early and we were still healing from recent wounds. Re

gardless, our relationship had grown more serious and

I started to think about where our future was headed.

At some point we'd have to have one of those talks.

The Fury

21

Where you each share your hopes and dreams. The

"where do you see yourself in five years" part of the job

interview, only for a position you wanted the rest of

your life. Tonight, Amanda was crashing with Darcy. I

figured I'd eat dinner, pop in a movie and veg out.

Nights like that were sorely underrated.

I peeled off my clothes, stepped into a hot shower.

The day seemed to rinse right off me. I thought about

that man who'd confronted me, how there was a look

of genuine terror in his eyes. I began to regret turning

from him. And hoped he actually did call the next day.

When I got out of the shower, I threw on a pair of

shorts and a T-shirt. I was six foot one depending on the

shoes, a hundred and ninety pounds of lean, mean, vendor

hot dog-eating machine. My brown hair was getting a

little longer, and I made a mental note to stop by Quik

Cuts tomorrow during lunch. I warmed up a plate of

leftover chicken masala Amanda had cooked over the

weekend. In my place, leftovers were made to last.

I sat down and began to eat, washing the food down

with a glass of iced tea. I splayed a few newspapers in

front of me and read while I did. The Gazette's pages

looked naked without the familiar byline of Jack

O'Donnell. I hoped wherever he was, he was getting the

treatment he needed.

Dinner was a long affair. I made the pasta last, and

made the newspapers last. I gorged myself on every

word, fascinated at just how many stories there were

within this small teeming city.

When I finished, I was getting up to put my dishes

in the sink when the phone rang. I picked it up. Didn't

recognize the caller ID.

22

Jason Pinter

I clicked Send and said, "This is Parker." I'd strug

gled with my greeting for a long time. Since this was

my work phone as well as personal, saying hello felt too

casual. As did "Henry." I considered, "Parker, Henry

Parker," but Amanda threw a dirty sock at me the first

time I tried it. "Parker" sounded nice, succinct.

"Is this Henry Parker?" the voice on the other end

said.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Henry, I'm Detective Makhoulian with the NYPD.

Are you busy right now?"

I looked at my watch. It was nearly ten o'clock. What

the hell did the cops want with me at this hour? I wasn't

working on any stories that had NYPD involvement,

and I didn't speak to any cops on a regular basis with

the exception of my friend Curt Sheffield.

"Detective, it's pretty late and I just got home from

work. What's this about?"

"I apologize for the hour, but I was hoping you could

answer a few questions."

Not wanting to appear defensive, I said, "Question

away."

"Does a man fitting this description sound familiar?

About six-two, thin as a bone. Brown hair, hazel eyes,

the look of a serious drug problem, among other issues,

much of which involve hygiene. That ring a bell?"

I felt my pulse quicken. "Actually, a man fitting that

description was waiting for me outside my office when

I left work tonight. I didn't really speak to him. A col

league of mine was recently assaulted by a disgruntled

reader, and from the look of this guy he wasn't much

of a conversationalist."

The Fury

23

"Interesting," Makhoulian said. And he genuinely

sounded interested. "Listen, Mr. Parker, I need you to

come down to the county medical examiner's office

tonight. You know where it is?"

"Thirtieth and first. I've been there before. I'm a

reporter with the Gazette, I've spoken with the medical

examiner. Leon Binks still works there, right?"

"Yes, he does. And I know who you are, Mr. Parker.

This has nothing to do with any previous involvement

you may have had with the NYPD." He didn't need to

say it, but I could tell Makhoulian was speaking about

Joe Mauser and John Fredrickson, the two cops who

were involved in my being hunted across the country

for a murder I didn't commit. "I'm going to need you

to meet me at the M.E.'s office in one hour. Will that be

a problem?"

"No, but I would still like to know what all this is

about. Like I said, tonight was the first time I ever saw

this guy. If my night is being interrupted, please have

the decency to tell me why."

"This man I'm speaking of, he was found two hours

ago in an apartment in Alphabet City, dead from two

gunshot wounds to the head. We have reason to believe

you were the last person to see him alive."

"Okay," I said, my stomach beginning to turn. Dead?

What exactly had that guy wanted to talk to me about?

While the last thing I wanted was to get tied up in

the murder of some junkie, I felt some sense of

remorse. "Listen, Detective, no disrespect, but this guy

probably saw one of my stories and figured a reporter

might be more inclined to listen to him than a cop.

Maybe he just wanted attention. And now he's dead,

24

Jason Pinter

and while it really is a shame, I don't know what I can

offer to help the investigation."

There was silence on the other end. Then Makhou

lian said, "This man's name was Stephen Gaines. Does

sound familiar?"

"No, sir, it doesn't."

"That's very interesting." I was beginning to worry.

Why was that interesting? "I'm still going to need you

to meet me at the M.E.'s office. One hour," Makhoulian

said, "because according to his birth certificate and

medical records, Stephen Gaines was your brother."

3

There are times in your life when you walk forward

despite knowing that something unexpected, even dan

gerous, lies just around the corner. This allows you to

steel yourself; to prepare for it. You go over the different

permutations in your mind, positive and negative,

weighing how each might impact you. Then when the

blow comes, you're able to soften it a bit. Retaliate if nec

essary.

When Detective Makhoulian said those five words--

Stephen Gaines was your brother--they hit me,

knocked the wind out of me. I had no time to prepare,

no time to soften the blow.

At first I didn't believe it. Or I didn't want to. But

I'd heard the name Makhoulian before. I'd spent enough

time with cops, mainly my buddy Curt Sheffield, that

it rang with a modicum of familiarity. If Curt men

tioned him, that was a good sign. The man spoke ear

nestly, a minimum of sympathy. Like a cop.

Sitting in the back of a taxi, I tried to wrap my head

around it. I'd never heard of a Stephen Gaines before.

The last name did not sound familiar. Gaines.

26

Jason Pinter

On the street earlier, Gaines looked older than me by

four or five years. Of course, considering how strung

out he looked, it could have swayed a few years in

either direction. But if he was older, it meant he was

gone from my life long before I was aware of his exis

tence. I had too many questions to ask, and unfortu

nately Leon and Detective Makhoulian wouldn't be

able to answer them. At least not all of them.

I stepped out at the corner of Thirtieth and First in

Manhattan's Kips Bay. The medical examiner's office

had a facade of light blue, the stone dirty, as if the

building refused to modernize. It was a block away

from Bellevue Hospital, one of the more notorious

medical centers in the city. Prisoners from Riker's

Island, as well as criminals from New York's central

booking requiring medical attention, were among the

most frequent guests. And if you happened to be in the

emergency room late at night, you'd be in the company

of numerous men in orange jumpsuits and chains,

armed police at the ready. Just a few blocks away were

a coffee shop, a bookstore and a multiplex movie

theater. Scary to think that while you were busy

munching on popcorn, evil lingered so close by, cloaked

in formaldehyde.

I approached the entrance tentatively. Who was I

going to ID? I'd never met this man before last night,

and now I was expected to point him out, feel some

deep-down emotion like I'd known him my whole life?

I'd never bonded with this person. Never done things

most brothers did. Never played catch. Snuck a drink

from Dad's liquor cabinet. Never smuggled dirty maga

zines under our covers, or smoked cigarettes until our

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27

lungs burned. I was identifying a stranger, yet expected

to act like he was my blood. Impossible.

Pushing the door open, I went up to the receptionist.

He was wearing a white lab coat, and didn't look a day

over twenty-five. I figured he was some sort of medical

intern, manning the phones while studying for his

exams.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked. His name tag read

Nelson, Mark. He chewed on a pen while he waited

for my answer.

"I'm here to see Binky...er Dr. Binks," I corrected.

No sense ruining the illusion that Binks was a sane and

respected member of the medical profession.

"And you are..."

"Henry Parker," I said, taking my driver's license

from my wallet. "I'm here to identify Stephen Gaines."

The name felt foreign on my tongue, yet Nelson's eyes

melted with sympathy. He looked down at his desk,

pursed his lips.

"Right," he said. "I'm sorry for your loss."

I didn't bother to point out Nelson's faux pas. That

it was a little premature to console someone for their

loss before they'd actually identified the body. Or that

I felt no loss at all. How could I? Nevertheless, I told

him I appreciated it. He asked me to have a seat while

he paged Dr. Binks.

I took a seat on a light blue couch. It was hard. There

was a small table in front of me. No reading material.

This wasn't your typical waiting room. If you were

here, I supposed not even Golf Digest could take your

mind off of what lurked below.

After several minutes, I heard the ding of an elevator

28

Jason Pinter

and out strode Leon Binks. Binks was in his late thirties,

graying hair matted against his brow. His eyebrows

were as messy as his hair, a collection of short pipe

cleaners bent every which way. The medical examiner

was perpetually disheveled, as though he cared no more

about his appearance than those corpses he worked on

would. His hands always seemed to be moving, offering

gestures that his dialogue (and lack of social skills) pre

sumably could not. I imagined that if, like Leon Binks,

my whole life was spent amongst the dead, I might

have some personality idiosyncrasies as well.

"Mr. Parker," Binks said, approaching me with his

hand outstretched. I went to meet him, and he shook it

vigorously. An awful smell wafted off of Binks, iodine

perhaps. I didn't want to ask, but I hoped he showered

before attending any dinner parties. "Thanks so much

for coming. Detective Makhoulian is downstairs

already." Then Binky's eyes lowered, and he said, "I'm

sorry for your loss."

I sighed, thanked him. "Can I see the body?"

"Oh, of course," Binks said. "Follow me."

Binks led me into a gray metal elevator. He took a

key chain from his pocket, inserted it into a slit next to

the sole button. Once turned, he pressed the button, and

the doors opened. Once inside, he pressed a button

marked M. For Morgue. The doors closed, and we

traveled in silence, down several flights. Finally the

elevator stopped and the door slid open.

Whatever odor had been stuck to Binks was even

stronger down here.

Outside of the elevator, the hallway divided into two

separate pathways. A plaque mounted on the wall had

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29

arrows pointing in either direction. To the left, the arrow

read, Morgue. To the right, the arrow read, Viewing

Room.

Binks began walking toward the right.

I followed behind him as he opened a door and led

me into a small room. A man was waiting for us inside.

He was about five-eight and built stocky and muscular,

like one of those NFL linebackers who had trouble

seeing over the center but could deliver a hit like

nobody's business. His skin was dark, a neat goatee, and

he wore a dark gray suit. He looked at me as we entered.

"Detective?" I said.

"Detective Sevag Makhoulian," he said. He ap

proached and shook my hand. "For short, people call me

Sevi."

"Makhoulian...what background does that name

come from?" I asked stalling for time.

"It's Armenian," he answered patiently.

"Were you born here?"

"I was born in Yerevan, my parents emigrated here

when I was very young." His accent was noticeable but

not thick, and his suit was as American as they came.

"Gotcha, don't mean to pry."

"I know it's your job to do just that, Mr. Parker. I do

appreciate your coming down here on such short notice.

And I must say I enjoy your work. Insightful, not to

mention how nice it is to see a young man achieving

success based on something other than setting fire to

hotel rooms. It's a shame we had to meet under these

circumstances. Curtis Sheffield speaks very highly of

you."

"How's Curt doing?" I asked.

30

Jason Pinter

"Aside from the bullet in his leg? He's just peachy."

Makhoulian said this with a slight smile. Last year Curt

had taken a shot that nicked his femoral artery while

looking for a family that we believed had abducted a

child. He'd been assigned to desk duty since then, and

I was lucky to have remained on his good side. Though

he hated being off the streets, I think he secretly liked

the attention from the opposite sex. Nothing sexier than

a guy who took a bullet for a good cause. "Anyway, I'm

sorry for your loss, Henry."

"It's not really my loss," I said. "The first and only

time I met Stephen Gaines was a few hours ago."

"Well then," Makhoulian said, "if his death isn't your

loss, whose is it?"

"Someone else's," I replied. "Just not mine."

"Somebody cared for this guy," Binks interjected. We

both stared at him. The M.E. was right. Yet as much I

tried to, I still didn't know what to think about every

thing.

The viewing room resembled a typical examining

room, if all the machines and instruments had been

removed. The only thing remaining was a long metal

table. The table was covered by a sheet. Underneath the

sheet was a body, about six feet long. Most likely be

longing to a man named Stephen Gaines. A man who

was presumably my brother.

"Before we begin," Binks said, "be warned that

there's been extensive damage to the cranium."

"Extensive?" I said, looking at Makhoulian.

"That's right," he said. "From the damage, we can

gather that the muzzle of the murder weapon was held

less than a foot from the back of his head, a 9 mm fired

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31

at near point-blank range. The apartment we found him

in wasn't a pretty sight."

"From the wounds," I said.

"Not just that," Makhoulian said. "We found...how

can I put this simply... paraphernalia. Pipes, needles.

You name the drug, it looked like Gaines was on it."

I took a deep breath, said, "How old is...was he?"

"Turned thirty a month ago," Makhoulian said. Four

years older than me, I thought. Still a young man.

"He's cleaned up the best we could, but..." Binks

said, his voice trailing off. He knew from the look on

my face that this was best done quickly, with minimal

cushioning. "Anyway, here he is."

Binks leaned over the body, took two folds of cloth

between his hands and gently pulled the cover back until

it stopped just below the corpse's neck. From there I

could see the victim's head. Or at least what was left of

it.

Stephen Gaines was lying on the table faceup. A half

dollar-size hole was blown out of his forehead. I could

see the man's skull and brain, both shredded from the

bullet's impact. His eyes were closed, thankfully.

When that cover came down, I felt like everything

in my body dried up. My insides felt like a black hole,

my heart, lungs, my blood, all of it drained away.

"That's him," I said. "The man I saw on the street."

"This is your brother?" Binks said, eyes raised,

curious more than sympathetic.

"According to the detective here," I said.

Binks nodded, his mouth still open, as though ex

pecting me to relate just how this felt. The truth was I

wasn't sure yet. I'd seen enough corpses, visited enough

32

Jason Pinter

morgues to have been able to distance myself for the

most part from the realities of death. A reporter could

go crazy letting each individual horror pile up upon

their psyche. Like a doctor, you couldn't think of blood

as blood, but more a by-product of your work.

"Where'd you say he was found?" I asked.

"Apartment near Tompkins Square Park," the detec

tive said. "Odd place for someone with your brother's

seemingly...limited means to be these days. Twenty

years ago, maybe. But now? That's the heart of Stuy

Town. All young families and old folks."

I nodded, trying unsuccessfully to process this while

staring at the body.

"That's the exit wound we're looking at," Binks said.

"The bullet entered just below the back of the right

parietal bone and exited through the forehead with a

slightly upward trajectory."

Makhoulian took over. "The first entrance wound,

combined with what we know about Mr. Gaines,

suggests that his killer was right-handed and slightly

shorter than him."

I listened to this. "Wait," I said, looking at Makhou

lian. "You said 'first' entrance wound."

Makhoulian eyed Binks. Then he turned back to me.

Binks said, "There was a second entrance wound. It

went right through the occipital bone in the back of

Gaines's skull. That bullet was still lodged in his head

when Gaines was brought here."

"I thought you said he was shot point-blank," I said.

"How can you shoot someone in the head twice from

point-blank range?"

"Only the first wound was delivered from close

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33

range," Binks said, his voice growing softer. His fingers

traced the path of a bullet as he showed where the first

bullet entered Gaines's skull. "The second was delivered

from about four feet away. From a downward trajec

tory."

Binks raised his arm with his forefinger and thumb

cocked like a gun. He pointed it at the floor to demon

strate the likely scenario. He continued, "There were no

muzzle burn or gases expelled from the second shot.

Despite the brain matter, the wound itself is oddly

clean."

"What does that mean?" I said.

"Well," Binks said, scratching his nose with a gloved

hand. "The impact and the trauma suggest the initial

shot was fired from very close range. The brain matter

and impact site..."

"Impact what?" I said.

"It's where the bullet impacts after exiting the body,"

Makhoulian said. "In this case, ballistics found the first

bullet in the wall about six feet off the ground. But they

didn't find the bullet itself."

"So the killer took it," I said.

Makhoulian nodded.

Binks continued. "The entry wound is nearly devoid

of gases or burn marks. Considering the devastation

and the impact site, it has all the marks of a point-blank

shooting. See, normally when a bullet is fired, espe

cially from close range, the wound will leave burn

marks on the flesh, which is literally seared from the

heat. In this case, the burn marks were nearly unde

tectable."

"Why?" I asked.

34

Jason Pinter

"My guess?" Binks said. "The killer was using a

silenced weapon. Now, very few guns have those kind

of professional silencers you see in movies, that screw

on like a lightbulb. Usually they're homemade, a length

of aluminum tubing filled with steel wool or fiberglass."

"Forensics is checking for both," Makhoulian added.

"It's not just professionals who use them. Some

hunters use silencers out of season. Even guys in their

backyards shooting beer bottles who don't want their

neighbors to hear. Of course, there's a chance the killer

simply did it the old-fashioned way," Binks said, "and

covered the muzzle with a pillow. The killer didn't need

to be an expert in weaponry. In fact, there's a reason you

see that in the movies. It's not going to dampen the noise

completely, but as a quick fix--"

"Please," I interrupted, pleading to either man.

"Explain to me what the hell all this means."

Makhoulian said, "It means whoever killed your

brother shot him once in the back of the head with a

silenced weapon. Then while he was lying on the

ground, dying, the killer shot him one more time to

finish the job. Your brother wasn't just killed, Henry. He

was executed."

4

I followed Detective Sevi Makhoulian out of the

examiner's office. An unmarked Crown Victoria sat

outside, and Makhoulian approached it. He leaned up

against the door. He took a white handkerchief from his

jacket pocket and wiped his forehead. I stood there

watching him, unsure of what to do. What the next step

was.

"You still haven't told me why you're so convinced

Stephen Gaines is my brother. And even if he is, why

did you call me? " I asked. "I barely spoke two words

to Gaines in the entire thirty seconds I knew him. So

again, why me?"

"You weren't our first choice, Henry," Makhoulian

said, pocketing the cloth. "The first person we called

was James Parker, your father. And Stephen's father."

"Wait," I said. "We had the same father?"

The detective nodded with no emotion. "You thought

you were related through osmosis?"

I hadn't had much time to really think about every

thing, to consider what all this meant, but if Makhou

lian was right and Gaines was my brother, we had to

36

Jason Pinter

share a parent. And I could never picture my mother

holding on to that kind of secret. There was no way she

could keep that from me.

My father was another story.

From the first time I could think clearly, I recognized

my father was the kind of man, who, if not your blood,

you would go out of your way not to know.

Even as a younger man, he was mean, belittling,

nasty, vicious. Violent.

That man was fifty-five now. In the last twenty years

he'd never held a steady job. Never made enough money

to move out of the house I grew up in, never desired to

give my mother anything more than he had when they

married. If anything, he took much of it away.

He preferred swinging from branch to branch on the

employment tree, always looking for a vocation where

the bosses didn't mind if you showed up late, left early

to drink, and showed no ambition to rise above foot

soldier. Comfort was given highest priority. When I

began to write first for my school paper, then took

various internships before taking a paid job with the

Bend Bulletin, James Parker approached it like I was up

setting the gods of apathy. And hence upsetting his life.

The harder I worked, the more work came home with

me. My editors and sources would call at all hours of

the night, and because this was before cell phones were

more common than pennies, they would call my

family's landline.

I remember sitting at my desk, the phone resting

inches from my hand while I wrote, my eye always

flickering to the headset, waiting to pick it up the mil

lisecond it rang. The system wasn't foolproof, but it's

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37

the best I could come up with. The trick was to simply

be the first to answer the phone when it rang. The

moment that shrill bell rang, the phone was in my

hands. "Henry Parker," I would say, hoping if the call

was for me, my father would simply leave it alone.

Every now and then I was slow, distracted or in the

shower, and he'd pick up. It meant I had to deal with

hang-ups from sources who were scared off by unrec

ognized voices on the other end. And if, heaven forbid,

someone called during dinner, I could count on James

Parker locking me in the garage. If I was lucky. And if

I wasn't--I had a scar or two to motivate me to quicken

my reaction times.

My mother, Eve Parker, was withdrawn. I hate to say

aloof because that wasn't it, but it seemed as though

she'd been shell-shocked by her husband into a per

petual state of submission. She rarely flinched, just went

through the motions like an automaton who forgot that

at one point she was human. I wondered what she had

been like before she'd met James. If she'd been strong

or vivacious. If she'd hoped to marry the man of her

dreams. Or if somewhere, deep down, she was resigned

to a life married to this thing that called himself a man.

If anything, though, I had to credit James Parker

with making me stronger. He made me work harder,

longer, better, if only to give myself every chance of

getting the hell away from that house. When I was

growing up, I wasn't strong enough, mentally or physi

cally, to stand up to him. Now, I was twice the man he

ever was. And I considered him lucky that his son left

before he could stand up to him the way that he

deserved.

38

Jason Pinter

"Wait," I said to Makhoulian. "If Stephen Gaines

and I had the same father...who's Stephen's mother?"

Makhoulian nodded, as though expecting this

question to be asked sooner or later.

"According to the birth certificate, her name is

Helen Gaines."

"I've never heard that name before," I said. "Where

is she?"

"Actually, I was hoping you could tell me," the de

tective said. "All we know about Helen Gaines is that

she was born in Bend, Oregon, in 1960. Her financial

records show that she closed out her bank accounts in

Oregon in 1980, and moved. Where, we don't know."

"So if she was born in 1960, and Stephen Gaines was

thirty, that means he was born in, what, 1979?"

"March twenty-sixth," Makhoulian replied.

"Then Helen Gaines was only nineteen when she

gave birth to Stephen."

"That's right."

"And my father was...twenty-six. I know he married

my mother when he was twenty-five. Jesus Christ, my

father's mistress gave birth to his child while he was

married to my mother."

Makhoulian stood there silent. I don't know what he

could have said. I rubbed my temples, still trying to

process everything. I still hadn't spoken to Amanda all

day. I felt like crawling into her arms, just sleeping for

a while, hoping this would all have been some dream

when my eyes finally opened.

"Have you contacted my father yet?" I asked.

"We've left several messages for him and your

mother at home. None of them have been returned."

The Fury

39

"Not totally surprising," I said.

"Is your father prone to ignoring calls from the

police?" Makhoulian asked.

"He's prone to ignoring any calls that aren't either

Ed McMahon with a giant check or someone offering

him a free longneck."

Makhoulian let out a small laugh, not wanting to

distort the gravity of the situation too much. "What

about your mother?"

"I think he purposely bought an answering machine

she wouldn't know how to use. Let's just say last I

heard, she didn't get many calls, didn't return many

calls."

The detective nodded. "Listen, if you do hear from

your father, tell him to call me." Makhoulian took a card

from his wallet, handed it to me. I looked it over, put it

in my pocket.

"I promise you I won't hear from him."

"But if you do..."

"If I do, I'll make sure he calls."

"That's all I ask."

"In return," I said, "will you keep me in the loop? Let

me know if you have any suspects, how the investiga

tion is going. If you catch the bastard."

"Far as it doesn't interfere with the investigation, sure.

I'll keep you informed. Again, I'm sorry for your loss."

I shook Makhoulian's hand, then watched as he

climbed into the Crown Vic and drove off. Once he was

gone, I trudged to the subway, took it back uptown to

my apartment. When I got out I called Wallace

Langston at the Gazette. Nobody picked up, so I left a

message on his voice mail.

40

Jason Pinter

"Wallace, it's Henry. Listen, I don't know how to say

this...a man who was apparently my brother was shot

and killed last night. His name is Stephen Gaines. I

don't know much else, but I had to let you know. I'll give

you a call when I know more but...I thought you should

know in case anyone calls for comment. Anyway, call

me back."

I hung up. Thought about it. I knew the Gazette

would run a piece on the murder. Even though crime

was down in the city, murders still got ink. It wouldn't

be a long article. As of right now there was no suspect.

There was no conspiracy. Gaines was a junkie, likely

killed over whatever drug fiends were killed over.

Stolen stashes. Territory beefs. He wasn't famous,

wasn't some rich guy's son. Nobody knew him. Not

even his family.

It would get a paragraph, two at most. I wouldn't

write it. And unless there were future developments, my

brother's death would be just another junkie murder in

a city where you'd need a landfill for all his brethren.

Stephen Gaines's death was just as short and seem

ingly unremarkable as his life.

I entered my apartment to find Amanda sitting on the

couch. She was reading a sports magazine, but didn't

seem that interested in it. Her eyes perked up when I

entered, then narrowed when she saw that mine did not.

I took a seat on the couch next to her.

Amanda and I had met several years ago. When I was

wanted for murder, she was the only person brave

enough to help me. She trusted me despite all common

sense saying she shouldn't. I fell for her right away. It

was easy. I'm a sucker for a beautiful woman with crisp,

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41

auburn hair, a smile that will make you stop in your

tracks, wit that will keep you laughing all night and a

perfectly placed mole by her collarbone that you could

trace every night with your finger. Hypothetically.

But despite all that, I nearly lost it all. I had pushed

her away, and it wasn't until I spent time without her

that I realized just how much I'd lost. She knew that

because of the kind of person I was, the kind of job I

had, she might be put in harm's way. As long as we

faced obstacles together, she'd said, there was nothing

we couldn't overcome. Since we'd reconciled, the last

few months had been wonderful. We started our rela

tionship going backward, in a way. We went out to

dinners. We saw movies. I sent her flowers at work, she

gave the best neck massages this side of the Golden

Door Spa.

Once we restarted our relationship, I made two

promises to her. First, I would tell her everything. Even

the hardest things, she would be allowed to judge and

decide for herself. And second, every decision would

be a joint one. I would never again make a decision

about our relationship on my own. That was a hardlearned lesson. One I should have known right away.

So sitting there next to her, I knew she had a right

to know about what Detective Makhoulian told me

about Stephen Gaines. And she had a right to know

about my father.

So I told her. Everything. I told her about seeing

Gaines on the street. About the call from Detective Sevi

Makhoulian. That Gaines had been murdered, viciously.

And that my father had sired Stephen when his mother,

Helen, was just nineteen. I still couldn't wrap my mind

42

Jason Pinter

around the idea that Gaines was my brother. Certain

things you can be told and accept as gospel. This was

not one of them.

When I finished, we both sat there. Amanda looked

stunned, unsure of what to say. Putting myself in her

shoes, I'd be lost for words as well. Finally she got up,

went into the kitchen. I heard a few clanking noises,

turned to see what was going on, but the door frame

blocked my view.

Amanda came out carrying two plastic cups, and a

bottle of red wine. She sat the bottle down on the coffee

table, peeled off the foil and uncorked it. She did so

without a problem. She then poured two generous

glasses, handed one to me.

"I thought we might need this," she said.

"It's amazing how you can read my mind even if I'm

not thinking something."

She took a healthy sip, and I did the same. Then I sat,

twirling the cup in my hand.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. I shook my

head.

"I don't know what I can do," I replied. "It's a police

investigation. As far as the Gazette, they'll cover it, but

nothing more than standard murder reporting unless

something else breaks that gives the story legs."

"Do you feel," she said hesitantly, "I don't know...

sad?"

I thought about that. "I don't think sad's the right

word."

"So what is?"

"Angry," I replied. "Mad. Pissed off. I want to know

why I've lived nearly three decades without knowing any

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43

of this. If this is true, how could my father not have told

me? I mean I know he's a bastard, but this is a life he

chose to ignore. And I want to know why Stephen

Gaines, after all this time, came to me for help. He'd

lived thirty years without Henry Parker as his brother,

and all of a sudden he decides to have a family gather

ing outside my office one night? I don't buy that for a

second."

"You didn't know about him," Amanda said. "Do

you think he knew about you?"

"I honestly don't know. He knew about me right

before he died. I don't know when he learned. If Helen

Gaines told him about his family, or kept him in the dark

like my parents did with me. I wish I knew."

"So find out," Amanda said. "At least that much is

in your hands."

"What do you mean?"

"You know where your parents live. Where your

father lives. Go ask him. Make him tell you the truth."

I stood up, paced the room. "I don't know if I can do

that. I haven't seen him in almost ten years. Bend isn't

really my home anymore. I don't know if it ever was."

"Your heart might be here, but the truth is there," she

said. "Today's Thursday. I can call in sick tomorrow."

"Why would you do that?"

"To go with you," she answered. "We're going to find

out how much your father knows."

5

We woke at five in the morning having purchased

plane tickets online the night before. We threw a few

days' worth of clothing into a suitcase, then caught a cab

to La Guardia. The minute the cab pulled away I

realized I forgot my toothbrush.

Living in New York had become increasingly diffi

cult over the last few years. After some time when it

looked like Manhattan would be the only city unaf

fected by the subprime crisis, real-estate prices came

tumbling down. Of course, we were renting, and there

fore unaffected, and inflation was still rising faster than

a hot-air balloon. My salary at the Gazette had barely

seen a bump in my tenure, and working at the Legal Aid

Society, a not-for-profit organization, Amanda wasn't

exactly rolling in dough. At some point we would have

to make a decision about our future. Where to live,

where we could afford to live.

I didn't want to leave the city, but I also wanted to

think long-term. Many reporters commuted. Yet the

fantasy of living in New York City always captivated

me. It was one of the motivating factors that led me to

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45

the Gazette. And the possibility of working in the big

city, seeing things I couldn't see anywhere else in the

world, was one of the motivators that kept me going

when I could barely stand another day in Bend with my

family.

We got to the airport and loaded up on coffee, a fat

tening muffin nearly crumbling in my hands as I

shoveled it into my mouth. We stopped at the magazine

stand, where Amanda picked up her fashion and celeb

rity mags and I bought a selection of newspapers.

"I brought something else to read," she said, "but just

in case." Amanda wasn't the kind of girl who waited in

line at sample sales and had a separate closet for her

shoes, but something about reading about the hottest

beach bodies made plane rides go by quicker. Maybe I

should give Cosmo a whirl.

Sitting at the gate, I leafed through the Gazette. I felt

my stomach clench when I turned to page eight and saw

the two-paragraph article that started:

Stephen Gaines, 30, found shot to death in Al

phabet City apartment

by Neil deVincenzo

I'd met Neil deVincenzo about a year ago. He covered

the crime beat, had some good connections on the force.

Because of my tenuous relationship with the NYPD,

they'd often talk to him rather than me. He was a good guy,

around forty-five, and in terrific shape. He'd been a boxer

in the navy, even had the tattoo of a pugilist on his upper

biceps, though only a few of us were privy to the knowl

edge, and that only came out after a few rounds of drinks.

46

Jason Pinter

The article was brief, perfunctory. There wasn't

much to the story to report. Gaines was found murdered,

two bullet wounds in his head. There were no suspects,

no leads. And no locations or whereabouts for his

mother, Helen Gaines. Sevi Makhoulian was quoted,

saying, "No comment."

I wondered where Helen Gaines was. If she knew her

son was dead. And if so, why Makhoulian couldn't

locate her. I wondered if she knew her son was in

trouble. And I wondered if she knew about me.

Our flight had one layover in Chicago. We would

then go on to Portland, and rent a car for the drive to

Bend. The plan was to stay in Bend over the long

weekend. I didn't have any desire to spent any more time

with my father than was absolutely necessary to get all

the details about his relationship with Helen Gaines and

her son. After that, I figured it could be good for us to

spend an extra day or two in the city of my birth. It had

been the better part of a decade since I left for college,

I was curious to see how much had changed.

After a half-hour delay we settled into our seats.

Amanda took the middle, I got the aisle, and my legs

thanked me. I took out a paperback novel, a thriller to

help pass the time, and noticed Amanda reach into her

knapsack and take out a book.

The cover seemed familiar. It was worn, the spine

cracked, color faded. And when I look closer, I under

stood why.

The book's title was Through the Darkness. It's

author was Jack O'Donnell. The book was a chronicle

of the rise of crack cocaine and the massive crime wave

it spawned that nearly tore New York apart in the '70s

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47

and '80s. The book was nominated for the Pulitzer

Prize, though it lost out to a book that, as far as I knew,

was no longer in print. Through the Darkness was the

very book that officially gave Jack O'Donnell the

moniker of my living hero.

Amanda noticed me staring. She smiled nervously.

"You talk about this book a lot," she said. "I just want

to understand you better. And Jack, too."

"It's a great book," I said. "Holds up like it was

written last year. I really appreciate this."

"Hope you don't mind that I took it from your shelf."

"Are you kidding me? You don't know how happy

this makes me."

"Don't be silly, I wouldn't let you do this alone."

"Not the trip," I said. "The book. It means a lot that

you want to know more about what matters to me."

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked, confused. "I mean,

we're together right? What kind of relationship would

it be if neither of us cared about what mattered most to

the other?"

I felt silly. I'd never read a book because I thought it

meant a lot to Amanda, and for the most part she didn't

like to talk about her work at home. Working at the

Legal Aid Society, she had to deal with some of the most

horrific cases of child abuse. She saw things that would

stay with you. I didn't blame her for not wanting to

bring that kind of work home with her.

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked, feeling

somewhat stupid. "You know, to know more about you?

What makes you tick? Does Darcy Lapore have a

memoir out or something?"

Amanda laughed. Darcy Lapore was her coworker,

48

Jason Pinter

a professional socialite-in-training. And considering

how much value was inherent in that job title, especially

in New York where the title socialite was practically a

blank check, it was likely only a matter of time before

Darcy's obsession with jewelry, makeup and shoes that

cost more than my rent were bound to find the printed

word, or more likely, a reality series. It was no doubt

that vacuousness and superficiality were the country's

drug of choice, and self-promotion was the new black.

"Tell you what, Darcy's husband has enough money

that they could pay you to ghostwrite it and you

wouldn't have to work at the Gazette until your midthir

ties."

"Hmm...that's an intriguing possibility. Provided I

can get past the whole 'crying myself to sleep every

night' problem that would come with that."

"Would leaving your job really do that to do?"

Amanda asked with a mixture of rhetoric and actual cu

riosity.

"I think so," I said. "I mean I believe, really believe,

this is what I was meant to do."

"Must be a great feeling to know what you're meant

to do at your age," Amanda said. She reached into her

purse, took out a stick of gum and popped it into her

mouth. The plane began to back up, then we turned and

approached the runway. Amanda began to chew her

gum with a fury rarely seen outside of nature videos

where a gang of lions rip a poor gazelle limb from limb.

She looked at me, saw I was staring. "My ears pop,"

she explained. I nodded, smiling. "Come on, we both

know you snore like a chain saw. We both have our little

things. "

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49

"I wasn't judging, but thanks for bringing up a sore

subject. You know I got tested for apnea a while back.

It came back negative."

"Maybe you should get a second opinion before I

'accidentally' smother you one night," she said, settling

back into her seat, closing her eyes. "Okay, I'm going

to sleep now. If you're going to snore, it'd be sweet if

you wouldn't mind sitting in the bathroom."

"It's reassuring to know you always have my safety

in mind."

"Oh, come on," Amanda said. She sat up, leaning

over and gave me a long kiss on the lips. I tasted her

ChapStick. Cherry. Delicious.

When she finished we were both smiling. And the

old woman across the aisle was grimacing. "If you two

are even thinking about joining that so-called MileHigh Club," she said, "I'll call the flight attendant and

have you ejected at 30,000 feet. Don't think I won't be

watching you."

We both nodded, embarrassed. Actually, the thought

had crossed my mind, but with Mother Teresa sitting

there I wouldn't want to be banned from the airline

before the trip back.

"Have a good nap, babe," I said, squeezing Amanda's

hand. "See you in Bend."

"I hope we find out more about Stephen Gaines," she

said through a yawn.

I nodded, watching Amanda drift off to sleep, not

knowing just how much there was to learn.

6

We landed in Portland at five o'clock, or eight o'clock

New York time. We'd both slept a good portion of the

flights. While Amanda was awake, she tore through

Jack O'Donnell's book with incredible zeal. It thrilled

me to see that she was clearly enjoying the book. It

brought back memories of the first time I'd read it, in

junior high. I spent the next week plowing through

every O'Donnell book I could find at the Deschutes

County Library. My teachers were less than impressed,

since I'd read the books in lieu of completing my actual

schoolwork. Safe to say O'Donnell's tomes taught me

more about myself and what I wanted to be than years

of school could ever do.

After landing, we rented a car, a nice little compact

that probably got twenty-eight miles to the gallon.

Given how you practically had to sell a kidney to fill up

a tank of gas these days, I would have seriously consid

ered a motorized skateboard if Hertz had one available.

The drive to Bend took just about three hours. Once

we merged onto US-20, I began to feel my stomach

rumbling and beginning to churn. I wasn't quite sure

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51

what to expect. I hadn't set foot in Bend in nearly ten

years. The same amount of time had passed since I'd

last seen my parents. And while some children might

find a hole in their heart, in their soul, due to this

absence, mine was finally able to fill up.

I wondered if coming back here was a good idea,

whether it was best to let dead dogs lie. Yet that image

of Stephen Gaines lying on an examining table, his

head nearly blown apart, made this trip a necessity.

Anger had driven me away from my home. Now the

same was leading me back.

As we approached the city limits, I could immedi

ately tell that the last eight years had changed my

hometown a great deal. And all the changes looked to

be for the better.

To the west, the spectacular beauty of the Cascade

Mountain Range. The lush green foliage was tipped

with hints of snow from winter. I could make out the

magnificent peak of Mount Bachelor, rising to a snowcapped point. I rolled down the window to breathe in

the fresh air. It was warm, dry and clean. For a moment

I considered what I'd given up. Part of me missed the

air, the scenery. Being able to see for miles, the horizons

rising blue and bold above the skyline. For everything

I loved about New York--the hustle and bustle, the

thriving heart of media and business, the diversity of its

inhabitants--I missed the open world.

By seven-thirty, we were approaching Eastview

Drive, the street in the northeast section of Bend where

James and Eve Parker had lived for nearly thirty years.

I still didn't have the timeline sketched out completely,

so I wondered if my father had had his affair with Helen

52

Jason Pinter

Gaines in the very house I'd grown up in. Perhaps a

quickie in the room that later became my bedroom.

Every moment spent thinking about it made me more

angry. I'd have to restrain myself once I saw him in

person.

I turned the car onto Eastview Drive tentatively,

slowing the car down as my old house came into view.

The first eighteen years of my life forgotten and now

remembered. A bad dream interrupting a peaceful sleep.

The dark green paint hadn't been refreshed in years.

The two-car garage was still surely filled with old

records, antiques my parents had grown weary of and

empty photo albums. A black 1994 Chevy C/K 1500

flatbed truck was parked outside the left garage. The

paint was scratched and faded, but I had no doubt the

old truck still purred like a kitten. The grass was fairly

short, so as least they cared about some sense of

decorum, and the cobblestone walkway leading up to

the front door was still there like the day I left. Much

had changed in Bend over the last decade, and it seemed

as if my parents had resisted that change as much as

possible.

I steered the car into the driveway, parking next to the

flatbed, then turned off the engine and sat there in

silence. Amanda did as well. Neither of us said a word

for a long time. Finally Amanda said, "Henry, do you

want to do this? We can go to a hotel, wait until you're

ready."

"I'm ready," I said. "Or at least I need to be."

I opened the car door, cautiously stepped out as

though expecting the driveway to swallow me whole.

Amanda climbed out, and we walked up the cobble

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53

stone path to the front door. A faded yellow button

popped out like a pimple to the right of the front door.

I could see a faint glow from inside one of the windows.

Somebody was definitely home.

I looked at Amanda, smiled weakly, tried to gather

my strength and rang the doorbell. The bell startled me

for some reason, like I wasn't ready to accept that there

was actually a person who lived here.

I hadn't phoned ahead because I didn't want him to

know I was coming. Didn't want to give him a chance

to think, to make up excuses. I wanted him face-to

face. To see how he reacted. If he did at all.

I heard footsteps, someone mumbling under his

breath. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, trying to

forget the resentment I had toward this man. Knowing

the pain he'd put us all through. Knowing there was a

young man lying in New York with two bullets in his

head, a man who my father could, like me, call his

blood.

The front door opened with a creak. A man stood in

front of me, rubbing his eyes. He looked older than I

remembered, lines creasing his face like small ditches,

a thin coat of gray stubble covering the worn skin.

When his eyes came into focus and he saw me, the

man's mouth opened slightly, his reflexes working

faster than his mind was able to keep up with. He shook

his head slightly, unsure.

I took a step forward and said, "Hi, Dad. It's been a

while. It's Henry. Your son who's still alive."

7

We sat there in his living room. James in an easy

chair, me and Amanda on a faded, stained, uncomfort

able brown couch. It was probably uncomfortable

because nobody ever sat in it, nobody ever told James

the springs bit your legs. My father wasn't exactly

someone who entertained. James Parker was wearing a

tattered light blue bathrobe, the same one he used to

wear years ago. It was worn. Threads hung out, waiting

to be yanked free. The robe looked as if it was now worn

out of convenience rather than comfort. A skin that

couldn't be shed.

Though it had been eight years since I'd seen my

father, it felt like longer. He looked as though he'd aged

twenty. The brown hair--the same color hair I'd inher

ited--was streaked with gray. The skin around his neck

had begun to sag into full-on jowls, and whatever was left

of the muscle tone in his forearms had turned soft. His

eyes were lined, as though tired of keeping up the appear

ance of the rebel he'd long considered himself to be.

Maybe thirty years ago James Parker was a man to

be feared and possibly even desired. Now, though, he

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55

was just an angry old man with a distant wife and an es

tranged son. A man whose indifference to any life but

his own had driven away everyone who'd ever cared for

him, driven him to the point where his very voice

brought up anger inside of me.

When I was hidden in a dingy building and needed

to hear something, anything, to keep me going, I called

my father. I'd spent much of my adult life trying to

hard to distance myself from him and what he repre

sented. My anger had, in essence, become a fuel.

Recently, the fuel had begun to burn itself out. But

sitting there, watching this man in front of me, knowing

what he'd done in his past, knowing just how little of

the story I knew, it was all I could do not to leap up from

my chair and knock him head over heels, that ugly

bathrobe flailing like paper in a gust of wind.

Those striking green eyes kept flicking to me, then

to Amanda, then back to me. Anytime he had unex

pected visitors, James Parker figured it was either a

court summons or an IRS audit. Amanda sat leaning

forward, eyeing James, as though trying to understand

an entire family history through those eyes.

He held a beer in his hand. The bottle was halfempty, and the bottom half was covered by his hand,

which was sweating. The air was hot, blowing from

some unseen fan that appeared to simply recirculate

the warm air over the whole house. He eyed me with a

look of confusion and contempt.

"Where's Mom?" I asked.

"Bridge lesson," he said. "Plays with her girlfriends

once a week. Whatever keeps her busy and out of my

hair."

56

Jason Pinter

I bristled at the comment. "When will she be home?"

I hated being here, hated that he'd even put us in a situa

tion where we needed to be. But my hatred for this man

couldn't get in the way of finding out the truth about

Stephen Gaines. About myself.

"Listen, I don't know what you want from us," he

said, swigging from the bottle, grimacing because the

beer had likely grown warm. Not quite the "you never

call" line you'd expect from a parent you hadn't seen in

years.

"I just want to know the truth about you and Helen

Gaines. And how much you know about Stephen."

"What does it matter anyway?" James said, looking off

at the wall. "It was years ago. Before you were even

born."

"I know that," I said, anger rising inside me. "Did

you ever think to tell me I had a brother somewhere?

You never thought that I might be interested to know

that? Never occurred to you, huh?"

"He wasn't your real brother," James said slowly.

"Helen was not your mother. I never considered myself

that boy's father."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"She wasn't supposed to keep the baby," my father

said. I heard Amanda gasp under her breath. So far my

father had barely looked at her, like Amanda was a

referee, a third wheel, something to be ignored. I hadn't

bothered introducing her because I knew he wouldn't

care.

For a brief moment I glimpsed a flicker of pain

behind those eyes. A memory he thought forgotten had

come back to him.

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57

"But she did," I said. "And then she left. Tell me what

happened."

"I don't need to tell you anything," he snapped

suddenly, the beer sloshing liquid onto his bathrobe.

"It's thirty years ago. It's over."

"It's not over," I said, my voice quivering. "Your son

was found dead in a seedy apartment this week. It's not

over. You were the boy's father. I know it meant nothing

to you, but it damn sure meant something to him, and to

Helen Gaines. And it damn sure means something to

me."

"What?" he said, lurching out of his chair, knocking

the bottle flying. I recognized that look. The look of

rage, the look that said he didn't owe anybody anything.

"What does it mean to you? You never knew him. I

never knew him. He's a fucking stranger. What, just

because you share some, like, microscopic strand of

DNA in common all of a sudden this matters to you?

Please. Spare me, Henry. Go back to New York. Go

back to your big city and do whatever you do there." He

pointed at Amanda. "And take this ...whatever... with

you."

"This is Amanda," I said. "And she's given me more

in just a few years than you have in a lifetime."

"Are you finished?" he asked, sitting back down.

"Because I have a league game tonight and I bowl like

crap when I'm not prepared."

"Right," I said. "Your bowling league. You cared

more about those pins than you did us."

"Pins don't talk back," he said. "Pins don't waste your

hard-earned money on books that don't put food on the

table. Speaking of that, will you be joining us for dinner?"

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Jason Pinter

"I'd rather break bread with Bin Laden," I said.

"How long were you sleeping with Helen Gaines while

you were with Mom?"

James sighed, leaned back, searched his memory. He

spoke as though this was a mere trifle to him, like I'd

asked what he had for lunch yesterday.

"Must have been about a year. Maybe a little more.

Who keeps track of these things?" he said. Who keeps

track of these things. Like it was a bowling score from

a few years ago.

Without warning, my father stood up, cracked his

back and went up the rickety stairs. Amanda and I sat

there unsure what to do. We heard some rummaging

around, and soon after, my father came back down. He

held something in his hand I couldn't see. Then he gave

it to me.

It was a photograph of a young woman. It was worn,

faded, kept somewhere it was not removed from often.

The woman in the photo had pale skin, curly brown hair

and luminous green eyes. She was sitting on a grassy

hill, a blouse covering her knees. Her mouth was open

in a smile, the shot taken in the middle of a laugh.

Despite her young age she had deep laugh lines. She

looked like the kind of woman it would be easy to fall

in love with.

"You kept this?" I said. "Why?"

"I'm not keen on throwing things out. Never know

when you might need them."

"Didn't you worry Mom would find it?"

"She hasn't yet."

I handed the photo back to him. He hesitated, then

took it, slipping it into his pocket.

