by Jason Pinter
“Please. This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of. To make a difference. To change lives.” I thumped my hand on the binder, felt the shockwave rattle through my body. “This book could do that.”
“Whose life will it change besides yours?” Amanda yelled. “Whose? These cops? It’ll ruin them. The people? Do you really think losing faith in their protectors—most of it completely unwarranted—will make their lives better?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But I can’t just pass this up.”
“Yes, you can,” she said. “Why did you want to become a reporter in the first place? Really, why?”
“To help people,” I said. “To tell the truth about what needed to be told. To give people what they deserve to know.”
Amanda’s voice grew soft as a tear landed softly on the table. Surprisingly, it had come from me.
“You can help people,” she said. “You can help them by making things right. Not just for yourself. That door opens for everyone, Henry, but this isn’t your time. I know you’re innocent. I know you have a good heart. So use it. Make things right for these people. Help them. Then help yourself.”
Her eyes found mine. I cursed the cold book beneath my hand, cursed that my life had been altered. That this small folder had the power to change—and end—many other lives as well. And now I was questioning something I never thought I would. Every moment I hesitated, that door would be closing. All I had to do was prop it open. But I couldn’t.
“You’re right,” I said. “There has to be another way.” I slid the album back into the envelope and sealed it. “But right now we need to leave.”
She threw her arms around me. I had no energy to hug her back. “Now the front door, I’ll happily walk through.”
I gathered up the package. But as we left the apartment, a deep male voice called out from the stairwell. We froze.
“Hello?”
Amanda grabbed my arm, whispered, “Henry?”
Again, “Hello?”
I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Neither of us reacted. We couldn’t let anyone see us. We had to hide. Putting my finger to my lips, I ushered Amanda back inside Gustofson’s apartment. I went to push the front door closed, but something stopped it. A hand. Someone was standing right outside the door.
“I heard a noise, is something broken?” The man pushed harder. There was nothing I could do. The door swung open. A Hispanic man wearing paint-splattered overalls stood in the doorway. One word flashed through my head.
Superintendent.
He glanced down at the floor, covered in dark brown pools. He saw my hands, the residue of blood from when I’d fallen. He looked up at me, his mouth agape, horror in his eyes. He backed away, arms outstretched, pleading.
“It’s not what you think,” I said, realizing every criminal in history probably said that. Suddenly the man turned and bolted down the stairs.
“Help! Policía! Somebody’s been killed!”
“Oh, fuck.” I turned to Amanda. “Come on, there must be a fire escape.”
We sprinted through the apartment, time again being sliced maliciously thin. There was no fire escape in the living room, and no windows in the bathroom. We hurried into Gustofson’s bedroom, where we found a metal stairwell outside the window, a mesh screen covering it.
I braced my leg against the wall, pain shooting through it, and yanked open the screen. We clambered onto the fire escape, towering forty or fifty feet above the alley below us. Carefully we wound our way down, gripping the rusty metal guardrails for dear life.
Down a flight of stairs, across the metal floor, repeat. A siren wailed in the distance. Within minutes I’d have another murder pinned to my chest. The scarlet M. My hole was growing deeper, the dirt walls caving in.
We scrambled to the bottom platform where a ladder dangled like a piece of spaghetti. There was a pile of black garbage bags below us. And beneath that, cement. Even the bottom of the ladder was a good fifteen feet from the ground.
“You go first,” Amanda said. I smiled back at her.
“And who said chivalry was dead?”
I handed her the album and wiped my sweaty hands on my shirt. Gripping the metal tight, I made my way down the ladder. Hand over hand, keeping my feet even and balanced. When I reached the bottom rung, I stopped. I didn’t want to land amidst the garbage bags, which were covered with broken bottles.
I leaned to my right, then exploded off with my left foot, jumping at an angle and landing just beyond the bags. My knees buckled as I hit the ground, my palm scraping the cement, tearing the skin from it.
