The Fury (2009)
Page 4
the night, and because this was before cell phones were
more common than pennies, they would call my
family’s landline.
I remember sitting at my desk, the phone resting
inches from my hand while I wrote, my eye always
flickering to the headset, waiting to pick it up the mil
lisecond it rang. The system wasn’t foolproof, but it’s
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the best I could come up with. The trick was to simply
be the first to answer the phone when it rang. The
moment that shrill bell rang, the phone was in my
hands. “Henry Parker,” I would say, hoping if the call
was for me, my father would simply leave it alone.
Every now and then I was slow, distracted or in the
shower, and he’d pick up. It meant I had to deal with
hang-ups from sources who were scared off by unrec
ognized voices on the other end. And if, heaven forbid,
someone called during dinner, I could count on James
Parker locking me in the garage. If I was lucky. And if
I wasn’t—I had a scar or two to motivate me to quicken
my reaction times.
My mother, Eve Parker, was withdrawn. I hate to say
aloof because that wasn’t it, but it seemed as though
she’d been shell-shocked by her husband into a per
petual state of submission. She rarely flinched, just went
through the motions like an automaton who forgot that
at one point she was human. I wondered what she had
been like before she’d met James. If she’d been strong
or vivacious. If she’d hoped to marry the man of her
dreams. Or if somewhere, deep down, she was resigned
to a life married to this thing that called himself a man.
If anything, though, I had to credit James Parker
with making me stronger. He made me work harder,
longer, better, if only to give myself every chance of
getting the hell away from that house. When I was
growing up, I wasn’t strong enough, mentally or physi
cally, to stand up to him. Now, I was twice the man he
ever was. And I considered him lucky that his son left
before he could stand up to him the way that he
deserved.
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Jason Pinter
“Wait,” I said to Makhoulian. “If Stephen Gaines
and I had the same father…who’s Stephen’s mother?”
Makhoulian nodded, as though expecting this
question to be asked sooner or later.
“According to the birth certificate, her name is
Helen Gaines.”
“I’ve never heard that name before,” I said. “Where
is she?”
“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me,” the de
tective said. “All we know about Helen Gaines is that
she was born in Bend, Oregon, in 1960. Her financial
records show that she closed out her bank accounts in
Oregon in 1980, and moved. Where, we don’t know.”
“So if she was born in 1960, and Stephen Gaines was
thirty, that means he was born in, what, 1979?”
“March twenty-sixth,” Makhoulian replied.
“Then Helen Gaines was only nineteen when she
gave birth to Stephen.”
“That’s right.”
“And my father was…twenty-six. I know he married
my mother when he was twenty-five. Jesus Christ, my
father’s mistress gave birth to his child while he was
married to my mother.”
Makhoulian stood there silent. I don’t know what he
could have said. I rubbed my temples, still trying to
process everything. I still hadn’t spoken to Amanda all
day. I felt like crawling into her arms, just sleeping for
a while, hoping this would all have been some dream
when my eyes finally opened.
“Have you contacted my father yet?” I asked.
“We’ve left several messages for him and your
mother at home. None of them have been returned.”
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“Not totally surprising,” I said.
“Is your father prone to ignoring calls from the
police?” Makhoulian asked.
“He’s prone to ignoring any calls that aren’t either
Ed McMahon with a giant check or someone offering
him a free longneck.”
Makhoulian let out a small laugh, not wanting to
distort the gravity of the situation too much. “What
about your mother?”
“I think he purposely bought an answering machine
she wouldn’t know how to use. Let’s just say last I
heard, she didn’t get many calls, didn’t return many
calls.”
The detective nodded. “Listen, if you do hear from
your father, tell him to call me.” Makhoulian took a card
from his wallet, handed it to me. I looked it over, put it
in my pocket.
“I promise you I won’t hear from him.”
“But if you do…”
“If I do, I’ll make sure he calls.”
“That’s all I ask.”
“In return,” I said, “will you keep me in the loop? Let
me know if you have any suspects, how the investiga
tion is going. If you catch the bastard.”
“Far as it doesn’t interfere with the investigation, sure.
I’ll keep you informed. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
I shook Makhoulian’s hand, then watched as he
climbed into the Crown Vic and drove off. Once he was
gone, I trudged to the subway, took it back uptown to
my apartment. When I got out I called Wallace
Langston at the Gazette. Nobody picked up, so I left a
message on his voice mail.