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59

"You didn't care that you were married?" I asked.

His glare told me he didn't.

"When did you first learn about Stephen? That you

had a son?"

"When Helen was about four months along. She told

me she wouldn't have sex anymore. And that was the

reason. I thought she was going to get an abortion. That's

what we both wanted, I thought. Then her belly keeps

getting bigger and bigger and..." James looked down at

his hands. "Then one day he's there. This little kid."

"What then?"

"She wanted to know where we stood. Whether she

was going to raise the boy on her own. I told her I

already had a wife, and she wanted her own kids. And

that I didn't have the time or money for two families."

"And then?"

"And then she left. One day she's living a few streets

over, the next Helen's moved out, packed up her stuff,

sold her crappy house and disappeared forever."

"Forever," I said. "You were never curious to see

how your other son was doing?"

"Didn't much care how the son who lived with us

was doing, ungrateful as he was."

Point made.

"When was the last you heard from Helen?" I asked.

My father looked down. His eyes twitched for a

moment. I tried to look past them, tried to see just what

this man was holding on to.

Then he said, "The day before she disappeared.

That's all I know. That mother of his never took care of

Stephen. Maybe if she'd made some different choices

he'd still be alive."

60

Jason Pinter

"By different choices, do you mean never shacking

up with you?"

"Don't get smart," he said. "I guess that's one of

those whaddaya callems, rhetorical statements."

I bristled. "What do you mean, different choices?"

"She was always one of those wild women, doing

things to her mind and body. Tough to find a woman

who drinks more than you do. And that's all I know. I

don't wish the boy died. I'm not some monster. But he's

no more my son than I was his father. Blood's only as

thick as you make it."

"Don't I know it," I said. Then I stood up. Amanda

did as well.

"I'd like to say it's been a good visit, Dad, but there's

been enough lying in this family. The buck's gotta stop

somewhere. Say hi to Mom for me."

"I will," he said, and I actually believed him. As I left

to go, all of a sudden Amanda spoke.

"Are you sorry?" she asked. She was staring right

into his eyes, not letting him go. In that moment I knew

just how strong this woman was.

James sat there, silent, for what must have been

several minutes. He looked back at her. She wouldn't turn

away.

"No," he finally said. And oddly enough, I didn't

believe him.

I reached for the door. Took Amanda's arm. Nodded

toward my father.

And just as I was about to turn the knob, there came

a loud knock at the door.

At first I thought it was my mother, but she wouldn't

have bothered or needed to make that much noise.

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61

"James Parker?" came the male voice from outside.

My father stood up. Approached the door. He looked

through the peephole, then stepped back. A look of

concern and fear crossed his face.

"What is it?" I said. "Dad?"

"Sir, open up," the voice said.

My father unlocked the bottom latch and opened the

door.

Three police officers--two men and one woman--

were standing on the front porch. One of them held a

piece of paper. The others held their hands at their hips.

Specifically by their guns.

Clearly, they were worried they might need to use

them.

"James Parker?" the lead officer said.

"Yuh...yes?"

The officer stepped forward through the doorway.

He grabbed my father, spun him around until his chest

hit the wall with a thud. The other two cops swarmed in,

and within seconds my father was in handcuffs. I saw

his eyes go wide, this proud, arrogant man. And in those

eyes I saw emotion I'd never seen before in nearly thirty

years.

My father was afraid.

"What the hell is going on?" I shouted.

"James Parker," the cop said, "You're under arrest for

the murder of Stephen Gaines."

8

Amanda and I sat on a small wooden bench in the

lobby of the Bend police department. After they'd taken

my father away in handcuffs, pressing his head down

as he climbed into the backseat of the car like some

common thug you'd see on COPS, we followed practi

cally bumper to bumper in our rental car.

Upon arriving at the station, I didn't have a chance

to talk to my father before they led him into booking.

The City of Bend Police Department had two sections:

a two-level structure that sat next to a taller tower, both

with sloped, tiled roofs. The sign outside read City of

Bend Police and underneath that read Public Works.

I parked the car in a lot in back and we ran around

to the entrance. Inside we refused to leave, or sit down,

until we either spoke with my father or an officer who

could tell us just what the hell was going on. My

stomach was tied in knots. Though I'd long ago learned

to give up loving my father, I knew this man wasn't,

couldn't be a killer. Not to mention I couldn't even

imagine what kind of evidence they had that would

enable a warrant to be issued so quickly.

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63

From everything Makhoulian and Binks told me, it

seemed as if Gaines was murdered. Not an impulse

killing, but exterminated. How could the cops be so

blind? How could they possibly connect my father to

this when he was in Bend the whole time?

For perhaps the first time in my life, I found myself

feeling sorry for the man. He was alone, scared,

accused of a crime beyond comprehension. It was all

bogus, though. No doubt there was some mistake and

he'd be released.

I tried to call my mother, but she didn't have a cell

phone. I left a message at home, hoped she would find

it.

Finally after an hour of waiting, a cop approached

us where we stood. He was about forty, lean, with

salt-and-pepper hair, a square jaw and dark, tan skin.

His badge read Whalin. We stood up, desperate to

hear why they'd taken my father in for such a horren

dous crime.

"You must be Henry," the cop said. He offered his

hand. I looked at him, then shook it grudgingly. "I'm

Captain Ted Whalin of the BPD. I'm in charge of the

criminal investigations division."

"Where's my father?" I demanded.

"Your father is in a holding cell. Tomorrow he'll

have to go before a judge to be properly processed.

There is an outstanding warrant for his arrest in New

York City for the murder of Stephen Gaines."

"That's impossible," I said. "First of all, Stephen

Gaines is his son. And second, my father's never even

been to New York."

Whalin looked confused. "I can't go into specifics,"

64

Jason Pinter

Whalin said, "but the warrant states that physical

evidence does exist that links James Parker to the

crime."

"That's impossible," I said again. "I don't think he's

left the state in twenty years."

"That's not up to me to determine," Whalin said.

"If he's wanted for murder in New York," Amanda

said, "won't he be extradited?"

"That depends on him," Whalin continued. "When

he goes before Judge Rawling tomorrow, he'll have the

opportunity to sign what's called a nonjudicial waiver

of expedition."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

Whalin said, "It means that he agrees that he is in fact

the same James Parker wanted on this murder charge.

If he accepts the charge, he'll be brought back to New

York City where he'll be entered into their system.

Though that might be a problem."

"What do you mean?"

"We believe that your father is the James Parker

referred to in this warrant. We know he has a relation

ship with Stephen Gaines..."

"That's not true," I said. "They didn't actually know

each other at all."

"Regardless," Whalin said, "it'd be a mighty coinci

dence if the NYPD happens to be looking for a com

pletely different James Parker in regards to the murder

of Stephen Gaines. Wouldn't you agree?"

I didn't have to. The odds were pretty nonexistent.

"As of right now, your father is refusing to grant the

nonjudicial waiver." Whalin said this with frustration

evident on his face.

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65

Amanda said, "And what happens if he refuses to

sign it?"

"Then it's our job to prove that he is--or is not--the

James Parker referred to in this warrant. We'll take fin

gerprints, blood samples, and confirm with one hundred

percent accuracy that he is James Parker. Of course, all

that testing takes an awful long time, which means..."

"He stays locked up in your jail until he's extradited."

"Consider it time not served. Not a second of time he

spends in prison here will be taken off any eventual

sentence. So if your father wants to contest his identity,

so be it. Not my ass sleeping every night on a metal

bench. And did I mention he refuses to consult with a

lawyer?"

"We need to see him," I said. "Right away."

"He's with two detectives right now, but I think he

should be available in an hour or two."

"Wait," Amanda said. "Are they questioning him?"

"If they're doing their job."

"But you said he didn't have a lawyer."

"That's right."

"Then we demand to see him. I have a license to

practice law in New York State, where any legal

hearings pertaining to this case will occur. Right now

your police station is acting as nothing more than a glo

rified holding pen. So I can promise you that anything

James Parker says now will be disallowed in a court of

law under the assumption that your officers coerced

him into making a statement without legal counsel."

"Listen," Whalin said, "right now he isn't even ad

mitting to being the right James Parker, so I doubt

we'll get much--"

66

Jason Pinter

"Now," Amanda yelled.

Whalin looked her over, then said, "Follow me."

He led us into the heart of the BPD station, down a

long brick corridor. At the end was a series of three

rooms, marked simply 1, 2 and 3. He took us to the

right, knocked on the reinforced-metal door.

A small slat opened at about eye level, then the door

opened. Inside were two cops, one in uniform and one

plainclothes. And sitting in a metal folding chair, his

wrists handcuffed to the table, was my father.

His eyes were red. I could tell he'd been crying. He

was still wearing the same clothes, but they were soaked

through with sweat. He was shaking, as though his body

was simply unable to process what was happening.

When he saw us, his mouth opened and his face lit up.

"Henry!" he exclaimed.

"His son," Whalin told the cops. "And Parker's

lawyer." Whalin nodded at Amanda. She went to say

something, but I nudged her. She got the tip. This was

the only way we'd get to speak with him.

"You have half an hour," Whalin said as the other

cops exited the room.

"We'll take as much time as we damn well please,"

Amanda said, staring right into the captain's eyes. He

frowned, told the cops to take a hike.

"We have to lock the door from the outside. Proce

dure. If you want to leave, just knock."

Amanda pointed at the camera hung up in the upper

corner of the interrogation room. A small red light was

blinking on it.

"I want that turned off," she said. Whalin looked at

it, then nodded, making a slicing motion across his

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67

throat, telling the cops to kill the feed. They walked

away, and a moment later the light went off.

"Thank you, Captain," Amanda said. "We'll be in

touch soon."

We went in and closed the door. A metal snick

came from outside. The cops locking us in with the

alleged murderer.

We took two chairs and pulled them up to the table.

My father reached out to us, but the handcuffs held his

wrists firm. He looked dejected, then said, "Henry,

thank God you're here. Did they tell you? They think I

killed Stephen."

"I know, Dad. The question is why do they think

that?" My father leaned down, started to bite his nails,

his head comically close to the table. "Dad?"

James shrugged, but there was nothing behind it.

"Listen, Mr. Parker," Amanda said. "Your best option

right now is to sign the nonjudicial review waiver. Once

you do that they'll bring you back to New York and

begin actual legal proceedings. I'll help you get a

lawyer, or at least weed out the bad ones."

"I don't want to leave here," my father said softly.

"Dad, jail isn't exactly comfortable," I said.

"I mean, I don't want to leave Bend," he said more

forcefully. "I didn't do anything. I didn't kill Stephen.

They can't just take me wherever they want."

I looked atAmanda. She said, "Mr. Parker, if you don't

sign the waiver you'll stay in Bend, but you'll be in prison

until they prove your identity. It could be weeks, months.

And that's before any sort of trial.And trust me, you won't

be doing yourself any favors with the judge assigned to

the case. They will take you if you make them."

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Jason Pinter

"This can't be right," James said. "Goddamn it I

shouldn't be here! Henry, you know me, you know this

isn't right."

I knew him, but I didn't. I'd seen the depths of his

anger, his rage. It was up to me to believe he wasn't

capable of reaching another level.

"Dad..." I began. "Why do they suspect you?"

Without hesitating, James said, "They told me there's

evidence linking me to the crime. They said they found

it in Stephen's apartment."

"In New York?" I said. "How is that possible?"

He looked down at the floor, his whole body seeming

to sag into nothing. "They said they found my finger

prints on the gun that killed him."

9

"Wait, step back," I said. It took me a moment to

regroup, to process what my father had just said. "How

could they possibly have found your fingerprints on the

gun that killed Stephen?"

"I don't know," my father said. He said it unconvinc

ingly. There was more to this. Amanda looked at him

with incredible frustration. She had a great legal mind,

but I could already tell that she was thinking about

James Parker's chances during a murder trial. Even if

he was innocent--which he had to be--this man would

never do himself any favors with his lawyer or a judge.

He was already refusing easy extradition, and he was

lying--or at least hiding the truth--from the only

people here who gave a damn.

Sadly, I knew what it felt like to be accused of a

terrible crime you didn't commit. I knew just how

lonely it could be, and how much a friendly hand

meant. Amanda had been that for me. If not for her,

I'd either be dead or in prison. She'd reached out,

offered a hand, and I'd smartly accepted. My father,

meanwhile, was dangling from the edge of a cliff,

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Jason Pinter

slapping our hands away in the misguided belief that

he couldn't fall.

"Mr. Parker," Amanda said. "You need to tell us what

happened. All of it. You know why they arrested you.

Even if you're innocent, you don't seem surprised.

Shocked, maybe, but not surprised. I can see it in your

eyes. You're thinking about the circumstances that led

to this. How events could have been misconstrued. We

need to know this so we can understand what hap

pened."

My father looked at Amanda, confused. She'd il

luminated a path for him and his reluctance to see it

was waning.

"I was in New York," James finally said, the words

coming out in a rush like air that had been compressed.

"The day Stephen died. I was there."

"You were in the city?" I asked, incredulous.

"Why?"

James looked at me, then Amanda. He stayed quiet.

I got the picture. He wanted to talk to her. She was im

partial. A lawyer. I was his son. And I would judge.

"Mr. Parker," she said. "Why were you in New

York?"

"I saw him," James said. His eyes had grown wide,

for the first time fully beginning to piece together the

circumstances. There was terror in those eyes. They

ripped a hole through me because right then I knew he

understood why he'd been accused of the crime. "Helen

called me."

"Helen Gaines?" Amanda said. "Stephen's mother?"

James nodded. "I hadn't spoken to her in, God,

almost thirty years. After she had Stephen, I wanted

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71

nothing to do with either of them. I had a family. A wife.

I told her that," he said, slamming his fist on the table.

"From the beginning, I told her this won't go anywhere.

It wasn't my fault the crazy bitch lied about being on

the pill."

"How did she get your number?" Amanda said.

"It's called the phone book," James said drily. "Last

I checked I'm not the president."

"Why did she call you after so long?"

James leaned over again, chewed his thumbnail. He

ripped off a ragged piece of white, spat it across the

room. I saw a small line of blood well up from where

he'd ripped.

"She said she was in trouble. That she needed money.

That Stephen was in trouble."

"Did she say what kind of trouble?"

"She said Stephen had a drug problem. She needed

to get him help before it was too late. She couldn't

afford treatment."

"So why did you come all the way to New York?"

"I hung up on her. She called back. She said if I didn't

help them, she would sue me for child support and make

sure my name was in every newspaper as one of those

deadbeat dads. She said technically I owed her thirty

years' of payments, and that if she hadn't wrecked my

marriage thirty years ago she'd make it her mission to do

it now. I couldn't afford thirty years back payments for

the life of me. I told her I could give her some money, a

little, but that's it. She said she needed to see me. That

maybe meeting his father would snap some sense into

Stephen."

"And you agreed to go?"

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Jason Pinter

"Not at first," James said. "I told her I could send it

Western Union. She said those two words again, 'child

support,' and I was on a plane the next day." He looked

at me and grinned. "Sorry I didn't call."

"Where did you tell mom you were going?" I asked.

"I don't know, just said I was going fishing or some

shit. She didn't ask many questions."

"They say your fingerprints ended up on the gun

that killed Stephen," Amanda said. "That means two

things. One, they found the murder weapon. And two,

your prints were on it. Can you explain how that

happened?"

"Helen," he said, shaking his head slightly. "When I

got to their apartment--a real rats' nest. Ugh, just dis

gusting. Cockroaches everywhere, food left out.

Anyway, I hadn't seen Helen in almost thirty years. I

had some money with me. Not much, I ain't Ted Turner

in case you haven't noticed. Stephen wasn't there.

Helen told me he was working. It was late, and I didn't

care much. I'd gone that long without seeing the boy."

"The gun, Dad," I said.

"I'm getting to that. So I give her some money, two

grand. It's all I can do without biting into my 401k. Of

course, Helen tells me it's not enough. Rehab centers

cost tens of thousands of dollars. I tell her if she kisses

my ass, she can keep whatever money she finds in

there."

"And then what?" Amanda said.

"Then...Helen goes to the closet. I have no idea what

she's doing. And suddenly out she comes holding

this...this cannon. Then she pointed that thing at me

and told me she needed money. Of course I've handled

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73

a gun or two, and I notice the safety's off. But she's

holding the thing all awkward, and even though I didn't

think she'd shoot me on purpose, the way she was

holding it--both hands on the butt, two fingers in the

trigger guard--that thing could have gone off by

accident and blown my head off."

I looked at Amanda. She was thinking the same thing

I was. If Helen Gaines didn't know how to handle a gun,

chances are the gun she pointed at my father belonged

to Stephen. He was killed with his own gun. But if my

father never saw Stephen, how did his prints get on the

gun? And who did kill him?

"So I go up to her, slowly. And before she can move

I grab it out of her hands."

"Slick, Pop," I said.

"How did you take it from her?" Amanda asked.

"Just like this, I guess." My father mimicked

grabbing the barrel of a gun and yanking it away, the

chains holding his wrists preventing much of a visual

demonstration.

"The cops say your fingerprints are on the murder

weapon. If your prints were just on the barrel, and not

on the trigger, they wouldn't immediately think you

killed her." Amanda and my father met gazes. Then he

looked down. We both knew he was lying.

"So I might have held it normal," he said.

"Come on, Dad, we're trying to help you. Nobody

else will, trust me."

"I might have pointed it at her," he said.

"You might have or you did?" Amanda demanded.

"I fucking did, all right? The bitch wanted to take my

hard-earned money for her junkie son, then she points

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Jason Pinter

a gun at me? What am I supposed to do? I just wanted

to scare her, is all. Just scare her."

"Did you fire that gun?" Amanda said.

"Absolutely not," James replied. "I pointed it at her

once."

"Somebody used that gun to kill Stephen Gaines,"

Amanda said. "If it wasn't you, someone was able to

kill Stephen while keeping your prints intact."

"The killer must have used gloves," I said. "Some

thing that didn't disturb fingerprints that were already

on the weapon. Human skin has oils, that's what leaves

the marks. Dry rubber gloves, if used carefully, would

leave whatever marks were already on the weapon.

Whoever it was not only knew enough about firearms

to keep those fingerprints intact, knew him well enough

to shoot him in the back of the head from close range,

and was cold-blooded enough to shoot him again after

blowing his brains all over the wall."

"They say keep your friends close but your enemies

closer," Amanda said. "Stephen's killer must have been

somebody he knew."

I noticed my father sitting there, his face looking

older than ever, fear gripping his whole body. He was

waiting for us to say something, to offer some piece of

advice or solace that would prove he was innocent. The

story he told us, assuming it was true, would have to be

proven in court. But from what Detective Makhoulian

had told me, Helen Gaines had disappeared. As of right

now she was the only person who could corroborate my

father's story. And she was a woman who certainly

owed him nothing.

"Sign the waiver, Dad," I said grimly, gritting my

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75

teeth, trying to force him to see that his only option

would be to fight nobly. The longer he held out, the

more public opinion would tilt away from his favor. "Go

to New York. We can do more for you there than we can

here."

"I don't want to go to jail," my father said. His words

were whispers, and if there was ever a moment my

heart might have bled for this man, it was now.

"Mr. Parker," Amanda said. "James. All we can do

right now is try to prove your innocence. We can't do that

here. Henry's right. We'll find you a lawyer. We'll help

you."

He looked at both of us. I could sense gratitude trying

to squeeze its way through his hardened veins. Instead,

James Parker simply nodded and said, "I'll sign it."

Amanda nodded, smiled. I couldn't show that

emotion, that happiness. My father had been lying to me

his whole life. Innocent or guilty, I had a hard time

mustering pity for him. Many times over the years I'd

hoped someone would lock him up for one of his

crimes. As a young boy I'd wished I was strong enough

to stand up to him. It didn't matter how far I went, how

much I distanced myself. His sins followed me wher

ever I went.

Amanda got up and knocked on the door. A cop

opened it, keeping his eyes on James Parker. As we left

the room, saw Captain Whalin talking to two uniformed

officers. When he saw us, Whalin came over, folding his

arms across his chest.

"Well?" he said.

"He'll sign the waiver," I said. "Let's get this over

with and get him back to New York."

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Jason Pinter

Whalin let out a pleased sigh. "I'm glad to hear that.

Last thing we need is another body taking up a jail cell

we can't spare. He still needs to appear before the judge

tomorrow morning, but that's a formality. I'll call the

NYPD. We'll have the waiver ready for him to sign at

tomorrow's hearing, and they'll send officers to escort

him back to New York. Then he's all yours. Thanks for

talking some sense into him."

Whalin walked away. I was glad to hear he wanted

my father out of his hair, it would help the process move

faster. I felt Amanda's hand loop through my arm. I put

my palm on it. Her skin felt warm.

As we headed toward the exit, I saw a woman sitting

in the lobby. Her hair was blond, unnaturally so, as

though she kept her hair colorist in good business. She

had on a white cotton blouse, simple jewelry. She was

teetering, swaying back and forth. Her arms were

wrapped around her thin body, one hand covering her

mouth. She looked like she was debating between

falling over and vomiting. A pair of knitting needles

poked out from her handbag. Memories came flooding

back. The more he raged, the more she knit. Losing

herself in stitches and patterns.

"Mom?" I said, approaching nervously. I hadn't seen

her in a long time. That pale, thin body turned around,

hand still at her mouth. She cocked her head to one side,

trying to determine whether she knew the man standing

in front of her.

"Is that...oh my God, is that you, Henry?"

Suddenly she righted herself, ran over as fast as her

sensible shoes could carry her. She flung her arms

around me and I found myself nearly supporting her

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77

entire body weight. She sobbed onto my shoulder as I

bit my lip, did everything I could not to break down as

well.

"The police...they called me at Spano's house....

What have they done to him?" she wailed. My mother

pulled away, looked at me, hoping for some answer,

some assurance that this might have been a terrible joke.

"He's going to be okay, Mom," I said, trying to inject

belief into that line when deep down there was none.

"It's a big misunderstanding."

"When are they going to let him out? I bought

chicken breasts for dinner."

"Mom," I said, "I don't think he'll be back in time

for dinner."

"Then when will he be back?"

I looked at Amanda. Her eyes said, What do you

want me to do? My mother looked so lost, confused. It

wasn't that I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth

about my father and Stephen Gaines, it was that for

whatever reason, she'd lost the ability to truly under

stand just how many wrongs this man had committed

toward her. Over the years her defenses had rusted.

Nothing allowed in, no anger, hostility or resentment

out. I wondered, now, if my attitude toward him, my

anger, was compounded by the lack of hers.

"I don't know when," I said. I took her hand. Held

it. She held on to mine, but her eyes were far off, distant,

trying to process the situation but clearly failing. To her,

the notion of my father being arrested was like him

being sent into outer space.

"Well, what do I do?" she said. "Should I wait at

home for him to be released?"

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Jason Pinter

"Home is a good idea, Mom," I said. "Do you have

money?"

She thought about this. "I don't know our checkingaccount information, but we keep a jar of emergency

money in a safe."

"How much is in there?" I asked.

"Five thousand dollars," she said.

"That should be enough for now," I said.

"Mrs. Parker?" Amanda said. My mother turned to

her. "My name is Amanda Davies. I'm Henry's...friend.

I'm a lawyer, so please don't talk to anybody you don't

know. Don't speak to reporters, don't give anybody

money, and only talk to the police if you have a lawyer

present. If you need one, tell the detective on the case

and he'll help you retain one, free of charge. We'll do

our best to get your husband out of this as soon as we

can. So put that chicken in the freezer."

"Thank you, dear," my mom said, her eyes twin

kling as she smiled at Amanda. "You said you're a

friend of Henry's...are you two in college together?"

My mouth opened, but I didn't say anything.

Amanda responded, "Something like that. You're

welcome to come to New York with us if--"

"Oh no, I could never do that." It was definitive. I

wondered when my mother last left the state.

"Do you want us to, I don't know, come over for

dinner?" I asked.

"Oh no," she said fervently. "The house is a godawful mess."

I nodded, felt my eyes begin to sting.

"Then I'll call you as soon as we get back," I said.

"Be strong. We'll sort this out. Remember what

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79

Amanda said. Don't talk to strangers, and also don't

believe anything anyone says about Dad."

"I know your father," she said sweetly. "If anyone

says he did something wrong, they just don't know

James."

"I love you, Mom. It's good to see you." I ap

proached, wrapped my arms around her. She hugged me

back, fragile, like the tension in her joints might cause

them to shatter. When we untangled, I held her hands

for an extra moment, then she let them go. Sitting back

down, she turned her attention to the ceiling. And we

walked away.

"You okay?" Amanda asked. She could tell I was

rattled. More than that. It was all my memories--good,

bad and wrenching--flowing back at once.

"I'm not sure yet."

"Will she be okay?"

"She's survived being married to him for almost

thirty years. I think a little while without him will be

easier."

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

"Given the circumstances? Could be worse. I haven't

had the nervous breakdown I was sure was coming

when I saw her."

"Do you believe your father's story? About the gun?

The money?"

I sighed. "Guess I have to. You know what's funny?"

"What?"

"I've never felt closer to him. Guess not too many

sons and fathers can have being accused of murder as

a way to relate to each other."

10

Amanda and I sat in the first row of the Bend County

District Courthouse as my father was led into the room

in handcuffs. My mother sat next to us, her eyes distant

like she was viewing a movie, not watching her husband

accused of murder. He was seated at a small wooden

table next to a man in a natty suit, his temporary courtappointed lawyer, Douglas Aaronson. Once the case

was transferred to New York we'd have to find him new

representation. None of us could afford much of

anything, so the best we could hope for was someone

competent enough to either prove my father's inno

cence, or at least keeps things progressing until we could

prove it ourselves.

Judge Catherine Rawling entered the courtroom.

"All rise," the bailiff said. Everyone stood up. Aaronson

had to prompt my father. He stood up awkwardly.

Rawling was younger than I would have expected for

a judge, late thirties, with close-cropped blond hair. Her

face was emotionless as she took her chair. She looked

at my father for a moment.

"Be seated," she said, averting her gaze. Chairs and

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81

benches squeaked as we obeyed. "Counselor, I'm under

the impression that Mr. Parker has agreed to sign the

nonjudicial waiver. Is that correct?"

The lawyer next to my father stood up, hands at his

sides. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Do you have that document present?"

The bailiff, a hulking bald man, approached the table

and took the paper from Aaronson. He brought it up to

Judge Rawling, who put on a pair of reading glasses and

pored over the sheet. Once finished, she looked up.

"I now remand James Parker to the custody of the New

York Police Department, who have a warrant out for Mr.

Parker's arrest on the charge of murder in the first degree."

I shuddered as I heard those words. Though my

father and I had this terrible thing in common, I'd thank

fully never heard those words uttered. They seemed to

affect him too, as he turned to the lawyer, eyes open, as

though expecting the man to suddenly yell surprise and

remove the handcuffs.

Rawling continued.

"Mr. Aaronson, am I also correct in the information

that two deputies from the NYPD have arrived to take

Mr. Parker into custody pending a grand jury hearing?"

"That is correct, Your Honor." So far Aaronson was

doing a bang-up job.

"Bailiff," Rawling said, "please show them in."

The bailiff walked to the double doors at the front of

the courtroom. He pulled them open, and nodded at

whoever was waiting outside to follow him. When the

bailiff reentered, there were two men trailing him. One

was a young officer, couldn't have been more than

twenty-four or -five, but with muscles that stretched out

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Jason Pinter

his blue uniform. And right behind him, wearing a

standard suit, to my surprise, was Detective Sevi Mak

houlian.

"Your Honor," the bailiff said. "Officer Clark and

Detective Makhoulian of the NYPD."

"Thank you, Bailiff. I hereby grant transfer of this

prisoner into custody of the NYPD for extradition to

New York City." She looked at the two cops as she

spoke. "From this point forward James Parker is under

your responsibility and jurisdiction, in accordance with

New York State. Gentlemen, thank you for your prompt

ness in coming out here. Mr. Parker," she said, "you are

remanded into the custody of these officers."

The bailiff approached. The three men took my

father by his cuffs and led him outside. As soon as they

did, Amanda and I got up and followed.

"Detective!" I shouted. Makhoulian turned around.

He looked slightly surprised to see me.

"Henry," he said.

"My father's innocent," I blurted. I had no idea how

he was supposed to respond to that. Maybe part of me

was hoping he'd simply nod, smack his head and say,

"Whoops, you're right!"

Needless to say, that did not happen.

"Henry, we can talk more in New York. For now, it's

my job to get your father back to New York safely. All

you can do is make sure that happens."

"How can I do that?" I asked.

"Stay away. Go home. There's nothing more you

can do right now."

Then Makhoulian and Officer Clark took my father

by his manacles and led him away.

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83

"There's a computer in the courthouse library,"

Amanda said. "Let's change our flight home and get the

next plane out of here. He's right. There's nothing more

we can do here."

After a brief goodbye to my mother, we managed to

book a red-eye from Portland to JFK. I would have

thought that after everything we'd been through, the

confrontation with my father, the arrest, the hearing,

that I would have slept like a baby. And while Amanda's

head rested comfortably on my shoulder while she

slept, I was awake the whole flight, my eyes open,

staring at nothing. Wondering how this had happened.

When the crew turned off the cabin lights to allow

other passengers to sleep, I stayed up in the dark.

Nausea had taken the place of normal functions, and a

cold sweat had been running down my back for hours.

I couldn't understand it, not a word. That I had a

brother to begin with, even one related only half by

blood, was shock enough. That my father--that his

father--was now accused of murdering him, that was

enough to make my world stop.

And as I sat there, one image refused to leave my

mind's eye: that of my father, clothed in dirty pants

and a rumpled shirt, being led away from the court

room in handcuffs. I'd grown up used to a sense of

rage in the man's eye, a frustration and impotence that

perhaps the world had left him in the dust. His voice

and mannerisms were that of an animal who bore its

claws at anyone who came close, and even when he

seemed calm, the wrong look could turn him into a dif

ferent man.

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Jason Pinter

Yet thinking about him, head bowed, hands behind

his back, he looked less like a beast than a small dog

being led somewhere he didn't understand for reasons

he couldn't comprehend. He looked defeated. Lost.

And I wondered if, somehow, my father didn't think

that in some way he deserved it.

I thought about Amanda's line of questioning, and

my father's answers. According to him, Helen Gaines

had called him for money to help Stephen battle his ad

diction. My father said the money was for rehab, to help

him kick the drugs. This was possible, I supposed, re

membering the state Stephen was in when I saw him on

the street. He looked like a man whose rope had been

pulled as taut as possible, one more tug causing it to

snap.

But my father had admitted to holding the gun,

aiming it in such a way that his fingerprints would be

found on the trigger and butt. For a jury to believe he

did all of that--and that Stephen Gaines had coinciden

tally been murdered by a different man using the same

gun on that same day--was pushing the limits of rea

sonable doubt. If I wasn't his son, if I hadn't lived with

the man for eighteen years, if I hadn't been able to look

into those eyes, I would doubt his innocence myself.

And deep down, a small part of me did doubt it.

When we landed, I had a message waiting for me

from Wallace Langston. I hadn't spoken to Wallace

since we left for Bend, and no doubt my father's arrest

would be reported in local papers. The Gazette would

have to cover it, as would the Dispatch, our biggest

rival. I only hoped that Paulina Cole wouldn't get a hold

of it.

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85

Paulina Cole had actually been my coworker at the

Gazette, but soon left for the more lucrative pastures of

the Dispatch. There she became the paper's chief print

antagonist, penning articles that were as loved as they

were reviled, and always stirred up controversy. She'd

slimed me in print numerous times, and had made it

clear that her mission was to bring our paper down. Last

year she'd penned an expose on my mentor, Jack

O'Donell, exposing his rampant alcoholism, shaming

the man to the point where he'd left the paper and dis

appeared. I heard several rumors testifying to his where

abouts. They usually ran the spectrum of "he's in rehab

in Colorado" to "he threw himself off the Verrazano

Bridge."

I missed Jack deeply, the newsroom felt as if it were

missing its most important gear with him gone. Yet I

knew the man needed time to heal. I only hoped he

would, and that the Jack O'Donnell who'd single

handedly brought the Gazette to journalistic promi

nence would return to his old, worn desk.

In my heart, I knew what I had to do. The cops had

my father. They had physical evidence he was not only

at the scene of the crime, but had actually handled the

murder weapon. They had proof of his travel; no doubt

airline bookings and credit-card receipts would show

his travel plans.

And the most damaging piece of all, they had a

motive.

Odds were my father would be made to stand trial by

the grand jury, and he certainly wouldn't be able to

afford a lawyer worth a damn. His freedom--maybe his

life--would be in the hands of whatever public defender

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Jason Pinter

happened to have a clear docket. I'd like to say my

contacts in the press might get my father someone with

a little more experience, a little more court savvy,

someone who would maybe even take a pro bono case

or two. Unfortunately that wasn't so. Law-enforcement

officials--except for a scant few--weren't big fans of

mine. They still harbored a grudge for one of their own

who died, and right or not, they blamed me for his death.

James Parker didn't just face an uphill climb, he

faced a sheer cliff slick with ice.

When we landed, I called Wallace Langston at the

Gazette and told him I'd be there within the hour.

Amanda and I stepped into the taxi line.

"What are you going to do?" Amanda asked. I

pocketed the phone as a cab pulled up.

"Only thing I can do," I said. "I need to prove he's

innocent. And then find at who killed Stephen Gaines."

11

The newsroom of the New York Gazette felt like home.

And after leaving Bend, a place I never truly thought of

as one, I needed a new home. Many of the reporters I

considered friends, and even those I clashed with, like

Frank Rourke, had started to attain a certain grudging

respect for me. I'd started here under the worst circum

stances imaginable. Fresh out of college, anointed the

golden boy right off the bat, and immediately embroiled

in a scandal that threatened not only the integrity of the

paper but my life. It's no secret which of those things

most reporters considered of predominant importance.

I exited the elevator and made my way down the hall.

Evelyn Waterstone saw me rounding the corner. I gave

a halfhearted wave, and she snorted like I'd just pulled

my pants down in the middle of the cafeteria. Evelyn

was never one for endearing gestures.

Making my way to Wallace's office through the sea

of dropped pens, smells of ink, paper and clothing still

fresh from its wearer's most recent smoke break, I

looked up to see Tony Valentine approaching.

Tony's face erupted in a toothy smile as he sped up

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to meet me. I took a breath, prepared for whatever

verbal bath I was about to get. Tony was wearing a blue

pin-striped suit with a yellow tie. His face looked extra

orange today. Either he'd fallen asleep in the tanning

bed, or his mother had mated with a pumpkin.

That wolf's mouth open in a wide smile, perfect,

gleaming teeth. Nobody in their life had ever been so

happy to see me.

It was impossible to avoid him, so I sucked it up and

prepared myself.

"Henry!" Tony shouted with the glee of a man who

found a rolled-up hundred in his pocket. "Listen, my

man, it's good to see you back here. I've heard some bad

things about you and your pops, and you always assume

the worst. So I'm glad to see you're okay, my man."

"Wait," I said, holding my hand up. "What did you

hear about 'me and my pops'?"

"Oh, this and that," he said cryptically.

"Oh yeah? And who are these sources of yours?"

"Please," Tony said. "You have your channels of in

formation and I have mine. Let's leave it at that. But

listen, my man, I know a guy who knows a guy who

knows a lawyer who reps all the celebrities when they,

shall we say, stray on the wrong side of the law.

Remember how Paris Hilton got released from prison

after serving an hour for her DUI? That was my bud."

"Didn't she have to spend a month in there after the

judge sent her back?"

"Wasn't my friend's fault. Judge was an idiot. Can't

luck out every time, but you can pay for the best luck

possible. Hey, and keep your head up, because they're

salivating for scandal over at the Dispatch. "

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"That surprises me about as much as the sun rising."

This didn't come as a shock to me, since Paulina

Cole had all but made it her duty to end my career. So

far the only surprise was that it hadn't been plastered

over the front page. Since my only use for Tony Valen

tine was as a font of information, I decided to play

along.

"Out of curiosity, my man, why haven't they moved

on the story?"

"Oh, they've moved on it all right," he said, running

his hand flat along the air like a traveling car. "Right

now it's buried on page nine. Word is Ted Allen is still

basking in their Jack O'Donnell scoop. He thinks

pouncing on you too hard will make them look vindic

tive and undercut their efforts to shut us down. So

they're waiting until the trial gets under way, and based

on how the evidence looks, they'll report accordingly."

I felt a knot rise in my stomach. Ted Allen ran the

Dispatch, and since Paulina Cole worked for him, I was

never far off their radar. The evidence looked pretty

bad. Hopefully Tony didn't have sources at the police

department that would spill details. I trusted the man as

far as I could throw his veneer, but it was always good

to be prepared for whatever came next. I had no doubt

my father would get beaten in the press, but knowing

what was coming could soften the blow.

I thanked Tony and continued on. I knew his direct

line, just in case.

Waving hi to Rita, Wallace Langston's secretary, I

walked into his office. We both likely knew what was

coming, but that didn't make it any easier. At least I

could be thankful that this would probably hurt us both

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equally. Wallace was wearing a brown sport jacket. I

recognized the coat. A few months ago he'd chewed his

pen too deep during a meeting and the blue ink spilled

all over the breast. He'd gotten it cleaned the next day,

but the stain didn't wash out fully. Now a small, quartersize blue circle remained.

He didn't seem to care, and nobody else did. We all

knew Wallace had much bigger things to worry about,

and Lord knew how many other stains and abrasions

existed where we couldn't see. Oddly enough, we re

spected him for that. To Wallace, the work was more im

portant than the gloss, the ink more important than

anything. So we didn't mention it.

Other than the occasional chewed-to-death pen we

left on his desk as a friendly reminder.

Wallace looked up when he saw me come in. His lips

were tight beneath the closely shaved beard. His eyes

were bloodshot, as usual. He was hardly a peppy man,

unless he was excited about a story. And bad news

seemed to take him over like a death shroud. He wore

his heart on his sleeve, and unfortunately I'd had far too

many experiences piercing that heart.

I hoped it was strong enough for one more.

"I need some time off," I said.

Wallace nodded. I was right. He knew this was coming.

"I'm sorry about your father. But I don't think that's

the right decision."

"He's innocent," I said. "I need to help prove it."

Wallace nodded again. Not at the information, but

because he respected my feelings. "I imagine it might

be tough to work under those circumstances."

"Probably right," I said.

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"Might also help keep you focused," Wallace said.

"I don't pretend to know everything about you, Henry.

But I know what you live for. You take that away, even

for a little while, you forget who you are."

"The past few days have shown me that I don't even

know who I am."

"If you want time," Wallace said, "I can give you a

leave of absence. Or, you can stay on the job. Do what

you need to, but keep your nose to the grindstone anyway.

Some of the best work reporters do is during times of

crisis. If that's too much to ask, I understand. But it might

also be good for you. Give you another outlet."

"I don't know," I said, considering what Wallace was

saying. "I need to do what feels right here. And right

now I don't know what that is."

"What's right to one man is wrong to another. You

over anyone should know that by now. Every villain is

the hero of their own story, Henry. If your father is

innocent, somebody killed Stephen Gaines for a reason

that they felt was justified. If you can aid his defense,

that's a noble deed. I don't want to sway you. But I've

seen too many young reporters get lost in the chaos. You

have a great career ahead of you. You end up in the

middle of trouble more than anyone I've ever known.

And you can either use that, work with it, or you can

let it consume you. You do what you want, Henry."

I nodded. Wallace was right. And in the past, he'd

always stood by me. I'd like to think I'd earned his trust

through hard work, and that even if I did get myself into

the occasional--okay, regular--scrape, it would be

because I was doing the right thing.

"With Jack and I both gone," I said, "that's a big hit."

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"Don't I know it. Hey, I never said I didn't have the

paper's interests in mind, too."

The way Wallace said it, he wanted me to know he

had more on his mind than a simple lack of writers. The

Gazette had been engaged in a bloodbath with the

Dispatch over the last few years, each doing whatever

it could to lure new readers into the fold. Our industry

wasn't quite dying, but it was being forced to deal with

innumerable obstacles.

Each reader was valuable. Each demographic worth

its weight in gold. Jack had amassed a large and pas

sionate readership over the years through his columns,

his books and his numerous awards. Though I hated to

think of myself as a quantity, I got enough letters from

readers to know that there were quite a few people

tuning in to our pages to see what stories Henry Parker

had unearthed that day.

If I took a leave, I'd be pulling away one more tent

pole that was keeping the Gazette upright. I owed

Wallace. And Jack. I loved the Gazette, and if years

from now I was still cranking away on my keyboard

racking up bylines while my fake teeth were chattering

around in my mouth, I'd be a happy old codger.

And yes, blood is thicker than ink. As little as I owed

James Parker and Stephen Gaines, I owed them my best

efforts. I had to help find Stephen's killer, to get my

father out of prison. It didn't look like the cops were

going to bend over backward to dig up new leads. They

had their man, and likely enough evidence to send him

away for a long time.

And perhaps send him somewhere a lot deeper than

a prison cell.

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"I'll stay in the game, Coach," I said. Of course, I

couldn't be sure how effective I would be. I had no idea

where the truth about Stephen Gaines lay, or where

exactly to begin my search.

Wallace smiled.

"I'm glad to hear that. For both of us. You have my

number, Henry," he said. "Keep in touch. Go fight the

good fight."

"Thanks, sir," I said.

"I mean it, Henry. Keep in touch. It's not too much

to ask for a good story, is it?"

"No, sir," I said. "Not at all. Thanks, Wallace."

Wallace nodded. "You're going through something

not many do. Stay safe, Henry. And stay smart."

I said I would. But I wasn't sure if I meant it.

12

Leaving the Gazette, I endured a brief man hug-back

slap from Tony Valentine. I ran my hand over my face

and checked my clothes to make sure none of his spray

tan had rubbed off on me. Some kind of sweet cologne

did seem to have made my acquaintance, smelling like

a mixture of citrus and the floor of a movie theater. A

shower was my first order of business.

I called Amanda at work. She picked up on the

second ring.

"Hey," she said. "How'd it go?"

"I just told the boss who'd supported me at the job

of my dreams that I wanted to take some time off to look

into the death of my half brother who was allegedly

murdered by my father. Out of all the times I've had that

conversation, I'd say this one went pretty well."

"You're funny when you're pissed off."

"Maybe I'm pissed off when I'm funny."

"No," she said. "Because you're pissed off fairly

often, but you're really not that funny."

"Thanks for the pep talk," I said.

"Seriously, Henry. How'd it go?"

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I rubbed my forehead. "Felt like crap," I said.

"Wallace convinced me to stay on the job, but I can't

help but feel he's disappointed in me. With Jack gone,

they can't spare to lose a lot of writers. But he also

knows how important this is. I can't let him down."

"So what are you going to do now?"

"Now?" I said. "Start at the beginning."

Gaines was found murdered in Alphabet City, near

Tompkins Square Park, according to the papers. The

park itself was bordered by Tenth street on the north

and Seventh street on the south, and lay between

Avenues A and B. It had a tumultuous history, dating

back to the 1980s when it was a petri dish for drugs and

homeless people.

An infamous riot occurred in 1988 when the police

attempted to clear the park of its homeless population,

and forty-four people were injured in the ensuing chaos.

Since then the park had been closed several times for

refurbishment, and between that and the increasing gen

trification of the neighborhood, it was now a pleasant

place to hang out, play basketball and just enjoy a nice

summer day.

I took the 6 train down to Union Square, then trans

ferred to the El, which I rode to First Avenue. First

bordered Peter Cooper Village, or Stuyvescent Town, a

woodsy enclave largely populated by recent college

grads who liked the cheap rent, younger families who

enjoyed the well-tended parks, and older residents

whose rents were stabilized and who hadn't paid an

extra dime since New York was the capital of the Union.

As I approached the park, it was hard to believe a

murder could occur in such a pleasant area. Parks

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seemed to be the one place where all the stress and hos

tility emptied out of the city. Where families became

instant friends, children ran around while their parents

watched approvingly, and young men and women

played sports and chatted without playing the stupid

mating games that choked you to death at any bar.

I wondered what in the hell Stephen Gaines was

doing here when he was killed. If he lived here, did his

habit go unnoticed? When I saw him on the street, he

looked as if he was on the tail end of a ten-year bender.

In an area geared toward family, I could hardly imagine

he was a welcome sight. Chances were if someone saw

him stumbling around like I witnessed him doing,

they'd call the cops.

I realized as I approached the park that I had nothing

to show people. Not a photo identifying traits, or per

sonality quirks. All I knew about Stephen Gaines was

the image of him on the street, and then on the slab in

the medical examiner's office. I hoped the trusty New

York City newspapers were more up to speed than I

was.

I stopped at a small bodega that had a cartful of

newspapers out front. I bought three papers--the

Gazette, the Times, and even the Dispatch. When it

came to finding my brother's killer, I wasn't above sup

porting the competition if it meant getting the informa

tion I needed.

Thumbing through the papers, I was pleasantly sur

prised to find that the Gazette was the only one that

printed a photo of Gaines. It looked like a driver's

license shot. He was looking straight into the camera,

serious yet a little confused, as though he didn't quite

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understand what he was doing there. His hair was much

shorter than when I'd seen it, and the man looked about

ten years younger as well. Clearly he wasn't the kind

to show up in a lot of photographs, and I had a feeling

combing through MySpace and Facebook likely

wouldn't yield many, either.

The article was brief. Though it did mention my

father.

Stephen Gaines, 30, was found shot to death in his

Alphabet City apartment late Monday night. At this

time one arrest has been made in the killing, one James

Parker of Bend, Oregon. Parker is alleged to be the es

tranged father of Gaines, though the police have not

made any comment on Parker's motivation or why he

was in New York City the night of Gaines's death.

Referred to Detective Sevi Makhoulian of the

NYPD, the officer said simply, "I have no doubt that

the district attorney's office will be prosecuting Parker

to the fullest extent of the law. As for details of the case,

those are pending and will become available as the

trial progresses."

There was no photo of my father, and the snippet did

not mention me. I wondered if the paper should have

done so, or if this was another example of Wallace pro

tecting me. I only hoped he knew I'd repay the effort.

I ripped out the picture from the Gazette and tossed

the rest of the papers in the trash.

I was no detective. My career thus far had progressed

almost solely on instinct. Seeing a thread, no matter

how thin or frayed the strand, and pulling on it until

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something larger unspooled. At this point, though, I

had no thread. There was nothing to pull on. No leads,

no witnesses. Nothing.

