The Fury hp-4

by Jason Pinter

  "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 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.

  "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 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.

  "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.

  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 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?

  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.

  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."

  "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."

  "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 t
o 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 exacany 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 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."