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Jason Pinter
“Wallace, it’s Henry. Listen, I don’t know how to say
this…a man who was apparently my brother was shot
and killed last night. His name is Stephen Gaines. I
don’t know much else, but I had to let you know. I’ll give
you a call when I know more but…I thought you should
know in case anyone calls for comment. Anyway, call
me back.”
I hung up. Thought about it. I knew the Gazette
would run a piece on the murder. Even though crime
was down in the city, murders still got ink. It wouldn’t
be a long article. As of right now there was no suspect.
There was no conspiracy. Gaines was a junkie, likely
killed over whatever drug fiends were killed over.
Stolen stashes. Territory beefs. He wasn’t famous,
wasn’t some rich guy’s son. Nobody knew him. Not
even his family.
It would get a paragraph, two at most. I wouldn’t
write it. And unless there were future developments, my
brother’s death would be just another junkie murder in
a city where you’d need a landfill for all his brethren.
Stephen Gaines’s death was just as short and seem
ingly unremarkable as his life.
I entered my apartment to find Amanda sitting on the
couch. She was reading a sports magazine, but didn’t
seem that interested in it. Her eyes perked up when I
entered, then narrowed when she saw that mine did not.
I took a seat on the couch next to her.
Amanda and
I had met several years ago. When I was
wanted for murder, she was the only person brave
enough to help me. She trusted me despite all common
sense saying she shouldn’t. I fell for her right away. It
was easy. I’m a sucker for a beautiful woman with crisp,
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41
auburn hair, a smile that will make you stop in your
tracks, wit that will keep you laughing all night and a
perfectly placed mole by her collarbone that you could
trace every night with your finger. Hypothetically.
But despite all that, I nearly lost it all. I had pushed
her away, and it wasn’t until I spent time without her
that I realized just how much I’d lost. She knew that
because of the kind of person I was, the kind of job I
had, she might be put in harm’s way. As long as we
faced obstacles together, she’d said, there was nothing
we couldn’t overcome. Since we’d reconciled, the last
few months had been wonderful. We started our rela
tionship going backward, in a way. We went out to
dinners. We saw movies. I sent her flowers at work, she
gave the best neck massages this side of the Golden
Door Spa.
Once we restarted our relationship, I made two
promises to her. First, I would tell her everything. Even
the hardest things, she would be allowed to judge and
decide for herself. And second, every decision would
be a joint one. I would never again make a decision
about our relationship on my own. That was a hardlearned lesson. One I should have known right away.
So sitting there next to her, I knew she had a right
to know about what Detective Makhoulian told me
about Stephen Gaines. And she had a right to know
about my father.
So I told her. Everything. I told her about seeing
Gaines on the street. About the call from Detective Sevi
Makhoulian. That Gaines had been murdered, viciously.
And that my father had sired Stephen when his mother,
Helen, was just nineteen. I still couldn’t wrap my mind
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Jason Pinter
around the idea that Gaines was my brother. Certain
things you can be told and accept as gospel. This was
not one of them.
When I finished, we both sat there. Amanda looked
stunned, unsure of what to say. Putting myself in her
shoes, I’d be lost for words as well. Finally she got up,
went into the kitchen. I heard a few clanking noises,
turned to see what was going on, but the door frame
blocked my view.
Amanda came out carrying two plastic cups, and a
bottle of red wine. She sat the bottle down on the coffee
table, peeled off the foil and uncorked it. She did so
without a problem. She then poured two generous
glasses, handed one to me.
“I thought we might need this,” she said.
“It’s amazing how you can read my mind even if I’m
not thinking something.”
She took a healthy sip, and I did the same. Then I sat,
twirling the cup in my hand.
“What are you going to do?” she asked. I shook my
head.
“I don’t know what I can do,” I replied. “It’s a police
investigation. As far as the Gazette, they’ll cover it, but
nothing more than standard murder reporting unless
something else breaks that gives the story legs.”
“Do you feel,” she said hesitantly, “I don’t know…
sad?”
I thought about that. “I don’t think sad’s the right
word.”
“So what is?”
“Angry,” I replied. “Mad. Pissed off. I want to know
why I’ve lived nearly three decades without knowing any
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of this. If this is true, how could my father not have told
me? I mean I know he’s a bastard, but this is a life he
chose to ignore. And I want to know why Stephen
Gaines, after all this time, came to me for help. He’d
lived thirty years without Henry Parker as his brother,
and all of a sudden he decides to have a family gather
ing outside my office one night? I don’t buy that for a
second.”