So I started where any reporter or cop would when

they had nothing.

When in doubt, talk to everybody.

I walked straight into Tompkins Square Park looking

for young families and older pedestrians. I figured those

were people most likely to come to the park because

they lived in the vicinity. And if they lived nearby, there

was a greater chance they might have seen Stephen

Gaines at some point.

But what if they had seen him? That hardly meant they

saw him being killed, or even knew who he was, what he

did, or anything about him. Still, it was the best shot I had.

Walking around, I noticed a couple in their early

thirties sitting on a bench. A baby stroller sat in front

of them. I hated bothering nice people who looked like

they just wanted to spend their afternoon relaxing with

loved ones, but I hoped they'd understand.

Of course not too many people could sympathize

with trying to hunt down the man who'd killed your

brother, while your father sat in prison.

I approached the couple in as nonthreatening a

manner as possible. Smiling, even. They paid no atten

tion to me until I got closer and it was clear they were

my targets. The husband looked up at me, and I noticed

his hand slowly plant itself on his wife's leg. Guarding

her. Nobody trusted young people these days.

"I'm so sorry to bother you," I said, putting my hand

out in apology. "I was wondering if you happened to

have seen this man in the area."

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I showed them the picture from the paper. They

looked at it long enough and with enough confusion to

show they didn't know him.

The wife said, "No, I'm sorry."

I thanked them for their time. Then it was on to the

next stop.

I approached an older black man sitting at a chess

table. The other seat was unoccupied. He was studying

the board, perhaps planning out moves in his head. I

crouched down at the other side of his table, cleared my

throat awkwardly.

"Excuse me," I said.

"Have a seat, young man," he said, his mouth

breaking into a smile. He reached into his briefcase and

pulled out a cloth containing numerous chess pieces.

"Pick your poison. Speed chess? I've got a killer Danish

Gambit, so hold on to your hat."

"I'm not looking for a game," I said somewhat apolo

getically. "I was wondering if you might have seen this

man before."

He looked at the picture, a blank expression on his

face. He said he'd never seen Gaines, and I believed

him.

I spent the rest of the day questioning every person

I could find in the park, until by the end people started

to recognize me as having pestered half the lot and they

began to move away before I even approached them.

One couple I asked twice within half an hour.

Nobody had seen Gaines. Nobody had noticed him.

He was a ghost in his own neighborhood. Or at least to

these people.

When people asked what I was looking for, I

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mumbled something about him having gone missing. If

they knew I was looking into a murder, they'd clam up

faster than a vegetarian at a barbecue.

The sun began to set. So far my efforts had yielded

nothing. I took a seat on a park bench. Desperation had

come and gone, and I was left holding a crumpled photo

of a man I barely knew, who'd lived a life seemingly

nobody had known. Several days ago none of this

mattered. Work was good. My relationship seemed to

finally be on stable ground. And now here I was, bother

ing strangers, hoping they might have happened, by some

ludicrous hope, to have seen someone other than my

father shoot a man in the back of the head. Or at least knew

more about Stephen than I did which was next to nothing.

I was searching for a needle in the East River, with

no clue which way the current was flowing.

I was about to give up, to try to think of a new angle

to attack from, when a shadow fell over me. I looked

up to see a young woman, late twenties or so, standing

in front of me. She was reed thin, one arm dangling limp

by her side while the other crossed her chest, holding

the opposite shoulder. Her hair was red and black,

mascara haphazardly applied. Perhaps twenty pounds

ago she'd been attractive, but now she was a walking,

painted skeleton. She was wearing a long-sleeved

sweater, but the fabric was dangling off her limbs. It

allowed me to see the bruising underneath. The purplish

marks on her skin immediately caught my attention. My

pulse sped up. Her lip trembled. I didn't have to show

her the newspaper clipping. I knew what she was going

to say even before she opened her mouth.

"I knew Stephen."

13

A cup of steaming tea was set in front of me. It smelled

like mint. She offered me milk, which I politely

declined. I watched her sit down, a cup of the same at

her lips. She'd poured both from the same kettle, so I

didn't have to worry about being poisoned. I began to

think about how much more paranoid I'd become over

the years.

"Thanks," I said.

"Don't mention it. I brew three pots a day."

I nodded, took a look around.

This woman, Rose Keller, had taken me up to her

apartment after I told her who I was and what I was

doing. She seemed apprehensive, but once convinced of

my authenticity she was more than happy to help.

She lived in a studio apartment at the top of a fourstory walk-up on Avenue B and Twelfth Street. The

floor was covered with gum wrappers, the walls deco

rated with posters of vintage album covers and artsy

photographs, usually of frighteningly skinny women

shaded in odd pastel light. The room smelled like patch

ouli and cinnamon. Our tea rested on what appeared to

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be an antique trunk, covered in customs stickers from

every corner of the earth. Portugal, Greenland, Syndey,

Prague, the Sudan. This woman didn't look like she

traveled much. Odds were she'd bought the pieces,

stickers already applied.

The bed was unmade, and I noticed a large box

sticking out from underneath. She saw me looking at it,

said, "Clothes. I keep meaning to donate them."

She was lying, but I wasn't here to judge.

"So how did you know Stephen?" I asked.

"We used to..." She looked away from me. Then she

pulled a lighter from her sock, took a bent cigarette

from a drawer. "You mind if I smoke?"

"Go right ahead."

She took out a glass ashtray and set it on the table.

It was crusted with old butts and ash. Flicking the

lighter, she lit the cig and took a long puff, holding it

aloft between two fingers.

"We used to get high together," she said.

"Used to?" I asked.

"I met him when I moved to the city eight years ago.

Wanted to be on Broadway, you know? All that kicking

and dancing. I was voted 'most likely to succeed'in high

school. Starred in all the drama shit. Figured I'd come

here and show those Rockette girls how things are really

done."

"And then?"

"It's a tough gig," she said like a woman who'd given

up the dream long ago and had come to peace with it.

"Too tall. Too fat. Too short. Nose too big. Tits too small.

There's always an excuse. So I started waitressing in

Midtown, cool little Irish pub. Some of the actors used

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to go there for a drink after the shows. Then I'd come

back here, get high and crash. That's how I met

Stephen."

"How exactly did you meet him?"

"Funny story," she said, taking another long drag. "I

used to call this guy named Vinnie when my stash

needed re-upping. Well, his name wasn't actually

Vinnie. It was kind of a global pseudonym that all the

runners used, they'd all call themselves Vinnie. There

were probably a dozen different Vinnies working at any

given time, covering different parts of the city. So one

day I'm outside on the stoop waiting, and another guy

kind of ambles up and just stands around. I can tell from

the way he's walking, kind of looking at the street, side

to side, he was definitely a user. So I said hi. He said hi

back. Vinnie rolls up half an hour later, this greaser

wearing a hat turned sideways, couldn't have been a day

over fifteen, and fills us both up. And since it's always

more fun to see those bright lights with company, we

went back to his place."

Rose's eyes flickered to the walls, then back to the

table. There was sorrow and pain in her eyes that hadn't

been there a minute ago. She was trying to stay cool,

but I could tell she'd cared about Stephen.

"It was kind of funny, because Stephen and Vinnie

had this little, I don't know, chat. Friendly, like two

buds. I figured Stephen had used this guy before. You

know how sometimes you order pizza so often, the

delivery guy kind of becomes your pal? At first it's all

tips and friendly hi's but then you're talking about the

weather. One pizza guy actually asked me out once.

That's when I knew I needed to learn how to cook."

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"How long did you know Stephen?" I asked.

Rose sniffed, tapped out her cigarette until it stopped

smoking. Then she placed it in the ashtray amidst a

graveyard of used butts. She stared at them for a

moment, like a woman who'd been trying for years to

quit and realized just how addicted she was.

"Just about seven years."

"Were you two close?"

"Depends on when you mean," she said. Her voice

had become a little more abrasive. She had feelings for

Stephen, but there had been some bad times, too. I

imagined that when two junkies got together it wasn't

exactly Ozzie and Harriet. If a relationship between

two such people could be thought of as "tumultuous,"

it was probably the best one could hope for. I'd had

enough relationships that were able to find trouble on

their own without the uncertainty caused by stimulants

and hallucinogenic substances.

"Did you date?" I asked, hoping she wouldn't get

offended at my prying.

"Again," she said bitterly, "depends on when you're

talking about."

"Were you seeing each other when Stephen got

killed?"

"Hell, no," she said irritably. "See, thing is, after a

while you get tired of the life. It's one thing to be irre

sponsible and screwing around in your twenties. I mean,

everyone does it. Most folks don't settle down by

twenty-five and spend time worrying about a mortgage

and a 401k. I didn't, and neither did Stephen. But then

you hit thirty, and you're still renting a studio smaller

than a shoe box, and guys like Vinnie stay the same age

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because whoever the dude is who supplies them just

keeps hiring high-school kids. Funny. I must have had

half a dozen dealers all named Vinnie, all under the age

of twenty-one. You know how stupid you feel when

you're thirty and some kid is selling to you, and you

know he's still in high school and probably makes more

money than you?"

"So you were looking to go clean," I said.

"Have been for a year now," Rose said. She stood up,

picked up the ashtray and brought it into the kitchen

where she tapped out the contents into a trash bin. She

came back, put the tray back into a drawer like it had

never been taken out. "Trying, at least. The hooks are

a lot easier to dig in than they are to pull out."

"What about Stephen?"

Rose sighed, leaned back in her chair. A wistfulness

crossed her face. "I thought he was trying to quit. He

seemed like he was. See, I never really thought Stephen

had that serious a problem. Just recreational crap. I mean,

everyone smokes a bit. Shoots up a bit. It's all about

keeping it under control. I did that, and then I quit. Stephen

never quit. And in case you haven't noticed, addicts never

stay even keel. They either get better or they get worse."

"And Stephen got worse."

"Like cancer," she said.

I looked again at the skin under Rose's shirt. I could

see the bruises weren't track lines, but destroyed veins.

Dark blues and black, yellow skin surrounding them.

Perhaps even an infection gone untreated. Whether drug

addiction started off as a disease I didn't know, but sure

as hell once those hooks dug in, the virus swam around

in your system until it ate you from the inside.

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"What do you do for a living, Rose? I mean, all those

drugs couldn't be cheap."

"Graphic designer," she said proudly. "I make eighty

grand a year."

She noticed how impressed I was.

"And your employer, they..."

"Never knew a thing. Been working for a television

studio doing Web site design for six years. They figure

the geeks are wired differently than everyone else, and

that we were all born in the same freaky nursery. So you

come in with your hair messed up smelling like stale

cigarettes and beer, they figure you were up late

'hacking.' Most people can't differentiate between a

designer and a programmer. As long as you know html,

you're golden. As if they even knew what the letters

stand for."

"Stephen," I said. "What did he do?"

The moment I said it I felt a sadness. The more I

learned about Stephen Gaines the closer I got to him.

The more I despised having never known this man at

all.

"I know he tried to write for a while. He wanted to

do culture reporting, trend pieces..." Rose's voice

trailed off.

"Did he get any published?"

"No," she said. "I'm not sure he ever really tried. He

just talked about it."

"So how did he make a living?"

"You know," she said, furrowing her brow, "I'm not

really sure. But at some point he stopped talking about

writing altogether. The drugs got a hold of him worse

than ever. It was all he could do to get up in the morning,

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and he looked like death when he did. I barely saw him

after that."

"When was the last time you saw him?" I asked.

"A week ago," Rose said. She sighed again, but this

time a sob cracked the noise. Her eyes began to water.

As hard as this was for me, I didn't know Stephen at

all. This woman had lost a loved one. A lover.

"He said he was going to get clean," she said, the

cracks in her voice becoming more evident. "He

promised me. He said he was going to get help. Rehab.

We spoke on the phone. He swore on his mother. Then

he stopped returning my calls."

Rehab, I thought. My father said Helen Gaines was

looking for money to help Stephen get help. That part

sounded like it was true. But unfortunately all it did in

the eyes of a prosecutor was likely bolster my father's

motive in Stephen's murder.

"Did you know Helen at all?" I asked.

Rose nodded. "They lived together. She was dirt

poor, and Stephen seemed to make enough money to

pay rent and keep food on the table. I met her maybe

half a dozen times. Kind of quiet, like she was scared

of life. Made good coffee, but never drank it with you,

if you get my meaning."

"I got it," I said. "You wouldn't by any chance

happen to have her contact information, would you?"

"I don't have a phone number or e-mail or anything

like that. But when Stephen used to write, he'd always

go to this cabin in the Adirondacks up by Blue

Mountain Lake. I think Helen's parents left it to her or

something. He went up there to work, and Helen usually

went with him. She was quiet enough, and it's not like

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she had anyone else. Not exactly the kind of woman

who liked to be alone."

The Adirondacks were about a four-and-a-half-hour

drive northwest of the city. I'd never been up there, but

knew it was a popular spot for camping, hiking and just

getting away from the world for a while.

Something a mother might do if her only son was

murdered.

"Rose," I said, "would you mind giving me that

address?"

14

We finished the car rental paperwork by noon, then

loaded the vehicle up with coffee, snacks and Amanda's

iPod. I fought the good fight to bring mine, but lost

despite a valiant effort. To be honest, it wasn't much of

a fight since I learned early in our relationship that

when it came to playing music, Amanda had the one and

only vote. The only thing I could do was learn to love

Fleetwood Mac and early Britney Spears. Though I did

worry that listening to "Rumors" right after "Oops!...

I Did It Again" might cause my head to distend like

when you poured cold water on hot metal.

It was Saturday. Hopefully we wouldn't hit much

traffic, the rest of the city either sleeping off hangovers

or snacking on fried dough with powdered sugar at a

street fair.

Luckily the car had an iPod dock built in. Amanda

hooked it up and began scrolling through songs. I

started the engine and pulled into traffic and headed

toward the George Washington Bridge.

"You know, isn't there some kind of rule stating that

whoever drives gets to choose the music?"

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"I think that law was considered outdated in the

1970s. Now the female in the car gets to choose the

tunes."

"What if there's more than one woman in the car?"

I asked.

"Then it goes to the most dominant female," she said

drily. "If need be you lock them all in a steel cage and

whoever is the last one alive chooses the music. Kind

of like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome."

"Nice to know after all these years Mel Gibson still

exerts influence over all realms of pop culture."

"Stop whining," she said. "Here. Try this one. And

if I hear one reference to 'sugartits' you can walk

upstate alone."

She pressed Play, and soon a familiar tune came over

the speakers. It was Bob Dylan's "Not Dark Yet." It was

a beautiful, melancholy song. I looked at her, confused.

"I know you like this song," she said, a sweet smile

spread across her lips. "I figured we can split music

choices. There's more stuff you like on there."

I stayed quiet, just smiled at her, listened to Dylan

sing.

As we began the drive, we fell into a routine that was

becoming familiar and comforting. Our conversations

came easily. Each silence felt warm rather than simply

because of a lack of topics to discuss. Being by this

girl's side filled me up in a way I'd never truly experi

enced. Nothing between us had been forced. From the

moment we met during the most stressful situation

imaginable, there were a million moments when, if

we'd not been stronger, things could have broken apart.

Not too long ago I'd done just that. I thought I was

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being noble, chivalrous. Putting her life before mine. I

learned quickly my heart didn't agree with that

decision, and neither of us had rested easy.

When I contacted her for help on a story--that phone

call as much for emotional help as professional--it was

only a matter of time before we got back together.

Amanda was smart, tough, resilient. Stronger than I

was. And together we were more than the sum of our

parts. If not for her, my father might still be sitting in an

Oregon prison trying to simply wait out the legal

process. At least now we had a chance to help set things

right.

Of course, the one bad thing about being together

was our tendency to snack. We went through two large

coffees, a giant bag of Combos and half a dozen cookies

by the time we hit I-95. If we kept going at this pace I'd

have to ask Amanda to start hauling my big ass around

in a pickup truck to talk to sources.

The scenery driving up was truly breathtaking. Pine

trees studded the landscape as we passed numerous

hiking and cross-country skiing trails. There was little

up here for visitors other than what nature offered. I

could see why Stephen Gaines liked to come here. As

much as I loved the clicks and clacks of the newsroom,

there was something about the peace and quiet this area

offered that appealed to me.

It was six o'clock by the time we turned onto I-87

North heading toward Blue Mountain Lake. The city

itself was nestled in Hamilton County, in the town of

Indian Lake. After passing Albany and Saratoga

Springs, we turned onto Route 28 toward Indian Lake.

The drive down 28 was breathtaking. The roads were

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Jason Pinter

teeming with lush, green trees, small-town stores and

crisp blue water. It was the NewYork that existed outside

of what people commonly associated with New York.

Nearly untouched by technology, commerce and

industry.

About half an hour down 28, we passed a brownbrick building on our left. The sign read, Adirondack

Museum. The lettering was burned into a wooden

plaque, and unlike some other museums I'd seen in my

travels this one looked remarkably well maintained. It

was a shame, I thought, that I'd seen so many places yet

actually experienced so few. When I traveled, there was

always a reason. A story, something pulling me to a des

tination. There was never much time to enjoy my sur

roundings. I was here for business, and as much as I

could admire the beauty of this place, I wouldn't--at

least now--be able to lose myself in it.

We drove several miles down Route 28, the majesty

of Blue Mountain Lake on our left. I could picture

Stephen Gaines (or was it myself?) sitting in a chair by

the water, writing in a spiral-bound notebook, listening

to nothing but the world itself. It was a far cry from what

I'd gotten used to in the city. Either I could love being

here for the blissful solitude--or it would drive me

crazy not to hear blaring horns and the music of the

newsroom.

There were several unpaved roads, which, according

to Rose, led to various cabins. There weren't many

year-round residents up here, and most of the occu

pants were, like Stephen and Helen, city dwellers who

came to get away from the hustle and bustle. Each house

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stood far enough away from its neighbor to allow peace

and quiet, but were close enough that it did feel like

somewhat of a community up here.

As we approached the turn onto Maple Lodge Road,

on the northeast ridge of Blue Mountain Lake, I noticed

a set of tire tracks leading up to the cabin that looked

fairly recent, and another set leading away. They looked

like the same type of tread. The weather reports said that

it had rained here just two days ago, so whoever had

come here had done so in between the time Stephen

Gaines had died and now. And if, as Rose thought,

Helen had come here, we would hopefully find her.

The tracks leading away could have been Helen

shopping, picking up supplies.

Amanda turned the stereo off. I could feel the breath

become shallow in my chest. Helen Gaines had to have

answers. Even if she didn't know who killed her son,

she would certainly know what he might have been

mixed up in that got him killed. She was our only hope,

our only lead. My father's only hope.

We pulled onto the driveway and slowly entered the

Gaines residence. The only sounds were the rustling of

leaves in the slight wind. I could hear Amanda breathing

beside me. I felt her hand on my elbow for reassurance.

As we got closer we could see the cottage. It was two

stories tall, made from rounded interlocking logs. The

front door was bracketed by six logs surrounding a

makeshift porch. A chimney jutted from a roof lined

with a green material. It looked as if some sort of moss

or other plant life was growing on it. The chimney was

static. I lowered the window, smelled the air. It was

clean. If Helen was here, she hadn't made a fire recently.

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"Henry," Amanda said, her hand gripping my arm

tighter. "Look at that."

In the dirt driveway, we could clearly make out the

tread markings from a second set of tires. These treads

were marked with numerous crisscrossing lines, both

vertical and horizontal in even patterns. Truck tires

tended to have more grooves, deeper cuts, better for

sluicing water and specifically designed for off-roading.

These tracks likely belonged to a some sort of SUV. Our

eyes followed the tracks back to a clearing in the woods.

Whoever had come here hadn't used the front door.

They'd come in a different way. They didn't want to be

seen arriving. Who could have come here besides

Helen? And what kind of person would have come not

wanting to be seen? Clearly, whoever had come here

knew they would be coming in through the woods, and

needed treads that could handle it. Somebody wanted

to not be seen using the front door.

"This can't be good," Amanda said under her breath.

"What if someone is still there?"

She didn't need to say that that person might not be

Helen Gaines.

I stopped the car short of the driveway and put it into

Park. I kept the engine running. Just in case.

With the engine purring, we both unlocked our doors

and tentatively stepped into the evening air. Wind

swirled around us as we stared at the cabin. I couldn't

see much inside, so I crept closer, hunched low to the

ground. Dirt crackled under my feet as Amanda kept

pace several steps behind me.

I crept up the front steps and up to the door. Both side

windows were closed, and a drape prevented me from

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115

viewing what was inside. I gently knocked on the door.

There was no doorbell.

"Miss Gaines?" I called. "Helen?"

There was no response.

I called louder. Waited a minute. Heard nothing.

I walked back down the steps, then decided to go

around the house to see what we could find.

Heart pounding in my chest, I slid up to a side

window, cupped my hands to the glass and peered in.

The room was dark. There was a long couch, and I

could make out a television stand and what looked like

a desk. Other than that the room was impeccably clean.

Peering in closer, I could see a faint yellow glow ema

nating from a room beyond this one. A light was on

somewhere on the first floor.

"Stay here," I said to Amanda.

"Like hell," she replied. That was the end of that

discussion.

Staying low, we sidled around the back of the house

where another window faced the forest. Off in the

distance, I could make out a narrow road, paved poorly

but wide enough for a car to fit through. It did not face

the front of the house, and would be unseen by anyone

who was not in this room at the time. The window was

mere yards from the SUV tire tracks.

There was no doubt; whoever had come here had

used that path to gain access to the house.

I approached the window. My breath was ragged, and

I could hear Amanda panting behind me. Gently I stood

up until my eye line was just over the windowsill.

I made out the top of a shower rod and a medicine chest.

This was clearly the downstairs bathroom. Then I saw it.

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The right medicine cabinet was open. Pills and

makeup were spread out all over the counter. Bottles

were broken. Things scattered everywhere.

That's when Amanda stood up, saw the entirety of

the bathroom, and let out a bloodcurdling scream.

When I saw what she was looking at, it was all I

could do to stifle mine.

A body was facedown on the floor. Her blouse was

ripped and tattered. Her arms were splayed out in a

horribly unnatural position.

And a pool of blood was spread around her head like

a gruesome sunrise.

Without thinking, I ran to the nearest tree, propped my

foot against a limb and pulled until I heard a crunch and

the thick branch snapped off. Taking a running start, I

brought the limb back behind my head just like when I

played Little League, and slammed the branch against

the windowpane. The glass didn't shatter, but a large

crack snaked down the middle. Just enough. Two more

whacks and enough glass had broken for me to clear the

rest out with the branch. I carefully climbed through the

window. The blood around Helen Gaines's head looked

dark red, almost dried but not completely. A small piece

of metal floated in the gore, but I couldn't tell what it was.

I smelled the air, a faint but still noxious odor present. I

looked closer. There was a chance she was still...

I gently moved her hair away from her neck so I

could check her pulse. And that's when I realized that

this woman was black. It was not Helen Gaines.

I pressed three fingers against her carotid artery,

praying for a pulse. I felt nothing. I pressed again, this

time on her wrist. Silent. Dead.

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117

I looked at the body.

My hands shook as I reached into my pocket and

pulled out my cell phone. Thankfully there was recep

tion. My fingers fumbled and I had to dial 911 three

times before getting it right.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"A woman's been killed at 97 Maple Lodge Road.

Please get here quick."

"Sir, can you check her pulse?"

"There's no pulse. Please just get here."

"All right, sir, an ambulance is on the way. Do you

know the victim?"

"No," I said, nearly passing out as I sat down on the

rim of the porcelain bathtub. "I don't."

Sitting in the pool of blood, about two feet away from

the body, was a tiny diamond earring, lying next to

another thin sliver of what looked like gray hair. The

diamond was a princess cut. One day, a few weeks ago,

I was looking online at engagement rings. Thinking

about whether I could see Amanda wearing one. I re

membered seeing the name--princess cut--and

thinking it was perfect. A princess for a princess, I'd

thought.

But there was only one earring on the ground.

The other was either taken by the killer. Or still being

worn by someone who'd escaped.

Then I looked at the body again. The victim's ears

weren't pierced. Which meant the single earring on the

ground had belonged to Helen Gaines. And she'd

dropped it before she fled.

15

Her name was Beth-Ann Downing. She lived two

floors above Helen and Stephen Gaines in their apart

ment in Alphabet City. She and Helen had been friends

for fifteen years. She owned a Camry, which she parked

in a garage on Fourteenth Street. A call to the garage

confirmed that Beth had taken the Camry a few days

ago and had not returned it. Beth-Ann Downing was

fifty-three years old. Divorced. One daughter who lived

in Sherman Oaks, California, Sheryl Harrison, who was

on a flight to New York City to attend her mother's

funeral.

Beth had worked as a bank teller. According to the

police, gas and credit-card receipts showed she'd left the

city with Helen Gaines the very night Stephen Gaines

was killed. A waitress at a diner on I-87 recognized Beth

and said she'd been eating with another woman. That

woman fit the description of Helen Gaines, Stephen's

mother. Beth was either fleeing from something, or was

simply helping an old friend who was fleeing from

something.

And last night she was killed when a bullet severed

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her brain stem, fired from less than a foot away. Death

was almost instantaneous.

Almost.

And I wondered if Beth-Ann Downing had even

known what her friend was running from.

We'd given our statement to Deputy Reece Watts of

the Indian Lake Police Department. I took a little extra

time washing the blood off my fingers.

We told the police everything we knew. From early

forensics, it appeared that an SUV or van of some sort

approached the Gaines residence during the night, when

both Helen Gaines and Beth-Ann Downing were asleep.

They pried open the storm shutters and snuck in through

the basement.

Beth had awoken, and went downstairs to check on

the noise. She saw the intruders. The police confirmed

there was more than one. Several pairs of footprints,

they said. They chased her to the bathroom, where they

shot her. In the confusion, Helen Gaines had escaped.

That's why we saw tire tracks leaving the cabin.

Helen had fled while her friend was being murdered.

Nobody had any idea of the whereabouts of Helen

Gaines. She hadn't called the police. Hadn't stopped

anywhere for help.

She'd just disappeared.

It might have just been me, but that didn't seem like

typical behavior for a woman whose only son had just

recently been killed. Especially when the alleged

murderer was locked up awaiting trial.

I had no idea how this would play in regards to my

father. Stephen Gaines was still dead. The police were

still figuring out if anything in the cabin was missing.

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If they could chalk it up to a burglary gone horribly

wrong. Or if there was something else. Another reason

the intruders had come to that cabin in the middle of the

night.

Regardless of how the autopsy and discovery came

out, I couldn't believe the murder was the result of a

botched robbery. The killers had brought in weapons.

For protection? Maybe. To scare any residents?

Perhaps. Or maybe they brought them because they

were there for the sole purpose of killing Helen Gaines.

And Beth-Ann Downing just got in the way.

On the ride back from Blue Lake Mountain, neither

Amanda nor I said a word. The iPod sat on the armrest

untouched. We had no coffee, no snacks. It was just

completely and utterly silent.

I parked the car on the street near my apartment.

Amanda came upstairs with me.

Upon opening the door, I had a momentary burst

of fear. I generally took my safety for granted, despite

the fact that I'd been the recipient of some fairly

severe beatings over the past few years. I had scars

on my leg, my hand and my chest as a result of in

truders. Yet I wanted to believe I was safe. With

Amanda I usually felt that way. But tonight, after

seeing how another person's life--a helpless

person--could be invaded and snuffed out so quickly,

it made me rethink the simple dead bolt that protected

my apartment.

"Did you see," Amanda said, forcing the words out,

"all that blood?"

I nodded. Went into the kitchen and poured us each

a glass of water. Amanda gulped hers down while I sat

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121

there holding the cool glass in my hands, wondering just

what the hell was going on.

It didn't make sense that Helen Gaines would be on

the run. I had to assume my father did not kill Stephen

Gaines. I also had to assume that Helen Gaines knew

who the real killer was. And if that was true, she fled

because she did not feel like contacting the police. She

fled because of something she knew, either about her

son or his killer.

She'd gone to upstate New York to hide from some

thing or someone. And not just from her son's killer.

From something larger. If you fear one person, that fear

can be contained, limited. Controlled. You can seek the

help of cops, lawyers. There are always people who can

help.

What exactly was Helen Gaines fleeing from?

I thought about what Binks and Makhoulian talked

about at the medical examiner's office. Binks said that

Stephen Gaines was killed by a pistol likely covered by

some sort of makeshift silencer. That insinuated the

murder was premeditated. Of course, any prosecutor

could make the claim that my father made up his mind

to kill Stephen, that his death would allow my father to

keep on living without paying the money Helen wanted,

or exposing his bastard child to his family. The motive

would still hold up.

But then I thought about seeing Beth-Ann Downing

lying facedown in that pool of blood. The scene was

gruesome and hard to look at, yet I'd trained myself to

do just that. You had to divest yourself of any emotional

attachment. Present the facts. They would tell the story

themselves.

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Jason Pinter

Beth was lying in a pool of blood. I remembered

seeing something floating in that pool. A small piece of

gray hair. I hadn't thought much about it then, merely

processed it into my memory, but now I called it back

up.

The strand was very thin, very short, almost a hair's

width. But it wasn't hair--it was metal.

The conversation with Binks and Makhoulian came

back to me. The silenced gun that was used to kill

Stephen.

Most silencers were not professional. They were

made from simple items. A pillow.Aluminum tubing.

Aluminum tubing filled with steel wool.

I looked up at Amanda.

"Steel wool," I said.

"What?"

"The gun that was used to kill Stephen--whoever

did it used aluminum tubing filled with steel wool to

create a silencer. They didn't find evidence at Stephen's

murder scene, but the coroner said the wounds sug

gested a silencer. But it was impossible to tell what

kind of silencer was used. When I saw Beth-Ann

Downing, there was a piece of metal near her body. I'm

positive it was steel wool. Which means the intruders

knew where Helen was. And between the silencer and

the offroad tires, they didn't want anyone to know they

were there."

Fear grew in Amanda's eyes. "That means the same

people who killed Stephen probably killed Beth."

"And are still after Helen," I said. "Not only that, but

they're actually taking precautions during the murders.

According to Makhoulian, no shell casings or bullets

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were found at Gaines's apartment. Whoever killed him

took them to prevent analysis, but left the gun itself.

Somehow I don't see my father on his hands and knees

picking up spent shell casings, or digging a bullet out

of the wall. And why would they leave the gun?"

"Someone out there has the answer," Amanda said.

"We need to find Helen Gaines," I said. "She has to

know what's going on. And something has to be fright

ening her enough to stay away from the cops."

"If someone doesn't want to be found," Amanda

said, "they won't be found."

"Not necessarily. If you have the resources, anyone

can be found. The trick isn't going from point A to

point Z. There are stops in between. Each one will lead

you closer. We need to find the next step, even if it only

takes us a little bit closer."

"So who knew Helen Gaines besides Stephen and

Beth?" Amanda said. "And who knew Stephen besides

Rose Keller?"

"The question isn't necessarily who knew Helen and

Stephen," I said, "but who else knew Rose and Beth?

Beth-Ann Downing had a daughter. Sheryl Downing,

who now goes by the name Sheryl Harrison. She's

thirty-five, and according to the Indian Lake officer

who spoke to Sheryl, she and Beth hadn't spoken in

nearly ten years, ever since Sheryl moved to California.

For there to be that kind of estrangement, something

had to have driven mother and daughter apart."

"But it could be anything," Amanda said dubiously.

"Maybe Beth disapproved of her daughter's husband.

Maybe Sheryl didn't like her mom's cooking."

"Or maybe there was something else," I said. "It

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Jason Pinter

took a lot more than burned meat loaf to make me want

to leave a burning trail of rubber when I left Bend."

"So how do you plan to get in touch with Sheryl?"

"She lives in Sherman Oaks. We have her name.

She's on her way to New York, but will likely still be

checking her messages. Give me one minute."

I went to my laptop and booted it. Opening Internet

Explorer, I went to 411.com. I plugged in Sherman

Oaks as the city, then entered the name Sheryl Harrison.

The page loaded for a few seconds, and then three

names popped up, along with their phone numbers.

"Let's hope this works."

I called each of the three numbers. The first Sheryl

Harrison picked up. I told her I had a question about her

mother, Beth. She said her mother had died years ago.

I thanked her and hung up. Neither of the next two were

home. One of them might have been the right one. I had

no idea if they were, or which one. But I left them both

the same message:

"Hi, Sheryl, my name is Henry Parker. I'm so sorry

for your loss. I have a question about your mother. I

don't mean to pry, and I know this is a difficult time for

you, but I wouldn't be contacting you if this wasn't of

the utmost importance. If you can, please call me back

at the following number."

I left my number on both machines, and thanked them

again for their time. One Sheryl would call me back. I had

to believe that.And to believe that, all I had to do was wait.

After a quick slice of pizza, I threw off my clothes

and stepped into the shower. I immediately noticed there

were no towels hanging on the racks. Either we'd used

them all and they were in the laundry waiting to be

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shipped off, or Amanda had purposely taken them all out

so I'd have to beg for one. I had a feeling it was the latter.

For some reason she got a kick out of seeing me open

the bathroom door just a crack, then squirt through the

apartment naked looking for something to cover myself

up with. She called this game "hide and peek," and I'd

be lying if I said she was the only one who enjoyed it.

For some reason, I was too scared to play it on her.

The water felt wonderful, hot and nearly scalding. A

long shower would do my body good, just to take my

mind off everything. We had to start up again soon, but

every brief respite was a moment to be savored.

After that, I threw a pair of shorts on while I airdried, then went to the bed and passed out. Amanda was

already asleep, surrounded by enough pillows to build

a fort big enough for both of us. No reason to ask where

all my towels were. Sleep came easily.

It must have been several hours later when a shrill

ring woke me up from the darkness. I blinked, noticed

Amanda was no longer on the bed. I groped around for

the phone, forgetting where I'd placed it. Then I heard

Amanda from the living room.

"Henry, your phone is ringing!"

"Who is it?" I replied, picking crust from my eyes.

"Check the caller ID."

"I don't know, but it's an 818 area code."

Eight-one-eight. That was a California area code.

I leaped out of bed, toppling half a dozen pillows

onto the floor. I was wearing nothing but a towel. Not

like whoever was calling would notice. Then I bolted

out of the bedroom--stark naked, the towel fluttering

to the floor--and made a beeline for the phone.

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Jason Pinter

Amanda was standing there, holding it in one hand

while trying to stifle a laugh with her other.

"Sweet dreams?" she said, looking south.

I scowled at her, crossed my legs, grabbed the phone,

looked at the ID and pressed Send.

"Hello?" I said, hoping I'd made it in time.

"Is this...Mr. Parker?" It was a woman's voice I did

not register in my memory.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Sheryl Harrison. I had a voice mail from a Henry

Parker asking to call back at this number. Something

about my mother."

"Yes, Mrs. Harrison, thank you so much for calling

me back. I was wondering if I could talk to you about

your mother, Beth. Do you have a few minutes?"

"I'm leaving the church right now. My mother's

funeral is tomorrow. I have an hour before my appoint

ment with the florist, that's all the time I can give you. If

you can meet me on Twenty-seventh and Third, you'll

have whatever time is remaining before my appoint

ment."

"I'm leaving right now," I said, looking around to see

where I put my pants.

"Just so we're clear, I know who you are, Mr. Parker.

You're a reporter. To be honest, I really want nothing

to do with you, and you're not going to get much more

than a 'no comment.'"

"This isn't for my job," I said. "It's personal. It's

about my father. He's linked to this crime. You'll under

stand when I see you."

"Is that right. So none of this will end up in print."

"Not a word."

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127

"In any event, everything that passes between us is

officially off the record."

"I understand," I said. "You have my word."

"So if any word of our conversation ends up in print,

I'll own your newspaper, your apartment and every pen

and pencil you've ever held."

"I swear on my life, this is personal."

"We'll see." She hung up.

I looked up to see Amanda standing there holding a

pair of slacks and a clean blue shirt.

"If you're not out this door in three minutes," she

said, "I'm going down there to meet Sheryl Harrison in

your place."

16

The good and bad thing about New York is that if you

don't have time to sit stuck in traffic while your cab

racks up forty cents every one-point-two blocks, you

can pick from myriad transportation options. There are

dozens of subway and bus lines that crisscross the city

like a drunk doctor's stitching, and even if the Second

Avenue subway remains a figment of the city's imagi

nation, there's always a way from point A to point B.

Of course, even though there happens to be a large

public transportation system, it was still as spotty ser

vicewise as your average Wi-Fi connection. Which is

why I stood sweating in a dank station for nearly half

an hour before the 4 train rumbled to its stop. By the

time I took a seat across from a heavily tattooed couple

playing tonsil hockey like they were trying out for the

Rangers, my nice blue shirt was soaked through with

sweat and my pressed slacks looked like they'd been

crumpled in a ball in a Russian steam bath for a week.

Thankfully, the one place in New York that was airconditioned was the subway cars, so when I transferred

to the 6 and got off at Twenty-eighth and Park, my

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clothes looked only mildly rumpled. I couldn't decide

whether this appearance would make Sheryl Harrison

more or less skeptical of my motives.

Hustling over to Twenty-seventh and Third, I saw an

attractive black woman standing on the corner. She was

finishing the last of what appeared to be a sandwich or

a wrap, and held a gigantic iced coffee in her other

hand. The smart yet subdued suit she wore seemed to

work for someone in mourning, yet keeping her ap

pointment book up-to-date.

Just as I approached, she strapped her purse to her

shoulder and began to walk away.

Sprinting across the street, I yelled, "Miss Harri

son! Sheryl!"

She turned to look at me, the expression on her face

unchanging. Panting, I caught up to her, composed

myself. "Mrs. Harrison, Henry Parker, so sorry, the

subway, I--"

"I'm on my way to the florist. I don't have time to

stop and chat. You're welcome to walk with me, but as

soon as we get there we're done."

"I understand," I said, falling into step with her.

It was a dry, sunny day, and pretty soon I wasn't even

thinking about the trip down. Sheryl Harrison walked

west down Twenty-seventh, and I followed.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I said.

"I doubt that," she said. "Though the police did tell

me you found her. Is that right?"

"That's right," I replied. Sheryl nodded, kept

walking. She was tall, about five-ten, with an almost

regal walk. Her hair looked professionally done, her

makeup highlighting her natural features rather than

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Jason Pinter

trying to add some that weren't there. She took long,

gallant strides, and though I wasn't a short guy I found

myself expelling quite a bit of energy just to keep step.

To my surprise, Sheryl did not ask a follow-up

question. Not about the circumstances in which I found

her mother, if she had any last words, nothing. If she

was in mourning, she hid it. If she had any feelings for

her mother, they were worn far below the sleeve.

Without Sheryl prompting, I told her about Stephen

Gaines, about my father's arrest for his murder. I also

told her how Rose Keller had pointed me in the direc

tion of the cabin at Blue Lake Mountain, and how I was

working to prove my father's innocence. She listened

without saying a word. I couldn't tell if she was merely

aloof, distracted with everything that had gone on, or,

more distressingly, not surprised at all.

"Were you two close?" I asked. A rhetorical

question, but what I hoped would be a baby step in

finding out more about Beth-Ann Downing and her re

lationship to Helen Gaines.

"I hadn't spoken to my mother in almost ten years,"

Sheryl said, her gaze straight ahead. She spoke as if I

was asking her about her previous employment. And I

noticed she used the past tense-- hadn't. Most people,

when discussing a recent death of a friend or family

member, would slip up, say haven't as though the

person was still alive. Somehow I got the feeling this

was a day Sheryl Harrison was prepared for.

"Did she ever try to reach out to you?" I asked. "Or

mention friends, associates, anyone?"

"Mr. Parker," Sheryl said, a hint of annoyance

creeping into her voice. "I answered your question. My

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mother and I were not close. Not even before I left the

city. Yes, she did try to reach out once or twice. I didn't

return her phone calls."

"Why not?"

"Perhaps you're too young to have experienced this,

but when someone hurts you so badly--I'm not talking

about a faulty relationship or bad argument--I'm

talking about hurts you in such a way that decimates

you, your confidence, your life in such a way that the

only chance you have to life is by cutting off a diseased

limb, you don't care or make an effort to reconnect. If

anything, you stay away from it."

"What did your mother do to you?" I asked. This

came out less incredulous than expected. If I didn't

grow up with a father whose mission in life seemed to

be to alienate his family, this kind of revelation from

Sheryl might have taken me aback. Instead, I under

stood, maybe even empathized with her.

"What didn't she do." Sheryl sighed.

"When you left," I asked, "was it one act that drove

you away, or did the camel's back suddenly give out?"

"A little of both," Sheryl said. We turned right on

Madison, began to walk uptown, my legs growing sore

with the exertion. I was in good shape, but Sheryl

Harrison looked like she was ready to compete in the

Olympics. "But if there was one thing that I could point

to that destroyed my relationship with my mother," she

continued, "it was the drugs."

I stopped for a moment. Sheryl did not stop with me,

so I had to jog back to keep pace.

"Drugs?" I said, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Well, when I left it was still the crack," Sheryl said

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with the blank expression of a clinical diagnosis. "I'm

sure there were a few other things mixed in there--

meth, weed--but it was the crack that burned her

humanity from the inside out."

"She did this while she raised you," I said.

"I don't think she was as heavily into it while I was

a child, but by the time I got to high school it was like

coming home to a woman who'd turned into a funhouse mirror."

"Jesus," I said.

"I don't think Jesus smoked crack," Sheryl said. For

the first time, I heard a lightness in her voice, as though

she was amusing herself. "And all those people who

call you late at night to ask if God has a plan? I tell them

God didn't have a damn thing for me. He gave me a

treasure map to a pile of dog shit, and I had to clean up

after it myself. Finally I got tired and moved on."

"How long did your mother do drugs?" I asked. "Was

it something she picked up?" I felt slightly off kilter

with this line of questioning. Growing up, I'd experi

enced many forms of addiction of personal evils, both

in my family, my relationships and my friends. I'd lived

through Jack O'Donnell's alcoholism. I'd seen first

hand what external poisons could do to a person inter

nally. One thing I'd never been exposed to on a personal

level was a habitual drug user. Yet both of us had left

family behind to free ourselves from their trappings.

"Let's see...how long did my mother use? My whole

life," Sheryl said. "You know you can pretty much make

your own crack pipe using household materials. My

dad died when I was a baby. One of my first memories

was seeing all these pretty flowers my mother, Beth,

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133

used to keep around the house. Pretty flowers inside this

metal tubing. One day I brought one to school, and I got

a belt across the back because of it. Turns out those

little roses you buy at any gas station are actually crack

pipes in disguise. You just take off the foil and remove

the rose, stuff about an inch of Brillo pad into the tubing.

That's your filter. Take a rock and put it on the Brillo

pad, then run a lighter over it, constantly rolling the

tube between your fingers to make sure the rock burns

easily. Some kids learn how to build sand castles, braid

hair, make macaroni necklaces. I learned how to build

a crack pipe."

"Do you know if your mother was still smoking it

when she died?"

"I'd be shocked as hell if she wasn't," Sheryl said.

"And I remember there were days when my mother

forget to pay her electric bills, and rather than own up,

she'd just go with Helen up to that cabin. Don't get me

wrong, Henry, in some way I loved my mother. But I

saw her death coming from miles away. It was only a

matter of time before her life ended, and ended badly.

But one thing I do know, that lovely Ms. Helen Gaines?

She was the biggest enabler my mother ever had."

The words struck me like a punch. Helen Gaines? I

knew Stephen had a habit, but Helen?

"Don't look so surprised," Sheryl said. "Based on

where they lived during that time, Alphabet City in the

'80s? Would've been a surprise if they didn't end up

addicts. I mean, I remember this WASPY-looking

young punk always coming by the house to drop off

whatever my mom had ordered. Remember his name

too, Vinnie."

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Jason Pinter

"Vinnie?" I said, the surprise in my voice evident.

Rose Keller had said that whenever she needed a new

supply she would call some delivery system where

they'd send over a guy named Vinnie. I had no idea how

many Vinnies there were, but it was clear this system

had been in place over a decade and was likely still in

business today. This wasn't just some petty drug deal,

but something much larger.

"Take that British singer, Amy Winehouse," Sheryl

said, "then multiply it by ten and that's how bad my

mother was. So my guess is this. If my mother was

killed while hiding out with Helen Gaines, I'd bet my

husband's Infiniti it's got something to do with drugs.

And Stephen Gaines must have crossed some damn un

pleasant people."

17

Rose Keller was home. This didn't quite surprise me--

most graphic designers worked freelance. So I figured

she wasn't the kind of person who woke up to an alarm

clock at six forty-five, got dressed and grabbed a tall

latte on the way to the office. When I called at eight in

the morning, it was no great shock that Rose Keller

sounded like a bear awoken from hibernation.

Actually, she kind of reminded me of what Amanda

sounded like before her first cup of coffee.

One thing I learned early on when talking to sources:

get them early, or get them late. During the day, everyone

was at work. There was always an excuse not to talk. I

hate to say this, but often a source would agree to talk

to you if only to prevent you from ever interrupting their

private time again. Probably the only time I would

compare my profession to that of the noble telemar

keter.

"I need a favor," I said to Rose. I put the statement

bluntly, accentuating the word need. Not want. Need.

And since she was close to Stephen, and aware that I

was tracking down his killer, she might be more apt to

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accept the rather large, not to mention illegal, favor I

was about to ask of her.

"What can I do?" she replied. Good start.

I filled her in on the details of Beth-Ann Downing's

murder, and the disappearance of Helen Gaines. I told

her about my conversation with Sheryl Harrison, and the

confession that her mother had maintained a ruthless

addiction her whole life. The silence on the other end told

me that Rose was well aware of why I was coming to her.

When I finished, I asked if I could fill her in in

person. She agreed, and I was on the next subway down

town to meet her.

Before turning on to Rose's block, I stopped at an

ATM and withdrew two hundred dollars. I had no idea

how much I'd actually need, but I figured better to have

more money and not need it than need more money and

not have it.

When I got to her building, I buzzed up and she rang

me through. She opened the door wearing a tank top and

pajama bottoms. Her eyes were weary, deep bags

settling under them like squished blueberries.

"Morning," I said.

"Is it morning already?" she asked.

I noticed the shades were all drawn, and there were

no clocks in sight. Half a dozen wrapped candy bars

were strewn around, as well as what looked like a

month's supply of Red Bull. It looked like the apartment

was stocked and prepared for a bout of hibernation.

"It's almost 9:00 a.m.," I said.

