by Jason Pinter
“Amanda, I can explain.”
The man shook his head. “No, Henry, you won’t. There’s no buying time, no explanations. You give me what I want and Miss Davies gets to wake up tomorrow morning.”
Amanda twitched. He was too strong. She couldn’t budge.
“Listen,” I said, trying not to stammer, my body numb, “I swear I don’t know anything about a package. The newspapers were wrong. The Guzmans were lying.”
Amanda’s head swung toward me. There was fear in her face, but a hint of anger as well. She knew I was hiding something. My deception had somehow led this man to her house. Had put a gun to her head. A cold lump rose in my throat. She could die because of me. And we both knew it. I mouthed the words I’m sorry, knowing how little consolation they must have offered.
“Carl, please,” Amanda said. Tears streaked down her cheeks in wet rivers, tumbling toward her chin and falling softy to the floor. “Please, Carl.”
The man laughed softly. Not to make a statement. He genuinely thought it was funny. “All right, Parker. I’ll give you this one.” He paused. “Tell her the truth.”
I looked at Amanda, summoning sorrow to my face. I didn’t need to try hard. The hollow feeling in my gut came on its own.
“My name isn’t Carl,” I said. “It’s Henry. Henry Parker.” Amanda’s eyebrows furrowed. There was a hint of recognition, but no definitive response.
“And what did you do, Henry?” the man said. I looked at him, tried to glare, actually, but it was merely pitiful. “Go on, tell her.”
Choking back tears that ran hot in my throat, I said, “They think I killed a cop.”
“Who does?” Amanda’s eyes were streaked with red. “I don’t understand.”
“The cops. The cops think I killed him.”
“John Fredrickson,” he said. “Pity. I heard his wife and kids really counted on him.”
“Are you a cop?” I asked him, suddenly feeling stupid. Would a cop hold an innocent woman hostage?
“No, but I’m flattered you’d consider my judgment on par with theirs. I do know a lot of cops, though, and I can honestly say I’ll be doing you a favor by killing you quick.”
“Henry?” It was Amanda. She was staring at me as she said my real name for the first time. Her eyes were red, like they’d been singed.
“Yes?”
“Just give it to him.”
What was she talking about? Amanda, more than anyone, knew I had nothing with me.
“Amanda, I don’t know…”
“Henry, I don’t want to die. Just get it. Get the package. Give him what he wants.”
“Right, Henry,” the man said. “Just get it.”
Amanda said, “You had me put it in the nightstand when we came upstairs, remember? Just give it to him.”
“Nightstand? Amanda, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man took a step toward me, pushing Amanda as he moved. He leaned closer. “Parker, I want you to go into that nightstand and give it to me. You have five seconds. If at the end of those five seconds I don’t have it, Amanda’s blood will be on your hands.”
“Amanda, I…”
“One.”
“But…”
“Two.”
“Henry, get it,” Amanda moaned.
“Three.”
It hit me, just like that. I knew what was in the nightstand. Swallowing the thick saliva in my throat, I nodded. “Stop. I’ll get it.”
I took a step back, the man matching me by moving closer. Amanda’s nightstand was a small, knee-high balsa-wood table with a pullout drawer. Whatever he was looking for, it couldn’t have been wider than a chessboard. Positioning my body so he couldn’t see my hands, I cracked the drawer and stuck my hand in. I could feel paper scraps and loose change. A condom wrapper. Then I felt it. A thin cylinder, probably the size of a tube of lipstick. Mace. Amanda wasn’t kidding when she said she kept it in her nightstand.
I curled my finger around the small tab. I could see their shadows just over my right shoulder. I had one chance, otherwise we were both dead.
“Amanda,” I said, shifting slightly to my right. “Here it is.”
I saw his grip loosen just barely.
At that moment, Amanda ducked down, grabbing hold of the gun as I whipped around and depressed the tab. A stream of clear liquid burst into the man’s face. He cried out and took a step back, the smell making my stomach lurch. I grabbed Amanda’s arm.
“Run.”
