Ray’s heart had been racing for nearly twenty-four
hours straight. Vince was dead. And though he had no
love lost for the bumbling idiot, there was a huge difference between thinking someone a dolt and wishing them
dead. He still couldn’t figure out how Parker, the girl and
the black guy with the gun had found the Reed family. It
should have been quick, easy and relatively painless. At
least for him and Vince. They’d both loaded their guns
with dumdum rounds—hollow-point bullets. There were
four targets: Robert Reed, Elaine Reed, Patrick Reed and
the girl. Caroline Twomey. They didn’t want to take any
chances that one or more of them might have gotten away
or fought back. He’d met Robert Reed before, and the
man had some athletic genes.
The dumdum rounds were specially designed to expand
upon impact, the bullets deforming when they entered the
skin, causing a maximum of trauma. That way even if
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they didn’t get off a kill shot, the wound would have been
devastating enough to keep the target down. With four
targets, you couldn’t take chances.
Now Vince was dead. He’d worked with the man for
going on seven years, and while Raymond never would
have asked him to be on his team for Trivial Pursuit, he
had developed an odd affection for him, like an owner with
a three-legged dog.
When Parker began to investigate Petrovsky, Ray knew
the plan had encountered serious problems. Reporters
didn’t just go away. If anything, resistance made them dig
deeper. And especially after he looked into Parker, he
realized that this guy would never quit, wouldn’t back
down, even when facing down the barrel of a gun. And to
compound that, Bob and Elaine clearly left the house on
Huntley in an effort to disappear, or at least hide out until
they could figure out how to untangle themselves from the
mess. Raymond had never fully trusted Elaine Reed. It
took too long. Too much effort. When they ran away in that
tin can of a minivan, to Raymond that’s when the answer
became clear. It wasn’t something Raymond wanted to do,
but it was necessary.
He’d run it up the flagpole. Nothing happened without
the say-so of his employer. And, like Ray, his employer
wasn’t thrilled with the option but realized there was no
choice. The Reeds had to disappear, along with Caroline
Twomey.
As far as Ray knew, the Windstar was still in play. The
Reeds were hardly versed in espionage. Hell, he’d be surprised if Elaine even knew how to use e-mail. Soon he’d
have the car’s location, and if the Reeds were there he
would correct everything that had gone wrong.
He raised the window and turned on the engine. He
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found a good jazz station with John Coltrane’s quartet
playing “Pursuance.” He sat and listened to the entire
song, felt the rhythm swim through his head. He reached
into the glove compartment, closed his hand around the
gun, and felt like everything would even out.
This time had been a mistake. It was unfortunate for
Caroline Twomey. The next time, though, they would
make things right.
39
I left the apartment with Amanda. We said our goodbyes
outside. She hailed a taxi. I watched it pull away, for a
second hoping that her window might lower, her head
drifting out like in an old movie, where the cab would pull
over and all sorts of romance would ensue. ’Course, that
didn’t happen. The cab pulled up to the light, then turned
out of sight when it became green.
I trudged to the subway, feeling like the whole story had
begun anew. We’d found the Reeds once, and that was
almost out of blind luck. The next time, neither I, nor they,
would be so lucky.
The Harrisburg police believed every word I said, and
were more than happy to step up their patrol and look for
this man Benjamin. It was maddening that we were facing
such resistance in Meriden and Hobbs County, the cities
that preferred to keep their heads stuck in the sand.
I got onto the subway, flipping through the Gazette to
pass the time. As much as I was reading the paper for the
articles, I also felt somewhat obligated to advertise our
paper, make sure fellow straphangers were well aware of
the newspaper of choice. Given the fact that I’d probably
slept a total of five hours in the past two days and my eyes
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were totally bloodshot, they might have assumed the
Gazette was a paper for strung-out junkies. Not exactly the
target market for our reporting skills.
I got to the office at a quarter past nine. When I stepped
off the elevator, I was greeted by a sight that cheered me
up immediately.
Sitting at his usual desk was Jack O’Donnell. And he
looked no worse for wear.
Hardly able to contain my excitement, I half walked,
half sprinted through the newsroom and perched myself
by Jack’s desk. He was wearing one of his patented suit
jackets with patched elbows, and pants that looked like
they’d survived a horrific gardening accident. He smelled
like Old Spice, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He
looked exactly like what you’d expect a seasoned reporter
would look like. The old newsman turned to me, a weary
smile spreading across his lips.
“Hey there, if it isn’t the boy who saved an old man’s life.”