"Huh. Didn't realize it."

"Listen," I said. "I have a favor to ask of you. A big

one."

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137

"You said that already. What gives?"

"I need you to order something from Vinnie," I said.

"I want to know who he works for."

Rose sat back in her overstuffed leather couch. The

confident woman I'd just met looked like she'd just

been swallowed up whole.

"I've been clean for a long time," she said. "I've put

that behind me."

"I don't want you to use anything," I said, attempt

ing to clarify things but wondering if that mattered at

all. "All I need is for whoever's playing Vinnie this

week to come here so I can follow him."

"So why don't you call him yourself?"

"They won't know me," I said. "They'll trust you.

I'm willing to bet that whoever these Vinnies work for,

they keep a record of addresses, customers. The runners

might be idiots, but their bosses never are. I intend to

follow this guy, see where he goes, and I don't want to

chance being recognized. They know you."

Rose shook her head violently, as though shooing

away demons that were swirling around. A pang of

guilt thudded in my stomach, and I wondered if my onetrack mind in finding Stephen's killer could hurt others

as well. The last thing I wanted to do was encourage

Rose to relapse, but...I didn't know where else to turn.

And I needed to know where the stream started. Or at

least needed to find the next level.

"I'll do it," Rose said. "But I won't order anything

stronger than weed, and I won't pay for a cent of it."

"Fair enough," I said. "What's the smallest amount

you can order?"

"You don't want the smallest amount, trust me."

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"Why not?"

"They'll know my phone number. Let's just say back

in the day, I never ordered the smallest amount. Not to

mention I haven't ordered in a long time. If all of a

sudden I call up and ask for one tab of ecstasy, they

won't believe me. Somebody who comes back to the

stuff after such a long layoff, it's because they fell off the

wagon. Hard. We want to make the order sound realis

tic. You order a dime bag of schwag, he'll laugh in your

face and tell you it's not worth his time. And then he'll

never take my call again because he'll assume I'm

turning on him. Cops on stakeouts are cheap. You want

a real delivery, an ounce of decent weed will probably

run you a hundred fifty or so, though I've been out of the

game for a while so, you know, inflation and everything."

"Really? Inflation affects drug sales?"

"We live in the United States, don't we? You think

people will pay more than four bucks for a gallon of gas

but won't pony up a Ben Franklin to get high with their

friends?A gallon lasts until the next exit.A good high will

give you stories that'll last for years--if you can remember

it. I'd go with this--order a quarter ounce of mids. Decent

enough stuff, probably run seventy-five bucks. Enough so

it's worth the trip for them, but it won't put a big crimp in

your discretionary fund. That work, champ?"

"Whatever you say. You call and order. When Vinnie

buzzes up, just send a text message to my cell phone. I

won't respond, but that's the signal that it's the right

guy. Then send me one more when he leaves, just to be

sure." I took out my wallet, peeled off two hundred

dollars and handed it to Rose. "In case it's more than

you expect. Or you need to, like, tip him."

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139

"Tip the drug dealer," she said, laughing. "Right.

I'm sure he'll take it back to the Dairy Queen and divide

it up among his colleagues. What are you, some kind

of nitwit? Didn't you smoke in college?"

"Once or twice," I said, "but I don't think anyone

ever trusted me to handle the business transactions. I

just assumed you tip people in the service industry."

"All right," Rose said. "But after this, no more favors.

I told you everything I know and then some, and now

you have me risking my sobriety for you."

"It's not for me," I said. "It's for Stephen."

"Are you sure?" Rose asked, one eyebrow arched.

"'Cause I've been around a lot of users before, every

kind of drug you can imagine. I've seen too many

friends die because of the pipe or needle. But not every

addict smokes or drinks or inhales. A lot of them get off

on other things. I see a little bit of that in you, Henry.

You're a bit of an addict, too."

I didn't know how to reply to this, but something

about it didn't feel good. Rather than respond, I simply

thanked Rose for helping, and went outside.

I was still thinking about what she'd said when I

found a park bench to sit on that afforded me a full view

of her building's entrance.

Addict. I repeated the word to myself. It was a cool,

sunny day, and if I weren't tracking a drug dealer I

could envision myself sitting here with Amanda,

watching the families play. Young children growing up

in a city that seemed to offer them brief pockets of

respite, small guarded sanctuaries in between the play

grounds for millionaires.

Addict.

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Jason Pinter

It was an ugly word, one I never associated with

myself. Yet when Rose said it, I felt an angry fire

burning inside me. I wanted to argue with her, but

somehow felt it would have strengthened her point.

Addict.

I watched the children play and wondered if she was

right.

My eyes stayed fixed to the building entrance. Every

time someone entered--old, young, white, black,

Hispanic--I would place my hand over the pocket

holding my cell phone. It was set to vibrate. Every few

minutes I would take it just to make sure I hadn't missed

anything. Nothing yet.

An hour and a half passed, when a man wearing a

Yankees hat approached the doorstep. He pulled out a

cell phone, checked it, then went up the steps. He was

young, maybe nineteen or twenty. He wore baggy jeans

and a chain looped around from his belt to his back

pocket where he kept a wallet. And most importantly,

he was carrying a backpack.

As he went to press the buzzer, another man walked

up to the steps. He was wearing a dark suit with slickedback hair and sunglasses. An expensive-looking brief

case was in his hand. He was a few years older than hat

guy, maybe twenty-four or -five, but looked like he

lived in a totally different world. Not to mention bank

account. Funny, I thought, that he was standing there

next to a drug dealer and didn't even realize it.

They both pressed the buzzer and waited. When they

were rung through they both entered, the nicely dressed

guy holding the door for the young punk.

Ten minutes after the door closed, I felt my cell

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141

phone vibrating. I took it out, looked at the call log. It

was Rose. Jackpot.

Adrenaline began to course through me. As soon as

hat guy came through the door, I was prepared to go

wherever he did. My hands were sweating. I was ready.

Then the front door opened, and a man stepped

through. Only it wasn't the young guy with baggy pants

and a backpack that looked sketchier than a forty-year

old at a dance club. It was the young-executive type.

I looked at him with intense skepticism, debating

whether to wait until the other guy came through. This

guy didn't look anything like a dealer. He looked too

well off, and I doubted most drug dealers bought their

briefcases at Coach.

It couldn't be. The guy was young, looking like he'd

just stepped out of his b-school graduation. He was

about five foot ten, in terrific shape. There was a small,

moon-shaped birthmark on the front of his neck, and he

gripped the briefcase so tight it looked as if it could

crumble in his hands.

Then, as the man began to walk away, I saw him stop,

look at his briefcase. He picked it up, clicked a loose

clasp into place, then walked away.

Then my cell phone vibrated. The screen had a text

message from Rose. It read

Gordon "Vinnie" Gekko has just left the building.

That sealed it. This man about town was Vinnie.

Waiting until he was half a block ahead of me, I

began to follow. He walked north to Fourteenth Street,

when he stopped for a moment to look at his cell phone.

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I stopped as well, retreating into the shadow of an elec

tronics store. When he put the phone back in his pocket,

he began to look around. His eyes caught something,

and suddenly he turned and jogged across the street. He

zigged between several cars, making it impossible for

me to follow him without drawing attention to myself.

Instead, I watched in between traffic as he approached

a pay phone. I saw him put money in the machine and

make a call. He hung up less than fifteen seconds later.

No doubt he was calling whatever number had just

come up on his cell phone. Briefcase man had another

delivery to make.

He turned West on Fourteenth Street and made his

way to what I assumed was the Union Square subway

stop.

I picked up the pace, narrowing the gap between us

to thirty feet or so. I wanted to remain behind him, but

if he was heading for the subway, losing him in the

bustle of pedestrians was a chance I didn't want to take.

He went down into the subway, paid his fare and

headed for the 6 train. I followed.

He went down the two flights of stairs onto the 6

train platform. I followed ten feet behind. He walked

halfway down the platform then stopped and waited. I

stopped two car lengths away, and hung out behind a

steel column, peeking out every now and then to make

sure he was still there.

The 6 train rattled into the station. My heart was

pumping. I wanted to run up and grab this guy, make

him give up everything he knew. But that would cut off

my only source of information. And unless I killed him,

he would tell whoever he worked for what happened,

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and the whole thing would clam up faster than a mute

on the witness stand. And while I was willing to do a

whole lot to figure out just what exactly happened that

night at Helen Gaines's apartment, murder wasn't on

my approved list of actions.

The man stepped into the car, and I got into the

adjacent one, making sure I could see him through the

separating window. For a moment I had a sense of deja

vu, remembering that it was not too long ago when I

was on the subway running from two men who wanted

me dead. Funny how the tides turn.

The doors closed, and the man took a seat. That

likely meant we were traveling a few stops. I stayed

standing, not wanting to lose sight due to a bad angle.

This was slightly awkward considering there were half

a dozen open seats and I was the only person standing

in our car. Still, I'd rather be considered an antisocial

weirdo than lose the rabbit.

Every stop I braced myself in case my target left.

Finally as we approached the Seventy-seventh Street

subway stop, I saw him stand up, check to make sure

his briefcase was still looped around his shoulder and

approach the door. I didn't move.

When the train stopped, a mass of passengers exited.

The Seventy-seventh Street stop was right by the

entrance to Lenox Hill Hospital. This Upper East Side

location was right near a large residential area. Though

heavily populated, it wasn't as crowded as Union

Square or one stop higher, Eighty-sixth Street.

The man walked east across Seventy-seventh. I

followed him. Between First and Second Avenues, he

went up to a brick town house, stopped in front of it. I sat

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on a small brick outcropping and pretended to tie my

shoe. He took out his cell phone, looking like he was

double-checking something, then went up the stairs and

pressed a buzzer. I heard a ring, then he said something

but I couldn't hear what. He opened the door and walked

in.

I retreated around the corner, peeking back every

few seconds to make sure I didn't lose him.

I only had to wait five minutes, then the man was

back outside and walking west, toward me. My heart

raced. If he was dealing--or delivering--drugs, this

seemed to fit the profile. Short and sweet. No chitchat.

Just in and out, over and done. Pay the man his money.

And the bulge in the briefcase even seemed to have

gone down a little bit.

I bought a bottle of water at a corner store as he

walked past, then I got back into our familiar pace. I

needed to see how many stops he made, see if anything

interesting presented itself. I decided to follow him the

rest of the day. I took out my cell, and sent Amanda a

text message.

Got a lead. Will call when I can.

Don't wait up.

If I were a girlfriend and my boyfriend sent me that

kind of text, I'd probably scour the city looking for

him, half expecting to find him in the arms of some

illicit lover. But I trusted Amanda. And after everything

we'd been through, I believed she trusted me back.

My phone vibrated. I took it out, checked the

message.

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145

Go get em, Tiger.

God, I loved this woman.

The man with the briefcase made four more stops the

rest of the day: 124th and Broadway, Ninety-eighth and

Broadway, and then back downtown to Fourteenth

between Fifth and Sixth. Each time I noticed the bag on

his shoulder became a little easier to carry. It swung at

greater arcs as he carried it. As his stash grew lighter,

the bag weighed him down less.

During his journey, I decided that I would follow him

home. I had no idea what to expect, or what I would say

to this man. But I needed to know where someone like

him lived. And I needed to know where I could find him

again.

It was nearing eleven o'clock. My legs were getting

heavy. Vinnie had just downed his third bottle of water

of the day. So when I followed him to the N train, the

night having fully descended over the city, I hoped this

would be our final ride of the day.

Vinnie rode the N train to the Canal/Broadway stop.

He looked weary, his eyes fluttering open and closed as

his breathing grew deeper. I knew how he felt. My

muscles felt sluggish. Private detective work was cer

tainly not a calling I was prepared for. Spenser I was

not.

Where he sat, Vinnie opened his bag and dug through

it. He pulled out an MP3 player, then scrounged around

some more. He seemed unable to find something. Then

he turned the bag upside down and shook it. A thin

white wire fell out. He picked it up, plugged one end

into the MP3 player and took the two earbuds and fit

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Jason Pinter

them into his ears. Then he pressed a button on the

player and relaxed.

No doubt this was the last stop. When he turned the

bag upside down, not a thing fell out. No bags, no foil,

no vials.

Vinnie was heading home.

I followed him out of the station. At this point I

probably could have walked right next to him and he

wouldn't have noticed or recognized me. He walked

two blocks west and one block south before approach

ing a row of town houses. He was walking slowly, but

then all of a sudden his head perked up.

Another young man was walking down the street in

the other direction. He looked to be the same age as the

guy I was following, maybe a year or two younger. He

was wearing loose jeans, sneakers, a Mets cap with the

brim turned sideways. The other guy's head snapped up,

too, in a familiar greeting.

These two men knew each other. They slowed down

as they approached. I slipped behind a wall, out of

sight, but easily able to hear every word they said.

"S'up, Scotty?" the other man yelled as they got

closer.

"SSDD," my guy, apparently Scotty, yelled back.

Same shit, different day.

As they got closer, their voices lowering, I heard

Scotty say, "What'd you pull in today?"

"Four-fiddy. Would've been more but these trustfund princesses thought they could get a taste for free

if they shoved their tits in my face. Don't need to tell

them I can get that on my own. How 'bout you?"

"Five-twenty," Scotty said, a note of pride in his

voice. "And that's after the man takes his cut."

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147

"Better than serving lattes," the other guy said. "I'm

cleaned out for the night. Gotta re-up in the morning."

"Same here," Scotty said. "How's your moms

doing?"

The other guy shrugged. "Her hair hasn't started

falling out yet, but the docs say it's a matter of time."

He scratched his nose. "She's strong as a bull. Wouldn't

mind moving out on my own like you, but not while

she's like this."

"Give her my best, bro'."

"Will do. Hey, meet on the corner tomorrow morning

at seven? Go over together?"

Scotty nodded. "Sounds like a plan. 'Night, Kyle."

"Later, Scotty."

The kid named Kyle kept on walking, as Scotty

entered his building.

I stood there stunned as Kyle passed by me.

Re-ups tomorrow morning. I knew what that meant.

They'd both cleaned out their stash today, and would

need to restock tomorrow to make more deliveries. It

meant they weren't working for themselves, and they

didn't keep any drugs at their houses. Somebody held

them for re-upping. And there was enough to resupply

at least two soldiers.

Which meant that if Scotty and Kyle were going to

meet at seven, I would be there waiting for them.

18

I was standing on the corner of Broadway and West

Sixth Street at 6:30 a.m. I didn't know what corner

Scotty was referring to when he and Kyle made plans

to meet, so I wanted to make sure I had my eyes on him

from the moment he left his apartment. I was on my

second cup of coffee when, at six fifty-five, the front

door opened and Scotty came out. He was dressed just

like the day before. Natty suit, hair combed, a briefcase

slung over his shoulder.

He yawned and stretched, and I watched while won

dering if this was a morning ritual. Whether he and

Kyle met every day, or only on re-up days. He began

walking east, presumably toward the corner.

I walked half a block down and watched as he

stopped on the corner. Scotty checked his watch,

dawdled for a bit, then turned around and nodded his

head at someone I couldn't see. A minute later, Kyle

joined him on the corner.

Last night when I saw Kyle he was loose, relaxed.

This morning he and Scotty looked like twins.

Gone was the baseball cap, and a mop of red hair was

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slicked back into place. He was wearing a navy blazer

and slacks. Kyle, too, had a briefcase in his hands.

They spoke for a minute, and I saw Kyle pass Scotty

a stick of gum. I retreated into a deli as they passed, then

fell into line.

They entered the N train at the corner of Canal and

Broadway. Again I took the adjacent car. They con

versed as though they'd known each other a long time.

Neither wore a wedding ring. They were just two young

guys, mid to late twenties if I had to guess. Much the

same as thousands of other young men in the city,

dressed and ready for a day at the office.

Only I knew that their work entailed something

much darker than punching a clock.

At the Fifty-seventh Street station, Kyle and Scotty

left, went upstairs and began walking north on Seventh

Avenue. I had no idea where they were going, but when

they turned on Fifty-eighth and headed toward Sixth, I

noticed both Kyle and Scotty cock their heads in that

familiar "what's up" way that insinuated they saw

someone they knew.

I picked up the pace. Felt my pulse quickening.

Then I saw something that nearly made me stop dead

in my tracks.

At least half a dozen young men were approaching

from the opposite direction. All of them were well

dressed in business suits. All of them were smiling and

jeering at Kyle and Scotty.

And all of them were carrying briefcases that were

most certainly empty.

"S'up, bitches!" Kyle yelled at the oncoming group.

Kyle and Scotty joined the other young men as I

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hung back, dumbfounded. They'd stopped outside of

what appeared to be a small office building. I wrote

down the number and address in my notepad. I couldn't

get any closer without arousing suspicion.

After a minute of horseplay, all eight men entered the

building, like a troop of bankers ready to conquer the

world. When they'd gone inside I ventured closer until

I could see. They were writing their names down at a

security station, and giving a good-natured ribbing to

the guard on duty. He was laughing and playing along.

He must have known them.

Then, just like that, they were gone.

Could all of these men have been going to the same

place for the same reason? Were they all part of the

same crew? Were they all dealers?

As I stood outside weighing my options, several

more young men entered the building, stopped by the

security station and went upstairs. A few of them

chatted with the guard. I assumed they were part of the

same crew as Scotty and Kyle.

I decided to wait. I couldn't go inside in case Scotty

or Kyle came downstairs. Thankfully, I didn't have to

wait long, because within twenty minutes a veritable

crush of young, well-dressed men came pouring out of

the front doors. Their pace was quick. They offered

pithy "laters" and "rake it in, boys" goodbyes to each

other.

And, I noticed, all of their briefcases looked full.

I waited another fifteen minutes to be sure, then I

walked inside the building. I pretended to act confused,

reading the directory on the wall.

"Help you?" the guard asked.

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"Yeah," I said. I went up to his station, saw the

logbook open. I pretended to be thinking while I

scanned the log.

And there, right next to each other, were two names:

Scott Callahan

Kyle Evans

Scotty and Kyle. And by the company line they wrote

"718 Enterprises."

"Actually," I said to the guard, "I'm in the wrong

place."

Walking back into the lobby's atrium, I stopped by

the company directory listings. Scanning the names and

floor numbers of the companies that were housed here,

I could find no listing for 718 Enterprises. Strange.

Where were all these young men going?

And what the hell was 718 Enterprises?

I figured I'd ask someone who might know. I walked

up to the security guard and said, "Hi, sorry to bother

you again. I'm looking for a company called 718 En

terprises. I'm pretty sure it's here, but I can't find it in

the directory and I forgot the name of the person I'm

supposed to meet."

The guard looked me over. He was in his late fifties,

heavyset, with big wide eyes that looked like they

believed me as far as he could shove me down his throat.

"No, you didn't," he said.

"I didn't?" I said incredulously.

"No. You're not. I don't know you, friend." He

averted his eyes to the crossword puzzle on his desk. I

stood there for another moment, until the guard's eyes

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came back to mine. He put his hand on the phone at his

desk and said, "Do I have to call the cops?"

I apologized and walked outside.

Standing there outside the building, I tried to piece

this together. Those young men who filed into the

building, who knew each other and were all dressed

alike, I'd be willing to bet they all took on the moniker

of Vinnie during their day job. And I'd also be willing

to bet that whatever 718 Enterprises was, it was some

sort of supplier.

I still had no idea what, if anything, they had to do

with the deaths of Beth-Ann Downing or even Stephen

Gaines. But it's all I had. As thin and transparent as this

thread was, it was the only one I had to pull. And I'd

had thinner ones that ended up unraveling a great deal.

As I stood outside the building pondering my next

move, a lone straggler exited the building wearing the

telltale suit and carrying a bulging briefcase. He was

thin, younger-looking than his cohorts, and had a gangly

walk that told me he hadn't been at this very long. He

began walking north. He took a cell phone from his

pocket, checked it then dropped it into his briefcase.

A thought crossed my mind. Suddenly it occurred to

me what I could do. What I needed to do. I certainly

wouldn't feel good about myself...but my father's

freedom was at stake. Finding a killer was my justifi

cation. I silently apologized for what I was about to do.

I began to walk faster, the young kid in my line of

sight. I was ten feet behind him. Nine. Eight. Seven.

I began to jog to keep pace, my pulse quickening.

The subway was just a few blocks away. I'd make it...

Pushing off my back foot to get a burst of speed, I

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lunged forward and grabbed the briefcase off the young

guy's shoulder. It was loose with surprisingly little

effort, and suddenly, to my surprise, I was standing

there in the middle of the street holding a young man's

bag that I'd just stolen.

He twirled around to see what was happening, and

just before I could react, he locked eyes with me. His

were light green, a mixture of anger and horrific fear

in them. He knew what he stood to lose.

I didn't wait another moment. I turned around and

began to run as fast as I could, whispering, I'm going

to hell, I'm going to hell, as my legs churned.

"Stop! Thief!" I heard a high-pitched voice scream.

An arm reached out for me but I shrugged it away.

The N train would be too obvious and too close. If

the train took a long time to pull into the station, I'd be

dead. I could outrun this kid. I had to.

I sprinted east down Fifty-eighth Street as fast as I

could. The kid was screaming behind me. I peeked over

my shoulder, feeling a surge of adrenaline as I saw my

lead increasing. Once I got to Sixth Avenue, I turned

south and saw the entrance for the B and Q trains ahead

of me.

Pulling things into fifth gear, I leaped down the steps

into the station, fumbling as I got my MetroCard out. I

swiped it, went through, and took a millisecond to

decide to head for the downtown B train. I figured if I

was caught, at least he wouldn't know the direction

where I lived.

The platform was all but empty. Bad luck for me. But

there was a red light in the tunnel signaling an ap

proaching train. It couldn't come fast enough. I walked

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quickly toward the end of the platform, the weight of

the bag pressing on my shoulder.

As the train rumbled into the station, my breath

caught in my throat as I saw the kid clamber down the

stairs approaching my platform. I hoped he hadn't seen

me.

When the doors opened I slid into the car, peeking

out once more.

The kid was on the platform, peeking into each car.

The train began to move. Faster and faster, it was

bringing me right toward him.

As the train passed where the young kid was

standing, I saw his eyes meet mine. His mouth dropped

open, and I could have sworn I heard a stream of pro

fanity. Then I was gone, into the darkness of the tunnel.

I transferred at the next station onto the uptown B,

then rode it until the 125th and Frederick Douglas

Boulevard station. From there I walked home, the bag

on my shoulder burning a hole.

I was tired, weary, trudging up the stairs, my blood

still pumping, however, with my prize. My guilt had

been overcome by my curiosity.

When I opened the door, I saw Amanda sitting at the

dining-room table eating a bowl of cereal. I forgot how

early it was, that she hadn't even left for work yet.

She was wearing a formfitting tank top that accen

tuated her amazing figure. Her hair was held together

in a ponytail, and her shapely legs disappeared beneath

her chair. I smiled, and she returned it.

"Whatcha got there, sweetie? A present for me

maybe?"

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I sat down at the table opposite her. I stuck my hand

in the outside pocket and came out with a cell phone.

The same one the young kid had been using.

Then I unlatched the brass buckles on the outside.

When the bag was unlocked, I folded back the top and

turned it upside down.

Out poured five white bricks the size of VHS cassette

tapes, as well as several thumb-size bags of the stuff. It

also contained a dozen small bags of marijuana with

varying quantities, and several pieces of tinfoil. I didn't

want to open or touch anything I didn't need to, so

whatever was in those packets would remain a mystery

for now. Chances were, it was either coke or crack.

One package, though, was half-open. Sitting on one

loose piece of foil were three small off-white stones that

looked almost like sugar cubes. But I knew exactly

what they were. Rocks of pure crack cocaine.

"Wow," Amanda said, staring at the mass of drugs.

"Remind me to buy my own birthday present next year."

I reached for one of the packages, but Amanda

grabbed my arm. I looked at her to see what was up, and

she was shaking her head like she was scolding a child

about to eat paste.

"Do you really want your fingerprints on those?" she

asked rhetorically. "Don't we have enough problems

with fingerprints where they didn't belong? I assume at

some point we're going to have to get the police

involved, and we'll have a much easier time convinc

ing them if it doesn't look like you were rolling around

in the drugs beforehand."

My arm shot back. The girl had a point.

"This is unreal," I said, the words not even doing

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justice to the feeling of seeing all the drugs spread out

on our table. My college never offered a Drug Dealing

101 course, so I had no idea what the value of the nar

cotics were. Though, based on the amount of stops

Scotty had made yesterday, and the money Rose Keller

claimed to have shelled out over the years, it had to be

several thousand at least. And if I factored in all the dif

ferent suit-wearing carriers I saw this morning, there

had to be at least a hundred grand making its way

around the city every single day.

"What do we do with this?" Amanda asked. The truth

was I wasn't sure. If I delivered it to the cops with the

story, I'd have to explain the stolen briefcase. And then

I'd have to explain how I got there, how I'd followed

Scotty, and why I was doing all this in the first place.

The goal, of course, was to find Stephen Gaines's

killer and free my father. That would likely have to wait

until I had the full picture. If I went in with half a bird

in hand and the other half hiding in the bush, they'd

laugh me off and then possibly arrest me. Neither of

which sounded particularly appealing.

I picked up the cell phone. It wasn't as fancy as mine

or many of the newer models, and didn't look to have

photo or video capacity. There was no flip top, just a

dimly lit LCD screen and chunky buttons that looked

old and worn. Clearly, this phone was meant for one

thing, and one thing only. And whoever was using it

didn't need all the excess accoutrements.

The phone was still on. The screen said there were

five missed calls. I checked the log, and saw they'd all

come from the same number. I didn't recognize it, and

rather than a name popping up it was just the number.

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Most likely it was the kid whose briefcase I'd stolen

calling from a pay phone, praying someone would pick

up. It was only a matter of time before the phone was

disconnected.

Though somehow I didn't think there was a high

probability of the owner calling the cops to report it.

On the LCD screen, there was a "contacts" line

directly above a flat, rectangular button. I pressed it.

Immediately a roll call of the kid's contacts came up.

I scrolled through the names, hoping for something.

Then I saw two names that did ring a bell.

Scott Callahan and Kyle Evans.

Scotty and Kyle from this morning.

It didn't shock me that they were listed in the kid's

contacts list. They did share the same "occupation,"

and odds were Scotty and Kyle had this kid's number

in their database as well. I kept scrolling.

Then a name appeared on the list that made me

catch my breath.

"What?" Amanda said. "What it is?"

I showed her the phone, my finger underlining the

name.

"Oh my God," she said. "Why would he be..."

I looked at her. We both knew why he was there.

Halfway down the lists of contacts was the name

Stephen Gaines.

"He knew my brother," I said. "Wait a second..."

I exited the contacts list and returned to the main

menu. I knew what I was looking for but didn't know

if it was there.

I hoped it wasn't.

I pressed the send button to bring up the list of the

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most recent calls from this cell phone. There were

several from a name marked Office. I clicked edit to see

the number. It was from a 646 area code in Manhattan.

I wrote it down, then kept on scrolling.

None of the names were recognizable.

But then, at the very end of the list, was the one

name I'd hoped not to see.

"He called Stephen," I said to Amanda. "He called

my brother the night he died."

19

The next morning, Amanda and I took the subway to

100 Centre Street, which housed the New York County

Correctional Facility. My father was being held there

before his grand jury hearing, and we were on our way

to show support, discuss his court-appointed lawyer.

And ask him some questions to which I hoped he would

hold the answers.

Amanda and I had spent the previous night talking

and thinking about the Gaines family, Rose Keller and

Beth-Ann Downing. Drugs seemed to be the only link

between the four people. Two of them were dead,

Stephen Gaines and Beth-Ann. And the stash of narcot

ics from the stolen briefcase was hidden inside my

laundry hamper. I figured if anyone were to break in, the

stench itself might deter even the most hardened thief.

Stephen used to date and party with Rose Keller.

She claimed they'd met randomly. But I had to wonder.

Stephen's name was in the kid's cell phone I stole.

Which meant one of three things.

First, the two were merely friends. Which was

highly unlikely.

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Second, that Stephen was the kid's client. That one

was a possibility.

Third, and perhaps the most frightening yet the most

plausible, was that Stephen Gaines was a dealer himself.

Perhaps Stephen, before he died, was one of the

faceless suit monkeys who entered that office building

in midtown for re-ups. Perhaps had I gone there another

day, I would have seen my brother enter with an empty

briefcase and exit with a full load of narcotics.

Helen Gaines had somehow befriended Beth-Ann

Downing after relocating from Bend to New York City.

They both had children--though I had no reason to

suspect Sheryl and Stephen had met, unless Stephen

happened to have sold to Sheryl's mother. Sheryl was

likely gone by the time Helen and Stephen settled in.

And at some point along the line, both Helen and BethAnn had developed drug addictions.

Chances were Stephen discovered the path to his

own demise through his mother. Anytime you grow up

in a household in which such evils were not only

common but encouraged, it was just a matter of time

before you followed in step.

In my relatively short time on this planet, I'd learned

that there were two types of people. Those who were

doomed to follow in whatever footsteps had been laid

out for them, and those who were strong enough to

carve their own path.

Amanda and I were lucky. I could have turned out

like my father, with a general disregard for decency

and an attitude toward women that could be described

as combative on a good day. Amanda could have been

swallowed by her grief as a child, stifled by the tragic

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deaths of her parents. She never grew close to Lawrence

and Harriet Stein, her adoptive family. She feared that

she would never truly be close to another person again.

She began to write in diaries. There were hundreds of

them, each one chronicling every waking moment of

her life, cataloging every soul she met on her aimless

journey. A moment-to-moment timeline of loneliness.

After we met and later began seeing each other, she

stopped writing in them. I like to think that, in each

other, we found a path through the darkness. She found

someone who would be with her every night and every

morning, and I found a woman strong enough to show

me my weaknesses as well as my strengths, beautiful

enough beneath the skin to make me want to smooth

over the rough edges.

And there were a lot of them.

Stephen Gaines never found that path. He'd never

had a chance. Between his mother and her friends, the

darkness was too much for him to bear.

I gripped the handrail tight as I approached my des

tination. My childhood memories of my father were of

this great and powerful man who never feared anything.

He was an omnipotent tyrant, a man unconcerned with

convention or emotion. I never saw him cry, never saw

him beg. Even when I knew our finances were dwin

dling and my mother was as distant as the sunset at

dusk, he stood rock solid, impenetrable. Seeing him

today would be the opposite of everything I knew as a

child. He was the negative in my life's photograph. And

I wasn't sure if I was prepared.

The New York County Correctional Facility had

several outlets, and as a prisoner your stay was largely

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dependent on a combination of luck and just how many

criminals were waiting their turn before your case came

to the docket. Some ended up on Riker's Island, but

many, like James Parker, were relegated to the facility

known affectionately as the Tombs.

The Tombs had actually been the name for several

locations over the years, beginning in 1838 back when

it was called the New York Halls of Justice and House

of Detention (or NYHOFJAHOD for short. No wonder

they called it the Tombs).

After numerous successful escapes and the dete

riorating quality of the cells themselves, the old building

was merged with the Criminal Court building on

Franklin Street, separated by what was called the Bridge

of Sighs.

In 1974 much of the old Tombs had finally been shut

down due to health concerns. Currently the Tombs

consists of two facilities connected by a pedestrian

bridge, with a prisoner capacity nearing nine hundred.

Ironically, in 2001 the Tombs were given the official

name of the Bernard B. Kerik Complex, though in 2006

after Kerik pled guilty to ethics violations (including

several violations of infamous book publisher Judith

Regan in an apartment near ground zero that was

supposed to be used for the rescue effort) the moniker

was removed.

Currently my father was awaiting a grand jury

hearing on the charges of first-degree murder. Accord

ing to Amanda, the prosecution was surely in the

process of collecting evidence to convince the jury that

there was "reasonable cause to believe" that my father

might have killed Stephen Gaines. We both admitted the

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likelihood of a trial at this point, so time was becoming

more and more precious. We had interlocked several

pieces, but we couldn't see the whole puzzle.

The 4 train took us to Canal Street. For some reason,

passing by the massive pillars and intricate scrollwork

adorning the Supreme Court building reminded me I

hadn't yet served jury duty since arriving in New York

a few years ago. I could already imagine the tremendous

sense of irony I would feel upon signing that jury slip.

Maybe if I was lucky it'd be juror appreciation day. Get

a free coffee mug and everything. Leave this mess with

something memorable.

The Manhattan Criminal Courthouse towered above

the city skyscape, with four towers encircling a larger

center with floors in decreasing size, as though you

were viewing a staircase to the sky. In front were two

massive granite columns, and the whole structure was

designed in an art deco-style.

We entered the lobby through glass doors and made

our way to the security stand. We showed our identifi

cation, which the security guard scrutinized intensely

and matched to his logbook before writing us passes.

After that we passed through a series of metal detectors

and, after a search of my bag and Amanda's purse, we

were headed toward the Manhattan Detention Complex,

aka the Tombs.

A tall guard in a neatly pressed blue uniform accom

panied us to an elevator that looked like it was built into

a brick wall. I noticed he did not have a gun on his

holster. Instead, there was a Taser, a can of Mace and a

thin cylinder about a half inch in diameter and six inches

long. The guard noticed I was staring at it.

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"Expandable baton," he said. "Officers have been

complaining about the longer ones for years. They're

heavy as my mother-in-law and an incredible nuisance.

These puppies are compact and pack a hell of a punch."

"Can I try it?"

"No."

We got on the elevator and the guard pressed Down.

We waited just a few moments before the doors opened

up.

"Not a lot of elevator traffic," I said.

"Anytime I see the elevator going up from the lower

levels and I'm not in it," he said, "we've got problems."

"I hope that's not a regular occurrence."

He didn't answer me. I'd begun to get used to people

tuning me out.

By staring straight ahead I wasn't sure if he thought

that was a stupid statement, or one that struck a nerve.

As much as I hated embarrassing myself with silly

comments, I hope it was the former.

Once the elevator opened, the guard led us through

a long, musty tunnel. At the end was a series of metal

bars, not unlike those on an actual jail cell. Beyond we

could see several more guards, and the unmistakable

orange of prison jumpsuits. The guard took a key card

from his pocket, slid it onto a keypad and unlocked the

door. Opening it, the guard ushered us into a smaller

room lined with metal benches. Guards took both of our

bags and patted us down. Guards with shotguns and

handcuffs adorned the walls, their eyes traveling the

length of the room and back again, dispassionate.

Security cameras with weapons.

We sat down at a table at the end of the room. There

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were two other people seated at a table twenty feet from

us. An older balding man wearing an orange prison

jumpsuit, thick glasses and a thick paunch sat, chin in

his hands, while a bejeweled woman many years

younger (with many half-priced plastic surgeries under

her belt) rattled on about something the man couldn't

have seemed less interested in. In fact, he looked

slightly relieved that he would end the night in his cell

as opposed to in bed next to her.

We sat waiting. I wanted to take Amanda's hand. Felt

like I needed to hold on to something that was right.

Being here in this place accentuated my simple need to

feel like I was a part of something wholesome and decent.

Amanda represented everything I had in that department.

Soon I heard a jangling of chains, and my father

appeared behind a set of metal doors. Two guards were

poised on either side of him. They looked somewhat

disinterested, but the tense muscles in their forearms

told me differently.

They led him over to our table, hands under his

elbows as he struggled to walk with chains binding

both his wrists and ankles.

Finally he took a seat across from us, and I could see

what this place had done to him.

My father looked pale. Thin, reedy. He was never a

very muscular man, but any tone he had seemed to have

dissipated over the last week. His hair was stringy and

looked unwashed. His eyes wandered around the room.

They looked scared, as though he expected something

or someone to jump out of the shadows.

I wondered just what kind of hell this man was

enduring here.

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Part of me, and man I wished I didn't feel this way,

wondered if it was penance.

"Henry, good to see you, son." He smiled weakly as

he said this, and I knew he meant it. Those were the

warmest words my father had spoken to me since...I

couldn't recall when. And it was a shame they came

under these circumstances.

"How you holding up?"

He made a psh sound and leaned back. "S'not so bad.

You see all those movies where guys get gang-raped in

the shower and they're all getting stabbed waiting on

line for food."

"Nobody's tried to hurt you, have they?" Amanda

asked.

"No...well, one guy did get stabbed in the shower,

but I didn't know him."

My mouth dropped as Amanda looked at me. "We

need to get you out of here," I said.

"Well, what in the hell is taking you so long?" he

shouted. The other couple turned and started. I heard a

rustling as two guards moved closer. He looked at them

and shrank back. Suddenly the warmth was gone. This

was the man I grew up with. But that didn't mean he

was a murderer.

"We're working on it," I said.

"How's your attorney?" Amanda asked. "Has he

been to see you regularly?"

"He's been down here two or three times. How the

heck should I know if he's any good?" my father

seethed. "I mean, he knows more about this legal stuff

than me, but so does the janitor here. He could be the

smartest damn lawyer in New York or the dumbest and

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I wouldn't know the difference between him and the

Maytag repairman."

"What's his name?" she asked.

"Marvin something. Marvin Fleischman."

She shook her head. "Don't know him."

"Have you spoken to Mom?" I asked.

"Once," he said. "Her sister drove in from Seattle."

"She didn't want to be here?"

"I wouldn't let her be here," he said.

"If you're worried about the money, she could stay

with me," I said.

"She's not here because I don't want her to be. The

house won't take care of itself. Bills don't send their

own checks."

"People can help you and her, Dad."

"We don't need people. We're fine."

"Clearly."

"These public defenders," my father said. "Do they

know their ass from their elbow?"

"Depends," she replied. "A lot of lawyers go the PD

route because they believe everyone deserves a fair trial

and good representation. Believe it or not, a lot of

lawyers enter the profession for the nobility of it. Of

course, a lot of them go the PD route because it's a guar

anteed paycheck, as opposed to private practice where

you run the risk of getting stiffed on your bill by a client

who can't pay. And..." She trailed off.

"And what?" James Parker said.

"And some of them, well, let's just say that govern

ment work does not always attract the best and the

brightest." My father slumped into his chair. I got the

feeling he thought this Marvin Fleischman fit the latter

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category. "But seriously, Mr. Parker, every lawyer is dif

ferent. You could get great representation from a PD."

"So," I said, "let's hope you got a guy who graduated

from Harvard Law with a summa cum laude in nobility."

The noise my dad made said he wasn't quite expect

ing that to be the case.

"Listen, Dad," I said, "we've found out a lot. About

Stephen, his family. I think he was mixed up in some

pretty bad stuff."

"You're telling me. Remember, I knew that mother

of his."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that unless Helen

Gaines was a junkie back in Bend, she'd only gotten

worse. Two peas in a pod, her and James Parker.

I filled him in on what we did know. About Helen

and Beth-Ann Downing. About Rose Keller, and the

Vinnie brigade.

"We need to know more about the night you saw

them," I said. "We know Helen wanted money from

you, and she told you it was for rehab, but I don't think

that's the case. Think about your conversation with

Helen. Specific words. Gestures. Clues that might give

us a lead as to where the money would actually be

going, or what was running through Helen's mind when

you saw her."

He rubbed his head, either thinking very hard or

working very hard not to think. "Henry, it was a rough

night. I remember the big things. The gun, this woman

I hadn't seen in years looking like she was hopped up

on something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, I'm not a doctor. But her eyes were

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169

red as all hell and she had a bad cough. That girl was

not in good shape."

I looked at Amanda. That would jibe with the pos

sibility that Helen was still using.

"Anything else?" I asked.

He tapped his thumb against his cheek, tongue

flicking against his upper lip. "One thing seemed

strange," he said. "Helen."

"You mean besides the jitters and the gun? What

about her?"

"She was a mess, but she was scared, too," my father

said. "And not of me. Kept looking around, like

someone could burst through the door at any moment.

I could tell from her eyes something was wrong. Now,

does that make sense? She wants to check her son into

rehab, seems to me that'd be a cause to have hope, you

know, these two chuckleheads finally getting their act

together. But Helen wasn't like that. When she didn't

think I was going to give her the money, she just...

freaked out."

"Maybe that's why she took the gun out," Amanda

said. "She was worried that if she didn't get the money

from you something terrible was going to happen."

"What?" my father asked.

"I don't know, but you're right about her being

scared. Granted, I've never been to rehab, but you'd

think fright isn't the number-one emotion running

through a mother's head when helping her son. Unless

she was scared of you. Is that possible?"

"Oh, she was scared of me at the end of the night,

I'll say that, but this was there when I got to the apart

ment. Something else scared Helen."

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Jason Pinter

Amanda said, "I'd be surprised if what scared Helen

didn't kill her son."

We both looked at her, knowing she was on the

money.

Turning back to my father, I said, "Please, Dad, think

hard. Did she say anything, anything at all that could

give you a clue as to what she was afraid of?"

My father raised his head, his eyes red. His breath

ing grew labored. Immediately I recoiled and Amanda

looked at me. I could see my father's teeth, bared

through his lips. I'd seen this before. It was rage boiling

inside him, ready to explode. It was how he would get

when my mother or I upset him. It was how he looked

before a rampage, before he made us too scared to live

in our own home. It was the rage and confusion of a man

who couldn't do anything to stop his world from

spinning on an already tilted axis. So all he could do was

force that energy outward onto the people closest to

him.

I watched this from across the table as he simmered

for several minutes. Then the rage subsided, his breath

ing returning to normal. He realized there was nowhere

for the rage to go here. No outlet for it. He was an

animal surrounded by barbed wire.

I finally realized that what it took to subdue my

father was not him seeing the pain he caused others, but

him seeing the pain he could cause himself.

"There was a notepad," he finally said quietly. "At

one point Helen went to the bathroom. I took a look

around the apartment, just curious. So I see this lined

pad she must have just been writing in."

"What was on it?" I said.

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171

"First thing she wrote, weird as hell, was 'Mexico'

and 'Europe.'"

"Any specific country in Europe?"

"No, just Europe."

"Maybe those were rehab spots Helen had in mind.

Cheaper ones since she couldn't afford the tony places

in the States. What else?"

"Next she wrote '$50,000,' with a question mark

after it."

"Thirty years' back child support," Amanda said.

"That could add up to fifty grand. Maybe that's what

the number represented."

"The last word she wrote was--" my father thought

for a moment "--fury."

"Fury?"

"It was capitalized, like a name. And she underlined

it. A few times. With another question mark at the end."

"We can guess what the other words represented," I

said. "But what does the 'Fury' mean?" I asked the

question, but a small chime went off in my subcon

scious. Like I'd heard the word before. And not in

relation to its standard usage. Something more specific.

But I couldn't conjure up just what it was.

"What if," Amanda said, "they had nothing do to

with rehab facilities or resorts. What if Stephen and

Helen were trying to get away from something?"

"Like what?" my father asked.

"I don't know, but that kind of money seems kind of

high for a rehab joint, especially when he could

probably just check himself into detox. It would,

though, be just enough money if you wanted to disap

pear."

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Jason Pinter

"Fifty grand might get you somewhere," I said, "but

is it enough to start a new life?"

"Maybe not," she said. "But it might be enough to

survive."

20

We arrived back home feeling like we'd taken a few

too many punches to the head. So many thoughts and

ideas were swimming around in there--mixed in with

the fear and apprehension of what my father was going

through--that I wished we could just curl up in bed, fall

asleep for a month or two and wake up with everything

back to normal.

Even if we did manage to prove that my father didn't

kill Stephen, James Parker would go right back to Bend

where he would reenter that joke of a life. My mother

hadn't even come because he refused to let her. He

wouldn't be seen like this. Chained. Weak. And

knowing my mother, she wouldn't question it.

I wondered if it was worth it. Saving him. Maybe the

universe was a little more right with James Parker in jail.

Maybe I was saving a man who didn't deserve to be

saved.

Yet here I was, doing what needed to be done. Trying

to find the proof that would free him. I wondered if he

would do the same for me. The answer was fairly

obvious.

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Jason Pinter

I thought about the money Helen Gaines had asked

for. Amanda was right. If Stephen's aim was to check

into rehab, fifty grand was overkill. It could have been

for more drugs, I supposed, but if the two of them had

subsisted for nearly thirty years to this point, it didn't

make sense that they suddenly needed a lump sum to

sate their cravings.

From what it seemed like, the dealers I'd seen the

other day had more than enough business to keep them

going. True, on the surface the ones I saw looked far

more put together than my brother. Scott Callahan and

Kyle Evans barely looked like they touched the stuff.

What was the old drug dealer's maxim--never get high

on your own supply?

These two, as well as their well-heeled cohorts,

looked as if they were in this game to make as much

money as possible. With the exception of the kid whose

briefcase now sat in my living room, they all looked like

red-meat alpha males, the kind of guys who would

normally be braying on the floor of the stock exchange

rather than riding the subway to dole out dime bags.

Thing is, the cocaine in the briefcase made it clear

that not all of their scores were small-time. Any

company built its business on a combination of small

revenue streams mixed with larger ones. The larger

ones took more effort and paid higher dividends, but the

smaller ones tended to be the most dependable, the ones

that would always be there.

With the economy tanking the way it was, with

people watching their wallets to a degree I'd never ex

perienced in my lifetime, it wouldn't surprise me if dis

posable income for recreational drugs--like it was for

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175

all other consumer products--was being severely

limited. Especially since coke was a favorite amongst

bankers, financiers (i.e., high-salaried types). The kind

of people whose livelihoods were being dashed against

the rocks as the economy tumbled.

Maybe Stephen and Helen really were trying to start

a new life. After all, Helen had desired nothing more

than to raise her son with James Parker (why on God's

green earth she would want to do this is an entirely dif

ferent matter. One I'm not sure had a satisfactory

answer).

Leaving the country would enable them to start

their lives anew, to begin fresh somewhere they

weren't known. Where demons and drugs wouldn't

follow them.

But that last word...Fury. I still didn't know what it

meant, if anything. It might have been a spasm, some

thing Helen Gaines wrote while her mental faculties

bounced around like Ping-Pong balls.

I put it on the back burner. If it was relevant, it would

come up again.

The apartment felt warm and inviting, though

compared to the visitation room in a correctional facility

an icebox would have felt warm and inviting. We both

stripped off our clothes, Amanda jumping into the

shower while I pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

Before long, steam was pouring through the slat in

between the door and the tiling.

I approached the door silently, then knocked gently.

There was no answer. I knocked again, and when there

was still no reply I knocked again, louder.

One more knock and I heard the water turn off.

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Jason Pinter

"What is it, Henry?" She sounded annoyed.