Wincing, I gave Amanda a thumbs-up. I grabbed several garbage bags and tossed them off the pile, clearing a small landing area. She gently tossed the album to me. I set the book aside and positioned myself directly under the ladder. I cupped my arms.
“Your turn,” I shouted.
Hesitant, a twinge of fear in her eyes, Amanda climbed to the bottom of the ladder.
“You sure you can catch me?” she said.
“As long as you don’t weigh more than eighty pounds, no problem.”
“I’ll shove an eighty-pound foot up your ass if one toe touches the ground.”
“Fair enough.”
Amanda closed her eyes and let go. She tumbled through the air, a shrill scream escaping her lips. Then she was in my arms, her hands locked around my neck. I lowered her down and she slowly opened her eyes.
“You weigh a bit more than eighty pounds,” I said.
She jabbed me in the ribs, then gave me a gentle squeeze and said, “Thanks.”
I nodded, stared into her eyes. Then the sirens broke through our embrace, shattering the moment of peace.
We jogged toward the end of the alley, then headed east on Amsterdam. We hopped on the 81st Street crosstown bus, used the transfer still good from the subway, and shielded our faces behind a discarded copy of The Onion.
Headline: Journalist Changes Name To Hieroglyphic Symbol.
From the corner of my eye I saw a police car speed down the block and make a sharp right into the alley we’d just come from. I exhaled and pointed it out to Amanda. She took my hand, squeezed my fingers until they hurt.
We got off at the last stop, 80th Street and East End Avenue. The steel blanket of night had descended. The East River was dark, the moon glimmering off the water like silver beads. A warm breeze blew through my hair as I breathed it all in. On any other night, the city’s beauty would have been a moment to savor. But tonight it felt like a tomb.
This neighborhood was unfamiliar. Rows of expensive Upper East Side apartments ran down one side of the block. Trees with knee-high guardrails and doormen with constable caps opened the door for fashionably dressed tenants and their fashionably dressed dogs.
On the other side of the street, as though exported from another, less affluent universe, sat a squat tenement that looked completely abandoned. Windows were boarded up, bricks covered in graffiti and slime. Old, wheelless bicycles were chained to a fence. A gate opened up to a small path leading up to the building’s entrance.
“So what now?” Amanda asked. She’d wrapped her arms around her delicate body, looking at me for a sign of hope. I held the album under my arm, feeling the plastic edge biting my skin, unsure of what to say, what to do.
John Fredrickson. I knew he worked for Michael DiForio. He wasn’t just “in the neighborhood” three days ago, like Luis had said. He’d gone to the Guzmans with a purpose: to retrieve this album and deliver it to Michael DiForio. With these photos, DiForio had New York in a vise. Releasing the photos would damage the city beyond repair. And losing them wasn’t an option he’d want to consider. And yet somehow there had to be a way to use the album, some way to set us free. Turn evil into good.
Again I tried to distance myself, cast away all emotion, look at it like a journalist.
Like a magic trick, a great story was one where you showed all the facts but gave away none of the secrets behind them. You offered the audi
ence what they needed to see, wanted to hear, and nothing else. There were two groups of people out there: those who wanted me dead and those who wanted this binder and then wanted me dead. The trick was giving them both what they needed, yet making them want only what I offered.
It had to end tonight. I had no energy left, nothing else to offer Amanda in the way of solace. I was tired, cold, hungry. And finally I’d been given a small foothold that might support my weight.
I looked at the large brownstone in front of us. So strange in this neighborhood. Like one rotten head of lettuce in a well-cultivated garden. Like Henry Parker in New York.
“This has to end,” I said to Amanda. Her head dipped, her eyes coming up to meet mine. She leaned into me and I wrapped my arms around her thin waist, pulling her close.
God, I just wanted to breathe her in, hold her near me, think of nothing else but her. Amanda’s breath was warm on my cheek. I inhaled it, closed my eyes, pressed myself against her skin. When I opened them her head was on my chest. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. Everything will be all right….