“Come on,” I said, “stop it.” I felt like a schoolgirl complimented by the starting quarterback.
“Seriously, Henry, I owe you a great deal of gratitude.
I’ve been on this earth for a long time—maybe I’ve outstayed my welcome considering some of the things I’ve
done—but if not for you there’s a good chance I wouldn’t
be here right now. So thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Jack,” I said. “You’d have
done the same for me.”
“Saved your life?” he said. “An old bag of bones like
me can barely muster up the strength to get dressed in the
morning, let alone go around saving lives. I appreciate the
gesture, but you’re the hero here.”
“If you remember,” I said, “you saved my life a few
years ago. You know, that whole thing where they thought
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I’d killed John Fredrickson? After Amanda, you were the
only one that helped me. So get off this modesty kick, it
doesn’t suit you.”
Jack smiled smugly. “Okay, I’ll take it. But I promise,
that’s the last time you’ll have to go picking me up off a
floor. Unless I’m break-dancing, but then all bets are off.
Speaking of bets, Wallace tells me you’re in the middle of
a pretty tense story. What’s the deal?”
I recounted everything that had happened since I first
interviewed Daniel Linwood. I told him about the discovery of M
ichelle Oliveira’s disappearance, our attempt to
follow Dmitri Petrovsky and the doctor’s murder. About
the Reeds and how I believed they’d kidnapped a girl
named Caroline Twomey for reasons I still didn’t know.
And about Raymond Benjamin, the career thug who was
somehow mixed up in all this.
Jack sat there, resting his head on his hands, his eyes
betraying a sense of worry. When I was finished he stayed
seated for another moment, took a breath, closed his eyes,
and said, “It’s not supposed to be this difficult, Henry. You
can’t put your life in danger on every story.”
“That’s not fair, Jack. I didn’t choose for this to happen.
I was assigned to the Linwood story, and then—”
“And then what? That should have been the end of it.
Your piece on the Linwood boy was terrific. Case closed.
So what happened?”
“Life happened,” I said, feeling my blood pressure
rise. “I can’t speak for you, Jack, but I can’t just let
things go. As soon as I knew there was more to the
Linwood story, as soon as I realized there were people
who didn’t want me digging, it’s like…it’s like someone
turned on a switch inside me. And I can’t stop until I
know everything.”
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“You know what they call someone who needs to know
everything?” Jack asked.
“A good reporter?” I replied.
“Dead,” Jack said. “Every trail leads somewhere. Very
few stories simply end. And if you keep playing Indiana
Jones, at some point your luck’s going to run out, and some
very bad people are going to shut you up.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I said. “I’ll take it under
advisement.” I stood up.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“This story isn’t finished,” I said. “I have to go make
some bad people upset at me.”
I walked back to my desk, happy that Jack seemed
healthy and vibrant, but annoyed that he was still questioning me. He had to know I couldn’t just give this up. I
needed to know why Raymond Benjamin got involved
with the Reeds. And if, somehow, through all this he was
connected to Daniel Linwood.
Rule number one in journalism: always start with the
money.
Specifically, where did Raymond Benjamin get it?
I logged in to our LexisNexis terminal and ran a search
for Raymond Benjamin. More than a thousand hits came
up. I narrowed it down by adding search terms like
“criminal,” “jail” and several others. A few hits came up
relating to the 1971 riots at Attica. Raymond Benjamin
was named in several newspapers as one of the inmates
involved, though none of them named him as having taken
part in violence or murders. I scrolled down through
several entries, and found one that piqued my interest.
It was printed in the Buffalo News out of Buffalo, New
York. It was an in-depth article, four pages long, and incredibly detailed. It went on record about the horrific
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abuses suffered by the prisoners in Attica, and how the
shoddy treatment was the catalyst for the riots.
One of the most damning pieces of evidence, the article
stated, was the discovery by Dr. Michael Baden that all
twenty-nine of the prisoners and all ten of their prisonguard hostages were killed by Attica guards themselves.
This was a huge blow to the penal system, which for years
had been spreading stories that the hostages had been
killed by the prisoners, who had slit their throats. That the
guards resorted to lethal measures so quickly and brutally
was yet another blow to the system.