"Just wanted to say hi," I said. "Go back to your

shower."

"Gee, thanks."

The water came back on. Good thing there was no

lock on the bathroom door.

I gently turned the knob, the cool air flowing into my

face. I could see Amanda's body hazy behind the

shower glass. She hadn't seen me yet.

I stripped off my shorts, flung the T-shirt onto a chair.

Then I pulled open the shower door.

Amanda spun around, shampoo in her hair. The look

on her face quickly went from annoyance to surprise to

pleasure. She pushed the door open and I joined her,

wrapping my body around her, feeling her warmth

surround me.

We kissed, and then our bodies were clinging to each

other, skin on skin. Pain and hurt and everything else

melted away as we touched. My body was on fire as I

kissed her neck, Amanda throwing her head back as she

sighed. I kissed her up and down her body, feeling her

skin tingle below my fingertips. Then I pressed myself

against her, hard, and she moved in perfect rhythm with

my body.

We touched and held and moved against each other

under that beating stream for a long time, until the heat

became so unbearable that we ended up in bed, naked,

clinging to each other like we always did when we

wanted the world to melt away for a little while.

I left Amanda sleeping in bed and crept into the living

room. Booting the computer up, I poured myself a cup

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177

of ice coffee from the jug we kept in the fridge. I took a

sip. Stale. It'd probably been sitting in there close to a

week. I checked the freezer, but we were fresh out of

grounds. Instead, I poured a healthy dollop of milk,

added enough sweetener to make my teeth chatter and

sat down.

Our Internet connection was spotty at best, so it was

a sigh of relief when my home page came up. I'd

changed my preferences so that the Gazette's page

would load whenever I opened my browser. I took a

moment to read the latest stories, then went to Google

and began my search.

I typed in the name "Scott Callahan." To no great

surprise, over four thousand entries came up. To refine

the search, I added "New York."

That narrowed it down to under a thousand. There

were a few wedding notices and Web sites for law

offices, but unfortunately none of them had any

pictures. I scrolled through a few dozen pages hoping

for something that would perhaps be linked to the Scott

Callahan I followed the other day, but nothing came up.

I went back to the Google home page and typed in

"Kyle Evans" and "New York." Two thousand entries

came up. I sighed, having no choice but to slog through.

Nothing seemed to be terribly interesting until the

fourth page. The page title was "Dozens laid off in

wake of financial collapse." I clicked the link.

The article was from a financial magazine, dated

about six months ago. It was a feature on the recent

meltdowns of several financial institutions and the

decision to lay off massive numbers of workers, some

of whom had just graduated from business school. The

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author had interviewed several recently fired employ

ees, including one man named Kyle Evans.

The section read:

Kyle Evans expected to pay off his student loans

in a matter of months, having taken a six-figure

job right after receiving his MBA. Yet within

weeks of his first day, Evans, a twenty-seven

year-old Wharton graduate, was unemployed and

unable to find a job.

"Between undergrad and Penn I owe about a

hundred thousand dollars," Evans said. "I was

going to have a bitch of a time paying it back

anyway, but now what do I do?"

Though the article was posted on the Web, there were

several photos taken of its subjects. They were small

thumbnails, and according to the site these were exclu

sive and had not been printed in the physical magazine.

And there, in a group of three other men and woman

his age, was the very Kyle Evans I'd seen on the street

the other day. His hair was shorter and he was about ten

pounds heavier, but there was no doubt it was him.

Suddenly Kyle's career choice made more sense.

With no income, and training for jobs that didn't exist

anymore, Kyle had decided to take another route to

paying off his loans, joining an industry that didn't have

as many down cycles. One that could afford him the

same lifestyle. The same money.

It was a fair assumption that Scott Callahan--and

maybe some, if not all, the other briefcase men--were

victims of the same circumstances as Kyle. If you

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179

thought about it, who would make better drug couriers?

These people were young, energetic, highly motivated,

perhaps by money above all else. And, most of all, they

owed. And if they owed enough, they'd be willing to

take a few risks, break the law for a while before they

found their footing. But who was employing them?

What was 718 Enterprises?

I pulled "718 Enterprises" into Google, Yahoo! and

half a dozen other search engines. Less than a dozen hits

came up, none of them looking as if they had anything

to do with a company of that name or with any relation

to New York. I twiddled my thumbs. I'd never been a

thumb twiddler, but at this point I wasn't quite sure

where to go or who to talk to. And we still had no idea

where Helen Gaines was.

I opened up the music player on my computer, took

a pair of headphones out and put on some Springsteen.

Something about the Boss always made me think a little

more clearly. There was honesty in his voice that was

often missing from popular music, and his earlier works

were like pure blasts of adrenaline. That's what I needed

right now. An energy boost to carry me along. There

were half a dozen threads in this story, and I had no

doubt that when unravelled they would all lead to

Stephen's killer. I just needed that one connecting

thread that told me how the story would all play out.

I sat there for half an hour, shuffling between songs.

"Dead Man Walking" came on. It was a haunting tune,

composed for the movie of the same name where Sean

Penn played a character named Matthew Poncelet, on

death row for the murder of two teenagers. The film was

based on a book by Sister Helen Prejean, and Poncelet

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was actually a composite of two men Prejean had coun

seled. Prejean grows closer to this man many viewed

as a monster, trying to understand the humanity beneath

the inhumane crime. The music was simple, tragic, and

the lyrics filled my head as my eyes closed, the sounds

enveloping me.

All I could feel was the drugs and the shotgun

And the fear up inside of me

Suddenly my eyes opened. I stood up, the head

phones flying off my head and clattering on the floor.

Drugs.

The Fury. I knew that word had sounded familiar, in

a context that, if I was right, made terrifying sense.

We kept a bookshelf in the living room, spines three

deep and nearly pouring out onto the floor. I'd bought it

used for seventy-five bucks from a thrift shop. It was

maple, still in good shape, with one large crack running

lengthwise down the side. I figured a good book was one

read so often the spine was cracked, a good bookshelf was

one that was cracked as well. That might have been jus

tification for the piece's condition, but it made sense to

me.

Sometimes when I'd finish a book I'd bring it to the

office, drop it in the Inbox of a reporter who I thought

might enjoy it. Sports books went to Frank Rourke,

trashy celebrity tell-alls went to Evelyn Waterstone. I

knew the gal had her soft spot.

There were some books, though, that would never

leave this shelf. And no matter where I moved, or what

life planned for me, they would never be far away.

Without a second thought I pulled a pile of books

from the middle shelf and sent them toppling to the

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181

ground. The noise was loud, and soon Amanda entered,

bleary eyed, clearly wondering what was making such

a racket. I must have looked half-crazed, throwing books

on the floor, looking for that one book I knew was there.

But I couldn't find it.

I threw more books on the floor, the shelves

emptying, my frustration growing. Where the hell was

it? I knew it was here, somewhere.

"Henry," Amanda said, the patience in her voice sur

prising me. "I'm not going to ask. I assume there's a

good reason for this. What are you looking for?"

"A book," I said stupidly, still rifling through the few

books left. I told her the title and author. She looked at

me, then walked back into our bedroom. I figured she'd

had enough, would try to go back to sleep. But a minute

later she came back holding something in her hands.

And when my tired eyes focused, I saw what it was.

Through the Darkness, by Jack O'Donnell.

"I was reading it, remember?"

"You are so freaking beautiful," I gushed, standing

up and taking the book from her.

I opened the cover, thumbed to the table of contents.

There it was, chapter eight. "The Unknown Devil."

I began to skim, looking for that one word, that one

phrase I knew existed. It was the link, what Helen

Gaines was talking about. What she and Stephen were

running from.

Then I found it. Midway down one page. I read the

paragraph, feeling a chill run down my spine.

As the '80s came to a close, police were baffled

by a string of homicides occurring at seemingly

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random locations at random intervals. Between

August 1987 and October 1988, two dozen men

were found murdered execution-style, often with

one or two bullets emptied into their heads. These

men were notable because they had previously

been either arrested or identified as drug dealers,

peddling primarily crack cocaine (among other

narcotics).

It was felt, both by the law enforcement com

munity as well as within the criminal element it

self, that these murders were part of a larger

consolidation of Manhattan's drug trade. Whis

pers began to grow about a man presumably re

sponsible for the carnage, a ghost whose identity

nobody could confirm, and details about whom

nobody would (or could) go on the record about.

In fact, the only evidence there was to this

man's existence at all was at the murder scene of

one Butch Willingham. Willingham had been shot

twice in the back of the head. The wounds were

catastrophic, though miraculously, neither bullet

was instantaneously fatal.

The autopsy concluded that Willingham had

lived between five to ten minutes after the shoot

ings, though the terminal damage to his brain pre

vented him from moving, speaking or doing

anything to save his own life.

Apparently the bullets did not completely de

prive Willingham of all of his motor skills during

that brief period he remained alive, because while

Willingham lay dying, his skull shattered by the

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183

slugs, he scribbled two macabre words on the

floor of his apartment, using only the blood leak

ing from his own body.

The Fury.

21

I spent the rest of the night rereading Through the

Darkness. It had been several years since I'd last read

it, and the sense of awe I gained by reading Jack's work

was tempered by the sudden knowledge that a forgot

ten passage from the book was somehow relevant to two

murders today.

Most of the book came back to me, like seeing a

good friend after a long absence. Amanda woke up,

kissed me on the cheek and left for work, knowing how

important this was. There were no other explicit refer

ences to the Fury, no other mention of who it was, or

whether or not he or she even existed. People say some

strange things when they've been shot in the head.

I opened up the search engine on my computer and

looked for any old interviews Jack had done for the

book. Unfortunately most had either not been archived

digitally or they'd been lost, because only two came up.

Neither mentioned the Fury in any way.

Working at the Gazette, Jack's presence was missed

on a daily basis. Now, his absence felt like a hole in my

stomach, an emptiness. I needed to talk to him, to see

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185

what he knew, what he remembered. But Jack was re

covering from his own battle with alcohol, and I

couldn't bring myself to interrupt that. There was one

person, though, who might be able to help. Thankfully

he worked long hours, and started the day early.

Wallace Langston picked up on the second ring.

"Henry," he said. "I was wondering when next I'd

hear from you. You do still work here, right?"

"How are you, Wallace?" I figured I'd ignore the

question.

"I'm doing well. Henry, what's up? Or did you just

call to make sure I'd had my morning coffee?"

"Actually, that's why I called," I said. " Seriously, I

need some help. Listen, Wallace, I need to ask you a

question. It's about Jack."

There was a moment of hesitation on the other end.

"What is it?" Wallace said curtly.

"I'd rather we talk face-to-face. It's not about my job

or the paper. You can say no if you want...but I need to

know. It's kind of personal."

"My door's always open, Henry. As long as you're

honest with me about what you want and why you need

it."

"You have my word. I'll be there in forty-five minutes."

I was putting on my shoes before I even heard the dial tone.

The newsroom was loud, boisterous.

I heard Frank Rourke shouting at someone over the

phone, something about a report that the Knicks were

about to can their coach. I heard Evelyn Waterstone

chewing out a reporter who'd misspelled the word

borough on his story. All of these sounds make me

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Jason Pinter

smile. Who would have thought this kind of chaos could

be an antidote to everything that had been going on?

I made my way down the hall, toward Wallace's office.

"Henry, what's shakin', my man?"

I turned slowly, eyes closed, my stomach already

feeling sick. Tony Valentine was standing in the

hallway, a goofy grin on his face. At first something

looked different about him, then I noticed how unnatu

rally smooth his forehead looked. And not many people

could smile without creating smile lines. I wondered if

he had a Botox expense account as part of his salary

package.

"Listen, Parker, I got something for you. I know

you've got a girlfriend--don't we all? But there's this

actress... can't tell you her name, but it rhymes with

Bennifer Maniston. She's a good friend of mine and she's

in town for a few days. I was thinking the two of you

could go out to dinner. Nothing special or fancy, but

tomorrow it's in my column. You get great press for ca

noodling with a star, she gets good press for dating a nice

young reporter who won't ditch her for a costar. Sound

good? Say the word and you've got reservations for two

at Babbo."

I stared at Tony for a minute, then said, "Goodbye."

I turned around and headed for Wallace's office.

He was sitting down, elbows on his desk, papers

splayed out in front of him. "Henry, sit down," he said.

The last few months had been tough on Wallace. Jack's

departure had hit the paper hard, but Wallace person

ally. Harvey Hillerman, the publisher of the Gazette,

had been eyeing the bottom line closer than ever.

Whether Jack had lost a few miles of his fastball was

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187

to some extent irrelevant. He still brought readers to the

paper, and he knew New York City better than anyone

alive. His name off the masthead hurt our readership,

bit into our circulation and took a bite from our adver

tising revenue. There was no replacing him. We were

all praying for his recovery, but Wallace was praying for

more than that. He needed Jack for the paper. For his

job. For all our jobs, in a way.

I envisioned myself as the kind of reporter who could

ease the Gazette into the next generation, but I never

saw that happening without Jack. He wasn't someone

who simply disappeared. He had to leave on his own

terms, when he was ready.

And having known Jack for a few years, having

gotten close enough to him for the man to confide in me,

I knew that before his battle with the bottle nearly killed

him and his reputation, he had no desire to go quietly

into that good night.

"Thanks again for seeing me."

"No problem," he said. "My door is always open."

I laughed. "So I wanted to talk about Jack. Specifi

cally something he wrote a long time ago."

"Shoot."

"It wasn't for the paper."

Wallace leaned back, curious.

"What is it then?"

"Twenty years ago, Jack wrote a book called

Through the Darkness. It was about the rise of drugs and

drug-related violence. Do you remember it? Jack was

working at the Gazette when it was published."

"I sure do. O'Donnell took a year off to write that

book, and after it came out and became a bestseller

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Jason Pinter

none of us expected him back. We figured he'd take the

money and work on books full-time, especially when

Hollywood came calling. But the news runs in that

man's veins. Leaving never even occurred to him."

"It still hasn't," I said. Awkwardness choked the

room. I had no idea if Wallace had even been in contact

with Jack since he left, but the man's downcast eyes let

me know he was happy to talk about Jack's past, but

less so discussing the man's future. Part of me felt as

if Wallace and Hillerman bore some responsibility for

Jack's condition. They knew his alcoholism had been

getting worse, but other than a few halfhearted BandAid measures they'd stand by, let him turn in substan

dard material, drinking Baileys with his coffee during

war room meetings at nine in the morning. Perhaps

they let it slide because they didn't want to believe it

could destroy a man with his reputation. Or maybe they

turned their backs because they needed to. Needed him.

"So what about the book?" Wallace asked, his voice

sounding less patient, a little less happy I was there.

"Butch Willingham," I said. "He was a street dealer

killed in '88. His death would have gone unnoticed--

like most of his colleagues, if you will--except that

unlike the others he survived his execution for a few

minutes. He had just enough time to write two words,

using his own blood. Do you remember what those

words were?"

"No, I can't say I do. I haven't read the book in at

least a decade."

"I remember," I said. "Not too often you forget some

thing like that. The two words Willingham wrote were

'The Fury.' Do they ring a bell now?"

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189

Wallace sat there without taking his eyes off me. I

waited, unsure of what he was going to say. Instead, he

just sat there, waiting for the blanks to be filled in.

Since Wallace's memory didn't seem to be jogged

much, I pulled a copy of the tattered paperback from my

pocket. Moving around to the side of Wallace's desk--

and realizing I hadn't ever viewed the room from that

perspective before--I showed him the passage it came

from.

"Look at this," I said. "Tell me if you remember

anything about it, or Jack writing it."

Wallace took a pair of thin reading glasses from his

desk drawer, slipped them on and read the passage.

After a few seconds, he took the book from my hands

and began to read further. I could tell from his eyes and

intense concentration something was coming into focus.

He was remembering. Excitement surged through me.

This was something, I knew it. It had to be.

"The Fury," Wallace said. "If I recall correctly, it

was a big nothing."

I stepped back around, sat down, confused. "What

do you mean?"

"I remember when this happened, the Willingham

case got a little press for a day or two, mainly over the

gruesome details.You're right, it's not too often someone

writes words in their own blood while dying, and the

press, present company often included, loves the chance

to hyperbolize and scare people to death with Stephen

King-style visuals. O'Donnell did look into this, inter

viewing dozens of dealers, punks and scumbags."

"And?"

"For a while he was convinced that there was

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Jason Pinter

an...entity...I guess that's what you could call it...

named the Fury. It was the kind of word that existed

only on the lips of people involved in drugs, mainly

dealing. The Fury was some kind of mythical demon,

some kind of human being so cold-blooded and cruel

that nobody dared cross it."

"All those people killed during those years," I said,

the picture coming into view. "Jack thought this Fury

was behind it all. I have no idea if that's a person, an

organization or a code for something else. But it's in

there for a reason."

"That's right," Wallace said. "If I recall, the first

draft of this book was a good hundred or so pages

longer, but Jack's publisher balked at a lot of what he'd

written about in the chapters on the Fury. There were

no eyewitness accounts. It began and ended with Wil

lingham. Nobody was willing to talk. They felt Jack was

stretching too far with the blood angle, and by printing

chapters about some boogeyman, some all-powerful

kingpin, it weakened his other arguments. Made him

look like he was aiming for sensationalism rather than

good, solid journalism."

"Who won the argument?"

"Well," Wallace said, "you see how long your edition

of the book is? It was going to be another hundred or

so longer."

"So why did he leave that one part in?" I asked. "If

everything else relating to this was taken out, why did

they let him leave Butch Willingham writing that

before he died?"

"If I remember--and you'll forgive me if my

memory bank doesn't access twenty-year-old informa

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191

tion as readily as it used to--Jack threatened to pull the

plug on the whole book at that point. They'd already

paid him, I believe a good six-figure sum, quite a penny

for a book back in those days. And if they'd refused to

publish, they wouldn't have recouped a penny since

they would have been in breach of contract. So they

allowed Jack to keep that one bit in. Kind of an appease

ment. Jack considered it a footprint that couldn't be

erased by time. And because what Willingham had

written was in the coroner's report, it was a matter of

public record and could stay in. Everything else, they

felt, was conjecture."

"So Jack thought there was more to the Fury, then."

"I believe so, but again I'm speaking from what I

recall twenty years ago. Jack and I haven't spoken about

that book or that story in years. He's written half a

dozen books since then, most of which made him a lot

more money than Through the Darkness. And with no

new leads to track down, no other proof or witnesses,

it was on to new matters. In a city where new stories

materialize every day, if you spend your time hoping a

fresh angle will pop out of the ground you'll miss ev

erything going around right beside your head. Jack's a

great reporter, but he's not stupid."

"He's not a coward either," I said. "He kept that bit

in there for a reason. Like you said, a footprint."

"Maybe he did," Wallace said.

"I need his files," I said.

"Henry," Wallace said, folding his hands across his

chest. "You know better than that. Besides, company

policy states that any work, research or otherwise, done

on books is kept outside of the office."

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Jason Pinter

"He must have something here," I said. "I've seen

Jack's apartment. He barely had any furniture, let alone

files. Please, do me a favor. Let me see Jack's files. I

know there's a storage room here. I swear I won't take

anything that doesn't pertain to the Willingham case.

And I'll even do the digging for you."

"I can't let you do that," Wallace said. "But I'll meet

you halfway. I'll go through it myself and send it over

to you if I find anything. I'm going to err on the side of

caution, though, so don't expect much."

"Thank you," I said. I stood up, prepared to leave.

Then I saw a copy of that morning's Gazette on

Wallace's chair. I looked up at him, raised an eyebrow.

"Go on, take it," he said, grinning. "But after today

you don't get diddly-squat for free until I see your name

below a story."

22

The subway was hot and humid as I went back uptown.

I had no idea how long it would take for Wallace to get

me those files. The man had been gracious enough to

offer, and frankly I didn't expect much going in. I des

perately wanted to know what Jack knew, what else he

knew about the Willingham murder. And what, if

anything, it had to do with Stephen Gaines.

The strange thing was, the deeper I looked into this,

the further away it seemed to go from Gaines. From him

to Beth-Ann Downing, from Rose Keller to Butch Wil

lingham, there seemed to be a pattern of behavior that

went back twenty years. I had no idea how long, if at

all, my brother had been dealing. But I was damn sure

that it had somehow gotten him killed.

Now, I've read the books. I've seen the TV shows. I

read as much news as I can take until my eyeballs hurt.

I'm well aware that pushing is not a profession made

for duration. People get into it hoping to make a quick

buck, usually because they have no other options. They

have neither the education to get a job punching a clock,

nor the desire to work for a corporation that can termi

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Jason Pinter

nate them without a moment's notice. There was some

thing romantic about the notion of a drug dealer, some

thing that went against the system. But when I saw

Stephen Gaines that night on the street, I did not see a

man defiant in the face of unspeakable odds stacked

against him. I saw a defeated, emaciated, broken-down

young man. A man scared of something. Something he

felt, for some reason, I could help with.

I was a newspaper reporter. Nothing more, nothing

less. I sincerely doubted Gaines came to me because I

was his flesh and blood. He'd had years to try to reach

out. He came to me because something about my pro

fession, my line of work, could have helped him, thrown

him a lifeline.

I sat down, my butt immediately becoming stuck to

the seat by a clear substance I hadn't seen before. The

joys of traveling on the MTA. Unfolding that morning's

copy of the Gazette, I put all thoughts of Gaines and

Willingham out of my mind until I got home. Perhaps

good old-fashioned newspaper reporting would help

me out. Clear my mind.

But when I saw the story on page eleven, I nearly

threw up.

Man, 27, Shot to Death in His Apartment

A photo accompanied the article. I recognized the

man in the shot. I'd seen him just recently.

It was the guy whose briefcase I'd stolen. He was

found last night, murdered, shot twice in the back of the

head.

23

I couldn't think of any words. My mouth was dry, my

head throbbing. Amanda and I were sitting in a cold

room in the Twenty-eighth Precinct on Eighth Avenue

between 122d and 123d streets. On the table in front of

us were several items: an empty briefcase, several

thousand dollars' worth of various types of narcotics;

and one cell phone.

The man's name was Hector Guardado. He was

twenty-seven years old. Lived alone in Spanish Harlem.

According to police reports, Hector had less than a

thousand dollars in his bank account. But upon search

ing his apartment, they found nearly fifty thousand

dollars in cash stuffed underneath a fake floorboard in

his kitchen.

Hector was not some young kid with no education

dealing to make ends meet. He had an MBA. A freaking

business degree. Yet despite the degree, despite the

hundred thousand dollars he spent to attain it, Hector

Guardado had not been able to find employment since

returning to New York City, his hometown.

The other day I'd stolen Hector's briefcase to learn

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Jason Pinter

more about his dealings, to learn more about this group

of misfits that my brother may or may not have been a

part of. And now the man was dead, murdered in cold

blood. Another young man killed like a piece of meat,

shot twice in the back of the head, surely by someone

who knew him.

Because of that, I called Amanda the moment I got

out of the subway. Stopping at the apartment first to pick

up the briefcase and its contents, I headed straight for

the police. No more clandestine detective work. No

more hiding my hand until all the cards were dealt. A

life had been taken.

It made me sick to my stomach to think that Hector

Guardado's life might have been taken because of his

stolen briefcase, but two days ago he was alive. Two

days ago the briefcase, along with the drugs and his cell

phone, were in his possession.

And now today he was dead, and the drugs were

in police custody. I wasn't willing to write it off as a

coincidence.

"You okay?" Amanda asked. I didn't nod. I wasn't

the one on a slab somewhere, or being written about in

the newspaper. She seemed to get this, because she

didn't ask again.

Soon the door opened and a familiar face walked in:

Detective Sevi Makhoulian.

Makhoulian sat down in a chair across from us.

Looked me over, then looked at the items on the table.

He took a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket, spread

open the black folds of the suitcase and peered in.

"This everything?"

I nodded.

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197

"And this was all in Guardado's possession when

you took it from him."

I nodded again. "You can fingerprint it," I said. "I

never touched the stuff." I nudged Amanda slightly with

my elbow, giving her a silent thanks for the advice.

Makhoulian sighed and leaned back in his chair. He

folded his arms behind his head as though deciding

what to watch on television. He didn't look the least bit

concerned with anything.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"Frankly," he said, "I'm not sure yet. Unfortunately

we can't charge you with theft, because Mr. Guardado

would have been our only witness, and frankly it would

be a waste of time. Because, though I don't know you

that well, anytime a person willingly brings half a pound

of weed, a fourth of a kilo of cocaine and enough crack

rocks to keep Flavor Flav's teeth chattering for a year,

they're not the ones using it."

"We're not," Amanda said. "We weren't."

Makhoulian nodded, then thumbed his lip. "Look,

Parker, I know you think your father is innocent. If I was

in your shoes, I'd want to do anything I could to help

him, too. And if he is innocent, he'll be found as such

by a jury of his peers."

"The case hasn't even gone to the grand jury yet,"

Amanda spat.

"True, but we all know that's a mere formality. We

have his fingerprints. We have his receipts from his trip

to New York. And we have a motive."

"Does the name Butch Willingham ring a bell?" I

asked suddenly.

Makhoulian looked confused. Said, "No, why?"

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Jason Pinter

I believed him. "Nothing," I said. "Just a guy who

was killed a long time ago."

"And you bring it up, why, as a brainteaser?"

"I'm not sure why," I said. "Just wondering if I'm the

only one who thinks there's a lot more to this than a

simple case of a guy murdering his son. Since, you

know, another young man was just killed in the same

manner as Stephen Gaines."

"The investigation into the death of Hector Guardado

is under way," Sevi said. "You're a reporter, Henry,

right? Can you tell me how many murders were com

mitted in New York City last year?"

"Not the exact number, but I believe it was under

five hundred."

"Four hundred and ninety-two," Makhoulian said.

His eyes were riveted on mine. This was not a history

lesson or an attempt to belittle my knowledge. "Now,

first of all, that was the lowest number of murders com

mitted in Manhattan in over forty years. First time it's

been under five hundred since 1963, to be precise. Thing

is, even though that's low for our standards, that's still

an awful lot of homicides. Now, think about that word.

Homicide. These four hundred ninety-two people were

killed by someone else. They didn't step into open

elevator shafts or pee on the third rail. They were killed.

Murdered. Now, you are a reporter. So it's part of your

job to report crimes that are extraordinary. Like Sharon

Dombrowski, the elderly woman on Spring Street who

was so convinced she was being targeted by a robber

that she hooked up an electric cable to her door, so

when her poor landlord came by to check on a leak and

knocked he was electrocuted to death. Or Percy

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199

Whitmore who bought a studio in Little Italy using a

loan from his father. Only when he didn't repay in time,

Percy's dad came over and smacked his son across the

face so hard ol' Percy fell and cracked his skull open on

his bookshelf. Accidental? Maybe. But homicides

nonetheless."

"What's your point?" I said.

"See, you write about these instances because they're

one in a million. Like a shark attack, they're so

gruesome and out of the ordinary that people want to

hear about them just like how they slow down when

passing a car wreck. What doesn't get that press are the

boring murders. The two taps to the back of the head."

Makhoulian mimicked pointing a gun to his cranium,

cocking his trigger finger twice to illustrate the shots.

"You know how many of those nearly five hundred

murders were the result of gunshot wounds? Four

hundred and twenty-eight. Now, I'm not a mathemati

cian, but that's somewhere between eighty and ninety

percent. So you're going to come in here and tell me,

definitively, that these two murders are the result of

some vast conspiracy that I'm too dumb to see?"

"I'm not saying you're dumb. But Hector called my

brother that night."

"According to Verizon, the phone call lasted eight

seconds. You know how long eight seconds is? Long

enough to realize you've dialed the wrong number before

you hang up. There are no other records of these two

having ever corresponded, no other calls between the

two."

"You don't see these killings as two pieces to--"

"Pieces my ass, you're reading too much James

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Jason Pinter

Ellroy. Know what they teach us in the academy? The

rule of lex parsimoniae. Since I'm guessing you're not

exactly fluent, what the Latin translates to is 'entities

must not be multiplied beyond necessity.' Boil down the

translation, what that means is if a man is murdered, and

the fingerprints on the gun belong to someone he

knows, who has access to him, and who has a motive

to kill him, I'd be willing to bet my badge, my wife, my

mortgage and my iPhone you put that killer in cell block

D you've got the right guy."

"You said usually," I replied. "You said eighty to

ninety percent. Well, it's my job to find the exception

to your rule. I've told you everything I know. I'm hoping

when I walk out of here you do something with it, and

don't piss it all away because of what you read in a

damn textbook. Because I find that extra few percent,

Detective. Father or not, brother or not, it's just what I

do."

Amanda and I stood up. Waited for Detective Sevi

Makhoulian to say something. When he didn't, we

waved at the camera so the observers in the other room

would unlock the door. Makhoulian nodded, a click

signaled that the door was unlocked, and I left to prove

to the detective I was a man of my word.

And as I walked down the hallway, Amanda's

unsteady hand locked in mine, I could feel the detec

tive's eyes on my back.

24

I was dialing the number before I even left the station

house. He picked up right away, his voice not even at

tempting to hide the boredom that had no doubt settled

in over the past several months. Though I still harbored

some guilt over what had happened, every time we

spoke he'd forbid me to show any pity, either for myself

or for him. To Curt Sheffield, being wounded in the line

of duty was something to be proud of. He'd never

wanted to be anything but a cop--and he was a damn

good one at that--and he wasn't going to let some

pissant reporter wallow in a pint over some spilt blood.

"Officer Sheffield," he said, practically moaning.

Curt had taken a bullet in the leg last year while helping

me investigate a series of child kidnappings. The slug

had nicked an artery, and it took a few surgeries to

repair the wound. He'd probably never run in the

Olympics, but while he wouldn't accept anyone's pity

he had told me on several occasions the injury had done

wonders for his sex life. Guess chicks really do dig

scars. I'd have to ask Amanda if that's why she was still

with me.

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Jason Pinter

"Hey, man, has your ass spread at all today?"

"S'up, Henry? Matter of fact I've been doing butt

blasts at my desk. Docs won't let me go to the gym, but

I think it's a trick to get me to keep coming in so they

can charge my insurance company. I swear my ass looks

like the victim of an attack of cottage cheese."

"I don't want to think about anything involving your

butt. What do you say to a drink after work? On me."

"I don't know man, I feel like I gotta lay low a little

bit. Last time I brought you in here I caught hell from

the chief of the department. You don't have a lot of

friends around here these days, especially considering

what's going on with your pops. At least you can be

happy you got the deep end of the Parker gene pool."

"I'll let that one slide. No work talk," I said. "Just

conversation. All I ask. Okay, maybe one or two ques

tions, but that's it."

Curt went silent, but I could tell he was checking his

watch. Sitting behind the desk for Curt was like keeping

a racehorse stalled behind the starting gate. He was

born to walk the streets, not type up reports. That's

likely why I felt the most guilt; it was one less great cop

protecting the city.

"Gimme one hour. Mixins." Mixins was a cheesy

singles bar primarily frequented by law and finance

professionals who felt eight-dollar beers and weak

cosmos were part of the mating ritual. The bar had

undergone a total renovation over the last few years,

mainly due to its predilection to serving underage girls.

A friend of a friend who used to drink there said the

waitstaff would grossly undercharge young women,

naturally in the hopes of luring free-spending men to the

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203

bar. Soon enough the cops caught on. Though rumor

had it they didn't so much as catch on, but an off-duty

detective saw a group of girls walk directly to the bar

once after finishing class on Friday.

The bar had been shut down, but underwent a classic

change in management, and now you'd be hard pressed

to find someone holding a glass who didn't take home

close to six figures. Neither Curt nor I pulled in

anywhere in the universe of that salary, but Curt enjoyed

it because, in his words, finance girls were workahol

ics in every aspect of their lives. They kept their minds

and their bodies sharp, and even though he seemed to

always be in a serious relationship--sometimes several

at once--he enjoyed having nice views at the bar. When

I asked him about it, his answer was simply that I wasn't

pretty enough to hold his attention through more than

one round of drinks.

I got to the bar before he did, took a seat and ordered

a Brooklyn Lager. The bartender, a tall, rail-thin guy

wearing a tight black T-shirt that ended right above his

veiny pelvic area, served it to me then recommenced

putting his elbows on the table and looking tortured.

The stools by the bar were never full here. It wasn't the

kind of place one went to for a quiet drink.

A few months ago I'd gone through a rough personal

patch. When Amanda and I were separated for a while.

Being apart from her led me to drink too much and seek

out my own solitude. Losing a part of your life can be

the most accurate barometer of what matters most. If

you love something, being apart from it will haunt you.

If it doesn't, it can't have mattered all that much to

begin with.

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Jason Pinter

Being apart from Amanda was a miserable experi

ence. I slept at my desk at the Gazette. My personal

hygiene fell a rung below your average wino's. I

wondered if I was simply the kind of guy who always

needed to be in a relationship. Before Amanda, I'd been

with my previous girlfriend, Mya, for several years. We

also ended badly, and after suffering brutal injuries at

the hands of a maniac, she seemed fully recovered, her

life back on track. I was happy with Amanda, and I

knew the difference between a good and a bad relation

ship. Learning it had nearly killed me, but it was worth

it.

After waiting fifteen minutes and downing half my

beer, Curt strode into the bar. He was tall, black, in

great shape, though his recent sedentary work life had

softened the edges just a bit. He was wearing a dark shirt

made of some shiny fabric. Certainly not what he wore

on the job, unless the NYPD was far more fashionable

than I'd thought.

Though his posture was perfect and he betrayed no

sense of pain, there was still a slight limp evident in Curt's

walk. I remembered seeing him lying there in a pool of

blood, holding back the pain, unwilling to let anything get

over on him. It was as though he was disgusted at himself

for showing weakness, taking the maxim "never let them

see you bleed" quite literally. If he was limping at all, he

was probably in more pain and discomfort than he let on.

We shook hands, and Curt ordered a beer. The bar

tender poured it from the tap, eyeing Curt while letting

the foam pour over, a thin smile on his thin lips. Once

he'd set the glass down and moved away, I said to Curt,

"Now batting for the other team..."

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205

"Don't even start, Henry."

"What? That's a compliment. Any man who can

attract players from both dugouts is doing something

right. Besides, wearing that shirt, I wouldn't be sur

prised if a few new dugouts spring up."

"You know, Parker, I don't even know what the hell

you're talking about sometimes." Curt sipped his beer.

"How's the leg?" I asked, slightly apprehensive. It

would have been easier to ignore it, to pretend he'd

never been shot and there was nothing holding him

back. It would have been easier to sit here, drink and

carry on, pretend he wasn't limping.

"It's getting better," he said. "Takes a while for the

muscle strength to build up, since they had to slice

through some muscle to repair the damage to the artery."

Just hearing this made me wince. "Does it hurt?"

"When it's cold out, yeah. Gets a little stiff on me.

Plus, it's a little numb by my toes, on account of them

having to go through some nerves, too. Docs aren't sure

that'll ever come back. Not a big deal, though."

I wanted to scream at him and ask how that could not

be a big deal, but I supposed if you took a bullet in an

artery and that was the worst-case scenario, you tended

to think on the bright side of things.

"Tell you one thing," Curt continued, "I'm going to

have to start wearing gloves, they got me filling out so

many forms. Feel like I'm a supporting cast member

on The Office or something. The black dude who

stands in the corner with paper cuts on every finger.

How's Amanda?"

"She's doing well," I said. "Been a huge help on

this thing with my dad. Without her he'd probably

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Jason Pinter

still be sitting in an Oregon prison claiming not to be

James Parker."

"She's a good one, my man. Glad you finally made

amends for all that crap you pulled breaking up with

her."

"It wasn't like I was just breaking up with her," I said,

taking another pull on my drink. "I thought I was doing

the right thing, being noble."

"Nobility isn't about telling someone what you think

is right for them. It's doing the right thing, period.

Girls's a grown woman, she can make her own deci

sions. What you did was selfish, and it was to alleviate

your own guilt over what happened to her and Mya. You

felt like if you broke things off, you could feel as if you

were protecting them. Just not so. I don't claim to be

Mr. Perfect Relationship, but there's give-and-take.

You're with someone, you're their partner. It was

selfish, bro, own up to it."

"Maybe you're right," I said. "And trust me, I know

I screwed up. And I'm atoning for it."

"How?"

"For starters, I cook every Friday night."

"You a good cook?"

"If by 'good' you mean she's able to swallow one

forkful without gagging, then yeah, I'm a good cook."

Curt sipped his drink, then shifted his weight, a small

grimace spreading over his face. It was a brief reaction

and certainly unintentional, but for some reason it made

my stomach feel hollow.

"Can I ask you something?" I said.

"'Course, man.You sound serious all of a sudden, you

got a month to live or something?" he said, laughing.

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207

I smiled, drank. "You ever feel like I do more harm

than good? As a person?"

Curt looked at me. He could tell I was serious. "Not

quite sure why you say that," he said. "But it feels to

me like you might be having a little pity party."

"It's not that," I said. "I'm over all that. I just feel like

over the last few years...I mean, look at it. Mya.

Amanda. You. My dad. Just feels like all these people

I'm supposed to be close to get hurt. Not to mention this

guy who got killed the other day."

"What guy?' Curt asked.

I filled him in on the details of Hector Guardado and

the briefcase. He sat there, focused, listening intently.

He nodded when I brought up Detective Makhoulian,

said he'd met the guy once or twice and that he seemed

like he was on the up-and-up.

Often it took a good cop to recognize a good cop, so

it was reassuring to hear Curt say that.

Though my first few months in the city I'd been dis

trustful of cops--and who could blame me since two

of them tried to kill me for erroneous reasons--recently

I'd begun to settle back in, believing that guys like Mak

houlian were truly here to serve and protect. Just

because most of them didn't like me didn't mean I

didn't have respect for them.

"And you think this guy Guardado is somehow tied

in to your brother's death?" he said.

"Probably not directly, but I caught Guardado

coming out of a building where I saw a bunch of other

drug couriers signing in to a company called 718 Enter

prises. I couldn't find much on them, but I'm pretty sure

Stephen might have worked for them at some point."

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Jason Pinter

"Selling drugs," Curt said.

"That's right."

"And what's the name of that company you men

tioned? 718?"

"718 Enterprises," I repeated.

Curt scratched his nose, downed the rest of his

beer. "Not sure why, but for some reason that name

sounds familiar."

"That means it's likely not a good thing," I said.

Curt shook his head, thinking. "Give me some time

tonight, I'm going to go back and dig into some of the

files, ask around."

"Curt, you don't have to do that, I--"

"Don't even start. I need to get some action, so don't

look at this as a favor from me to you, but an excuse for

me to get back on the horse."

"Then giddyup, cowboy," I said.

"You know damn well there were no black cowboys,

and no, I don't count Mel Brooks movies."

"Actually I think there were," I said. "I know a little

about the Old West."

"You being cute with me?" Curt said.

He stood up. We'd finished just one beer, but I could

tell he was motivated. And since his motivation might

answer a few questions, who was I to stop him?

"Keep your cell on, I'll give you a call tonight," he

said. We shook hands and gave an awkward fist-bump

man hug that I always felt silly doing but practiced

nonetheless.

We both left the club, Curt hailing a taxi while I

headed toward the subway. I hadn't known Curt to

spend money on cabs too often, he preferred to walk or

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209

use public transportation. That he was willing to spring

for a cab meant his leg was bothering him enough to

forgo the walk to the bus stop.

I arrived home a little past nine. Amanda greeted me

with a hug and a kiss and a plate of cold spaghetti. She

was wearing an oversize gray sweatshirt and a pair of

light blue boxer shorts, and looked absolutely adorable.

Even the rumples of the sweatshirt couldn't hide the

body beneath, and I made sure to squeeze her extra

tight during our hug.

Changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I sat down at the

table and dug into the food. She'd sprinkled a light

sheet of parmesan over the tomato sauce.

"I can warm that up for you," she said.

"It's actually good like this," I said. "I ran some track

back in high school and always ate cold pasta before

meets. It always tastes better cold than reheated."

I proved this by shoveling another forkful in my

mouth and grinning.

As I finished the meal, I couldn't help but think about

how just yesterday a briefcase full of drugs had

occupied the tabletop. Now the owner was dead, and it

frightened me to think that whoever Hector Guardado

was working for, his life was expendable compared to

the contents of the briefcase.

And I wondered, again, why my brother's name was

in a dead drug dealer's cell phone. And why Hector

Guardado had called him once and only once, the night

Stephen was murdered.

And as I sat there chewing and thinking, my cell

phone rang.

Rummaging through the pile of laundry on the floor,

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I pulled the phone from my pocket, clicked Send. I rec

ognized the prefix as coming from Curt's precinct.

"This is Henry," I said.

"It's Curt."

"You find anything?" I said, beginning to feel that

familiar rush of apprehension and excitement. Then I

remembered what I'd told Wallace, promising that my

mind was still with the paper. I had to think about all

this information both as a son and a reporter.

"You could say that. Now I know why the name 718

Enterprises sounded familiar. You sitting down?" he

said.

"Yes," I lied.

"Your boys Gaines and Guardado, they're not the

only ones."

"What do you mean?"

"Five bodies, Henry. Christ, what have you gotten

into."

I stood there, listened, feeling dread pour through

me.

Curt continued, saying, "Five young men murdered,

the coroner's reports all suggesting the use of a silenced

pistol. All gunshots from close range, all executionstyle. Assumed that the victims knew their killers. So

if that's true, these guys were all killed just like Stephen

Gaines. Which means all five people were somehow

connected to this 718 Enterprises. And all of them killed

in the past three months. It's not just Gaines and

Guardado, man. Somebody is systematically taking out

everyone who works for that organization."

25

When I was finally able to wrap my head around what

Curt had just told me, I sent an e-mail off to Wallace

Langston informing him of our conversation and what

I'd learned. There had to be some sort of story in what

Curt had told me, and I wanted to let Wallace know my

mind was still sharp, I was still committed to the

Gazette, and that at some point I'd have a hell of a pageone exclusive for him.

As always Wallace showed excitement for the pos

sibility of the story, but again expressed concern that I

was too often finding myself in situations where uncov

ering a story would put myself or others in harm's way.

The fact was I'd never been to Iraq, never reported on

a war from the trenches, so neither he nor I could state

that any danger I found myself in could compare. Bad

things happened to find me. So be it. If I was still re

porting about cute kittens and big ugly metal spiders--

I mean, works of art--I would have impaled myself on

a number-two pencil by now.

And as much as it energized me to think of this as a

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Jason Pinter

story, I knew it helped distract from the apprehension I

had over finding the truth.

Five young men murdered, all with connections to

718 Enterprises. I had no idea what the company did,

but the name and address were clearly a front for some

thing. And somehow, after Helen Gaines brought him

to New York, my brother had begun to work for them.

If only he were alive today. If only I'd waited on that

street corner. If only I'd heard what he had to say.

According to Curt, when the dead mens' bodies were

investigated, a phone number attributed to 718 Enter

prises was found on their call lists. When dialed, the

numbers led nowhere, and in fact each man's cell had

a different number credited to 718. This cemented my

feeling that Stephen Gaines's murder was one part of

something much bigger, much broader, and that not

only did my father's freedom and his son's killer hang

in the balance, but potentially much more.

Amanda was asleep. Nights like this I would often

find myself sitting on the couch in our living room. No

music playing, no television. No noise at all beyond

what the city offered.

It took a few minutes to realize it, but it began to

dawn on me just how strange my world had become.

Nearly ten years ago I'd left the confines of Bend,

Oregon. In part because my ambition drew me to more

crowded, deeper waters. I was tired of living in what I

felt was a small world, confined to a small house made

even smaller still by the discomfort of being around my

parents. I longed for adventure, mystery.

I wanted to make a name for myself, and thought

nowhere better to do that than in the city that never sleeps.

The Fury

213

Now, however, I found myself glad for any quiet

that nighttime offered. The fact that my windows

weren't soundproof and I could hear car horns and

alarms all hours of the night only made the feelings

more intense. On those rare nights when I could hear

nothing but the hum of my air conditioner, night as I

knew it reminded me of those old days in Bend. Those

quiet nights I lay restless in my bed, longing for noise

that proved I was somewhere, had become someone.

Having been on the front page, having people know my

name and my face, it was everything I wanted but

nothing I'd expected.

Not for the first time I wondered if perhaps I'd be

happier elsewhere, if Amanda and I lived in a place

where I could report in a town where the media wasn't

the focus of the media itself, where good work could

be done out of the spotlight.

Where nobody else would get hurt.

News was in my blood. Had been for a long time. But

was this what I wanted, what I'd dreamed of? At first it

had been. That first day at the Gazette, seeing Jack

O'Donnell at his desk, the first time I read my own

byline, each of these was one of those moments in your

life that you remember for years. What was happening

now, though, I didn't want to remember. But if my father

was going to survive, and if Stephen Gaines's killer was

going to be brought to justice, I sure as hell couldn't

forget.

It was only a few days before my father went in front

of a grand jury. That jury would more than likely indict

him for the murder of his own estranged son. No doubt

once that judgment was passed along, my father would

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go through the same ringer I did when I was wrongly

accused of the crime. Only for him, he would be incar

cerated, a slab of meat lying in a cage for the wolves to

pick at whenever they chose. Even though I escaped

with a pierced lung, my ordeal never made it to court.

I had to get my father out before that took place.

There was one person who had knowledge of 718

Enterprises. One person who likely knew both Hector

Guardado and my brother. One person I knew enough

about to make him listen.

I had to wait about eighteen hours before I could

confront him.

It was going to be a long day.

I sat on the front stoop sipping from a cup of coffee,

one of those great, old-fashioned cups that were made

of cardboard and had cute little illustrations of mugs

with wings on the side. Coffee cups these days seemed

to be tall, sleek models that looked more like tubes of

enriched uranium than something you drank to wake up

in the morning. The deli I got this from had no logo, no

branding, and the bag they gave it to me in had one of

those cheerful INY slogans on the side. Those were

the bags you gave out when you didn't have a Web site,

and didn't have spontaneous MP3 downloading capa

bility.

There was no definitive time when he'd be home. I'd

arrived at 7:00 p.m. on the chance it was an early day.

So far it had not been. Around eight-thirty I went for a

quick walk up and down the block to keep my blood

flowing, and to make sure people in the neighborhood

didn't get suspicious.

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215

Finally at eight-thirty, just as I was beginning to feel

the need to pee, I saw him walking down the street.

He carried the briefcase lightly. It was clearly empty.

As he got closer I could see that his suit was

wrinkled, stained through with the sweat from a day

spent going house to house, subway to subway.

