The Fury (2009)

by Jason - Henry Parker 04 Pinter

  drily. “If need be you lock them all in a steel cage and

  whoever is the last one alive chooses the music. Kind

  of like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome.”

  “Nice to know after all these years Mel Gibson still

  exerts influence over all realms of pop culture.”

  “Stop whining,” she said. “Here. Try this one. And

  if I hear one reference to ‘sugartits’ you can walk

  upstate alone.”

  She pressed Play, and soon a familiar tune came over

  the speakers. It was Bob Dylan’s “Not Dark Yet.” It was

  a beautiful, melancholy song. I looked at her, confused.

  “I know you like this song,” she said, a sweet smile

  spread across her lips. “I figured we can split music

  choices. There’s more stuff you like on there.”

  I stayed quiet, just smiled at her, listened to Dylan

  sing.

  As we began the drive, we fell into a routine that was

  becoming familiar and comforting. Our conversations

  came easily. Each silence felt warm rather than simply

  because of a lack of topics to discuss. Being by this

  girl’s side filled me up in a way I’d never truly experi­

  enced. Nothing between us had been forced. From the

  moment we met during the most stressful situation

  imaginable, there were a million moments when, if

  we’d not been stronger, things could have broken apart.

  Not too long ago I’d done just that. I thought I was

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  being noble, chivalrous. Putting her life before mine. I

  learned quickly my heart didn’t agree with that

  decision, and neither of us had rested easy.

  When I contacted her for help on a story—that phone

  call as much for emotional help as professional—it was

  only a matter of time before we got back together.

  Amanda was smart, tough, resilient. Stronger than I

  was. And together we were more than the sum of our

  parts. If not for her, my father might still be sitting in an

  Oregon prison trying to simply wait out the legal

  process. At least now we had a chance to help set things

  right.

  Of course, the one bad thing about being together

  was our tendency to snack. We went through two large

  coffees, a giant bag of Combos and half a dozen cookies

  by the time we hit I-95. If we kept going at this pace I’d

  have to ask Amanda to start hauling my big ass around

  in a pickup truck to talk to sources.

  The scenery driving up was truly breathtaking. Pine

  trees studded the landscape as we passed numerous

  hiking and cross-country skiing trails. There was little

  up here for visitors other than what nature offered. I

  could see why Stephen Gaines liked to come here. As

  much as I loved the clicks and clacks of the newsroom,

  there was something about the peace and quiet this area

  offered that appealed to me.

  It was six o’clock by the time we turned onto I-87

  North heading toward Blue Mountain Lake. The city

  itself was nestled in Hamilton County, in the town of

  Indian Lake. After passing Albany and Saratoga

  Springs, we turned onto Route 28 toward Indian Lake.

  The drive down 28 was breathtaking. The roads were

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  teeming with lush, green trees, small-town stores and

  crisp blue water. It was the NewYork that existed outside

  of what people commonly associated with New York.

  Nearly untouched by technology, commerce and

  industry.

  About half an hour down 28, we passed a brownbrick building on our left. The sign read, Adirondack

  Museum. The lettering was burned into a wooden

  plaque, and unlike some other museums I’d seen in my

  travels this one looked remarkably well maintained. It

  was a shame, I thought, that I’d seen so many places yet

  actually experienced so few. When I traveled, there was

  always a reason. A story, something pulling me to a des­

  tination. There was never much time to enjoy my sur­

  roundings. I was here for business, and as much as I

  could admire the beauty of this place, I wouldn’t—at

  least now—be able to lose myself in it.

  We drove several miles down Route 28, the majesty

  of Blue Mountain Lake on our left. I could picture

  Stephen Gaines (or was it myself?) sitting in a chair by

  the water, writing in a spiral-bound notebook, listening

  to nothing but the world itself. It was a far cry from what

  I’d gotten used to in the city. Either I could love being

  here for the blissful solitude—or it would drive me

  crazy not to hear blaring horns and the music of the

  newsroom.

  There were several unpaved roads, which, according

  to Rose, led to various cabins. There weren’t many

  year-round residents up here, and most of the occu­

  pants were, like Stephen and Helen, city dwellers who

  came to get away from the hustle and bustle. Each house

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  stood far enough away from its neighbor to allow peace

  and quiet, but were close enough that it did feel like

  somewhat of a community up here.

  As we approached the turn onto Maple Lodge Road,

  on the northeast ridge of Blue Mountain Lake, I noticed

  a set of tire tracks leading up to the cabin that looked

  fairly recent, and another set leading away. They looked

  like the same type of tread. The weather reports said that

  it had rained here just two days ago, so whoever had

  come here had done so in between the time Stephen

  Gaines had died and now. And if, as Rose thought,

  Helen had come here, we would hopefully find her.