Then she tilted her face upwards, her lips parting slightly. I leaned down and pressed my lips to hers, felt her push back. Soft and inviting, we both gave in. The hurt and pain being sucked away. For a few seconds, we were the only people in the world, and I completely lost myself in Amanda Davies. And when we finally separated, Amanda’s head falling back onto my chest, I knew it was more intimate than anything I’d ever experienced. If only it were on another night, in a different world.
Then I stepped back, opened the photo album.
“I need to finish this,” I said. She nodded. She was crying.
“I want to help.”
“No. This is my responsibility now, and mine alone. I don’t know what’s going to happen or how it’s going to end, but you can’t be a part of it. You’ve already done too much, I can’t bear the thought of endangering you any more.”
“Please,” Amanda said, tears streaking down her cheeks. She put her hand on my face, her light touch sending shivers through my body. I bit my lip, warmth spreading through me. “Henry, I’m a part of this, like it or not. Let me help you.”
I shook my head. Then I opened up the binder and removed the photo negatives. I handed them to Amanda. She took them, confused.
“If anything happens to me, give these to Jack O’Donnell. Tell him everything. He’ll know what to do.”
“I don’t understand. Why can’t I help you?”
“You already have, as much as possible, more than I ever would have expected from anyone. I can’t let you do any more.”
Amanda nodded, bit her lip.
“What about you?” she asked.
I smiled faintly, stroked her cheek gently.
“Trust me,” I said. “I’ll think of something.”
38
T he plane touched down a few minutes after 2:00 a.m. Joe Mauser made his way unsteadily down the narrow stairs, still feeling the effects of the seemingly endless blast of turbulence the jet had hit half an hour in. He closed his eyes, thought about the millions of tiny lights scattered over the New York landscape. Soon he’d be back into the heart of New York, and hopefully Henry Parker would be ready to have his heart ripped out.
Fighting back nausea, Joe saw Chief Louis Carruthers standing on the tarmac, two steaming cups of coffee in hand.
“Agent Mauser,” Louis said, offering up the java. “Agent Denton.”
“Lou,” Joe said. The men shook hands, a solemn gesture.
Sipping the coffee, Mauser grimaced. Louis must have poured an entire dairy farm into the cup. Damn thing tasted more like milk than coffee. As they walked toward the Crown Victoria parked in a lot near the hangar, Mauser’s cell phone chirped. He took it out, found his voice-mail icon blinking. He must have missed the calls while in the air. He checked the call log and felt his heart drop.
Six calls from Linda. She’d left three messages. Joe didn’t have the heart to listen to any of them. He pictured his sister at home, waiting for good news, a sign that her husband’s death wouldn’t go unpunished. But right now he couldn’t give her that hope, and it was eating at him like acid through a drainpipe.
“Fredrickson’s widow?” Denton asked. Joe could only nod.
“So fucking hard on her,” Mauser said. “I wish we had something. If I could, I’d string that fuck Parker up by the thumbs and give her a key to the room. I just want this kid so bad.”
“You’ll get him, Joe. It’s almost over,” Louis said. “We’ve got the city locked up tighter than my sister on prom night. If he’s here, he’s not going anywhere.”
“You know how many fucking black holes there are in this city?” Mauser seethed, forcing another swallow of the so-called coffee down his throat. He felt the caffeine settle right into his bloodstream, a surge of adrenaline coursing through him. “You know how easy it is to disappear? Parker’s not stupid, but he only needs to fuck up once. Use a credit card. Make a telephone call. Cross the street at a red light. Anything.”
Just then another officer, this one young enough to look like Denton’s son, came running up. He held a clipboard and a walkie-talkie in his hand and spoke like the world would end if he didn’t get out a hundred words a minute.
“Slow down,” Mauser said. “I missed the first, middle and last thing you said.”
“Sorry, sir,” the kid said, grinning from ear to ear. “But we got him.”