When he got close enough to the point where he

could see me, I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Right in

front of him. He was bigger than I remembered, and the

ill-fitting suit didn't fully stretch enough to hide the

muscles in his arms. The shock of black hair that had

surely been neatly combed that morning now sat askew

on his head, beads of sweat traveling down his forehead

and nestling in the collar of his formerly white oxford

shirt. The man stopped for a moment, eyed me curi

ously, defensive, as though he half-expected me to take

a random swing at him.

"Scott Callahan?" I said.

"The hell are you?" Scotty replied, taking a step

back.

"My name is Henry Parker," I said. "And you're

going to want to talk to me."

Scotty walked in front of me the whole way, like a

prisoner heading toward the electric chair, knowing

there was no chance of reprieve. On the street, Scotty

had told me to go to hell. I responded by telling him ev

erything I knew, how I'd followed him the other day.

How I'd observed him going into each of those houses,

how I knew he was selling drugs.

I had to leave out my stealing Hector Guardado's

briefcase. He didn't need to know I was so close. I

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Jason Pinter

wanted to have leverage on Scotty, but put too much

weight on a person and rather than talk they'll simply

buckle. If Scotty thought I knew so much to the point

where I could incriminate both him and 718 Enter

prises, he'd feel no reason to talk to me. He needed to

feel there was a way out. If there was a chance at

survival, there was a chance to talk his way out of it.

I told him my name, my job. That he could end up

on the front page of the Gazette tomorrow. Naturally I

didn't tell him this was a personal investigation, but

chances were Scotty Callahan would not be the kind of

guy who'd consider filing a suit for libel.

We went into a 24-hour coffee shop, somewhere

quiet where we wouldn't be disturbed and didn't have

to worry about being kicked out. Scotty walked with his

head down, and for a moment I felt sorry for the guy.

He was still in his rumpled suit, still carrying the same

briefcase. As he walked, the case flopped against his

side like a fish running out of air.

I led him to the back of the restaurant, where we took

a booth. A waitress came by and dropped two menus

on the table with a thunk. One good thing about New

York coffee shops, they took the food from every menu

in the city and crammed it under one roof. You could

order anything from a BLT to baby back ribs to sushi.

Though I wouldn't recommend coffee-shop sushi.

Scotty slid into the far end of the booth. He looked

tired, and I could imagine that this was literally the

very last place on earth he wanted to be. After a long

day delivering house to house, I was sure a cold beer

and a warm bed were the next two items on his agenda.

They'd have to wait a little while.

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217

"You're making a big mistake," Scotty said. "I don't

know anything."

"See right there," I said, pointing at him. "That's

how I know you're lying. Anyone who says 'you're

making a big mistake' knows a whole hell of a lot."

"Great, so you're a mind reader. Read my palm and

let me the hell out of here."

"You stand up before I say you can, and you know

what the front page of the paper says tomorrow?" I

held up my hands as though spelling out a movie

matinee for him. "It says, 'Scott Callahan, drug

dealer.' Now, I don't know what your dreams and am

bitions are, Scotty, but I'm going to guess you'll have

a tough time finding gainful employment after that

happens. So we're going to sit here, I'm going to have

a big-ass chocolate milk shake, and we're going to

talk. Then, maybe, if I feel like you've been honest,

you can go."

"And if not?"

I held up my hands again, framing the marquee.

"Then consider yourself Spitzered."

"You're a classy guy."

"Yeah, and how's the drug-dealing business going?"

"I'm not a drug dealer," Scotty said. The anger in his

voice told me he actually believe what he said.

"Now, I'm not sure what the actual term 'drug

dealer' is in Webster's, but I'm pretty sure that if you

go door to door selling drugs, you'd find a picture of

yourself next to that definition."

The thing was, I had no proof of Scotty being a

dealer. I could link him to 718 Enterprises, and Hector

Guardado, and possibly even my brother, but I hadn't

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Jason Pinter

actually witnessed him doing it. Thankfully by denying

it with such vehemence he proved it for me.

"I'm not a dealer," he said. His voice was quieter this

time. I wondered if Scotty had ever sat alone in the dark

thinking about what he was doing, what he'd become.

The softness in his tone told me he had. "That's not what

I do."

"Then, please," I said. "Enlighten me."

He looked at me suspiciously, his eyes traveling over

my shirt, my chest. Then he leaned over and peered

under the table.

"Can I help you?" I said.

"Are you wired?"

I shook my head. "I'm not. This is between you and

me, for now. I'm not looking to bust you. That's the

truth. I just want some answers and I know you have

them. You help me, I help you."

"How do you help me?" he said.

"By keeping my mouth shut."

"And how can I know I can trust you?" he asked. "I

have a family, man. I have friends. They all think I'm

living on a sweet severance package."

I sat for a moment. "You know what guys usually say

in the movies when someone asks how they know they

can trust them?"

"No."

"They say, 'because you have no choice.' So right

now, you have no choice but to trust me. I'd be happy

to strip down to my George Foreman underwear, but I

don't think that's a scene either of us needs."

Just to show him I was on the up-and-up, I stood up,

flattened out my jeans and did a quick flip-up of my top.

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219

Sitting back down, I could tell Scotty was far from sat

isfied, but he also knew if motivated, I could cause him

a world of trouble.

"They're not my drugs," he said. "I never wanted to

do it. I mean, you're a reporter, right?"

"That's what my business card says."

"So you've got a job. And even though everyone's

saying newspapers are going in the tank, you're still

getting paid, right?"

I wondered where this was going, but nodded.

"I had my life planned out. I was gonna have my

MBA by twenty-six," Scotty said. "So much for that.

Three-point-nines all the way through college. Paid my

own way through school because my parents could

barely afford to buy the clothes I took with me. And

right before I graduated, I got a six-figure job with

Deutsche Bank structuring CDOs. That's the American

dream, right"

"CDOs?" I said.

"Collateralized debt obligations. Basically you have

a lot of banks giving out hundreds of thousands of loans.

These loans are packaged into what's called a security.

Then a bunch of securities are piled into what's called

a CDO. Then when the crisis hit, we all got screwed."

"Still not quite sure I follow."

"Think about it like you were selling eggs," Scotty

said. "There are dozens of chickens laying hundreds of

eggs. Those eggs are taken from all different chickens

and put into one carton, which is then sold. But what

happens if the whole coop was diseased? Every egg in

the carton is basically worthless. That's pretty much

what happened. We ended up with a bunch of packaged

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Jason Pinter

loans that were in essence worthless. And once the

economy got turned upside down, everyone who

worked in that branch got the ticket out of there. I was

at Deutsche Bank less than a year when I got canned."

"I'm guessing you didn't live with your parents

while you were working."

"No way. Bought me a sweet two-bedroom for threequarters of a mil. Between salary and bonus, I could

afford the payments while paying off my student loans.

But then I lost my job, couldn't make the payments, and

took a hundred-thousand-dollar loss selling the apart

ment."

"Wow," I said. "I think you lost more on that pad than

my apartment is worth."

"Don't be too sure. There's always someone willing

to overpay for Manhattan real estate. If I could have

waited six months I would have found a good buyer, but

I couldn't afford my mortgage anymore and it was

either that or live on the street for a while."

"And now?"

"And now what? I live with my parents. They still

think I'm gonna be some financial genius. Warren

Buffett or something. That's why you gotta keep this

quiet, man. They can't know. It'd kill them." Scotty was

starting to breathe harder, red flaring up under his collar.

He was getting angry just talking about this. "You know

what that feels like? You work your ass off for ten years,

you pour every penny you have into your future. And

then just when things seem like they're going your way,

the rug is pulled out from under you and you're left with

nothing but debt, bad credit and a crappy old bedroom

that wasn't big enough when you were in high school."

The Fury

221

"So you start dealing. To make ends meet."

"It's not permanent," Scotty said. "Things will turn

around. There are peaks and valleys in every time cycle.

In a year or so I'll have the job of my choice, back in a

sweet-ass apartment. Living the dream."

"You tell that to all the people you're poisoning?"

"Screw yourself, Mr. High-and-Mighty. I'm doing

what I need to do to survive. I owe fifty grand on my

tuition, and even if I do get another job, who knows how

long that'll last. You're a reporter, right? You ever think

about all those people you feed bull to day in and day out?

All those magazines telling women how they can doll

themselves up, get sliced open just to be prettier? So

maybe they can look like whatever anorexic slut you

shove on your cover? Don't tell me about poison, man.

You think I'm any worse than you are, you're deluding

yourself."

"I don't need to defend myself. I know what I do, and

I know what you do. If you can even compare the two,

you're the delusional one, Scotty."

A waiter came over. He took a notepad from his

pocket, licked his thumb and turned to a fresh page.

"Can I get ya?"

"Pastrami and rye," Scotty said. "With Swiss and

mustard. And a cream soda."

"Chocolate milk shake," I said. "And a side of fries."

The waiter nodded, walked off. I turned back to

Scotty.

"When did you start?" I asked.

He sighed, for a moment saying nothing. He was

steeling himself up to talk. "'Bout a year ago," he said.

"How? Who introduced you?"

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Jason Pinter

"I went to my buddy Kyle's house one night a week

after I got laid off. It was a few of us. Kyle's girlfriend,

some chick I'd been seeing for a month who dumped

me a few days later when she realized I couldn't afford

tables at the China Club anymore."

"Wow, that's a sob story if I ever heard one. Let me

call up Larry King for you."

"Dude, you're missing the point. Do you have any

idea what it's like, how utterly fucking hopeless you

feel, to live your whole life working for something only

to know it can end--" he snapped his fingers "--just

like that?"

Scotty sat there, leaning across the table like a life

coach trying to convince me of the path to righteous

ness. Though Scotty and I had almost nothing in

common--not our clothes, not our upbringing, not our

vocation--something about what he said hit home for

me. With my industry seemingly scaling back by the

day, not to mention the far too often times my life was

endangered by that chosen vocation, I knew how

tenuous things could be.

"Your friend Kyle," I said. "Go on."

"We stayed up late, drank a lot. I think our girls were

starting to get pissed off, feeling like we were paying

each other more attention than we were them. And they

were probably right. At some point I start jonesing for

a toke. I used in college a bit. I asked Kyle if he knew

where we could get some good stuff, and he kind of

looked at me and laughed."

Our food came, and Scotty tore into it before mine

had even been set down. The pastrami and rye disap

peared in several ravenous bites, washed down with a

The Fury

223

chug of cream soda. When he finished, Scotty smiled

and said, "Best sandwich in the world."

My chocolate milk shake looked a little silly in com

parison, but I took a long sip and felt like a kid again.

He wiped his mouth, placed the napkin gently on the

table and continued. "Kyle just got up, went into his

bedroom and came back with what looked like an eighth

of great bud. At first I didn't ask questions, I was just

looking forward to the feeling. When we were good and

baked--and man, that stuff baked us quick--I asked

him where he'd got it. Know what he told me?"

"What?"

"He said, 'leftovers.' I didn't know what the hell that

meant, so I asked him. He said times were tough, and

he'd been dealing a bit on the side. His mom just got

diagnosed with cervical cancer and she didn't have

health insurance. So he was dealing to help her out with

the bills. Kyle's dad died about ten years ago, drank

away every penny they had, even gambled some that

they didn't. So I asked him who set him up with that,

and he said he'd met a guy who was kind of like the

head recruiter. Kind of like Ben Affleck in Boiler Room,

the grand pooh-bah of the game. The guy you want to

talk to if you want in."

"So Kyle set you up with this guy."

"Yeah. Kyle said he was at some party where a guy

named Vinnie came and sold the host some coke. Kyle

was curious about making some extra coin, so he pulled

Vinnie aside. Vinnie gave him a phone number, and

that's all she wrote."

"And how did you get involved?" I asked.

Scotty chugged more of his cream soda, a frothy

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Jason Pinter

mustache trail on his upper lip. He saw me staring, and

wiped it away. "After a few weeks, I noticed Kyle was

coming home later and later, and then I saw him with

this sweet watch, a Movado. Brand-new, bought from

the store. He said he was pulling down two, three grand

a week easy. And that was just the beginning. So I asked

if Kyle would introduce me to his man, this recruiter

guy. Kyle tells me this guy is the one who makes all the

decisions, the guy who's in charge of everything. Kyle

sets up a meeting, I go in and talk with this guy for an

hour, maybe two, and a week later I'm on the street."

"But not really 'on the street.'"

"Nah. Anyone who thinks dealers in NYC sit on

street corners waiting for crackheads to come up to

them is watching too much HBO. This is a business, run

and worked by businessmen. There's no room for street

hustling or stupidity."

"Any women?" I asked.

"Not that I ever saw."

"Guess it's not all that different from finance after all."

"No," Scotty said with a laugh. "Guess not."

"So you say this whole thing is run like a business,

streamlined and thorough. So let me ask you this...how

did I find you?"

Scotty shifted in his seat. "I don't know."

"This recruiter you're talking about. The head

honcho. You say you met with him."

"Just once," Scotty said. "After I had my...interview

I guess you could call it, I was always dealing with mid

dlemen after that. Guys lower on the food chain."

"Are they the ones who give you the re-ups at the

office in midtown?"

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225

Scotty's eyes shot up, and for the first time a sense

of fear crept into them. "Who told you that?"

I said nothing. Just stared at him. He needed to know

he wasn't dealing with an amateur, and that if I'd come

this far there was surely a lot more to dig up.

"Yeah. The Depot, we called it. The main guy was

never there, it's kind of like as soon as we met him, he

disappeared into thin air and stopped existing. We had

his phone number just in case, but if anyone called it

without a good reason, we knew they might not come

in to work the next day."

"Did you ever hear anyone mention someone or

something called the Fury?" Scotty looked at me,

confused.

"No, not that I can think of." He seemed truthful.

"So Mayor McCheese. The Big Kahuna. The Big

Boss. The recruiter. Who was he?"

"Just some guy," Scotty said. "We never really

learned anything about him."

"I mean what was his name?"

Scotty had to think for a minute, then he said.

"Gaines. Yeah, that was the dude's name. Stephen

Gaines."

26

"You're a liar," I said. Panic and rage cut through my

body like a hot blade. My stomach churned, the milk

shake feeling like it could come back up at any

moment. "Stephen Gaines can't be, he's...dead." The

last word came out empty, hollow, as though I was

arguing with thin air.

"I know that," Scotty said. There was no emotion in

his voice. He was simply telling me the news as he

knew it. "But what do you want me to say? You asked."

I had no energy to argue with him, and no argument

to counter the claims. How the hell would Scotty even

know my brother's name unless...unless...

It was too terrible to even think of. Was it possible

that my brother was much higher up on this food chain

than I'd thought? Not just one of the lower men, the

Vinnies, the ones who carried tinfoil and Saran Wrap

around the city like some alternate-universe grocer, but

someone who actually was responsible for a piece of the

action. Perhaps much more than a piece.

Was it possible Stephen Gaines was the Fury?

No, I thought. That was impossible. Somebody

The Fury

227

killed him. He was innocent. A man with demons, sure,

but not somebody who deserved to die.

The only way you're murdered in that kind of

business is if somebody bigger than you thinks you're

hindering the operation, preventing someone more am

bitious from carving a larger slice of the pie.

Unless...what if he was knocked off by a smaller

dealer, somebody whose eyes simply got too big for

their head? Somebody who felt scalping my brother

would give them street cred, a trophy, to assume the

mantle for their own?

What if my brother wore a target on his back?

Immediately my mind went back to that night. The

night Stephen found me at the Gazette. His face filled

with fright, his body wracked with pain from the drugs

and some secret he was carrying. Is it possible he knew

he had a death wish, and simply needed help? If Stephen

was so powerful, what could I possibly have done for

him?

I'd seen men and women whose lives had been de

stroyed by drugs, by alcohol. Hell, my idol, Jack

O'Donnell, was hidden away somewhere trying to drain

the poisons and impulses from his body. Jack had been

on the sauce for years, yet during that time he'd risen

to the highest ranks of his profession. There were

numerous examples of functioning alcoholics, drug

addicts, people who achieved despite carrying the

disease. I mean, I lived and worked in New York, which

probably had the highest ratio of functioning addicts in

the world. It would only make sense that if a person

worked in that industry, they would be corrupted in

some way, body or soul or both.

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Jason Pinter

When I saw Stephen Gaines outside of my office

building, his face pale, sweat streaking down his gaunt

frame, it was clear he'd been wasted away by both.

Scotty Callahan sat there holding his glass while I

tried to force his words from my mind, trying to will

them to be false. Scotty didn't seem to care one way or

another. Now that I had the information, it was no

concern to him what I did with it.

And I could tell by the way he sat there eating,

drinking, staring at his food, his mind completely

oblivious to the anguish building inside me...this was

not the face of a man lying to save his ass. There might

have even been a slight catharsis in telling me.

Stephen Gaines wasn't just some random junkie, but

in fact one of the leaders of this organization--718 En

terprises. No doubt Stephen knew what that stood for,

who worked in it, how widely it reached. Perhaps that's

what he wanted to tell me. It's what I would have heard

had I stopped. It's what he would have done that night,

while a killer roamed the streets waiting for him to come

home.

"You only met him once," I said to Scotty. "Just

once."

"Just once," he said, holding up one finger. Then he

burped, and a shred of pastrami tumbled over his lower

lip. He slurped it back up.

"What about Kyle?" I said. "How much does he

know."

Scotty put down his drink. He leaned over until I

could smell the meat on his breath. His eyes narrowed,

and for a moment my anger and frustration was replaced

by the possibility that this guy might take a swing at me.

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229

"You leave him the hell out of this," Scotty said. "His

mom is sick. He brings home enough to pay her bills,

and doesn't want or ask for any trouble. None of us are

trying to get anyone hurt. You want to drag me through

the mud, tell people I'm dealing, it'll suck but maybe I

deserve it. You screw with Kyle's life, it's not just him

but his family. I don't know you, Henry, but you'd have

to be one heartless son of a bitch to do something like

that."

"I need to know what he knows," I said, my voice

trying to explain without any hostility. "It's my family,

too. My father was arrested for the murder of Stephen

Gaines."

Scotty sat back at though slapped. The breath seemed

to have left him. For a moment he said nothing, then he

shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"Thanks," I replied.

"So that's what this is really about," Scotty said.

"Finding the truth to get your pops off the hook."

"That's right."

"Then I don't know what to say. I meant what I said

about Kyle. I'll tell you anything you want. I know

Kyle didn't know Gaines any more than I did. He met

him once, for an interview kind of thing. And we both

have to check in at the office, make sure our receipts

match up with what we're selling."

"Can you give me the name of whoever handles

that?" I said.

"It's always different," Scotty said. "And they never

tell us their names."

"What happens if you screw up?" I asked.

Scotty sighed, said, "I guess you should ask Stephen."

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We said nothing, as I processed what Scotty had said

and he finished off the last of his cream soda. My milk

shake sat lonely and untouched. If he was desperate

enough for money to resort to drugs, I guess he valued

a free meal when it came his way.

After the plates had been cleared and I'd taken care

of the tab, we both stood up and headed toward the door.

I followed him, my legs feeling rubbery.

The air outside was warm, the night sky a lovely

dark blue. Sometimes I hated the towering skyscrapers

of New York and how they totally obscured the

horizons. But nights like tonight I could stare at the pin

pricks of light, the behemoths sparsely lit, and admire

the grandeur of it all. This was a magnificent city. One

that almost seemed to beckon you to claim it all for

your own, to rise up one of those towers and stand out

over the masses, arms spread, taking it all in. All for

yourself.

And maybe that's what seduced Stephen. And got

him killed as well.

The streetlight turned green, the red Stop hand

switching to the white "happy walking" person.

"That's my signal," Scotty said. I nodded stupidly,

unsure of how to end our little gab session. "Listen,

Henry, I respect what you're doing. If the guy was a

dirtbag, it might not be worth your time if you didn't

know him. I know better than anyone that sometimes

you have to do things you're not proud of to make ends

meet. You tell yourself it's okay, because it's the only

way, and it's only for a short time."

"If that's what it takes to help you sleep at night," I said.

"Judge all you want. At some point you'll have to

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make some tough choices too. And you gave me your

word about this being off the record. I know some bad

people, people who don't really give pink slips."

"Your name won't come up and won't appear in the

paper."

"Good. And maybe ten years from now you can look

back and know you did the right things because they

were the only things available. I--"

And then Scott Callahan turned and walked away.

I stared at his back, hands in his pockets, hunched

over, acting like the weather was far colder than it actually

was. And then he turned the corner and was gone.

Sometimes people forget about the weight on their

shoulders until you point it out.

My legs felt weak, and I debated just hailing a taxi.

Then I remembered how long it would take to get back

uptown, that I'd probably have to take on a second job

to pay for it, and headed toward the subway. Consider

ing prices of everything from milk to movies had sky

rocketed in New York to the point where you had to hit

an ATM just to buy coffee and a doughnut, you had to

conserve wherever possible.

I couldn't wait to see Amanda, to hear her voice, to

feel her arms again. Then I remembered she'd promised

Darcy Lapore a night on the town and realized it would

be several hours before that would happen. But it

wasn't all bad. Amanda didn't go out all that often, and

had never been a big drinker, but Darcy was dangerous.

Her husband was a high roller and the one time we'd

double-dated with them he took us to some club with

a kinky name where he plunked down four figures for

a table and two bottles, and we proceeded to get com

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pletely obliterated. In New York, when someone pays

a grand for you to drink, you drink your money's worth.

Anyway, because of Amanda's relatively light

drinking habits, she tended to get drunk rather easily.

Which had two results: the first that she would have a

wicked hangover the next day, but second that she was

frisky as all get out when she got home. One night a

month ago, she came home from a night out with Darcy,

and upon arriving home she proceeded to give me a

piece of her mind. The reason for chewing me out? I

was still wearing pants.

God, I loved that woman.

The train ride was uneventful, and I wondered what my

father was doing at that very instant. I'd only been to see

him once since his incarceration in the Tombs. Every part

of me wanted to see him released, to go back home and

live out the rest of his life with my mother in whatever hap

piness the two of them could muster. I wanted to believe

that, if he was released, he would treat her the way a wife

deserved to be treated. Loved. Cared for. Respected.

But I knew none of that would happen. Chances

were, things would not change. He would not suddenly

become the husband he should have been years ago.

That ship had sailed.

But it didn't mean he deserved to be treated like a

murderer. And like I told him that night two years ago,

while I was holed up in a crummy building as three men

were approaching to kill me, I used my father's short

comings to fuel me. Because of him I wanted to be to

Amanda what he'd never been to my mother. I'd gotten

it wrong once, with Mya.

I steadfastly believed that a person became who they

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were by choice. They achieved or they did not. They

were decent or they were not. Those choices might be

harder depending on the worldviews they are subjected

to. The climb might be more difficult, but being a good

man, working at my craft, those were possibilities that

were attainable to me.

I was born with ability. I knew that. But it took ev

erything I had to wrench myself away from the grips of

this man, and I was happy to forget him. And in the

years since, I'd found a few times where that anger

could be reversed. Where the climb became more man

ageable because it lifted me.

Amanda, Mya.

We were all recovering from our injuries, emo

tional and physical. Mya's would take longer, but

inside the girl she'd become was the girl I once knew.

She would move on.

I'd moved on eight years ago. Now I wanted to be

everything James Parker was not.

I wanted to be strong. Anger was a powerful tool.

And I wanted my anger to be used for the right reasons.

I stopped at a corner deli. The manager recognized

me. He was a burly Arab man, very pleasant, who'd

seen me once with Amanda and now greeted me with

a humorous "hubba hubba" whenever I was alone.

"Large coffee," I said. "Cream and three sugars."

"Cream?" he said, surprised. "Usually you take it

with milk."

"I need the extra jolt tonight," I said. He nodded,

understanding.

"Where's your ladyfriend?" he asked, moving

toward the pots.

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Jason Pinter

"Out tonight," I said with a smile.

"That lady, whoo, hubba hubba," he said, pointing

to the coffee. "Fresh pot, plenty hot," he continued.

"Just the way I like it," I said.

He poured me a full cup, steam rising off the top,

and added the cream and sugar. I paid him, thanked

him and left.

The coffee, cream and sugar would be enough to get

through the night. Or at least keep me awake until

Amanda got home. Sipping it as I approached my apart

ment, I set it on the call box and searched my pockets

for my keys.

Staring ahead as my fingers felt around for the

familiar metal, suddenly my body froze.

The door to our building was glass. Through the il

lumination of the lamp on the corner, I could see the re

flection of the street behind me. And what I saw was a

man approaching holding what looked to be an

unopened switchblade.

He was a few inches shorter than me, white, with

a scraggly beard and loose-fitting clothes that had

surely been bought when he was a few pounds heavier.

In that light, he looked scarily like my brother had the

night I saw him.

Slowly I reached up, picked up my coffee cup, took

a small sip. My fingers trembled as I pretended to be

unsure of where I was.

Then I heard the chilling snick and saw a long, thin

piece of metal protruding from the man's hand. His

blade was now open.

My heart hammered. In just seconds he would be

behind me. And I would be dead.

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Then I saw the man's hand rise above his head, the

knife pointed down, ready to bury itself in my neck. I

had one shot to do this right, or I'd feel that knife point

inside me, the cold steel lodging itself in me.

I spun around, startling the man, and swung the

entire cup of steaming-hot coffee into his face.

He shrieked, his hands clawing at his face. The knife

clattered to the ground, and I kicked it as far as I could

before he could react. It skittered away and stopped

beneath a parked car thirty feet down the block.

While he was still pawing at his face, I swung an

elbow that hit him right in the chest. It connected solidly,

and he went down in a heap, still moaning, his face red

from the scalding liquid. He was curled into a fetal

position, so I knelt down on top of him, spreading his

arms wide.

Once his arms were spread I placed my knees inside

the crook of his elbows until his upper body was pinned

underneath me. His legs thrashed as he screamed like

he was the one being attacked.

I raised my fist, ready to rain blows upon the man's

head, but then when I saw the fear in his eyes, the utter

helplessness of him, I relented. Keeping my knees

pinned on his arms--just in case he had another weapon

handy--I placed my palm under his chin and forced

him to look at me. My other hand fished in his pockets

to see if he had any more weapons. I found none. I

patted him down--legs, ankles, even pressed an elbow

into his crotch just to be sure. The squeal he let out was

very satisfying. Then I dug back in his pockets until I

found his wallet. I flipped it open, saw credit cards, a

few crumpled singles and a driver's license.

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Rule number one of attacking someone, never carry

picture ID.

Suddenly I felt him rock forward, making me tilt

slightly back, then he thrust his entire body weight

forward. I lost my balance, toppling over. I could feel

him squirm out from under me as my head smacked

against the pavement.

I tried to stand up, but a kick to the side of my neck

made me fall back over, the breath leaving my lungs for

a moment. The man stood back up, then looked around,

trying to locate the knife. He couldn't find it, and by that

point I'd managed to prop myself up. I took my keys

from my pocket, inserted them into my fist, each key

sticking out from between my fingers like a makeshift

pair of brass knuckles.

The man saw me do this. Looking around once more

for the knife, he took one step toward me and said, "You

don't watch out, your ass is a ghost. And if that doesn't

bother you, maybe we'll stick one in your old lady, too."

Then he sprinted away and didn't look back.

I lowered my hand. Watched him go. I got lucky. If

I hadn't seen him, I could be lying in the street bleeding.

I remembered that I'd taken his wallet and removed

the license. The man's name was Trent Buckley. His

license stated that he was six foot one, a hundred and

ninety pounds. According to the address, Buckley

resided in Boulder, Colorado. The license was dated

2002, so it was likely that Buckley had moved to New

York from Colorado.

Who sent him here? And how did he know where I

lived? And who was Buckley referring to as "we"?

Paranoia seeped in. I looked around, checking out the

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237

abandoned street, wondering if someone else was

waiting to pounce.

Then my mind went to one place.

Amanda.

My "old lady." Did they really know who she was or

where to find her?

If someone was after me, they could very well know

various ways to get to me.

I knew where she was. Knew what I had to do.

Calling 911 was a priority, but I had a more pressing

one right now.

Taking the keys from my pocket, I unlocked the front

door and pressed the elevator button. It took a moment

for me to notice that an Out Of Service sticker was

pasted over the jamb.

I sprinted up the stairs, my lungs burning, until I

reached our apartment. The door was locked, but I

opened it with the caution of a man who'd previously

wandered into his apartment only to find a psycho

pathic killer waiting. When I was convinced there was

nobody hiding in the closet, I grabbed the biggest

suitcase I could find and began throwing clothes into it.

I had no idea what garments were most important to

Amanda, so hopefully she'd forgive me if in my haste

I couldn't put together a matching outfit.

Once the bag was full with clothes, I jammed it shut

and zipped it closed. Then I dragged it carefully back

down to the lobby, burst onto the street and began

waving my hand in the air. It took only five minutes for

a cab to see me and pick me up.

"The Kitten Club," I said breathlessly.

The driver nodded, and off we went.

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Jason Pinter

The Kitten Club held a lot of memories for me. As

well as being the hottest nightspot in the city, it was

where blond diva Athena Paradis was murdered.

Strangely, once the investigation had ended and the

club had reopened, its cachet as the most exclusive club

in the city skyrocketed. Not only was it the place to be,

it was basically a city landmark now. Lines that once

stretched around the block looped each other. Darcy's

husband was an old fraternity brother of Shawn Kensbrook, the Kitten Club's promoter, so they were able to

hop the line. All that for the privilege of spending five

hundred bucks on a bottle of Smirnoff.

The lights of the Kitten Club pulsated as the cab drew

near. I lowered the window. The smell of cologne,

perfume, cigarettes and sweat permeated the air. Natu

rally there was a line snaking all the way out the door

and down the block, and that it was three people deep

led me to believe it would be a two-hour wait just to get

in.

But I wasn't planning to wait in line.

As the cab pulled up in front of the club, I threw him

a twenty and hopped out, dragging my heavy luggage

behind me. A few people waiting in line noticed my odd

appearance--jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, sneakers and

a massive Samsonite--and pointed me out to their

friends. A few laughed. The rest looked slightly

worried, as though they expected me to be lugging a

bomb or a body in the suitcase.

I had to shove my way through the line to get to the

front. A massive bouncer with biceps veins thicker

than his waist blocked the way. He looked at me and

rolled his eyes.

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239

"Line starts over there," he said. He jerked his thumb

in the opposite direction of where I thought the line

started. Based on a rough calculation, the people at the

end of the line would be allowed in right around the

Rapture.

"I need to see Shawn Kensbrook," I said.

"I need a blow job," the bouncer said.

"One of those is going to be much easier to achieve

than the others," I replied. "Listen, tell him this is about

Darcy Lapore and her husband, Devin. He'll know who

you're talking about."

The bouncer looked me over, trying to see if I was

for real. Then he picked up a walkie-talkie, pressed a

button and spoke into it.

"Yo, Byron, some kid out here with a damn suitcase

says he needs to talk to Shawn. Says it's about some

chick named Darcy."

"And Devin," I added.

"And Devin." He clicked off the walkie-talkie and

waited for a response. Then he said, "You be messing

with me, I'm a make you give me that blow job."

"I don't think either of us would enjoy that very much."

Then a crackling sound came over the talkie, and a

voice said, "Hold tight, he'll be right there." The

bouncer nodded, clicked it off. "Guess you won't need

that mouthwash after all."

A minute later, a man came through the door and

walked right up to me. He was wearing an Armani suit

and sunglasses, and looked like a white, slightly less

bulky version of the bouncer. His cuff links were

sterling silver, and I could see his belt buckle was

engraved with the letters SK.

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Jason Pinter

Shawn Kensbrook walked up to me and said,

"You've gotta be him."

"It's me," I said. "Henry Parker. You must be Shawn.

I left you a few messages last year while I was covering

the Athena Paradis story."

"I didn't talk to any reporters after that happened."

"I can understand. I know you two were close."

"Cut the crap. What do you want to do with Devin?"

"Long story short. My girlfriend, Amanda, is with

Devin and Darcy right now. She's in trouble. I mean,

big, bad, lives-on-the-line trouble. I don't have the time

to wait on line, I just need to see her. You let me in, I

grab the girl, and we're gone. Simple as that."

"How do I know you're not messing with me?"

Shawn said.

I didn't know what to say. Then I thrust out the

suitcase and said, "A deposit. I'm not back in ten

minutes, you keep this. Some nice stuff in here. I know

because I bought it for my girl's birthday. Plus, Captain

Shower Rape here can have his way with me."

Shawn looked at the bouncer, confused. The guy

shook his head like he didn't know what I was talking

about. Shawn turned back to me, the light from the

neon signs reflecting in the shine of his suit.

"Even if you're on the level," Shawn said, "you're

dressed like a homeless person and you have a freaking

suitcase. I let you in, I might as well go around Central

Park inviting all the assholes sleeping on benches in."

"I didn't want to mention this," I said truthfully, "but

I know Tony Valentine."

"Valentine," Kensbrook said, trying to remember why

he knew the name. "You mean the gossip hound, right?"

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241

"That's the one. I work with him."

"No BS?"

I pulled out my business card, showing Shawn that

I, like Tony Valentine, worked at the New York Gazette.

Shawn eyed the card, his head clearly filling with the

possibility of getting a good plug in the gossip pages.

Of course, I had as much intent of talking to Tony

Valentine as I did to O.J. Simpson, but that's the beauty

of an internal monologue.

"You got ten minutes," he said. "And after that your

ass is kicked and your clothes go to the incinerator."

"I accept."

"And I expect some ink from Valentine."

I gave him the most noncommittal thumbs-up in my

arsenal.

Shawn nodded at the bouncer, who unhitched the

velvet rope and allowed me passage. He took my

suitcase and carried it to the coatroom, where a girl in a

tight black top and capris unlocked a door so he could

heave it behind the barrier. There were plenty of groans

from the people waiting on line as they saw me enter. I

hoped if they knew what was going on they'd under

stand.

But this was New York, so I doubted it.

The Kitten Club was a massive place, with two dif

ferent levels of action. This was about as far from my

scene as I could get without being in the desert. I had

no idea where to look first. My eyes were half-blinded

by the strobe lights, and it took a healthy equilibrium

not to get knocked over by the horde of drunken,

dancing revelers. I could barely see five feet in front of

me, let alone distinguish the VIP lounge.

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Jason Pinter

To clarify the mess, I approached the bar, waited to

get the tender's attention. When he came by, he said,

"What'll it be?"

"Where's the VIP lounge?" I asked.

He nodded and turned around. I had no idea what had

happened, but then he turned back holding a glass of

champagne with something sparkling at the bottom. He

held it out to me.

"The VIP champagne," he said. "That'll be a

hundred fifty."

"No," I shouted. "The VIP lounge. "

The bartender, looking quite pissed off, said, "Tables

are upstairs." As I turned to go, I saw him fish the gem

from the bottom of the glass and drop it into a small pail.

I pushed and shoved my way through a sea of fitted

jeans, open-collared shirts revealing chests adorned with

thick gold chains, and shimmering bosoms with even

spray tans. At the back of the dance floor I found a short

staircase that led to another level. Sliding through a couple

making out on the railing, I managed to find the VIP area,

a lounge of about a dozen round tables, each with between

half a dozen and a dozen people circling them. Each table

had several bottles of alcohol sitting in buckets of ice, with

various mixers--cranberry juice, orange juice and tonic

water--ready to go. According to Amanda, each bottle

ran about a grand, and nobody bought just one bottle.

Then I heard a laugh. A distinctive laugh.

Amanda's laugh.

I fast-walked past the tables until I finally found the

one I was looking for. Sitting in a circle were Devin and

Darcy Lapore, several suited men with gelled hair and

manicures, and Amanda Davies.

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Amanda was laughing hysterically at something,

then she looked up and noticed me. I didn't believe that

smile could spread any wider, but it did.

"Henry!" she shrieked, jumping out of her seat,

knocking over an empty glass and toppling one of the

guys onto the floor. She threw her arms around me,

squeezed tight, and I gave her one right back. Her breath

smelled like vodka, her body like sweet perfume. Her

hair dripped onto my shirt and I held her tight, for

reasons vastly different than hers.

"Hey, baby," I said, struggling to disentangle myself.

Suddenly Amanda looked confused. "Wait," she

said. "What're you doo ing here?"

"I don't have time to explain right now," I said, taking

her hand. "But you need to come with me."

A sultry smile spread across her lips. I didn't see her

drunk all that often, so part of me couldn't help but be

slightly amused. "So," she said. "You're taking me

home?"

"Not exactly," I said, pulling her away. I apologized

to Darcy and Devin, who seemed too preoccupied with

how each other's lips tasted to notice.

"If we're not going home," she slurred, "where are

we going?"

"A hotel," I said.

"Ooh baby!" Amanda said, suddenly grabbing a

chunk of my ass and squeezing. She likely meant to be

flirtatious, but the girl had some serious nails and I was

reasonably certain she broke the skin. Hopefully stitches

wouldn't be required, because that'd be one awkward

explanation for the doctor. "Have you been working

out?"

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Jason Pinter

"Not recently, I haven't had time, but...that's not the

point. We need to go."

Amanda finally relented, and we made our way

down the steps and toward the exit. For the first time it

seemed to dawn on Amanda that something was wrong.

I couldn't walk too fast due to the fact that she was in

heels and had no hand-eye coordination to speak of, so

to other clubgoers I looked like the no-fun boyfriend

dragging his fun-as-hell girlfriend away because he

didn't approve of her shenanigans.

I had to give Amanda credit, though. She looked

stunning. Outclassed every girl at the club. I'd have to

remember to tell her tomorrow, when she would

remember.

We got to the tunnel leading to the outside, and the

girl inside the coatroom remembered me. Guess not

too many guys dropped off their luggage before

entering.

"Can I get my bag?" I asked.

"Five dollars," she said, smacking gum between her

lips.

"You just saw me with Shawn, I--"

"Five dollars," she repeated, bored by the whole

thing. I didn't want or have time to argue, and pulled a

crumpled ten from my pocket. She counted change,

then swung the door open and let me take the suitcase.

As I lugged it into the hall, Amanda said, "Where

are we going?"

"A hotel, baby," I said.

"I thought you were kidding," she said, a joyous glow

in her eye. "I have the best boyfriend in the whole

world. "

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245

She threw her arms around me again, and I nearly

stumbled over a small girl trying to make her way back

into the club. She called me a name that I'd most defi

nitely never been called by a girl before.

Gripping the bag with one hand and Amanda with

another, we stumble/bumped our way outside. A row of

cabs was waiting five deep down the block, knowing

every minute brought another inebriated person out

who needed a ride home (hopefully to another

borough).

It was a delicate balancing act carrying Amanda and

the suitcase outside since they were both essentially

dead weight. The next cab in the line pulled up, and

thankfully the driver came outside to help me with my,

er, belongings. He hoisted the bag into the trunk while

Amanda and I slid into the back. As soon as he closed

the door and said, "Where to?" I realized I had no idea

where we were going.

The list of New York hotels I knew offhand was quite

slim, and one of those, the Plaza, hadn't reopened yet.

Before I knew what I was doing, I said, "Times

Square. The W Hotel, please."

"Henry," Amanda cooed, her cheeks flushing red

her hand delicately tracing the curve of my calf. "I

had no idea..."

"Me, neither," I mumbled as the cab sped away.

Amanda spent the whole cab ride either staring outside,

the world swimming by her drunken haze, or awkwardly

trying to grope me. Ordinarily I might have felt frisky

enough to try a little something in the backseat while the

cabdriver wasn't looking, but Amanda was as subtle as

a hyena and I had too much on my mind to truly focus.

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Jason Pinter

Who was that guy outside my apartment? Clearly

somebody knew I was following leads, but nothing had

been printed in the newspaper, which limited the list of

culprits significantly. I wondered, could it have been

Scotty Callahan? Sure seemed like it. The notion that

this guy, an admitted company man, would have spilled

his guts and walked away seemed awfully unlikely. But

there were others. Rose Keller. She was a friend of

Stephen's, perhaps better than I knew. Stephen was

more than I'd previously thought, so it occurred to me

that Rose might have been as well.

I lowered the window, breathing deeply as I inhaled

the warm air. Now Amanda was leaning back against

her seat, eyes closed. I wondered if she was sleeping,

dreaming peacefully.

Fifteen minutes later the cab pulled up in front of the

W Hotel. I ran my credit card through the cab's machine,

gave him a twenty percent tip and helped Amanda out.

We walked into the lobby quite a sight, Amanda wearing

a slinky dress and clinging to my arm, me looking like

I'd just rolled out of a bed in a sewer and carrying a

single suitcase. The building itself was beautiful and

massive. I'd read somewhere that it housed a stagger

ing fifty-seven floors, but in the dark of night it looked

like even more, a mammoth structure in the heart of

Times Square. The lobby was awash in subtle blue and

gray tones, and a waterfall ran down one of the walls.

There were two receptionists on duty, two young

women who looked remarkably similar. They both had

dark hair and skin, red fingernails and bright smiles

that seemed almost attuned to one another. As we

walked up they both said, "Good evening, sir."

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Their name tags read Rae and Gabrielle. You could

have switched the tags and I wouldn't have known the

difference.

"I'd like a room, please," I said.

The one with the Rae tag began to punch some keys

on her computer while Gabrielle stared at me with that

same, unwavering smile. Suddenly I felt Amanda's

breath on my cheek, and then a big kiss followed suit.

A split second later I felt her tongue on my jawbone,

winding its way toward my earlobe.

Gabrielle was still grinning, but now it was the kind

of grin you gave to your neighbor who got his morning

newspaper while wearing nothing but tighty-whities.

Rae looked up and said, "We have two rooms avail

able, one with two twin beds and another with one

queen."

"I'll take the queen," I said, trying to push Amanda

away while I feel my face turn bright red. Rae noticed

what was going on, and her bright smile quickly turned

like bad milk.

Gabrielle looked at Amanda, then looked at me, then

looked at my suitcase. Her eyes went back and forth

between the three while I stood there confused. Then I

realized what she was thinking. Attractive girl wearing

revealing clothes. Dorky guy wearing the same clothes

he'd probably worn the last three days. A suitcase.

No doubt Rae and Gabrielle thought Amanda was a

hooker, and would end up chopped to bits and stuffed

into the suitcase by the end of the night. I noticed neither

of them had made any movements to confirm my room

or make a key.

"You okay, honey? " I asked, stressing the last word

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in an attempt to let Rae and Gabrielle know that we did,

in fact, know each other.

"I'm just peachy, Henry." I smiled. See, she knows

my name!

"So...about that room..."

"I'll need a credit-card imprint," Rae said. I slipped

her my AMEX, and she ran it through, never taking her

eyes off of us.

"Hen- ree, " Amanda whined. "I'm ti-red."

"Just a minute, baby," I said.

Gabrielle seemed to be softening up, but Rae was

eyeing me with squinty eyes, letting me know she could

have hotel security at our room if she got the slightest

hint that an ax might make an appearance.

"How many nights will you be staying?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "Can we just keep it open?"

"Sure," Rae said, taking two plastic cards and

running them through the machine to magnetize them.

She slid them into a paper sheath, wrote a number on

it and handed it to us along with my credit card. "Room

2722 on the twenty-seventh floor. Please call if you

require any assistance."

"Please," Gabrielle added. "Any assistance."

"Anything at all, for you or your friend," Rae added.

"One thing," I said. "I don't want anyone to know

I'm here. So can you put me down under a different

name, just in case anyone calls?"

The sisters looked at each other with a worried glare.

"Sure..." Gabrielle said. "What name would you

like to put on the room?"

"Put down...Leonard Denton," I said.

"All set Mr....Denton."

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249

"Thanks. Come on," I said to Amanda. "Let's get you

some sleep."

I felt their glare in my back as we headed to the ele

vators. The ride was silent and smooth, and I barely felt

like we were moving, let alone going nearly thirty

stories. At some point, right around floor twenty-five,

I felt my eardrums pop. Once the elevator opened, we

made our way down the hall to room 2722, where I

managed the task of propping both Amanda and the

suitcase against the wall as I opened the door. Once

open, I threw the bag inside and helped Amanda in.

She collapsed on the bed, and I sat down next to her.

For the first time all night, I realized just how tired I

was. My nerves were still on edge, and tomorrow would

be a long day. I needed to find out who that man was,

who sent him, and just how deep in my brother was.

But in the meantime, Amanda had somehow

wriggled out of her dress, and was wearing nothing but

a silk bra and underwear, her eyes suggesting that

sleepiness had taken a hiatus for the time being.

Tomorrow would be a long day. As I climbed into

Amanda's waiting arms, I hoped the night would be

long enough to stay with me.

27

I woke up the next morning with my boxer shorts

dangling off my shoulder, the taste of secondhand

vodka in my mouth and a strange pain in my right knee.

Then the previous night came back to me, and I smiled.

Turning over, I saw Amanda lying next to me. She

was wearing my old Oregon Ducks sweatshirt. It was

at least three sizes too big for her, and I'd seen her

spend many nights sitting on the couch reading a book,

the sweatshirt pulled over her tucked-in knees.

My body ached as I threw my legs over the side of

the bed and surveyed the room. It was stunning. Satin

sheets, state-of-the-art stereo, a bar countertop on the

porcelain bath, a flat-screen television wider than our

bed at home.

Then I noticed the sunlight pouring into the room

from what seemed like every angle. Standing up, my

breath was taken away by the beautiful view outside and

the massive wraparound balcony just outside our room.

I opened the door, stepped outside and felt alive. The

cool, crisp air washed over me as my eyes adjusted to

the light. The sight of New York from twenty-seven

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251

stories up. It truly was a magnificent city, and I smiled

when I thought of the last time Amanda and I had hidden

out in a hotel room under a fake name. It was a sleepn-save somewhere outside of Springfield, Illinois. Even

though I hadn't lost my natural ability to get in way over

my head, at least we were starting to hide out in classier

hotels.

Reentering the room, I found my jeans crumpled

into a ball on the floor, found the room-rate card. When

I looked at it, I nearly had a heart attack. There had to

be other hotels in this city that wouldn't wipe me out

within days.

Amanda stirred. I got up and went into the bathroom,

not wanting to wake her just yet. I ran a hot shower,

stayed in a little longer than I needed to, thinking about

the previous day.

It was no secret that I would want to get to the bottom

of Stephen Gaines's death, and while yesterday I

thought about the possibility of Rose Keller or Scotty

Callahan being involved, the options were likely far

greater.