  The tracks leading away could have been Helen

  shopping, picking up supplies.

  Amanda turned the stereo off. I could feel the breath

  become shallow in my chest. Helen Gaines had to have

  answers. Even if she didn’t know who killed her son,

  she would certainly know what he might have been

  mixed up in that got him killed. She was our only hope,

  our only lead. My father’s only hope.

  We pulled onto the driveway and slowly entered the

  Gaines residence. The only sounds were the rustling of

  leaves in the slight wind. I could hear Amanda breathing

  beside me. I felt her hand on my elbow for reassurance.

  As we got closer we could see the cottage. It was two

  stories tall, made from rounded interlocking logs. The

  front door was bracketed by six logs surrounding a

  makeshift porch. A chimney jutted from a roof lined

  with a green material. It looked as if some sort of moss

  or other plant life was growing on it. The chimney was

  static. I lowered the window, smelled the air. It was

  clean. If Helen was here, she hadn’t made a fire recently.

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  “Henry,” Amanda said, her hand gripping my arm

  tighter. “Look at that.”

  In the dirt driveway, we could clearly make out the

  tread markings from a second set of tires. These treads

  were marked with numerous crisscrossi
ng lines, both

  vertical and horizontal in even patterns. Truck tires

  tended to have more grooves, deeper cuts, better for

  sluicing water and specifically designed for off-roading.

  These tracks likely belonged to a some sort of SUV. Our

  eyes followed the tracks back to a clearing in the woods.

  Whoever had come here hadn’t used the front door.

  They’d come in a different way. They didn’t want to be

  seen arriving. Who could have come here besides

  Helen? And what kind of person would have come not

  wanting to be seen? Clearly, whoever had come here

  knew they would be coming in through the woods, and

  needed treads that could handle it. Somebody wanted

  to not be seen using the front door.

  “This can’t be good,” Amanda said under her breath.

  “What if someone is still there?”

  She didn’t need to say that that person might not be

  Helen Gaines.

  I stopped the car short of the driveway and put it into

  Park. I kept the engine running. Just in case.

  With the engine purring, we both unlocked our doors

  and tentatively stepped into the evening air. Wind

  swirled around us as we stared at the cabin. I couldn’t

  see much inside, so I crept closer, hunched low to the

  ground. Dirt crackled under my feet as Amanda kept

  pace several steps behind me.

  I crept up the front steps and up to the door. Both side

  windows were closed, and a drape prevented me from

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  viewing what was inside. I gently knocked on the door.

  There was no doorbell.

  “Miss Gaines?” I called. “Helen?”

  There was no response.

  I called louder. Waited a minute. Heard nothing.

  I walked back down the steps, then decided to go

  around the house to see what we could find.

  Heart pounding in my chest, I slid up to a side

  window, cupped my hands to the glass and peered in.

  The room was dark. There was a long couch, and I

  could make out a television stand and what looked like

  a desk. Other than that the room was impeccably clean.

  Peering in closer, I could see a faint yellow glow ema­

  nating from a room beyond this one. A light was on

  somewhere on the first floor.

  “Stay here,” I said to Amanda.

  “Like hell,” she replied. That was the end of that

  discussion.

  Staying low, we sidled around the back of the house

  where another window faced the forest. Off in the

  distance, I could make out a narrow road, paved poorly

  but wide enough for a car to fit through. It did not face

  the front of the house, and would be unseen by anyone

  who was not in this room at the time. The window was

  mere yards from the SUV tire tracks.

  There was no doubt; whoever had come here had

  used that path to gain access to the house.

  I approached the window. My breath was ragged, and

  I could hear Amanda panting behind me. Gently I stood

  up until my eye line was just over the windowsill.

  I made out the top of a shower rod and a medicine chest.

  This was clearly the downstairs bathroom. Then I saw it.

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  The right medicine cabinet was open. Pills and

  makeup were spread out all over the counter. Bottles

  were broken. Things scattered everywhere.

  That’s when Amanda stood up, saw the entirety of

  the bathroom, and let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  When I saw what she was looking at, it was all I

  could do to stifle mine.

  A body was facedown on the floor. Her blouse was

  ripped and tattered. Her arms were splayed out in a

  horribly unnatural position.

  And a pool of blood was spread around her head like

  a gruesome sunrise.