“You didn’t know about him,” Amanda said. “Do
you think he knew about you?”
“I honestly don’t know. He knew about me right
before he died. I don’t know when he learned. If Helen
Gaines told him about his family, or kept him in the dark
like my parents did with me. I wish I knew.”
“So find out,” Amanda said. “At least that much is
in your hands.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know where your parents live. Where your
father lives. Go ask him. Make him tell you the truth.”
I stood up, paced the room. “I don’t know if I can do
that. I haven’t seen him in almost ten years. Bend isn’t
really my home anymore. I don’t know if it ever was.”
“Your heart might be here, but the truth is there,” she
said. “Today’s Thursday. I can call in sick tomorrow.”
“Why would you do that?”
“To go with you,” she answered. “We’re going to find
out how much your father knows.”
5
We woke at five in the morning having purchased
plane tickets online the night before. We threw a few
days’ worth of clothing into a suitcase, then caught a cab
to La Guardia. The minute the cab pulled away I
realized I forgot my toothbrush.
Living in New York had become increasingly diffi
cult over the last few years. After some time when it
looked like Manhattan would be the only city unaf
fected by the subprime crisis, real-estate prices came
tumbling down. Of course, we were renting, and there
fore unaffected, and inflation was still rising faster than
a hot-air balloon. My salary at the Gazette had barely
seen a bump in my tenure, and working at the Legal Aid
Society, a not-for-profit organization, Amanda wasn’t
exactly rolling in dough. At some point we would have
to make a decision about our future. Where to live,
where we could afford to live.
I didn’t want to leave the city, but I also wanted to
think long-term. Many reporters commuted. Yet the
fantasy of living in New York City always captivated
me. It was one of the motivating factors that led me to
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45
the Gazette. And the possibility of working in the big
city, seeing things I couldn’t see anywhere else in the
world, was one of the motivators that kept me going
when I could barely stand another day in Bend with my
family.
We got to the airport and loaded up on coffee, a fat
tening muffin nearly crumbling in my hands as I
shoveled it into my mouth. We stopped at the magazine
stand, where Amanda picked up her fashion and celeb
rity mags and I bought a selection of newspapers.
“I brought something else to read,” she said, “but just
in case.” Amanda wasn’t the kind of girl who waited in
shoes, but something about reading about the hottest
beach bodies made plane rides go by quicker. Maybe I
should give Cosmo a whirl.
Sitting at the gate, I leafed through the Gazette. I felt
my stomach clench when I turned to page eight and saw
the two-paragraph article that started:
Stephen Gaines, 30, found shot to death in Al
phabet City apartment
by Neil deVincenzo
I’d met Neil deVincenzo about a year ago. He covered
the crime beat, had some good connections on the force.
Because of my tenuous relationship with the NYPD,
they’d often talk to him rather than me. He was a good guy,
around forty-five, and in terrific shape. He’d been a boxer
in the navy, even had the tattoo of a pugilist on his upper
biceps, though only a few of us were privy to the knowl
edge, and that only came out after a few rounds of drinks.
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Jason Pinter
The article was brief, perfunctory. There wasn’t
much to the story to report. Gaines was found murdered,
two bullet wounds in his head. There were no suspects,
no leads. And no locations or whereabouts for his
mother, Helen Gaines. Sevi Makhoulian was quoted,
saying, “No comment.”
I wondered where Helen Gaines was. If she knew her
son was dead. And if so, why Makhoulian couldn’t
locate her. I wondered if she knew her son was in
trouble. And I wondered if she knew about me.
Our flight had one layover in Chicago. We would
then go on to Portland, and rent a car for the drive to
Bend. The plan was to stay in Bend over the long
weekend. I didn’t have any desire to spent any more time
with my father than was absolutely necessary to get all
the details about his relationship with Helen Gaines and
her son. After that, I figured it could be good for us to
spend an extra day or two in the city of my birth. It had
been the better part of a decade since I left for college,
I was curious to see how much had changed.
After a half-hour delay we settled into our seats.
Amanda took the middle, I got the aisle, and my legs
thanked me. I took out a paperback novel, a thriller to
help pass the time, and noticed Amanda reach into her
knapsack and take out a book.
The cover seemed familiar. It was worn, the spine
cracked, color faded. And when I look closer, I under
stood why.
The book’s title was Through the Darkness. It’s