The New York Dispatch had certainly mentioned my

father's arrest, as did my own paper, and surely a few

other locals as well. Anyone who knew me and my rep

utation would correctly assume that I would do anything

to clear my family's name. It was possible I was being

followed, that somebody had seen me talk to Sheryl

Harrison, to Rose Keller, to Scotty. It was even possible

that my discovery of Beth-Ann Downing's body had

alerted someone to my interest. Whoever killed Stephen

wanted it to be seen as one single murder. A lone death,

unconnected to anything else.

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Jason Pinter

I knew better. And someone else knew that.

When I stepped out of the shower, a towel wrapped

loosely around my waist, Amanda was sitting up in bed,

her knees tucked up to her chin, her arms wrapped

around them. She smiled at me. Her eyes were blood

shot.

"Hungover?" I asked.

"Just a little."

"Hang on." I went to the minibar, did a little trolling

and found a packet of Advil. I ripped it open, poured

her a glass of water and watched her down the pills.

"Thanks, Henry," she said.

"How you feeling?"

"Like a raccoon run over by a truck. Don't ever let

me go drinking with Darcy again."

"I think I told you that the last time you went

drinking with her."

"Well, next time come with us, so you can monitor

my alcohol intake."

"If memory serves me right, the reason you didn't

invite me last night was because you didn't want me to

monitor your alcohol intake."

"And you listened to me?" she asked with a smile. I

sat back down next to her. She scooted over, rested her

head against my shoulder. I could smell her hair, hear

her breathing. Then she sat back up and looked at me.

"Now, tell me why we're here."

Sighing, I faced her and told her everything that had

happened. About my meeting with Scott Callahan.

Finding the man waiting for me at the apartment last

night. The fear that if they knew where I was, that if

somebody had been following me, they could have been

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253

doing the same for her. Enough young women had been

killed in New York coming home from bars over the last

few years, the confluence of paranoia made it impera

tive we get to safety.

"How long do you think we need to stay here?" she

said.

"I honestly don't know. Until I know who killed

Stephen, and know that person isn't a threat to us

anymore. With any luck I can do that before my credit

card starts getting declined."

"And what am I supposed to do? Just stay here? I

don't think so, Henry."

"Today's Friday," I said. "Call in sick. If Darcy

shows up, she'll surely vouch for you. Then we have the

weekend. And I need to get my father out before the

grand jury convenes. But right now I just need to keep

you safe. Once things calm down we can talk about

what to do next."

"You need to keep me safe?" Amanda said with a

laugh. "You realize that since I met you I've had my life

jeopardized approximately a hundred and ninety-six

times. I won't be surprised if we both get turned down

for a life-insurance policy. Safe to say if I never picked

you up on the side of the road, Henry, I wouldn't have

to worry about my safety quite as much."

I opened my mouth, ready to question why, if that

was the case, she was still with me, but smartly stopped

before a word came out. I learned a long time ago that

she was still here by choice. No other reason. She'd had

plenty of opportunities to leave and had not, and every

moment I wasted contemplating why only divided

myself from the reality of our relationship. She was here

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Jason Pinter

to stay. And knowing myself, knowing that I'd learned

from past mistakes, as long as it was in her hands, she

wasn't going anywhere.

So instead of bucking for a compliment and starting

an argument, I just leaned over and kissed her. Her lips

were soft, and I could tell she was smiling.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Amanda said.

"Where is your mother in all of this?"

I sat back, rubbed my forehead. "To be honest, I

don't know. Probably nowhere. I remember the last few

years before I left for college, she and my father barely

spoke. It wasn't like she was angry with him, it was as

though she'd just withdrawn. To her, he was more like

a piece of furniture than a husband. He was there

whether you liked it or not. It was your choice to put

him there. But like a table or desk, you could ignore it."

"Why didn't she leave him?"

"I don't know. I wish she had. She turned inward.

You saw those knitting needles at the police station--

they became kind of her solace. She was a kind woman,

never hurt anybody. So whenever he went on one of his

rampages, she would take it like more of a man than he

ever was, then go back to her needles."

"That's awful."

"She deserved another chance at love, at life. It was

almost like at some point she became shell-shocked,

just her nerves and her wits fried by everything he'd

done. I remember one night when I was about eight. I

spent that summer working at a corner deli, restocking

shelves a few hours a day for a dollar an hour."

Amanda laughed. "Even for an eight-year-old that's

pretty far below minimum wage."

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255

"It wasn't the money. They couldn't afford to send me

to camp, and I didn't want to be around the house any

more than I absolutely had to. One night I came home

around seven, usually when we had dinner. It was one of

the few times he was getting a regular paycheck. He got

home from work around seven-thirty most days, and he

would walk in and head right for the dinner table, sit

down and start eating. It didn't matter if we were there to

join him. To him, that's what he worked the day for. To

be alone. This day, though, he came home early. We both

arrived home about seven, and the meat loaf was still in

the oven. One thing about her, my mom made the best

meat loaf in the world. Onions, red peppers, just deli

cious."

I continued. "He went to the table, sat down and

noticed there was no food out. No drinks set. He yelled

her name--Marilyn--and waited. She came out, stared

at him, simply said, 'It'll be about twenty minutes.' It

turned out he found out that day they were cutting back

his shifts, and he'd lose about twenty percent of his

salary. I didn't know this. Neither did she.

"He took a glass, threw it at the wall. It shattered into

a thousand pieces. My mother just stood there, her

mouth open, more confused than scared. Then he took

a plate, did the same thing. It exploded. Then he took

another plate, then another, then every piece on the table

and threw it at the wall. I remember screaming, telling

him to stop, worried he would hit her or me. Instead, he

kept throwing until piles of broken glass were laid over

our floor like a carpet. He was breathing heavy. My

mother just stood in the doorway, mouth open. Then she

turned around, went back to the stove and checked the

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Jason Pinter

temperature on the food. I called 911, but the cop they

sent over ten minutes later was in a bowling league with

my dad. Since nobody was hurt and my mother wouldn't

press charges, it all went away. After that my father

went upstairs, and twenty minutes later the food was on

the table and he was eating. Nobody picked the glass up

for a week. That's when I knew there was something

wrong, that she wasn't like most of my friends' mothers.

And it was eighteen years of my life before I could

leave. I actually tried to take her with me, to convince

her she could start a new life somewhere. You know

what she said to me?"

Amanda shook her head.

"She said, 'Why would I leave everything I have

here?' I had to leave before living there sucked the life

out of me like it did her."

"Mya," Amanda said. "Me. That's why you always

come back."

"I don't know," I said. My eyes felt heavy, my body

too tired for the morning. "I just never imagined at any

point in my life that I would lift a finger to help that

man. And now here we are."

"Doing what you're doing, helping him," she said,

"is why you're not him."

We sat there, the bright day outside hiding something

dark that was waiting for me. I stood up. Went to the

now-infamous suitcase and found a clean shirt. My cell

phone was on the floor. I picked it up, noticed I had a

message. It was from Wallace Langston. My heart sped

up as I listened, a surge within me as a ray of hope

appeared.

"Henry, it's Wallace. I have those files you wanted.

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257

Let me know how you want to get them. Call me. Hope

you're okay."

I immediately called him back, Wallace's office

picking up on the first ring. His secretary connected me.

It was great to hear the editor in chief's voice.

"Henry, how are you?" he said. "I was beginning to

worry."

"About me? Why?"

"If you've given me one reason not to worry about

your safety in the time we've known each other, I'm not

aware of it."

"I'll try harder."

"So I have Jack's files," he said. "Of course, there could

be more at his home, but this is everything he kept at the

office pertaining to Through the Darkness. They'll be here

waiting for you. They're in my office for the time being."

"Wallace, you're a lifesaver. With any luck this will

shed some light on this Fury thing and help get my dad

out. And when it's all over, I think there might be a hell

of a story."

"I was hoping you might say that," Wallace said,

"And frankly, if there wasn't, we'd need to have a

serious chat about all this 'personal time' you've been

taking. So in case I'm not here, I'll make sure you have

access to my office."

"You know," I said, "is there any chance you could

have them messengered over?"

"Why?" Wallace asked.

"Something happened last night, let's just say I need

to stay out of sight for a little while."

"What the hell did you do, Henry?" I could sense the

frustration in his voice.

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Jason Pinter

"Nothing. Really. It should all blow over soon."

"Spoken like someone who has no idea what he's in

for."

"Please, Wallace," I said.

"Fine," he sighed. "I think I have your address some

where in my Rolodex here..."

"Actually, I need them sent to a different address."

"Okay, where to?"

"It's on the notepad here, one sec."

"On the notepad?" Wallace asked. "Where the hell

are you, a bar?"

"Not exactly. But on that note, there's one more

thing...if this does lead to a story, I might need to talk

to you about extending my expense account for a few

days. Oh, and I'm staying under the name Leonard

Denton."

"Henry," Wallace said, "what the hell have you

gotten yourself into?"

I had an hour before the files were to arrive, so I went

downstairs and found a deli where I bought a bagel

with cream cheese and a bran muffin with two large

coffees for breakfast. I could almost feel Wallace's hair

turn a deeper shade of gray when I told him where we

were staying, but there was a chance if a story came out

of all of this that the Gazette would pick up the tab.

Since I might have to resort to selling locks of my hair

if the charges remained on my credit card, I hoped for

my sake and theirs that one would emerge.

When I got back to the room, Amanda had showered

and was wearing a pair of jeans and a tank top. She was

sitting out on the balcony, the breeze whipping through

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259

her hair, a glass of water on the edge of the lounge

chair.

She turned her head to look at me, smiled.

"This is kind of nice," she said. "Maybe we should

move in here."

"I'll go buy some lottery tickets."

"Sit down," she said. "Stay a while."

We ate on the balcony, the skyscrapers of Times

Square surrounding us. When the coffee was done, I

went inside and brewed another pot from the instant

machine and we had seconds. It might have been the

greatest breakfast I ever had.

When we finished, the phone rang from inside. I

picked it up. It was the front desk. A package had arrived

for me.

I went downstairs and signed for the package, a large,

bulky padded folder with Wallace's messy handwriting.

A minor miracle it didn't end up somewhere in Antigua.

I brought the package upstairs, cleaned off the bed

spread and laid out all the papers in front of me. There

were reams of pages, half a dozen thick notebooks filled

to the brim. This is what Jack had worked with while

writing one of the seminal books of his generation on

crime. Just looking at these old pages brought a smile

to my face and courage to my heart.

And with those in mind, I began to read.

Amanda stayed in the living room, watching something

on television at a low volume. I was perched on the bed

amidst a mess of files, trying my best to keep them in order.

From the smell of the pages I could sense that nobody had

gone through them in some time. No need to, until now.

I knew that wherever he was, Jack would approve.

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Jason Pinter

The amount of research and notes Jack took was

staggering. Through the Darkness was forty-two

chapters long, and these pages only touched on twelve

of them. Jack had transcriptions of interviews with

dozens of people, from street dealers to middlemen, to

cops and politicians, to local residents who'd witnessed

their streets regress from thriving neighborhoods into

third world countries.

He'd looked at this story from every angle. And I

would have killed to be able to discuss it with him.

Some of the statistics Jack had uncovered were stag

gering, and in the years since the book was published

they could have only grown more bleak.

According to the U.S. Department of Justice, over

four million people in the United States had used crack

cocaine at some point in their life, including nearly five

percent of all high-school students. The drug was used

primarily by men over the age of twenty-five. The

typical user was African-American, aged twenty-eight,

with an income at or below the poverty line.

The main reason, Jack had written, that crack cocaine

had become so prevalent was due to its relative cheap

ness to manufacture, as well as the immediate high it

produced. An eight ball, or an eighth of an ounce of rock,

cost about thirty dollars depending on where it was pur

chased.

According to Jack's interviews, a surprising number

of people would actually cook the mixture themselves

rather than buy it ready-made, simply due to monetary

concerns. It was cheaper to be your own chemist than

go to the store. It was carried and sold in everything

from glass vials to cellophane to tinfoil, even the rolls

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261

people generally used for coins. It was most predomi

nant in larger cities with more densely populated urban

areas, such as Los Angeles, New York, Baltimore and

Chicago.

It was also surprising to note that in interviews with

nearly twenty dealers, Jack was unable to find one

person who actually used the drug.

Flipping through the pages, I came upon an interview

with Butch Willingham that Jack had apparently con

ducted just weeks before Willingham was killed. Wil

lingham denied ever using the drug, and in fact said that

anyone who did was frowned upon. Jack had pressed

in the interview:

BW: People who smoke don't do their jobs. They

sit around all day acting stupid. They ain't out

there making money. They ain't out there selling

product. This a business, man. Isn't one of the first

rules of business to always get rid of the bottom

ten percent?

JO: I've heard that before:

BW: See, in our line of work, that's more like

twenty-five percent. Figure ten percent get stoned,

take themselves out of the game. Another ten per

cent get busted.

JO: And the other five percent?

BW: They gots ta be made gone. I been around

the country, man. Lived in L.A. and Baltimore be

fore coming to NYC. Got family and friends

everywhere. Cities change but things ain't that

different. Don't matter where you are or where

you work. If you sell, you gotta sell right.

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Jason Pinter

JO: Butch, you said if someone doesn't sell

right, they have to be "made gone." What do

you mean by that?

BW: I mean, if you run a business, and some

one's screwing up the bottom line, what do you

do with them?

JO: Somehow I don't think you're talking about

early retirement, a pension plan.

BW: You might call it an early retirement.

JO: So if someone needs to be "taken out," where

does that come from?

BW: Come again?

JO: Who decides that bottom five percent? Who

makes the final call which people, pardon the ex

pression, live or die?

BW: Don't know, man. Ain't up to me, that's for

sure.

JO: But surely you don't work for yourself. There

are other people higher than you, I guess you

might call them the board or something along

those lines.

BW: Always report to the crew leader (Note: Wil

lingham refused to identify his crew leader's

name, but it was confirmed by several subjects to

be a man named Marvin Barnett, age thirty-one),

and I know he don't take home every penny that

come into his hand.

JO: So where does the rest go?

BW: I don't know that. Don't know about no

"board" neither. Heard rumors about one dude

who runs the whole show, but not like anyone's

ever seen him, so it's probably bullshit.

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263

JO: So where do you see yourself in five years?

The main man?

BW: Hell no, man. The main man got too many

problems. There's a reason it's called the crown

of thorns. You only sit at the top for so long be

fore someone decides he don't like your way of

doing business. Guys in my spot, as long as we

keep our head down and keep selling, we be all

right. Might not make as much money as the big

man, but I'll be alive a lot longer.

I read the interview again. It wasn't much, but even

then Willingham seemed to think there was some higher

power, some authority figure running the show. The

strange thing is that Butch seemed adamant about not

doing drugs, about respecting the hierarchy of which he

was a part. I wondered if there was a chance Willingham was killed over the book, but the book came out

long after Butch was killed.

In addition, most of the numerous references to

dealers were protected by fake names, monikers used

to protect them in case their employers sought retribu

tion along the lines that Butch had received. From

Jack's perspective, he probably figured he didn't need

to protect Butch Willingham's name since the man was

already dead.

I found it to be a little too much of a coincidence that

just weeks after this interview, the man was found dead

with the words The Fury scrawled in his own blood. It

didn't seem like Butch would have overstepped his

bounds, but I couldn't be sure. Dealing wasn't exactly

the most legitimate enterprise, so it was entirely

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Jason Pinter

possible he was blowing smoke up Jack's ass just to

make himself sound like a good soldier.

Regardless, something had happened in those weeks

between the interview and Butch's death. He'd done or

seen something that required him being "made gone."

Looking back through the interview, I noticed this

line of questioning:

JO: How do you come to grips knowing that the

product you sell will be used by children?

BW: That ain't on me. I got a son, and I raise that

boy right. Clarence gonna be fifteen next month.

He knows if I ever see him lift a pipe or a needle,

he's gonna feel a pain a lot worse than what those

drugs can do to him. Grown-ups make their own

decisions. I ain't got no sympathy for a grown

man who uses. But a child, that's on the parent.

If you can't raise your boy or girl right, and they

end up sucking on a pipe, well, then, that's on the

parents. There's a manhole in my street. City ain't

never bothered to fix it. But I know it's there and

step around that sucker. Someone else falls in? It's

their own damn fault for being stupid.

Butch Willingham had a son. Clarence. It was a long

shot, but there was a chance.

Using my cell phone, I went to 411.com and plugged

in the name Clarence Willingham. Two matches came

back; one living in Crown Heights, the other by Mor

ningside Park on 107th Street.

I called the first number. A man picked up.

"Yeah?"

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265

"Hi...is this Clarence Willingham?"

"Um, no," the man said, sounding irritated. "This

was Clarence Willingham."

"Excuse me?"

"My name is Clarence Savoy now. Just got married

last month."

"You...married...oh, I get it. Was your father Butch

Willingham?"

"Butch?" the man said with a high-pitched laugh.

"Try Albert. But close." Then Clarence Savoy hung up.

I tried the second number. It rang half a dozen times

but didn't go to voice mail. I let it keep ringing. After

three more rings, a man picked up. He sounded tired,

like I'd just woken him from a nap.

"Who's this?"

"Is this Clarence Willingham?"

"Yeah, who's this?"

"Clarence, was your father named Butch?"

"Yeah, the hell's this about?"

"My name is Henry Parker. I'm a reporter. I was

wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

I told Clarence about his father and Jack's book. I

needed to know if he knew anything else about his

father's murder or business practices. Clarence was

eight years old when his father died. There's a chance

he remembered something.

"I don't talk about this stuff over the phone,"

Clarence said.

"Well, my story is running tomorrow," I lied. "If you

see me in person, we can talk about you giving me in

formation as an unnamed source. If you don't cooper

ate, I can't promise anything."

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Jason Pinter

I heard a rustling noise in the background. Then a

female voice said, "Who is it?"

I must have interrupted Clarence. Too bad for him.

He shushed whoever was there and said, "Listen,

man, I'll tell you whatever I know about my dad, but

this is opening some seriously old wounds."

"Great. I'll be there in half an hour. What's your

address?"

He gave me his address, which I jotted down before

hanging up.

I checked my watch. It was almost noon. I stopped

at a Staples store and bought a new tape recorder, some

pens and paper. These were the tools I brought along

when conducting interviews, when talking to sources.

I hadn't used them much recently because this investi

gation had been more personal than professional. I

thought everything revolved around my father's arrest.

Only now could I see how wrong I'd been.

28

I kissed Amanda goodbye, made sure I was presentable

and headed uptown to meet Clarence Willingham.

I rode the 2 train to 116th and Lenox Avenue. It was

a hot day outside, the breeze that had felt so cool on our

balcony gone.

Morningside Park was actually part of a cliff that sep

arated Manhattan from Morningside Heights. It was

also the location of a massive protest in 1968, when

students of Columbia University staged a sit-in in and

around the proposed construction of a gymnasium on

the park grounds. With separate east and west entrances,

many assumed this was to segregate the gym between

black and white. University spokesmen denied the

claims, but abandoned the plans after students barri

caded themselves inside numerous university buildings.

After a group of students opposed to the protests

blockaded the occupied buildings, police came in to end

the struggle. Over one hundred and fifty students were

injured during the forced removal, and over seven

hundred were arrested. Because of the terrible public re

lations, specifically stemming from the student-on

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Jason Pinter

student violence, Columbia scrapped its plans and built

an underground gym instead. Ironically the blueprints

for the gym were then sold to Princeton University,

which appropriated them for their own use.

The address Clarence gave me was for a five-story

brownstone within walking distance of the park. A

pretty nice neighborhood. The Columbia campus stood

directly on the opposite side of Morningside Park, and

though Clarence did live far from student housing, the

university owned such huge swaths of real estate in

upper Manhattan that the neighboring streets were clean

and graffiti free, devoid of clutter and garbage. It must

have looked great in a brochure.

Before turning onto Clarence's block, I called

Amanda's cell phone. She picked up, answering with a

hard-to-distinguish, "Heh-wo?"

"Amanda?" I said. "Everything okay?"

"Eating," she said, removing whatever had been in

her mouth. "Chocolate-covered strawberry. I swear, we

need to move in here."

"Where did you buy that?"

"I didn't buy it. They were in a small tin by the tele

vision. I think they're complimentary."

"Amanda," I said, shaking my head, "nothing in

hotels is complimentary. Check the box."

"Hold on." I heard her ruffling with something, then

whisper oh hell under her breath.

"What happened?"

"Um...you know that bonus I got for Christmas?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, it's going to have to go toward paying off

these strawberries."

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269

"It's okay," I said. "Just enjoy them. Watch some

thing crappy on television, I'll be back later."

"Okay, fine, I'll finish them. Be careful, babe. See

you soon. Love you."

"I love you, too."

When I arrived at Clarence's building I rang the

buzzer. I expected him to simply unlock the door, but

within a minute I saw a man coming down the stairs

toward me. He was wearing a bathrobe, loosely tied,

with white briefs and blue slippers. A paunchy stomach

hung over the elastic band of the briefs. It was a comical

look, and it was safe to say he was coming to greet me

rather than go for a stroll.

He opened the door, and I extended my hand.

"Henry Parker, nice to meet you, Clar..."

Clarence was ignoring me. My hand sat there

unshook, a lonely hitchhiker. Clarence wasn't even

looking at me, he was too busy looking down the street,

both sides, behind me, as though expecting a boogey

man or a ninja to jump out and kill him. His eyes flick

ered back and forth, widening and then closing. He

squeezed them shut hard, then opened them again.

Perhaps this allowed him to see better, or give him some

extrasensory perception.

When he seemed content that nobody was waiting

to jump out at him, he said, "You come alone?"

"Of course I did."

"You sure about that?"

"Um...yeah. Pretty sure."

"You a cop?"

I snorted out a laugh. "Are you serious? I said I was

a reporter."

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Jason Pinter

"Cops lie. I don't believe that BS about cops having

to declare themselves. If someone's recording this, I'm

calling entrapment on your ass."

I turned out all my pockets. Showed him I was

carrying nothing.

His brow furrowed. "That's not an answer."

"No. I'm not a cop, I'm a reporter." I showed him my

business card.

"What'choo got in there?" he said, pointing to my

bag.

"Tape recorder, notepad."

"You can't bring that to my place."

"What do you mean?"

"Nobody records or writes down what I say. You

can't deal with that, you can leave."

I didn't have much choice, so I said, "What do you

want me to do with my stuff then?"

"Bernita down the hall will watch it."

"Bernita?"

"You can trust her. She got a plasma TV. Anytime

you have something you need stored safely, Bernita's

your woman."

I wasn't quite sure how that was supposed to

convince me to leave my equipment with her. I guess I

didn't have much of a choice but to trust Clarence's

sterling recommendation of Bernita's safe-deposit

skills.

"Okay, whatever you say."

"All right. Come on."

Clarence led me into the hallway, past a row of rusty

mailboxes and up the first flight of stairs. The building

smelled of mold, and the paint was chipping on the

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271

staircase railing. Clarence took a left and knocked on

the first door. A scraggly woman wearing a pink

bathrobe and smoking an unfiltered cigarette opened it.

I wondered if this was actually some sort of spa.

"Bernita," he said. "This is Henry. He's gonna be

leaving his bag with you for a while."

Bernita's apartment beyond her looked rather

massive, with a hallway splintering off to several dif

ferent rooms. The floors were scrubbed clean, and a

single dining table sat in the middle, uncluttered with

the exception of a pair of crystal candlesticks. It seemed

like quite a lot of space. Bernita wasn't wearing a

wedding ring. The fact that she had at least three or four

rooms for what looked like herself made me all the

more conscious of my own dwelling.

"How long?" she said.

Clarence looked at me. "How long you need?"

"Hour. Two, tops."

Clarence said, "Forty-five minutes."

"Whatever," she replied. Then she looked at me, her

upper lip curled back. "Henry. Ain't never met a young

boy named Henry."

Bernita closed the door before I could reply.

With my belongings safely--hopefully--squared

away, Clarence led me to the fourth floor. He lived in

apartment 4J. When we got to the door, Clarence stuck

his hand into his bathrobe pocket, pulling out a key

ring with at least thirty keys on it. I marveled at the

man's security methods. Then he went to work unlock

ing the half a dozen dead bolts on his front door.

Once Fort Knox was fully unlocked, he opened the

door and beckoned me inside.

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Jason Pinter

For the life of me I couldn't figure out why he went

to such ridiculous lengths, because Clarence's apart

ment was an absolute pigsty.

Garbage littered the floor like he was trying to save

room in the city landfills. Empty Chinese food and

pizza boxes were stacked in one corner. Beer cans were

strewn about, creating an aluminum carpet. I could

identify at least a half-dozen different brands, as well

as a few bottles of various liquors: Jose Cuervo, Cour

voiser, Hennessy. Clearly, Clarence Willingham was

not picky when it came to his booze.

"Take a seat," he said, gesturing to a beanbag chair

crisscrossed by duct tape like a low-budget surgical

patient. I sat down, immediately feeling the beans

shifting under me. The last beanbag chair I'd sat in was

during college, and I'm pretty sure a box of wine was

involved. "Can I get you a drink? Beer? Soda?

Absinthe?"

I was tempted to ask for the absinthe out of curiosity,

but decided I wasn't that thirsty. "Thanks, I had lunch

before I came."

"Suit yourself, man." Clarence reached under a desk

and pulled out a small wooden box. He opened it, and

took out what appeared to be a piece of rolling paper

and a bag of pot. He looked as me, pleased. "This is

some pure hydro. Fifty bucks a gram. You can snag an

ounce in Washington Square Park for about six hundred.

Sometimes you go up by the George Washington

Bridge, around 179th Street, you find some real fiends

who'll sell it for cheaper, but it won't be as good. And

you'd be surprised at how many of the kids from

Columbia deal right in Morningside Park."

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273

"Thanks for the info," I said, "but I gave up smoking

in college. I eat enough Cheetos these days as it is."

"Suit yourself, reporter man."

Clarence sprinkled some of the weed onto the paper.

Then he spent a minute picking through it, removing any

clumps or twigs. Once the mixture was in a slight cone

shape--wide to narrow--he began to roll. Clarence stared

at the joint with an almost trancelike intensity. He began

in the middle, using his thumbs to roll it evenly, gradu

ally moving his fingers to the ends of the paper. Once it

was a cylinder, he licked the top edge of the paper and

folded it over. When that was completed, he took a small

piece of thicker paper and rolled it tightly into a spiral.

He inserted that into one end of the joint. Clarence twisted

the end without the roach so nothing would fall out.

Taking the joint between his thumb and index finger,

Clarence held it to his lips, sparked a lighter and took

a deep drag. He drew it deep into his lungs, his eyes

closing as the end of the joint glowed. Finally he

removed it from his lips and puffed out a dark cloud that

hung over his room for a minute before disappearing.

When all that was done, he opened his eyes, looked

at me, held out the joint. "Best weed you'll smoke in

this city."

"No, thanks," I said. "I'm working."

"Whatever. So you said you wanted to talk about my

pops. What about him?"

"Your dad was Butch Willingham."

"S'right." Clarence took another drag. I noticed a

small corner of his upper lip was turned up. Either he

wasn't entirely fond of speaking about his father, or

hadn't in a long time.

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Jason Pinter

"Was he a good father?"

Clarence held out the joint. I don't think he meant it

that way, but I saw that as somewhat of an answer.

"No better or worse, s'pose."

"How do you mean that?"

"I know a lot of kids my age who had more'n I did.

Know a lot that had less. My dad, he didn't have much

of an education. No college, no high school. Dropped

out at fourteen, spent the rest of his life slinging rock.

That's all the man knew. As far as I knew he was good

at it."

"How so?"

"Kept me well fed. My moms died when I was a kid

and I never had no brothers or sisters, so it was all up to

him. He made sure I went to school, beat my ass if I didn't

get good grades. I know a lot of dads who bought the rock

my dad sold and just sunk into a hellhole because of it.

My dad never smoked, never drank. To him this was his

livelihood, like someone who goes to a plant, punches a

clock. He didn't take his work home with him."

"I find that a little hard to believe. I mean..." I

motioned to the joint. Clarence laughed.

"Yeah, I used to do harder stuff. Crack. A little heroin

here and there. The weed's a cooling-down drug. I'll get

off it at some point." He took another long, deep, drawnout puff, then smiled lazily. "Just not yet."

"The sins of the father," I said under my breath.

"What's that?"

"Nothing. So do you remember when your father

was killed?"

"Remember?" Clarence said, coughing into his fist.

"I was the one that found him."

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275

"You're kidding," I said.

"Nope. Thursday nights I had me a pickup game of

basketball in the park with some other kids. I was about

six-two by high school, and could handle it like a dream.

I thought if I kept growing I could be another Magic

Johnson, the kind of big guy who had the skills of a

point guard. Then one Thursday I came home. Picked

up one of those ice-cream cones in a wrapper, you know

with chocolate around the cone and nuts in the vanilla?

Carried it home with me, went upstairs, first thing I see

is blood on the carpet. I couldn't see my dad, that's how

big the puddle was. He was lying in the living room, the

puddle had spread into the hallway. I go in there, and

he's facedown, arms above his head like he was trying

to fly and fell from the sky."

"You saw the words?" I said.

"Yeah. Just barely, but they were in the carpet. Lucky

for us we had an off-white carpet, otherwise I might

have missed it. The Fury. That's what my dad wrote

while he was dying on our floor."

"I can't even imagine," I said.

"No," Clarence said, putting the joint into an ashtray.

"You can't. The cops told me they used a silencer. It

took a few years until I knew what that meant."

"My brother was killed the same way," I said.

Nobody spoke for a moment. Then I said, "So once you

came out and saw him, you called the cops?"

"No. First I tried to wake him up," Clarence said. He

spoke slowly, the words rusty like they hadn't been

spoken in a long time. His voice was soft yet gritty, and

it chilled me to the bone. "I turned him over. The back

of his head was almost gone. I remember seeing bone

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Jason Pinter

and brain on the floor, but I was a kid. I figured there

was always a way to put someone back together. I

turned him over, saw that glassy look in his eyes, the

same look you see on the mannequins in department

stores. And I held my father's head in my hands and

tried to get my daddy to wake up. Finally a neighbor

heard me crying and called the cops. She actually

reported it as a domestic disturbance, thinking my dad

was beating me. Then when they came in and saw

him...man, that's a picture that'll never go away."

I was almost afraid to ask, but I said, "What hap

pened then?"

"The cops came and took me away. I stood outside

and watched a whole mess of them go into our building,

wearing gloves, carrying all sorts of equipment to bag

and tag my dad. I'd seen bodies before. Even if my dad

was straight, that's a dirty game, and some of his friends

didn't play the same way. It's not the same when it's

your kind. Whether you love 'em or not, when it's your

own flesh and blood lying there, something just dries

up inside of you. Drains the life out of you."

Inside, I knew how Clarence felt. Only to a much

smaller degree.

"Then I got sent to foster care. Lived with a nice old

family until I turned eighteen. Moved out, went to

school and never seen them since."

"You graduate?" I asked.

"Cum laude," Clarence said. "I don't like to keep up

appearances, but this is my crash pad. My real place of

business is in Gramercy."

"What kind of work do you do?" I asked.

"Graphic design," he said.

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277

"That's funny," I said. "Do you know a woman

named Rose Keller?"

"Sounds familiar, why?"

"Friend of my brother's. Also works as a graphic

designer."

"Hmm..." Clarence tapped a finger against his lower

lip. "Think I might have smoked with her once or twice.

Or maybe more." He smiled.

"She's kicked her habits. I guess creative people do

creative things to their mind."

"I never lose the sharpness. It doesn't affect my work."

Then Clarence rattled off the names of several mul

tibillion-dollar companies. He took a business card from

a pile on his desk and handed it to me. It had his name,

address, e-mail and Web site URL. The tagline read

Your dream can be a reality. "I have a portfolio of all

my clients. You check out their Web sites, that's all me.

Half a dozen Fortune 500 companies."

"Not bad at all."

The joint had burned out. Clarence didn't seem to

notice.

"That all you need, Parker?" Clarence asked. "I ap

preciate thinking about the good times and all, but my

day is wasting."

"One more thing," I said. "The note your father wrote

on the floor. The Fury. Do you remember your father

ever talking about anyone who went by that name?"

"Nah," Clarence said, waving his hand. "My dad

never brought his work home with him."

"He was killed because of his work," I said. "I'd say

that's taking it home with you."

Clarence didn't take to that comment very kindly, and

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Jason Pinter

stood up. "He never mentioned anyone by that name.

But I know what you're getting at. I've read the books.

I know what some people think. But a hustle's a hustle.

There's no greater power. No Keyser Soze sitting up in

a tower somewhere twisting the wills of men. It's a big

racket, is all it is. People play to make money. The cards

are shuffled every so often, and my dad was one of

those cards. Sucks for him and for me, but that's the way

it goes. So don't go spreading any rumors, 'cause they

ain't true."

I wanted to tell Clarence that for untrue rumors, he

was quite adamant about making sure I knew he thought

nothing of them.

"Thanks for giving me some of your time," I said.

"And I'm sorry for your loss."

"About twenty years too late, but I appreciate the

sentiment."

Clarence led me to the door. The joint was a sad, for

gotten nub in the ashtray. I turned around to shake his

hand, when something caught my eye.

There was a futon resting in the far corner. Red

cushion. Lots of stains from cigarettes, liquor, or both.

Something underneath the sofa was twinkling, shining

in the low light.

I stepped around Clarence to get a closer look.

"What're you doing?" he asked.

I felt a tightness in my chest as I walked to the futon.

Dropping down to one knee, I peered underneath to

see. Something told me I already knew what it was.

I felt a strong hand, Clarence's hand, grip my

shoulder and squeeze. Pain coursed through the joint as

he found the bone and dug in.

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279

"Listen, man, you've had your fun. Leave or I'm

gonna call the cops."

Ignoring him, I reached under the futon and grabbed

the item. Standing back up, his hand still like a vise, I

opened it to see what lay in my palm.

I felt the grip loosen as we both stared. My heart was

hammering. I couldn't believe it.

Turning to face Clarence Willingham, I held out a

small diamond earring in my hand. The companion to

the earring I found up at Blue Mountain Lake by BethAnn Downing's body.

"Where is Helen Gaines?" I asked.

29

"I don't know what you're talking about," Clarence

said, but the tremor in his voice belied that statement. I

looked around. This apartment was too small. There

was nowhere for her to hide. She had to be somewhere

else.

But if Helen Gaines was hiding, if she'd left Blue

Mountain Lake because somebody was trying to kill

her, she wasn't out and about in New York City, sight

seeing and having her caricature drawn in Times

Square. If she'd come to Butch Willingham's son for

help, chances are he knew where she was at this

moment. She had to be somewhere close. In his office,

perhaps. Or somewhere nobody would expect. The

office might be out. Where...

I could hear Clarence screaming at me, trying to

push me out of his apartment. My body didn't respond.

She couldn't be at his office. She'd be somewhere

nobody would know about. Somewhere...

Then I remembered my bag. Bernita. Clarence's words.

Anytime you have something you need stored safely,

Bernita's your woman.

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281

I bolted out of Clarence's apartment, the diamond

earring still in my hand. The footsteps behind me said

that Clarence was right on my heels. And I didn't think

he was going to argue with me anymore.

The stairs disappeared under me two at a time, and

I used the railing on each landing to swing onto the next

set, trying desperately to keep ahead of Clarence. I

didn't know how we'd fare in a fight, but I was sure that

if we made enough noise one of the tenants surely

would call the cops. And I didn't have time for that. I

needed to know. Needed to see.

Safely stored.

As I hit the first-floor landing, I felt Clarence's fist

grab a chunk of my shirt. I pulled away, but not before

it ripped a sizable hole in the collar. I turned around, saw

Clarence behind me and shoved him as hard as I could.

It wasn't meant to hurt him, merely to buy me some

time, and to that extent it worked. Clarence fell back

about eight feet, tripping over the foot of the stairwell

and falling to the ground. Cursing like a maniac, I was

sprinting down the corridor before he could get himself

up.

I found Bernita's door. Knocked twice fast. I said,

"Bernita, it's Henry. You have my bag."

I saw Clarence on his feet, running toward me. I

only had seconds.

Then the door opened in front of me, and Bernita was

there in her pink bathrobe, the cigarette still in her

mouth. She was holding my bag in one hand, out

stretched, expecting me to take it then leave. When she

saw the rip in my shirt and Clarence barreling down the

hall, her eyes grew wide. She immediately tried to slam

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Jason Pinter

the door shut. Instead, I wriggled past her into the apart

ment, the door slamming shut where I'd just been

standing.

"Get the fuck out of my house!" she screamed,

slapping at me with both her hands, the cigarette still

miraculously dangling from her lip.

Then I heard a small, frightened voice from the

farthest room down the corridor.

"Bernita, is everything okay?"

I stared at Bernita for a second, then sprinted down

the hall. It was the last door on the right. Without hesi

tating, I barged in, the door swinging open and

smacking against the wall where it hit a doorstop and

swung back at me. I stopped it with my foot, then stood

there.

I heard two people breathing behind me. Bernita and

Clarence. But I didn't care about them; all I cared about

was the woman sitting on the bed mere feet from me.

Her hands were on her knees. Back ramrod straight.

Her eyes were wide, terrified, as though she'd been ex

pecting this moment for a long time and knew she could

only avoid it for so long. Then that terrified look turned

to anger, then confusion.

"Who...who are you?" she asked.

"Ms. Gaines," I said. "My name is Henry Parker. I'm

James Parker's other son."

30

The apartment was silent for what seemed like ages.

Helen Gaines sat there on the bed, unbelieving, her

mouth in a silent O. I couldn't tell what she was

thinking, if she knew who I was, or if I'd even existed.

Since she'd left Bend before I was even born, there was

a chance she didn't know about me. Didn't know that

James Parker had another son. Or that Stephen Gaines

had a brother.

But there was a glimmer of recognition there as she

searched for a reaction. Perhaps Stephen had mentioned

me the night he died. Maybe Helen knew there was

another son.

Clarence Willingham's hand was on my back, but

there was no force to it. As if he himself wanted to

know just what was going on. When he'd first opened

the door to his apartment building, I assumed Clarence's

paranoia was due to the high, not wanting to get caught.

The dead bolts on his door, they were protecting a man

whose father had been gunned down mercilessly. He

grew up in fear, and now he was protecting Helen

Gaines. But why? How did they even know each other?

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Jason Pinter

And how did Helen end up here, of all places, after

fleeing Blue Mountain Lake?

Bernita had stopped screaming. Perhaps because

they were both curious. Or perhaps because they didn't

want to get anyone else involved. Because they were

still protecting Helen.

"You're Henry," she said. "Oh my...I've wanted to

meet you for so long."

That answered my question.

"I only just found out you existed a few days ago,"

I said. "Why didn't you ever try to reach me?"

"I didn't know how," she said, but her voice betrayed

that thought. She never really tried. The idea of my ex

istence was grander than the reality of it.

I walked over to Helen. Extended my hand. She did

not offer hers, and for a moment I was embarrassed, but

then she stood up, took a breath and gathered me in her

arms. It was a strange sensation, and one I wasn't sure

was deserved or appropriate, but soon I felt my arms

wrapping around this small, frail woman who'd been a

part of my family's life long before I ever arrived.

Her pulse was racing. A slightly sour smell came

off of her.

When Helen Gaines pried herself away from me,

she stepped back, sat down on the bed with a sigh. The

woman's pupils were dilated, and I had to take a

moment to realize just how small, just how thin she was.

I remember the photo my father had shown me. The vi

vacious young woman with the unruly brown hair, the

bright green eyes. The eyes were still green, but they

were slightly dulled. Too much life had passed by them.

Not enough love to keep them shining.

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285

The veins in her wrists were thick, ropy. Blue streaks

roamed underneath her skin. The brown of her hair had

nearly all been wiped away, replaced with a stringy

gray.

Then I heard a smacking sound and saw that she

was licking her lips. Dry mouth. A symptom of crack

addiction.

She was Stephen Gaines's mother all right.

"Wait," I said. Suddenly I was the one confused. I'd

been so caught up in discovering the earring and

finding Helen that the biggest question hadn't even

occurred to me to ask.

"How in the hell do you two know each other?" I said

to Helen, then turned to Clarence.

Clarence bowed his head. Then he stepped by me,

went and sat down on the bed next to Helen. She placed

her hand on top of Clarence's head. He smiled weakly,

tilted it slightly.

"Butch Willingham," Helen said, "saved my life. When

I came to this city I had nothing. I started using, but I was

out of control. I bought from Butch, but he never sold me

enough to kill me, which is what I wanted. One day, Butch

found me passed out in a gutter. Facedown. Drowning in

filth. He took me in. Nursed me back to health. He was

my lover. My protector. He was the husband your father

never was. The father Stephen never had."

"And when my dad died," Clarence said, "Ms.

Gaines always looked after me. The city wouldn't allow

her to adopt me because of her...issues...but she visited

every day. She was the mom I lost when I was a kid."

"So when Beth-Ann was killed," I said, extrapolat

ing what I'd learned, "you called Clarence."

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Jason Pinter

"He was my only friend left," Helen said. Her eyes

were sunken. She began to weep softly, her small body

trembling. Clarence wiped her tears away with his

finger, took her frail hand and kissed the back. Helen

smiled, nestled her head against his neck.

"She was here when I called," I said. "That's who I

heard in the background."

"I wouldn't let her stay at my pad. Too many

people have my business card. Bernita here doesn't

even have e-mail."

"I found the earring," I said to Helen.

"Earring," she said, stumbling over her words. "Oh

my, from the cabin!"

"That's right."

"I didn't even know I had the other one with me. It

must have fallen."

"Onto Clarence's carpet," I replied. "So he shuttled

you downstairs to hide while I talked to him."

"Didn't have time for anything else," Clarence

replied.

"You went to all this trouble," I said.

"I'd do anything to protect this woman," Clarence

said. "Anything." Then he stared at me, his eyes gone

from tender to fiery in an instant. "Anything."

I knew he was talking to me. That if I even thought

about exposing Helen, about putting her in harm's way,

Clarence Willingham would have no problem making

sure nobody heard what I had to say.

"So you hid her here," I said.

Bernita chimed in, saying, "Man did pay me."

"I trust Bernita," Clarence said. "Helen wasn't so

sure at first."

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287

"I didn't--still don't--know who to trust," Helen said.

"I couldn't keep her with me," Clarence said. "I have

clients coming over to my office, and there's no way she

could have stayed upstairs. Besides, who would think

to look here?"

"I would. I did," I said.

"Yeah, well, most people ain't you, Parker." I wasn't

sure whether he meant that as an insult or a compliment.

"We need to talk about Stephen," I said. "Helen, I

need to know what happened. The police have arrested

my father for Stephen's murder. They know he came

into the city to see you. They know you tried to black

mail him. I need to know why. It wasn't for rehab for

Stephen. I need to know what that money was for, and

what happened that night."

Helen Gaines's hand went to Clarence's and held it

tight. He put his arm around her, comforted her as she

began to cry, this time harder. She wailed, her hand

covering her mouth to stifle the sobs.

"Oh...my baby," she said. "My baby is gone..."

"Helen," I said. But all I could do was wait it out. It

hadn't even been a week since Stephen was murdered,

and though Helen Gaines seemed far from mentally

stable, there were some things that pierced the heart no

matter how calloused it had grown.

She cried for several minutes. Clarence held her

head, stroked her hair. His eyes were closed, too, and

on his face I could see the pain of a man whose surro

gate mother was going through hell in every way, shape

and form. Clarence had admitted abusing drugs in his

younger years, but recently had begun to wean himself

off of them. No doubt having a dealer as a father exac

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Jason Pinter

erbated any curiosity he had. And even though Butch

was a supposedly "clean" dealer, being exposed to that

kind of trade could stir a desire that wouldn't have

existed otherwise. The temptation was there. His father

put it there, and Helen Gaines had become a victim of

it as well.

Maybe Helen and Clarence had actually bonded over

this. Perhaps it was even Helen who, after Butch was

gone, tempted Clarence. But looking at them now,

young man and older woman, they needed each other

more than anything in the world.

"Helen," I said, "I need to know why you got in

touch with my father. After all those years, why did you

suddenly need the money?"

Helen removed her head from Clarence's shoulder.

She wiped her eyes, only succeeding in smearing the

mascara she had on. Clarence took a tissue from his

pocket, handed it to her. She thanked him, cleaned

herself up.

"The money wasn't for me," she said. "It was never

for me. It was for Stephen."

"Rehab?" I asked.

"No. That ship sailed a long time ago. We tried--

both of us, actually. But it's easy to say you want to stop,

it's another thing to do it. It'd be like rewiring your

brain. When you have two people so close, both

addicted, you can either band together and use each

other for strength...or you can slip into the comfort of

nothingness. We chose the latter."

"So you know your son was using, and that he

probably started because of you."

Helen nodded. "I was young and stupid when I came

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289

here. Do you know what it's like to be nineteen years

old with a baby? To have to leave the only place you've

ever known and go somewhere where you don't know

anybody? To raise a child in a different world? I

couldn't handle it. So I escaped. But Stephen could

have made so much more of himself."

"Stephen wasn't just some street dealer," I said. "He

was much higher."

Helen blinked. "I knew he wasn't standing out on

corners. He had nice suits. Lots of them. He would

wear them during the day, even though I knew where

he was going. I always found it strange that someone

in that...line of work would get dressed up so nicely.

We never had money for anything else."

I thought about the building in midtown. All those

suited young men entering to get their daily packages.

A horde of young, urban professionals. Only the defi

nition had turned a one-eighty.

"How long had he been selling?" I asked.

Helen looked at the ceiling. Wiped her eyes again.

Clarence was staring at her as well, his eyes soft. I

wondered if he'd ever heard these stories.

"Screw this," Bernita suddenly announced. "I'm

getting a beer and watching Judge Judy. " Her pink

bathrobe turned with a flutter, and she left the room.

"She's a great cook," Helen said. "Made chicken a

l'orange last night."

"I have about ten pounds of leftovers in my fridge

at home," Clarence said with a laugh. "I know what

you're saying."

"How long?" I repeated.

"Almost ten years. He dropped out of CCNY after

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his sophomore year. I worked about a hundred differ

ent jobs over the years, but even with that and the money

Stephen made, with his student loans, there was no way

we could ever really make ends meet. Not in this city.

That's actually where I met Beth. We were both secre

taries at a public-relations firm. They fired us both

within the month when we came to work high. So

Stephen dropped out. Partly because of the money,

partly to take care of me. He said the only experience

he needed was in the real world. And I was too stupid

to stop him. And besides, he was making more money

doing that than I ever did working real jobs. And none

of it was taxed."