“Parker?” Joe’s stomach dropped. The kid nodded, then smiled at Chief Carruthers. Goddamn police force being overrun by guys who looked like they weren’t physiologically old enough to even have children.
“How?”
“Telephone call, Agent Mauser. Parker used a pay phone and charged it to the same calling card we got him with before.” Joe smiled, nudged Denton.
“Who did he call?” Denton asked. The kid looked at his clipboard. Static came over the radio. Mauser couldn’t understand a word of it, but the kid clicked a button and responded “ten-four.”
“Parker called his parents in Bend, Oregon,” he said. “We traced his call to a pay phone on East 80th Street, by the river. It was placed nine minutes ago.”
“About goddamn time we had a break,” Mauser said. “You have a tape of the call?”
“Absolutely.”
“I want to hear it,” Mauser said, making a beeline for the Crown Vic. “Lou, have them patch the recording through to my cell phone. I want to hear Parker’s voice, I want to hear the phone call.”
“Done. You heard him,” Carruthers said. The young officer clicked the radio again.
“Uh, dispatch, can you patch through the Henry Parker call to Agent Mauser’s cell phone?” Joe gave him the number. Denton stood there chewing gum, his hands fidgeting. Mauser nodded slightly, acknowledging Denton. It would be over soon. Finally the rat had nowhere else to run.
“Take care, Joe,” Louis said. “Be careful.”
Mauser clapped his friend’s shoulder, then he and Denton hurried to the car. Denton got into the driver’s seat, Mauser holding the phone, awaiting the call. He held the door open and yelled to the officer who’d delivered the message.
“Hey, kid, any way you can hook me up with a speaker to connect to the phone?” The kid gave a thumbs-up and sprinted over to a van parked on the edge of the tarmac. A minute later he reappeared with a small black speaker. He took Joe’s cell phone and made sure the connection fit. He pressed a few buttons and Mauser heard a dial tone ring loud and clear. He thanked the kid and closed the door.
They took the Grand Central Parkway exit, and a minute later Mauser’s cell phone rang. Joe picked up the speaker, nodded to Denton. “Let’s see what our boy has to say.”
Merging onto the highway, Mauser caught Denton readjusting his pants quite voraciously.
“You got crabs in there or something?” Joe asked.
“Just riding up on me a bit.” Mauser nodded and pressed the send button.
“This is Maus
er.”
“Agent Mauser? This is Officer Pratt at dispatch. I’m going to patch Henry Parker’s call through.”
“We’re waiting.” Joe felt sweat beading on his palms. He gripped the armrest, his hands slippery. Denton remained surprisingly calm. Mauser could practically feel Parker’s neck in his hands, choking the life out of him.
There were several loud clicks and then they heard a raspy male voice. The owner sounded like he’d spent too many years with his best friends Marlboro and Cutty Sark.
“Yeah, hello?” the voice said.
“Dad?”
It was Parker. Mauser would recognize that voice through a thunderstorm. The other man was Henry’s father.
“Who’s this…Henry? That you?”
“It’s me, Dad.”
“Fucking hell, haven’t heard your voice in a while. Cops called here a few times, idiots thought I might actually know where you were. You in trouble, boy?”
“I guess you could say I’m in a bit of trouble. You know I spoke to Mom last Monday. I asked how you were, she said you went out that night. Not like you to go out.”
“Got me a bowling league now, every Monday. Boys call me the anchorman ’cause I always pick up where their sorry asses fall down.”
“Glad to hear you’re getting some exercise.”
“Yeah, right,” Parker Senior said. “So why’re you calling, Henry? I told you I got no money to just hand out. And why are these cops calling me? Do you owe money?”
“No, I don’t need money or owe anybody, Dad. I have a job. A good one. The one I wanted, at the newspaper, the Gazette.”
“That right? Someone actually hired you?” Henry’s father laughed derisively.
“I’ve worked hard, Dad. A lot harder than you ever did.”
“Whatever. So why’re you calling so late? It’s almost midnight for crissakes.”