We sprinted toward the door, my hand clenched firmly around Amanda’s wrist. But suddenly I was jerked backward. Amanda screamed. The man was clenching Amanda’s hair, holding it like a human leash.
Red lines streaked his eyes. Mucus dripped from his nose. He sniffled, but other than that he looked unaffected. He gently dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve, making sure not to rub any of the mace in too deep. Jesus, I whispered. Again he raised the gun. Amanda thrashed violently, trying to free herself.
“Parker,” the man said, his face emotionless, eyes bloodshot. His complete lack of a reaction was terrifying. “I’ve been maced, I’d say thirty or forty times. It really doesn’t sting so bad once you get used to it.”
I tugged at Amanda’s arm, but he held on tight.
“Please,” she whimpered. He seemed to think about it for a second.
“Where was I? Oh, right. I’d just finished counting to four.”
He aimed the gun at Amanda’s head. I had no more tricks up my sleeve. Her body was between us, a barrier. I didn’t know what was in this package, so I couldn’t bullshit my way out. There were no more options. No more time.
Please don’t let this happen. I’m sorry, Amanda, I didn’t mean to get you involved. I don’t know what to do. I don’t…
Suddenly there was a loud crash downstairs, the sound of wood breaking. Amanda screamed. Confusion etched itself across the intruder’s face. Then I heard footsteps downstairs, more than one set.
“Who the fuck is that?” the man said. “Who the fuck is here?”
People were coming upstairs. My eyes darted back and forth, looking for an escape. Suddenly two men burst into the room. One was heavyset, older. The other was slim, younger. It couldn’t be. They were the same cops who’d chased me that morning. How could they have known where we were?
The older man’s eyes glared at me with a burning hatred, my heart hammering. Then he saw Amanda. Then he looked at the man with the gun, its barrel still firmly pressed against Amanda’s head.
“The hell’s going on?” the older cop said.
“Jesus,” the younger one said. He was staring at the man, his mouth flapping like a dying fish. He was looking at the man in black the way I was looking at them. Like he’d seen him before. “No fucking way.”
“Amanda Davies?” the older man asked, his face trying to remain calm, his gun aimed at the space between me and the killer. Amanda nodded, whimpered.
“FBI. I’m Agent Mauser, this is Agent Denton. You’re safe now.” She didn’t seem too convinced. The one who didn’t introduce himself, Denton, stepped forward. He glared at me through gritted teeth, then turned to our assailant.
“Put the gun down. Now. ” Denton’s voice wavered, his hand trembling as he aimed his gun at the assassin, but looked no more convinced that the gun would do any more damage than a peashooter. Like the man was invincible.
Mauser continued. “Henry Parker, you’re under arrest for the murder of John Fredrickson. Anything you say I don’t give a fuck about. You make one move and I’ll kill you.”
My head spun. Three guns were drawn. All three of their owners wanted me dead.
“Drop it, asshole,” Denton said, gesturing to the man in black. Mauser pointed his gun at me, but slowly it swung back to the stranger. I looked at Amanda. She twisted violently and managed to free herself. The man in black didn’t seem to notice.
There was a quick flicker in Denton’s eyes, then without warning he pulled the trigger and an explosion shat
tered the room. The man in black whipped around and howled, clutching his chest.
“Fucking Christ!” Mauser yelled, and then all hell broke loose. The stranger barreled forward, pushing Amanda and I out of the way and knocking over both agents. Mauser fell, his head slamming against the doorknob with a dull thock. Denton crashed into an armoire and hit the ground. A gun clattered to the floor as the man ran into the hallway and down the stairs, clutching his arm, blood smearing the wall. The two agents were dazed. This was our only chance. It was react or be killed. I grabbed Amanda’s arm and pulled.
“Come on!”
We sprinted down the stairs, bolting through the front door and into the cold night.
No time to think. Just run.
There was no sign of the man in black. I could still smell faint traces of mace, the scent of something burning. Then I felt Amanda pulling my arm.
“This way.”