  Without thinking, I ran to the nearest tree, propped my

  foot against a limb and pulled until I heard a crunch and

  the thick branch snapped off. Taking a running start, I

  brought the limb back behind my head just like when I

  played Little League, and slammed the branch against

  the windowpane. The glass didn’t shatter, but a large

  crack snaked down the middle. Just enough. Two more

  whacks and enough glass had broken for me to clear the

  rest out with the branch. I carefully climbed through the

  window. The blood around Helen Gaines’s head looked

  dark red, almost dried but not completely. A small piece

  of metal floated in the gore, but I couldn’t tell what it was.

  I smelled the air, a faint but still noxious odor present. I

  looked closer. There was a chance she was still…

  I gently moved her hair away from her neck so I

  could check her pulse. And that’s when I realized that

  this woman was black. It was not Helen Gaines.

  I pressed three fingers against her carotid artery,

  praying for a pulse. I felt nothing. I pressed again, this

  time on her wrist. Silent. Dead.

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  I looked at the body.

  My hands shook as I reached into my pocket and

  pulled out my cell phone. Thankfully there was recep­

  tion. My fingers fumbled and I had to dial 911 three

  times before getting it right.

  “911, what is your emergency?”

  “A woman’s been killed at 97 Maple Lodge Road.

  Please get here quick.”

  “Sir, can you check her pulse?”

  “There’s no pulse. Please just get here.”

  “All right, sir, an ambulance is on the way. Do you

  know the victim?”

  “No,” I said, nearly passing out as I sat down on the

  rim of the porcelain bathtub. “I don’t.”

  Sitting in the pool of blood, about two feet away from

  the body, was a tiny diamond earring, lying next to

  another thin sliver of what looked like gray hair. The

  diamond was a princess cut. One day, a few weeks ago,

  I was looking online at engagement rings. Thinking

  about whether I could see Amanda wearing one. I re­

  membered seeing the name—princess cut—and

  thinking it was perfect. A princess for a princess, I’d

  thought.

  But there was only one earring on the ground.

  The other was either taken by the killer. Or still being

  worn by someone who’d escaped.

  Then I looked at the body again. The victim’s ears

  weren’t pierced. Which meant the single earring on the

  ground had belonged to Helen Gaines. And she’d

  dropped it before she fled.

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  Her name was Beth-Ann Downing. She lived two

  floors above Helen and Stephen Gaines in their apart­

  ment in Alphabet City. She and Helen had been friends

  for fifteen years. She owned a Camry, which she parked

  in a garage on Fourteenth Street. A call to the garage

  confirmed that Beth had taken the Camry a few days

  ago and had not returned it. Beth-Ann Downing was

  fifty-three years old. Divorced. One daughter who lived

  in Sherman Oaks, California, Sheryl Harrison, who was

  on a flight to New York City to attend her mo
ther’s

  funeral.

  Beth had worked as a bank teller. According to the

  police, gas and credit-card receipts showed she’d left the

  city with Helen Gaines the very night Stephen Gaines

  was killed. A waitress at a diner on I-87 recognized Beth

  and said she’d been eating with another woman. That

  woman fit the description of Helen Gaines, Stephen’s

  mother. Beth was either fleeing from something, or was

  simply helping an old friend who was fleeing from

  something.

  And last night she was killed when a bullet severed

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  her brain stem, fired from less than a foot away. Death

  was almost instantaneous.

  Almost.

  And I wondered if Beth-Ann Downing had even

  known what her friend was running from.

  We’d given our statement to Deputy Reece Watts of

  the Indian Lake Police Department. I took a little extra

  time washing the blood off my fingers.

  We told the police everything we knew. From early

  forensics, it appeared that an SUV or van of some sort

  approached the Gaines residence during the night, when

  both Helen Gaines and Beth-Ann Downing were asleep.

  They pried open the storm shutters and snuck in through

  the basement.

  Beth had awoken, and went downstairs to check on

  the noise. She saw the intruders. The police confirmed

  there was more than one. Several pairs of footprints,

  they said. They chased her to the bathroom, where they

  shot her. In the confusion, Helen Gaines had escaped.

  That’s why we saw tire tracks leaving the cabin.

  Helen had fled while her friend was being murdered.

  Nobody had any idea of the whereabouts of Helen

  Gaines. She hadn’t called the police. Hadn’t stopped

  anywhere for help.

  She’d just disappeared.

  It might have just been me, but that didn’t seem like

  typical behavior for a woman whose only son had just

  recently been killed. Especially when the alleged

  murderer was locked up awaiting trial.

  I had no idea how this would play in regards to my

  father. Stephen Gaines was still dead. The police were

  still figuring out if anything in the cabin was missing.

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  If they could chalk it up to a burglary gone horribly

  wrong. Or if there was something else. Another reason

  the intruders had come to that cabin in the middle of the

  night.

  Regardless of how the autopsy and discovery came

  out, I couldn’t believe the murder was the result of a