According to the article, a prisoner by the name of
Raymond Benjamin was treated for facial lacerations, as
well as severe dehydration and malnutrition. When asked
about his conditions inside the prison, Benjamin stated he’d
eaten only one meal a day the week before the riot, hadn’t
showered more than three times a month the prior year, and
had repeatedly been subjected to other forms of torture and
brutality. Strangely, though, Benjamin refused to blame
the prisoners or the guards for his wounds. Benjamin was
quoted as saying, “I got nobody to look at besides myself,
where I come from. Sometimes you make your own
choices, sometimes where you come from makes ’em for
you. Me, my fate was set long before I had any say in it.”
All of this seemed to jibe with what I remembered of
Benjamin. He’d brought up Attica that night I was held in
the basement on Huntley. And I distinctly remembered that
long, thin scar running down his cheek.
I went through every article I could find pertaining to
Raymond Benjamin and the riots. Then, in a small item in
the Journal News, a paper that served Westchester, Putnam
and Rockland counties in New York, I found a short item
in which Raymond Benjamin was named. It was accom-292
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panied by a photograph, as well. I recognized Benjamin
immediately.
The photo was taken at a ribbon-cutting ceremony at
the opening of a new shopping mall in Chappaqua, New
York. Chappaqua was a pretty tony suburb, and I wondered
what Ray was doing there. In the photo he was wearing a
hard hat. And he was clapping. The caption read, “Workers
from Powers Construction celebrate. Raymond Benjamin
of Hobbs County among those proud of this state-of-theart development.”
Right there, two things leaped out at me. Raymond
Benjamin was from Hobbs County. Just like Daniel
Linwood and the Reed family. Not to mention Dmitri
Petrovsky. No doubt that’s how Ray met the good doctor.
And second, according to the article, Benjamin was
employed by a company called Powers Construction. I
couldn’t picture the man who pressed a lit cigarette to my
skin working on a job site, holding a jackhammer under
his gut. It didn’t seem right. This was a guy whose job was
to hurt, to kill, not to build.
Unless it was a sham.
I logged off the machine and went straight to Wallace’s
office. He was on the phone, but when he saw me enter he
said, “I’ll call you back,” and hung up. He turned to me,
pressed his palms on the desk.
“Henry,” he said. “How’s your friend Sheffield?”
“He’ll pull through,” I said. “A centimeter in another
direction and it would have been a different story. He’ll
have a tough recovery, but he’s a tough guy.”
“I’m glad to hear that. And you saw Jack out there—
the place wasn’t the same without him.”
“No, sure wasn’t.”
“And how are you holding up?”
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“Can I use up my daily allotment of ‘I’ve been better’?”
“Consider it done.”
“Great,” I said. “What do you know about an outfit
called Powers Construction?”
Wallace shoo
k his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Why do
you ask?”
“I’ve been doing some research on the man I think is
behind these kidnappings, and he’s named in a New York
paper as working with this Powers Construction company.
It just doesn’t seem to make sense. The guy I saw seems
to be more handy with a gun than a screwdriver.”
“I’m sorry, off the top of my head I don’t know.”
“You think it could be a front? He’s employed there for
legal purposes, maybe does his wet work on the side? You
know, waste-management consulting?”
Wallace chuckled. “It’s possible,” he said. “But then
why would Powers Construction employ the man if he’s
got a record—which he would have to disclose—and to
top that off, he’s hardly a model employee?”
“Until now, he hasn’t been in any trouble since the seventies. Something just feels off here.”
“Do some looking into this Powers Construction,”
Wallace said. “Are they a legit outfit? And where are they
based out of?”
“Putnam County,” I said. “They’ve done work all over
the surrounding towns. Including Hobbs County, which
as it turns out is the birthplace of our very own psychopath Benjamin.”
“You know, now that I think about it,” Wallace said, “I
remember reading somewhere that Powers Construction was
responsible for some pretty major jobs. Not just commercial,
but residential, too. If I remember correctly, a congressman
who recently retired had a mansion built by Powers.”
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“I’ll check it out,” I said. “But if you’re right, it definitely seems like these might be some big-time players in
real estate development.”
“Strange times for that market,” Wallace said. “Millions
of people’s lives are being ruined by the subprime
mortgage mess. Government’s doing what it can to help,
but it can’t help everyone. You’re going to have a lot of
foreclosures over the next few years. And that means a lot
of business for a company like Powers. People buy up
those foreclosed homes, then either gut and renovate or
simply tear them down and rebuild.”
“Strange,” I said, thinking. I felt like a piece of the
puzzle might have just become clearer. “I spent a lot of
time in Meriden and Hobbs County recently. And in both
places it was obvious they’d seen more work than Joan
Rivers. Each town was like a tale of two cities—one old
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