She led me around the side of the house, past a shed and a locked storm cellar. We pushed our way through a row of trees in the backyard, branches ripping at my skin. Adrenaline flowed through my veins like a gas pump whose safety valve had been removed. I couldn’t tell if I was dragging Amanda or she was dragging me, but soon we were running alongside a dimly lit road, the sky black above us, trees a misty green.
We slowed down as we approached a four-way intersection, my chest tight, blood thumping in my temples. There were few cars on the road. We were out in the open, our only cover the darkness of night. Somewhere in the gloom were three men who wanted me dead. It would only be moments before one of them found us.
“There, look,” I said, pointing to a Ford crew cab paused at the red light. The truck’s chassis bobbed up and down as if on hydraulics. I took Amanda’s hand. We crouched down, slinking up alongside the flatbed. I peered into the side mirrors to see the driver, then stood up to get a better look. The driver wore a green trucker’s cap, a mullet spilling out from underneath. Country music was blasting over his speakers, his head bobbing rhythmically. I cringed. The only thing worse than being chased by three men who wanted you dead was listening to country music while doing it.
Looking around, I made sure there were no other witnesses.
“Come on,” I whispered to Amanda, gesturing to the flatbed. She looked at me incredulously.
“You can’t be serious.”
“They’ll be here any second now. Please, you have to trust me. We need to get out of here.”
Whether it was blind faith or the sheer terror of being caught, Amanda followed me around to the truck’s rear. Just as mullet head’s bobbing was at full force, I boosted Amanda up and over the bumper into the flatbed. The light turned green. I heard the tires squeal. The car started to move. Amanda’s head popped up, a frightened look in her eyes.
Just before the truck peeled off into the night, I grabbed hold of the rim and hurled myself over the top and into the flatbed. A tarp lay crumpled in a heap. Staying low to avoid the rearview mirror, I grabbed it and pulled it over us. The warble of guitar music leaked out the windows as we gasped for air. The tarp smelled like dirt, tiny crumbs falling over our bodies as they were shaken loose from the road.
I looked at Amanda, the air between us hot and soiled. She glared at me and shook her head. I said nothing. There was no point. Soon I’d explain everything. I owed her that much.
Off in the distance, the Ringer watched the truck drive off into the night before it disappeared around a bend in the road. There were few lights to illuminate the street, but thankfully the faint glow of the traffic signals gave off enough so that he could read and memorize the license plate.
He gently touched his finger to the gunshot wound, sending shockwaves of pain through his body. He probed the torn skin, pain knifing through his body. He closed his eyes, squinting hard, trying to block it out. He pictured Anne’s face in his mind and the pain subsided, warmth coating the wound like a soothing balm. He could feel her wet kisses on his cheek, their hands intertwined, her soft fingers, polished nails. The hurt was distant now, forgotten in the memories.
Pushing the wound again to the forefront and keeping Anne in the back as an anesthetic, the Ringer ran a finger along his chest and shoulder. There was no exit wound and the bullet hadn’t lodged in his flesh. The slug had likely just shattered a rib or two and ricocheted away.
He could feel blood soaking his clothes. There was nothing he could do but ignore it. Cold night air ripped through the hole in his jacket. The hole by his right breast pocket. The blood on his clothes. Soaking everything…
Then the Ringer froze.
No. Please, no.
His fingers trembling, the pain burning, the Ringer found the small pocket at his breast where he kept Anne’s photo. The only memory of his long-lost beloved Anne. The only remnant of her life. The only attachment he had to her except the memories that faded more and more every day.
Please, let it be safe.
He fumbled with the fabric, the pain worming its way through his mental roadblocks. Holding his breath he removed the picture, the traffic lights providing just enough illumination. What he saw shattered his heart and sealed Henry Parker’s fate.
His deal with Michael DiForio was forgotten. Henry Parker’s death was the only thing that mattered now.