"So he was working for ten years, making good

money, obviously moving up the ladder," I said. "Again,

why did he need the money?"

"We went through it fast," Helen said. "Stephen

started using more, and I was a mess. We never saved

much. One day, about a month ago, Stephen came home

from work. I remember him coming in the door with this

look on his face, and I just froze. He was so scared...oh

God, his eyes were wide and his face was pale and I

thought he might have overdosed. He collapsed on our

sofa and asked for a glass of water. When I brought it to

him, he just sat there with the glass in his hand. Not

drinking, just staring at the wall. Then my boy started to

cry."

"Why?" I asked. "What happened?"

"He didn't tell me," Helen said. "All he said was, 'We

need to leave. We need to get far, far away from this city.

When I asked him what the matter was, he just said,

'You're safer if you don't know. We'd both be safer if I

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291

didn't know either.' I looked into his eyes. They were

bloodshot. Not from drugs, but from crying. He'd never

spoken like that before in his life. I'd never seen him so

scared, so terrified. So I told him we'd find a way."

I said, "My father told me he found a notepad in your

apartment. It read 'Europe' and 'Mexico.' That's where

you were thinking of going. Right?"

Helen nodded. "We didn't know where to go. What

city or country. We wondered if Europe was too far, or

if Mexico was far enough. Stephen just wanted to go far,

far away. We barely had enough money to cover the

rent."

"And that's why you called my father," I said. "For

money to leave the country."

"It was a one-time thing," Helen said. "I figured after

all those years, after what he'd done to me and our

baby--that's right, our baby--the least he could do

was help us start a new life."

I couldn't really argue with that. My father owed

them far more than he could ever make up for.

"So you threatened to sue him," I said.

"I didn't know any other way. The old James Parker

I knew would rather burn his money than give it away."

"You couldn't say something a little more noble, like

you needed it for a kidney transplant or something?

Maybe that would have tugged at his heartstrings a little

more than the rehab story."

"I don't know how well you know your father,"

Helen said sardonically, "but he's not exactly the senti

mental type."

I couldn't argue with that either.

"So he came into the city to see you, then what?"

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"How much did he tell you?" she asked.

"He told me you pulled a gun on him," I said. "Is

that true?"

Helen nodded. "Yes. But it was Stephen's gun. He

kept it for protection. He taught me how to use it, just

in case. I was scared, of your father and for Stephen. I

got carried away."

"Where was Stephen during all of this?" I said.

"I'm not sure," Helen said. "He told me he was going

to try and talk to someone. He said there was one

person who might be able to do something if he knew

the whole story."

"Oh God," I said. "He was with me. He was at the

Gazette waiting for me." I felt sick. I put that from my

mind, tried to focus.

"My father said he took the gun from you. Is that

true?"

"It is," Helen said.

"Would you be willing to testify to that? The police

say my father's fingerprints were found on the gun. If

you testify that they got there another way--other than

him actually firing it--it will help his case."

"I don't know if I want to help his case," Helen said.

"As long as he's locked up, the cops aren't hunting the

person who really killed my son."

"So you know it wasn't my father," I said. Helen said

nothing. She turned away. Didn't even look at me. I was

taken aback by this indifference. Stunned, I said, "Don't

you care about your son's killer getting what he

deserves?" I said.

Helen's face turned to stone. She said, "It must be

nice to live in a world where everyone who deserves

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293

justice gets it. My son was taken from me. I tried to save

him...help him save himself. And now he's gone. And

let me tell you what I want now, Henry... I want to live.

And if living means letting this end, letting the people

out there think that someone is taking the fall, I can't

say that's an ending I dislike."

"You must know, though," I said. "You have to know

who killed your son."

"I don't know for certain," Helen said. "After James

and I had our...talk...he left for the airport. He put the

gun back down. We both knew I wasn't going to use it.

And I knew that was the last time I would ever see your

father."

"Then what did you do?" I asked.

"Then I went out. I needed a drink. Needed to smoke.

James didn't have that much money, only a few

thousand dollars. I didn't know what was going to

happen with Stephen. He was so scared, so afraid."

"So your choice then was to go out rather than see

him."

"That's right. I did. I had to calm my nerves. I just

needed something to get me by. And I thought if I could

relax, I could figure out just how we were going to get

out of the city. I must have been gone for, I don't know,

two hours or so. When I came back to the apartment, I

walked in and saw him...Stephen...facedown on the

floor. Blood everywhere. And I just started screaming."

"And you felt you were in danger."

"I knew I was," Helen said. "Whoever killed him did

it because they thought he knew something he wasn't

supposed to. And if he knew, then chances were I would

too. I left that night, before the cops ever came. And I

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Jason Pinter

remember the street, the quiet, the neighbors who didn't

even know what had just gone on. I went right to BethAnn's apartment, and we went up to the lake. I had no

idea they would find us there."

"So you didn't see who killed Stephen," I said.

"No. Just the people on the street. Neighbors,

people I'd seen around before..." Helen trailed off,

looked at Clarence.

"What is it, Mom?" he said.

"One man," Helen said. "There was one man

standing on the street, staring at me as I left the apart

ment. He was just there, standing by a lamppost, and I

could have sworn he was crying. And honest to God, I

think that boy looked at me and said..."

"Said what?" I asked.

"Said he was sorry. And all I could think to do was

run."

"I don't understand," I said. "Why didn't you call

anyone? The cops? Someone?"

"Stephen told me a long time ago not to trust anyone

in this city. He said the people he knew, the people he

worked for, if they thought you might hurt them they

would hurt you first, and hurt you worse than you could

ever do to them. When he came home that night, scared

out of his mind, he told me our only option was to run.

That if we told anybody, we would be in trouble. That's

all he said. Trouble. But the thing is--" Helen stopped,

looked at the floor.

"What is it?"

"The night he died," she said, "Stephen told me there

might be one way out. He said he knew one person who

might be able to help us. He knew about your father,

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295

about his family, and I told him there was a good chance

James Parker wouldn't give us a dime and we wouldn't

be able to leave the country. So finally he told me there

was one last option. There was someone he knew wasn't

on the take, wouldn't hurt us. Someone who could give

them more trouble than they ever imagined. He went out

that night. Never told me who he was going to see. And

then, a few hours later, he was dead."

It felt like a piece of coal was burning in the pit of

my stomach. I knew Stephen had been talking about me.

For some reason, he considered me his last hope. And

then he died. Because I didn't trust him.

"You said the night Stephen died, you saw someone

outside the apartment. A young man crying. Who was

he?" I asked.

"I don't know. It was dark out," Helen said, her voice

sorrowful, apologetic. "And my mind, I was so

confused, so scared. I didn't see his face. All I remember

is noticing something on his neck...a birthmark. Such

a young man, younger than Stephen even..."

I nearly fell to the floor. The room went blurry on me.

Clarence got up, came to my side, helped me stand.

"You okay?" he said.

I nodded, but felt anything but okay. I knew who that

man was. And now I knew who killed Stephen.

And I knew where he lived.

31

"I have to go," I said, standing up. Right under my

nose the whole time. My brother's killer. I didn't have

time to talk to Helen. To worry about how disturbing it

was that a mother would prefer to protect her own hide

than find justice for her son's killer.

I couldn't think about how this might affect Helen.

She could be helped. She could be protected. And if her

eyes hadn't deceived her that night, I knew who had

killed Stephen Gaines.

"Tell me you'll be here," I said to Helen, looking at

Clarence. "I swear on my life I know people who can

protect you. And if I'm right, you won't have to worry

anymore, because the man who killed Stephen will be

behind bars the rest of his life. There's nobody else

who can hurt you."

"You don't know that," Helen whispered. "Stephen

was much stronger than I ever was. And look what

happened to him."

There was no boogeyman. No higher power. It was

the law of the jungle. Kill or be killed. Stephen found

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himself on the shit end of that equation. And it was time

for me to even the score.

"Please be here," I said. "If I'm right, you'll need

to testify."

"If you're wrong," she said, "neither of us will be

around long enough for it to matter."

I said nothing. I thanked Clarence for his help. Then,

crossing over to Helen Gaines, I put my hand on her

shoulder. The bones protruded, sharp angles. There was

no muscle, no strength there. She was a skeleton with

skin. A woman whose soul seemed to have left her long

ago.

Helen Gaines smiled weakly at me. I didn't know if

she would still be here later. There were only so many

lives I could affect. My duty was to the truth, to uncover

it at all costs.

"Watch after her," I said to Clarence. His nod told

me he would.

I left Bernita's apartment, exiting the building. The

sun was hanging bright and hot over the city. Every

second seemed to take an hour. Every moment he

breathed thinking he'd gotten away with murder was

one that made my blood boil.

Before I left, I took out my cell phone and my wallet,

then removed the thick stack of business cards that had

turned brown from the leather. Shuffling through them,

I picked out the one I needed. Then I called the cell

phone number listed.

"Detective Makhoulian," came the answer.

"Detective," I said, "it's Henry Parker. I know who

killed Stephen Gaines."

I gave him the address and told him when to be there.

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Only, I would be there ten minutes earlier. We needed

some time alone.

I headed toward the subway, my mind completely

clear except for the anticipation of what was about to

come. The judicial system would have its turn. But first

I needed mine.

The train was hot, crowded and sticky. It only served

to get my blood up. Once I got out downtown, the walk

was short. My legs carried me faster than I knew they

could. In my mind I could see images of the people I

knew. Had known. And had never known.

My father.

My mother.

Jack.

And Stephen Gaines. The brother I never had.

I arrived on the block with half an hour to spare. I

checked my watch every thirty seconds, trying to

contain the rage building inside of me. Everything had

led up to this.

I paced up and down, breathing steady, controlled. It

wasn't easy. The last time I remembered feeling like this,

helpless yet ready to explode, was several years ago when

my then girlfriend Mya was attacked and nearly raped.

That night I paced the street, a fifth of vodka in a paper

bag, praying I would somehow find the man who was

cowardly enough to attack a woman half his size. Though

Amanda and I had been through some trying ordeals, to

the point where I wondered if we would live to see the

next day, we were both strong-willed people. We could

overcome it. We knew that. Stephen wasn't strong enough

to overcome his demons. He'd been seduced by the vial,

the needle, and once they were in they were in for good.

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And suddenly I turned around and there he was.

Wearing a brilliant suit, slightly disheveled after a long

day's work. A briefcase slung over his shoulder. His

shoulders were slumped as he walked, his eyes cast

down to the street. As he got closer I could see the birth

mark on his neck. The same one Helen Gaines saw the

night he killed my brother.

He didn't see me waiting for him. That was probably

for the best.

"Scott Callahan," I said.

Scotty's eyes snapped up to meet mine. At first he was

confused, then a small smile crossed his lips when he

recognized me. Then that smile disappeared when he

realized I was not there for a social visit. Nothing like

it.

"Henry?" he said, trying to understand what I was

doing there.

I walked toward him. Picking up my pace with

every step.

"Cops are on their way," I said, voice even, teeth

gritted. Scott kept on walking, tentative, until we were

just a few feet from each other. "But they won't be here

for a little while. So we have some time to chat."

Scotty's face went an ashen gray. "The cops?" he

said. "Wha...I don't understand. You promised me

you'd keep my name out of this. Goddamn it, you

promised me!"

"I promised I wouldn't turn you in for dealing. I was

looking for something more. But I never said a word

about keeping your name clean from murder, you piece

of shit."

"Murder? What the hell..." Scotty was breathing

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Jason Pinter

hard. I saw his eyes flicker to the building next to us,

where he lived. He was carrying nothing but his brief

case and his wallet. There was nowhere to go. No place

to hide.

And then, from the opposite end of the street, we

both heard the faint shrill of police sirens. Scotty

whirled around. The cops weren't within sight yet. He

was sweating, nervous. Then all of a sudden Scotty

came around and punched me in the stomach.

It wasn't a hard blow, but I was unprepared. Rather

than buckling and trying to absorb the hit, it landed

square in my gut, knocking the wind from me. I fell to

a knee, gasping for air. Scotty began to run. So I did the

only thing I could. I grabbed his ankle as he ran past.

Scotty's leg went out from under him, and he landed

with a thud on the pavement. His briefcase went flying,

fluttering pathetically in the wind. Forgetting about my

own lack of air, I leaped up and pounced on him. I dug

my knee into the small of his back, then rolled him over

and reared back to deliver my own blow. Scotty brought

his elbows up to protect his face, and my punch hit

nothing but bone. The pain was terrible, but it dissipated

in an instant. I connected with a solid right to Scotty's

ear, knocking his face sideways. A scream escaped his

mouth.

I threw another punch, but Scotty was able to block

it, twisting sideways. I still hadn't recovered from his

punch, so I was thrown off balance and fell off him. I

managed to keep my hand on his shoulder, pulling him

back down as he tried to get up.

Scotty was crawling for something; I couldn't see

what. My face was still close to the ground, and I could

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301

smell the concrete. Then I heard a clang as something

toppled over, and that was followed by a whoosh of air

as he swung what appeared to be the lid of a garbage

can at my head.

I managed to roll away, catching a glancing piece of

the aluminum on my jaw. It stunned me and I fell back.

Scotty stood up, limping, clutching his knee. The sirens

were growing louder. Not long ago the police had been

after me, and I'd managed to escape. At least for a

while. Scotty had lived here for years, knew every inch

of the city. He had friends who would protect him. If

Helen Gaines, a frail junkie, could find a safe house, no

doubt a dealer with innumerable contacts could as well.

I couldn't let him get away.

As Scotty began to run, I got to my feet, dived

forward and tackled him from behind. His legs gave out,

and Scotty screamed again as his knee slammed down

on the ground. By this point I could see several pedes

trians watching us, hands over their mouths in shock and

terror. A few were on their cell phones, no doubt calling

911.

A little late, but I appreciated the gesture.

Scotty was still writhing, and I managed to turn him

over, placing my knees in the crook of his elbows. Just

like I had to the guy who tried to jump me at the apart

ment. Scotty's head was bleeding from where I'd

punched him. There was a ragged hole in his pants by

his right knee. There was a nasty cut that was bleeding

pretty heavily. I could feel the slow, hot trickle of blood

running down my neck, where he'd clipped me with the

lid.

I raised my fist, ready to exhaust all the rage and fury

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of the last few days. To get payback for my brother's

murder, for my father's incarceration.

This man, this killer, this hired dealer. The world

would be better off without him.

Yet as I stared at my own fist, poised and ready to

strike the helpless murderer, suddenly my hand went

slack. My fingers uncurled. I couldn't do it. Justice

wasn't about taking an eye for an eye. I was above that.

I had to be.

So I sat there, knees on his arms, the man below me

in terrible pain, tears streaming down his face.

"Please," Scotty blubbered, "let me go. You don't

know what you're doing..."

"I know exactly what I'm doing," I said. "I'm giving

you the chance you never gave Stephen. I'm going to

let you live."

The sirens grew closer. I could see the red and blue

flashing off the windows on the street. The air was hot,

swirling around us as I waited, my breathing heavy,

angry.

"Get the hell off of him."

I didn't recognize the voice. The sirens screamed all

around us. I hadn't heard a car pull up. It wasn't a cop

talking. The voice did sound familiar, though....

Turning my head, from the corner of my eye I saw Kyle

Evans standing two feet from our sprawled bodies. He was

holding a gun in his hand. It was pointed right at my head.

I heard more screams, and anyone who had been on

the street watching had run off when the gun was pulled.

It was just the three of us.

I took my knees off Scotty, who scooted backward.

He clutched his knee, biting his lip.

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303

I stood up. Air was coming back to my lungs, but I

was still doubled over slightly.

"He's a killer," I said, the words coming out in

bursts. "He's--"

And then I saw it. And whatever breath had found

its way back into my lungs vanished.

Kyle was holding a black pistol. And attached to the

end of it was a thin metal tube. And I remembered what

Leon Binks had said to me the night I identified Stephen

Gaines's body in the medical examiner's office.

"The killer was using a silenced weapon. Now, very

few guns have those kinds of professional silencers you

see in movies, that screw on like a lightbulb. Usually

they're homemade, a length of aluminum tubing filled

with steel wool or fiberglass."

"It was you," I said. "You killed Stephen."

Kyle went over to where Scott Callahan was lying

on the ground. He was still holding his knee, but smiled

when he saw his friend approach. Kyle knelt down, put

his hand on his friend's shoulder. Scotty tried to prop

himself up, but he was too weak. I stood there, my body

rigid with anger and dread.

Kyle looked back at me. Then he said, "You gotta do

what you gotta do to survive."

Then he placed the gun under Scott Callahan's chin

and pulled the trigger.

32

"What the fuck!" I shouted. The gun blast was more

of a meek pfft, like compressed air escaping from a

puncture. Gore sprayed out the top of Scott Callahan's

head. His body twitched once, then fell to the ground

and lay still.

My hands wouldn't work. I stared slack-jawed at

Kyle. He was still on the ground, the gun loose in his

hand. He looked at his friend, a sorrow etching across

his face for an instant. Then his eyes turned cold and

his gaze came to me.

"You have no idea," Kyle said, "how surprised I was

to get to Stephen's house and find a gun already there.

I had this one all ready. Instead, all I needed was the

capper." He pointed to the silencer.

"You used my brother's own gun to kill him," I said.

"But he wasn't the last one to use it."

"No, I really should have bought a lotto ticket that

night. When I heard that Stephen's dad got popped for

it? I nearly pissed myself laughing. See, that night I

wore gloves, figured it would slow the cops down, but

I had no idea about your dad's shenanigans. I was there

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305

to take out Stephen, but I kind of took out the whole

family. As long as they had someone else pinned for the

murder, we were in the clear."

"We?" I said.

"Scotty was supposed to do it. He knew Stephen

better than I did. They were pals, man."

I thought back to our conversation in the deli. Scotty

pretending to barely know my brother. That's how they

got so close to him.

"When your dad got popped, we were in the clear.

We even took the casings just in case. Turns out we

didn't even need to. Now, though, Scotty here's gotta

take the fall. Can't have anyone thinking the killer's still

out there."

"You son of a bitch."

"On a normal day, I'd get pissed at you for talking

about my mom like that, but I'll let it slide. Besides,

when I meant nobody could know, I meant it." Kyle

turned the gun to me. He had me less than five feet

away, dead to rights. There was no tremor in his hand.

By the time I even thought about running, he could pull

the trigger.

"Why?" I said. "Why did he have to die?"

"You said it yourself," Kyle replied. "The man just

had to. When you're the top dog in anything, you're

gonna get bitten."

"But Stephen was so young."

"There's no one guy," Kyle said. "It's like Ronald

McDonald. Every now and then someone new steps up

to the plate. Call it a coup d'etat, call it whatever you

want, but every company needs a regime change. Some

new blood at the top. Now it's my turn."

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Jason Pinter

Curt Sheffield had told me that five people connected

to 718 Enterprises had been killed recently. Add to that

number my brother and now Scott Callahan. Helen

Gaines told me that Stephen had wanted to leave the

country, that he feared something terrible. Clearly he'd

gotten wind that there were rivals who wanted to take

him out. So, was Stephen systematically wiping out his

competition? Is that why Kyle killed him--just to beat

him to the punch?

If what Kyle said was true, and Stephen and Scotty

had been friends, Stephen trusted them both. That's

how Scotty and Kyle talked their way into my brother's

apartment. They were couriers for him, yet he didn't

fear them. My brother had been betrayed by his own

friends.

When Stephen came to the Gazette that night, he'd

wanted to come clean. He knew the chances of getting

enough money to hide were slim. So my guess was that

he was going to spill on the whole operation. He didn't

fully trust the cops to protect him, but he figured if it

made the papers first he couldn't be killed without the

public being aware of it. His only hope was to cause a

big enough story that he would be forgotten. That he

could disappear in the maelstrom.

But he was killed before he could ever come clean.

And his story was about to die as well.

Kyle then took the gun and placed it in Scotty's dead

hand. He wrapped his own finger around Scotty's in the

trigger guard and aimed it at me.

Just then a car sped onto the block. It was a black

CrownVictoria. Kyle's attention turned from me to the car.

The door opened.And out got Detective Sevi Makhoulian.

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307

"Freeze, police!" the officer yelled. Kyle couldn't

turn away from Makhoulian. A strange look crossed his

face, and I swear the gun began to lower. He was going

to give up.

And then three successive explosions turned the air

into a thunderstorm, and Kyle Evans's body was flung

backward onto the street. He landed next to Scotty, his

friend, Kyle's eyes and mouth open.

I turned to Makhoulian, hands covering my ringing

ears. He was saying something to me, but I couldn't

hear the words.

He walked closer, gun at his side, the flashing lights

now on our block. I felt the detective's large hand on

my elbow. He was mouthing, Henry, are you all right?

I knew instinctively that my voice wouldn't work, so

I nodded. Then I turned back to see the dead littering

the street.

33

One week later

LaGuardiaAirport was surprisingly empty.We bought

a couple of coffees at a java stand in the food court. I

waited while he came back from the newsstand,

carrying a bag with a paperback book and a copy of the

Gazette.

My father was thinner than I'd ever seen him. His

eyes were sunken and his skin wrinkled. Gray hair

taking up most of whatever was left. My father no

longer looked angry; he just looked old.

Prior to a few weeks ago, I hadn't seen James Parker

in years. My family was a memory, one I'd longed to

forget. If you leave a person, your memory retains your

last image of them. My last image of my father was an

angry middle-aged man. Now he sat here, one step from

broken, waiting for a flight back home.

"Mom's picking you up in Portland?" I said.

"That's what she said," my father answered, as

though not believing her.

"If she says she'll be there she'll be there." He

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309

nodded, thinking more about it and agreeing with me.

I popped the top off my coffee and took a sip. Strong

and sweet. "At least you've got a great story for your

bowling league."

"I missed three league tournaments," he said, resent

ment in his voice. "I'm sure they replaced me by now."

"Didn't you once tell me you had a 187 average? I'm

sure they'll want that back in the rotation."

"One-eighty-seven, huh?" he said, thinking. "That

seems a tad high. Maybe one-forty."

"Still not too shabby." He shrugged his shoulder,

then took the lid off his coffee and took a long gulp.

When he set the cup back down, there was a scowl on

his lips. "You know, prison food gets a bad rap. The

eggs and joe down there weren't half-bad."

"If you really want, I'm sure you could figure out a

way to go back."

"S'alright. Hopefully my TiVo recorded all the Law

& Order episodes I missed."

"At least your priorities are straight again." He

nodded, missing the joke.

"You told me you saw Helen," my father said,

looking back at me. He actually looked concerned. Even

sad.

"She's in rehab," I said. "The state is paying for it.

Clarence Willingham is quite a guy. She has some good

people looking out for her."

"I never got to tell her I was sorry," he said.

"I have her address," I said. "Write her a letter. She'd

appreciate that."

"Maybe I will." The way he said it let me know that

no such thing would ever be done.

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Jason Pinter

"So they got the guys who did it. Who killed

Stephen."

"They're both dead. The real killer, Kyle Evans, tried

to frame his friend. Then the cops killed him."

"Good riddance," he said. "It's all tied up with a

pretty pink bow. I never want to set foot in this city

again."

"I still don't fully get it," I said. "If Stephen was

really as high up as Kyle and Scott said he was, did he

really need to leave the country to get away from them?

And if they were able to get close enough, obviously

Stephen didn't think they were a threat. Which makes

me wonder just who Stephen was afraid of."

"No disrespect to the dead," my father said, "but I

don't think any of those boys were in their right mind."

"And the cop, Makhoulian. I'm glad he worked so

fast to get you out. I just didn't think he needed to kill

Kyle. He looked like he was giving up."

"You're saying the guy who killed your brother

should have lived?"

"One death doesn't always merit another. We have a

justice system."

"Which would have probably screwed up somehow

and either let that boy walk on a technicality, put him in

some cushy detention facility because some quack doctor

on somebody's payroll said he has woman issues. Or he'd

be out in enough time to kill somebody else's son. I don't

know what's going on in this city, Henry, but being

among criminals day in and day out is no way to live."

"Maybe I'll move back home with you and Mom,"

I joked. That made him laugh. He checked his

boarding pass.

The Fury

311

"I should head to the gate. They'll probably give my

ticket to some freak if I'm not there on time."

His flight didn't board for another hour, but the

Parker family bonding hour had run its course. We both

stood up. My dad stepped forward, then wrapped his

arms around me, the most tentative hug I could imagine.

I returned it. Just a little stronger.

"Thank you for your help," he said. The feeling was

genuine. He wasn't going to apologize for the years

before that, and I wasn't going to ask him to.

"Take care of yourself," I said. "And please take care

of Mom. Do me one favor?"

He frowned. "What?"

"Mom was knitting something when I saw her in

Bend. If it's not too much trouble, I'd like to have it."

"I'll tell her," he said.

"And if you change your mind and decide to take a

vacation in NYC, at least give me a call."

"I will. And give my best to your girlfriend. She

seems like a catch."

"One in a million," I said. "Without her you'd still

be in jail."

"Guess I owe her a thank-you then. Pass it on for

me, will ya?"

"I will. And Dad?"

"Yeah, Henry."

"I'm sorry too. About Stephen. I wish I'd had a

chance to know him. Maybe we could have saved him."

His eyes closed as he took a deep breath. When he

opened them, he sighed and said, "Take care, Henry. It's

good to see I raised you right."

Then he was gone.

34

We were almost done packing. After several years in

that apartment, the time had come to say goodbye

before the floor gave out or a black hole opened up that

sucked us into some alternate universe. A man can only

face so many attempted assaults on his doorstep before

rethinking his living situation. And since I'd already

been thinking about more space, when Amanda agreed

with me it made sense. My lease was up in a few weeks.

It was as good a time as any to start over.

We were submerged amongst folded cardboard

boxes, masking tape, clothes, books, papers and every

thing else you forget about and probably have no need

for. My books took up the most room. I packed all of

my first-edition Jack O'Donnell tomes in a padded box,

reinforced with enough masking tape to hold up the

Brooklyn Bridge. My clothes were another story. There

were two small boxes marked Henry's Clothes. They

weighed about as much as a pizza.

"You know," Amanda said, "you could have saved on

the moving van and just rented a bike. You could have

fit all your stuff into one of those E.T. baskets."

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313

"I'm not a shopper, what do you want from me?"

"Not a shopper?" she said, putting down her Sharpie.

"Even being able to use the word shopper implies that

you have, in fact, shopped in your life. I'm guessing

most of these clothes survived from college, or else the

local Salvation Army dropoff is pretty bare. When we

get settled, first thing we're doing is taking you on a

proper shopping spree. You could use a new suit. And

new pants, new shirts, and don't get me started on your

underwear."

"Is this what we'll be like five years from now?" I

said, smiling. I went up to Amanda, wrapped my arms

around her. She snuggled in, resting her head on my

shoulder. "On each other's cases about clothing and

stuff?"

"I'm playing with you, you big baby." She tilted her

head up until I was staring into those beautiful eyes.

"Besides, I just want the best for you.You're great at your

job. I just want people to know that just by looking at you."

"You know that just by looking at me."

"Hopefully, most people won't need to wake up next

to you in the morning in order to know you're the best

young reporter in the city."

"Best young reporter?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself. Give it time, Henry."

I gave her a quick kiss, then went back to packing.

Though there were enough bad memories here to make

me want to run away from this block screaming like a

banshee, I'd miss it ever so slightly. Like that crazy first

girlfriend who showed up at your apartment drunk at

4:00 a.m. and burned all your CDs when you broke up,

there would be a small (well-guarded) place for it in my

heart.

314

Jason Pinter

I wished there would be room for Stephen Gaines in

my heart, but I couldn't force what was never there. I

don't know how many people have pasts that exist

without their knowledge. There was more to Stephen's

life than what I'd uncovered. He'd lived for thirty years,

abandoned by his family, given up by his father. The

man who killed him had faced the most severe retribu

tion possible. Yet a lingering doubt still remained, as I

could see him on that street corner, tortured by some

thing. Not Scotty Callahan. Not Kyle Evans.

Having dealt in vice for ten years, Stephen had seen

more evil than most men did their whole lives. To do

what he did took resolve, the knowledge that you were

bringing poison into the world, that you couldn't be

scared of the consequences. Every day could have

brought jail or death. Yet he kept on living that life. And

finally the odds caught up with him.

So what scares a man who isn't afraid of losing his

freedom or his life?

My cell phone rang. It was the moving van. They

were here to pick up our furniture, though we'd be

lucky if it made it to their warehouse without disinte

grating. I answered, and a hoarse voice told me the van

would be there within fifteen minutes. I turned to

Amanda, said, "Moving company's almost here. Should

we, like, start bringing stuff down?"

She looked at me like I'd just admitted to wearing

women's underwear. "Henry. They're a moving

company. We pay them to move us. That's their job."

"I know, I just feel a little silly watching people carry

all my stuff."

"This is New York. If you can pay four bucks for a

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315

coffee and not feel bad, paying someone to carry and

store your crap shouldn't even register on the guilty-o

meter. So enjoy it, babe. It's not too often people are

going to do your heavy lifting for you."

Suddenly the buzzer rang. "That was quick," I said.

"They told me fifteen minutes."

I went over to the window, expecting to see the truck

and some burly, impatient men. Instead, I saw just one

man standing on the street. He was wearing brown pants

and a blue shirt that was untucked and flapping in the

wind. He turned up to look at me, palms facing upward

as if to say, Are you gonna let me in or what?

"No way," I said. Amanda came over to join me at

the window. She looked out.

"Who is that?" she asked.

"It's Jack," I replied.

"I thought he was..."

"In rehab. Me, too. I guess he's out."

"Well, you should go..."

I was out the door and running down the stairs before

she could finish her sentence.

The steps couldn't be passed fast enough. I hadn't

seen Jack in months, since his name was dragged

through the mud and he disappeared to presumably

battle his internal demons. He'd left no forwarding

address, no note. And now he was here, at my doorstep.

I had so many questions to ask I hoped he didn't have

plans for the next year.

When I arrived on the first floor, I sprinted through

the lobby and burst through the front door. Jack O'Don

nell was standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets.

Then he took them out, checked his watch.

316

Jason Pinter

"Forty-three seconds from buzzer to outside. Not

quite Olympic caliber, but not too shabby for a guy

who sits in front of a computer most of the day." I didn't

know what to say. So I just went up to Jack and threw

my arms around him. He stumbled backward, saying,

"Easy now, Henry."

When I untangled myself, I took my first real look

at Jack in months. His gray hair was neatly combed, if

slightly disheveled due to the weather. His face had

none of the red ruddiness I was used to, and his cheeks

seemed fuller. Jack's beard was neatly trimmed, cut

razor sharp along his jawline, and he looked like he'd

put on a few pounds.

"You look good," I said, patting him on the shoulder.

"Scratch that, this is the best I've seen you look since

we meet. Where have you been?"

"Away," Jack said. "We can discuss the wheres and

whys later. Just think of what I went through as dialysis

of the soul."

"I'm getting a disturbing image of you passing

Ghandi through your urethra." Jack laughed, a quick ha.

"It's good to see you, kid. Been a long time. I spoke

to Wallace before. He filled me in on what you've been

up to, you busy little bee."

"You already talked to Wallace?"

"Hell, yes, my young friend, I spent all of last night

in the office, getting reacquainted with my computer.

Making sure nobody stole my Rolodex. And asking

him for permission to chase one particular story."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"Well," Jack said, "while I was on my little sabbati

cal, I got the Gazette delivered to me every day. Gen

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317

erally it was the same old stuff. World's going to hell

in a handbasket, the dollar can barely buy so much as

a loaf of bread, foreign investors are buying the Statue

of Liberty. And Paulina Cole still has a job. All things

that make you want to hide under your bed and cry.

Then I read one story last week, and that's when I knew

I was ready to step back into the light."

"What story was that?" I asked.

"Stephen Gaines's murder," Jack said. His face was

now solemn. The grin gone.

"I didn't write that."

"I know you didn't. Wallace told me he wouldn't let

you since Gaines was your half brother. But there was

one line in that story I knew came from you. Wallace

told me how close you were, how you were right there

when the Callahan and Evans boys bought the farm."

"What line are you talking about?"

"Twenty years ago," Jack continued, "I wrote a book

called Through the Darkness. In that book, I mentioned

a man named Butch Willingham who scrawled the

words The Fury in his own blood before dying. Wallace

told me that you spoke to Willingham's son. All of this

brought back my memories from that time. Willingham,

that's a name I hadn't even thought of since my hair was

still brown. See, I believed then, and I still believe now,

that the Fury does exist. I don't know who he is or how

he's stayed around for over two decades, but if anything,

all these drug deaths have proved that what worked

twenty years ago works today. Butch Willingham was

one of many dealers killed during that period for

reasons I couldn't uncover, and I got surprisingly little

help with from the authorities."

318

Jason Pinter

"I'm shocked," I said with a grin.

"I think these murders," Jack said, "Gaines, Evans,

Callahan, the kid Guardado--are all history repeating

itself."

"I don't understand," I said. "You want to, what,

write a story linking the murders?"

"Better," Jack said, that smile coming back, sending

a chill down my spine. "I want to find the Fury. Once

and for all. There's a reason behind all these murders.

I don't think Kyle Evans acted of his own accord. And

I sure as hell don't think your brother was behind it all.

I want you to help me find out the truth."

"You really think he exists," I said, a statement. Not

a question.

"Do you think it ended with Scott Callahan and Kyle

Evans?" he retorted.

"No." I said it definitively. Perhaps I'd thought it all

along, but hearing Jack, a man whose instincts had

served him well for nearly seventy years, say it gave me

courage to speak it out loud. I didn't believe Scott and

Kyle were acting of their own volition. I didn't believe

Stephen Gaines was the Noriega of that operation. "I

want to know what 718 Enterprises is. Plus I get the

feeling my brother wasn't as high up as Kyle thought

he was. There was someone else pulling the strings. I'm

sure of it."

"Then we start tomorrow," Jack said. "I want you at

the office at eight-thirty. Every minute you're late, you

owe me ten bucks. That goes as long as we're working

on this. And bring me a triple espresso. As long as I'm

not drinking anymore I can do my best to make up for

it with other stimulants."

The Fury

319

"I'll be there at eight-fifteen," I said. Just then a large

moving van turned onto the street and pulled up in front

of our building. The driver climbed out, looking at a

manifest, and eyed us both.

"One of you Henry Parker?" he said.

"That'd be me."

The driver nodded, went around to the back to start

unloading their gear.

"Looks like you've got a long night ahead of you.

Don't be late tomorrow."

"I won't."

"I know." Jack turned to leave.

"Hey, Jack?" I said.

"Yeah, kid?"

"It's good to have you back."

He smirked at me, said, "I'm not back yet. There's

a whole lot of story out there and we haven't even

started yet."

I watched Jack leave, then went back inside and took

the elevator to my apartment. Amanda let me in.

"So, that was Jack? How is he?"

"He's great," I said, my mind already starting to

think about all the threads that needed pulling. Then I

saw all the boxes waiting for us to pack up, thought

about the movers that would be up here at any moment.

Looking at Amanda, I said, "It's gonna be a long night."

Epilogue

The car pulled up to the chicken-wire fence and slowed

to a stop. The driver lowered the window and waited for

the guard to approach. When he came over, the driver

nodded at him, and received nothing in return but a

stone stare. One hand on the car's hood, the other on his

side, pushing out his hip just enough so the driver could

see the semiautomatic strapped to his side.

The driver did not flinch at this. In fact, he'd seen the

same man carrying the same gun numerous times. They

knew each other by now, and the display was merely a

reminder. Not a threat, just a friendly tap on the shoulder

to let the driver know it was still there.

After a minute, the guard pressed a button on a

remote and the gate began to creak open. When it was

wide enough for the car to pass through, the driver sped

off, gravel spewing out from under the tires.

The gravel soon turned into a dirt road, surrounded

on either side by fencing, and topped by razor wire.

Several trees stood on either side of the fence, numerous

branches caught in the wire. If removed, the wood

would be shredded instantaneously.

The Fury

321

The road went on about two miles before widening

into a small field. Standing in the middle of the field was

a brown warehouse, two stories high and surrounded on

either side by trees and, beyond that, more razorwire-topped fencing. Three cars sat in the entrance in

front of the warehouse, half a dozen large men trolling

about. And unlike the guard out front, these men

weren't shy about hiding their guns.

The driver pulled up behind the last car. Like moths

to a flame, all six men walked toward this new arrival.

The driver shifted into Park, turned the car off and

stepped outside.

The six armed men nodded to him. He returned the

gesture. One of them, a tall, lean Caucasian man with

white hair and a chiseled face, strode up to the driver's

side. He'd heard rumors that this white-haired man had

been on the ground in Panama in December 1989, as a

member of the Green Berets. The driver didn't quite

know how he'd ended up here, but he had one hell of a

hunch.

"Malloy," the driver said to the man.

"Detective," Malloy said back.

Malloy led the driver up to the warehouse's entrance.

He went up to a small control panel that appeared rusted

and bent. He inserted a small key into the side of the

panel. A tinny whirring noise emanated from the box,

and the panel receded, revealing a keypad and an elec

tronic monitor.

Malloy pressed both of his thumbs on the pad. A

green light flickered on. Malloy then entered a ten-digit

code on the pad. When that was complete, he opened

the door and ushered the driver inside.

322

Jason Pinter

Inside the warehouse was a corridor that led to two

doors. The driver had seen this part of the warehouse

many times, but had never entered the door to his left.

He knew what went on behind it, but had not witnessed

it with his own eyes. Better he didn't. Better it stayed

in his mind as long as possible.

Malloy led the driver to the door on the right side.

He opened it, led the driver up a flight of stairs. At the

top floor, Malloy inserted a key card into a slot on a

metal door. The driver could hear a mechanism unlock,

and the door swung open.

The driver entered. He turned back to watch the door

close. Malloy stood on the other side. He would wait

for the driver. He always did.

The driver turned back around. He was in a room

about twenty feet long, fifteen feet wide, with high

ceilings. Track lighting adorned the ceiling, casting

white beams that harshly illuminated the room.

At the far end of the room was a small desk. It was

uncluttered, save for a reading lamp, a desk blotter and

assorted pens and pencils. Behind the desk was a

woman of about forty-five. She was of Latin descent,

dark skin and green eyes, silky black hair that flowed

down to the small of her back. She wore a sleeveless

black top. Each arm was muscular, solid, lithe. Though

the woman's face was beginning to show lines of age,

her body tone and the quickness of her gestures were

those of a woman half her age.

She watched him approach with a serenity on her

face, no sense of strife or impatience. He had only met

her twice before, but each time felt unnerved, like there

was something roiling beneath that calm exterior, some

The Fury

323

thing that if unleashed could tear him apart. Because of

that he never got closer than a few feet. Though they'd

met twice, he'd heard stories. The kind of stories that,

even if embellished (which over time they surely were),

must have had a ring of truth somewhere. He was taking

enough risks as it was. He wanted no part of anything

else, any part of the minimum ten men who were cur

rently in the ground because of her.

The woman looked up as the driver approached. She

stood up and said, "Detective Makhoulian. It's been

far, far too long. Please, sit down." She gestured for him

to sit at the table. There was a smile on her face that

made him feel queasy.

He nodded, approached and took a seat, making sure

to subtly push the chair back so it was not within reach.

He said, "With all due respect, I prefer it that way. If

I'm here it means there's a problem."

"Well, that really depends," the woman said. "If I

know all I need to know, then there is no problem. The

boys. Callahan and Evans, they're both dead, correct?"

"That's right."

"Then this murder of Stephen Gaines ends with

them. I'm led to believe there are no further investiga

tions into the deaths of any of those three men."

"As of right now, no. The department officially

declared Evans's death a clean shoot. He had a gun, and

there are numerous witnesses who concur that he killed

Callahan in cold blood. The newspapers are playing it

as a heroic cop putting himself in harm's way. The

families would be stupid to press charges. Their

children have already dragged their names through the

mud, and any protesting on their part would only

324

Jason Pinter

deepen the wounds. My guess is the families will mourn

quietly and be out of the city within the year."

"That would make my holiday," the woman said.

"Now, you mentioned the newspapers. This reporter

who was on the scene. Parker. I don't like his reputa

tion, and he is one of your 'numerous witnesses.' The

last thing we need is for him to suddenly think he saw

something he didn't see. Do you think he will be a

problem?"

Sevi Makhoulian unfolded his hands, placed them

palms down on the table. From the angle he was standing

at Detective Sevi Makhoulian could see the three

numbers tattooed across the woman's toned right

shoulder.

7.1.8.

"I don't think so. Parker and I have spoken numerous

times over the last few weeks. Parker's only concern was

finding his brother's killer. He did that, in Evans. As far

as Parker is concerned, the case is closed. I do have

sources within the industry that will tell me if that

changes."

"You don't sound convinced," she said. Her eyes

narrowed. Makhoulian found his palms sweating. He

wiped them on his pants, hoping she didn't notice.

"Parker has a reputation as a young bulldog. He

was involved in the death of Michael DiForio a few

years back."

"That's right!" she said, now beaming. "DiForio

thought Parker had stolen from him. He even went so

far as to hire Shelton Barnes."

"That's right."

"And look how that turned out." She smiled. Mak

The Fury

325

houlian did too. "Bodies like Callahan, Gaines and

Evans can disappear without many tears. The families

bury them, the city moves on. They were insulated.

Parker has friends. I never authorized the hit on Parker

at his apartment. That was Evans acting alone when he

realized Parker was getting too close. We do not move

unless we are forced."

"I understand that. If I hear anything..."

"You will let Corporal Malloy know before you take

another breath."

The woman stood up, revealing her full height, full

frame. She was a shade under six feet tall. She extended

a grip, which the detective took. She clasped Makhou

lian's hand, fingers digging in until the detective

winced. Her eyes were locked on Makoulian's, the

pupils wide, burning. For an instant, Sevi Makhoulian

feared for his life. Then the grip loosened. The woman

turned around and sat back behind her desk. As he stood

up to leave, Sevi Makhoulian noticed one more thing

sitting upon the nearly empty desk. A small black rock,

no larger than a pebble. It had a rough surface, the color

of coal.

With nothing else of note, Makhoulian knew it was

not there by mistake.

"Is that it?" the detective asked, pointing to the

small stone.

"I expect to be able to begin shipments within six

months," the woman continued, ignoring the question.

"Right now I'm taking your word that we can resume

without any further interruptions, issues or problems.

If I feel for one moment that you're holding back from

me, or information is coming faster than you can relay

326

Jason Pinter

it, I will detach your head from your body with the tips

of my fingernails and find someone useful. Do you

understand me, Detective? "

"I do," Detective Makhoulian said, looking at that

small black rock. "And I give you my word when I say

that they have no idea."

* * * * *

Acknowledgments

You don't write one book, let alone four, without some

incredible support, advice and a heaping helping of

good old-fashioned luck. Many people have been in

my corner from day one of this journey, while many I've

been fortunate enough to meet along the way. If I

actually thanked everyone who had any positive impact

on my first four books, this page would run longer than

a Charlton Heston movie. So here's the condensed list,

the people who've had the biggest impact (and the

people who groveled the most).

A sincere, knees-on-the-ground, we're not worthy

thank-you to Joe Veltre, my agent, and Linda McFall,

my editor. Joe and Linda have had tremendous input on

every book, have made me a better writer and a better

author, and their passion and guidance resonates on

every page. If you're able to find my books, read them

and enjoy them, they deserve the credit.

My thanks to the MIRA team is unending. I owe a

debt of gratitude to Margaret O'Neill Marbury, Donna

Hayes, Dianne Moggy, Heather Foy, Michelle Renaud,

Andi Richman, Craig Swinwood, Don Lucey, Adam

328

Jason Pinter

Wilson, Emily Ohanjanians, Ana Luxton, Maureen

Stead, Jayne Hoogenberk, Ken Foy, Katherine Orr,

Loriana Sacilotto and Stacy Widdrington. Having seen

the publishing beast from inside the belly, I can appre

ciate these folks even more.

Just recently I've begun working with the MIRA

U.K. arm as well, and it's wonderful to see that my pub

lisher's expertise and enthusiasm literally cross oceans.

Thank you to Catherine Burke, Belinda Mountain,

Oliver Rhodes, Selma Leung, Darren Shoffren and Ian

Roberts for introducing my work to a whole new con

tinent of readers.

I've been fortunate to work with some great publi

cists both here and abroad. Susan Schwartzman, Sophie

Ransom and Grainne Kileen have helped spread the

word with incredible tenacity. You make my job a whole

lot easier.

Thanks to Paddy McDonald and Paddy Breathnach,

who saw something in my work that made them

believe that it could translate to another medium. I

hope you're right.

Jonathan Hayes, a talented author in his own right,

was a tremendous help on the forensics side. If I ever

want to commit a homicide and get away with it,

Jonathan's the guy I'd call to help me cover my tracks.

I've known Joel Hirschtritt and his family for years,

and I was finally able to take advantage of that for the

benefit of one of my books. Thanks to Joel for his legal

help, and also to Nancy, Jon, Stef, Ali and Marissa for

lending him to me for a little while.

A special thank-you to Philip Schnelwar, who untan

gled many of the legal loopholes Henry and Co. had to

The Fury

329

jump through in this book. Philip was more than

gracious with his time, and if for some reason I ever end

up in hot water, it's Phil I'll call to right the ship.

Sergeant Steve Rodriguez of the NYPD and Officer

Michael Gill of the Bend Police Department informed

me of procedure on opposite sides of the country. I ap

preciate their help, and admire them for their service.

Both of my families--Mom, Dad and Ali, and Jane,

Jeff and Sabrina--have been as supportive as could be

expected from anyone not on your payroll. Thank you

for everything, including flagging down strangers to

attend my signings. You might have scared a few people

away, but I appreciate it nonetheless.

Susan, who has been my partner, my rock and my

heart for years. You gave me the courage to pursue my

dreams, and I can't wait to spend the rest of my life re

ciprocating.

Thank you to the booksellers and librarians who've

hosted events and invited me to speak to their commu

nities. It's been a real pleasure, and I hope you'll see

more of me in the coming years.

And, most important, to the readers. When it comes

to carving out a career as a novelist, your words of en

thusiasm, kindness and support are just as important as

mine on the page. Thank you for all of it.

(r)

ISBN: 978-1-4268-4054-8

THE FURY

Copyright (c) 2009 by Jason Pinter.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or

utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic,

mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including

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