The Fury hp-4

by Jason Pinter

  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.

  "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. Generally 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."

  "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."

  "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 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.

  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, something 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 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. Makhoulian 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 it, I will detach your head from your body with the tips of my fingernails and find someone useful. Do you understan
d 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."

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: fbd-79bb78-a1fa-b34d-cf94-354d-cb6a-282239

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 01.01.2012

  Created using: Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software

  Document authors :

  About

  This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.

  (This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)

  Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.

  (Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)

  http://www.fb2epub.net

  https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/