Coating the fragile picture was a layer of slick blood. His blood. Anne’s face had disappeared somewhere beneath the congealed mass of red, her face punctured by a bullet hole. Delicately he tried to cleanse the picture, but the material merely crumbled in his fingers. And once again, the Ringer’s life had contributed to Anne’s death. From this point on, her face would remain intact only in his mind. But memory was far more fallible than a photo.
A guttural scream of rage escaped the Ringer’s lips as he pressed the remnants of the photo to his chest, his heart beating beneath it, blood seeping from his wound.
Anne left his world years ago. But to the Ringer, Henry Parker had just killed her all over again.
22
I don’t know how long we were in the back of the truck. Every second was gut-wrenching, the tension a suffocating blanket. Add to that potent mix the girl whose life I’d endangered, who would no doubt beat the living shit out of me as soon as we were safe, and the ride in the back of the flatbed felt similar to bodysurfing the seventh circle of hell. Country music notwithstanding, it was the worst two-or was it three, or four, or five?-hours of my life.
We made a few brief stops-traffic lights I assumed, since we always were moving within minutes. I thought about my backpack, still containing the tape recording from the Luis Guzman interview, that I’d left at Amanda’s house. When the driver, David Morris, according to the sloppily scrawled name on his toolbox, finally came to a complete stop, we waited what seemed like eons before daring to poke our heads out.
I eased the tarp up and saw a white neon sign hovering above us that read Ken’s Coffee Den. The C in Coffee had blown its bulb. Ken’s offee Den was good enough for me.
We had stopped at a rest area-who really knew where-but we were out of St. Louis. There was a small diner and a Mobil station. A busy highway ran parallel. The black night was slowly easing into the gray of early morning. Where were we?
“We’re clear,” I said to Amanda. “Let’s go.”
They were the first words I’d said to her in hours. She barely acknowledged me, but before I could move she’d leapt out of the truck and started walking across the parking lot. I jogged up to Amanda, praying she wouldn’t scream bloody murder before I could explain.
The first rays of sun began to peek out of the horizon, streaks of beautiful orange and gold melting the gray. I checked my watch. Another day had passed. It had been almost thirty-six hours since John Fredrickson had died. Thirty-six hours since my life had irrevocably changed. For a moment, I forgot everything. Forgot John Fredrickson, forgot that three people wanted me dead, forgot that I once had a life, a good life, which I might never see again. The beauty of the morning sky, the whispers of cool air,
they took me far away. All I could think about was Amanda, the look in her eyes when I told her my real name and revealed my betrayal. This was my life now. And there was no turning back.
“Amanda, please.” I tried to grab her sleeve. She pulled away and kept walking. “Just let me explain.”
Suddenly she whipped around, her gaze cold as stone.
“Who are you?” she said. “Right now, tell me the truth. And if I even think you’re lying, I’m marching right into that restaurant and calling the cops.”
I closed my eyes. It was time to come clean.
“I’m wanted for the murder of a New York City police officer named John Fredrickson.” The breath seemed to be forced from Amanda’s lungs as she took a step back.
“Did you…” She took a deep breath. “Did you actually kill a cop?”
“No, I didn’t. There’s something fucked up going on, but I don’t know what it is yet. Just give me a minute, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Amanda stood and listened as I told her how I’d come to NewYork and taken a job at the Gazette. About Luis Guzman, how I had interviewed him for Jack’s story, how I’d tried to help them that night when I heard the screams. How John Fredrickson could have killed all of us. And how he’d died. How there was a package that went missing, and everyone assumed I stole it. Lastly I told Amanda how I found her, how I lied to her in order to flee the state. How I would be dead if it wasn’t for her.
When I finished, it was like a two-ton weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Finally somebody else knew as much as I did. Amanda’s eyes stayed even. Listening, not judging. I told her the truth, that I didn’t know the man who’d held the gun to her head. That I’d recognized the two cops who’d followed me from New York, and that I didn’t know how they found me. When all had been said, Amanda looked at me and spoke.
“I believe you,” she said, her voice earnest. A lead ball dropped into my stomach.
“Why?”
“Let’s just say that of the four people in the room last night, you were the only one I honestly knew wouldn’t hurt me.”