The Fury (2009)
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botched robbery. The killers had brought in weapons.
For protection? Maybe. To scare any residents?
Perhaps. Or maybe they brought them because they
were there for the sole purpose of killing Helen Gaines.
And Beth-Ann Downing just got in the way.
On the ride back from Blue Lake Mountain, neither
Amanda nor I said a word. The iPod sat on the armrest
untouched. We had no coffee, no snacks. It was just
completely and utterly silent.
I parked the car on the street near my apartment.
Amanda came upstairs with me.
Upon opening the door, I had a momentary burst
of fear. I generally took my safety for granted, despite
the fact that I’d been the recipient of some fairly
severe beatings over the past few years. I had scars
on my leg, my hand and my chest as a result of in
truders. Yet I wanted to believe I was safe. With
Amanda I usually felt that way. But tonight, after
seeing how another person’s life—a helpless
person—could be invaded and snuffed out so quickly,
it made me rethink the simple dead bolt that protected
my apartment.
“Did you see,” Amanda said, forcing the words out,
“all that blood?”
I nodded. Went into the kitchen and poured us each
a glass of water. Amanda gulped hers down while I sat
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there holding the cool glass in my hands, wondering just
what the hell was going on.
It didn’t make sense that Helen Gaines would be on
the run. I had to assume my father did not kill Stephen
Gaines. I also had to assume that Helen Gaines knew
who the real killer was. And if that was true, she fled
because she did not feel like contacting the police. She
fled because of something she knew, either about her
son or his killer.
She’d gone to upstate New York to hide from some
thing or someone. And not just from her son’s killer.
From something larger. If you fear one person, that fear
can be contained, limited. Controlled. You can seek the
help of cops, lawyers. There are always people who can
help.
What exactly was Helen Gaines fleeing from?
I thought about what Binks and Makhoulian talked
about at the medical examiner’s office. Binks said that
Stephen Gaines was killed by a pistol likely covered by
some sort of makeshift silencer. That insinuated the
murder was premeditated. Of course, any prosecutor
could make the claim that my father made up his mind
to kill Stephen, that his death would allow my father to
keep on living without paying the money Helen wanted,
or exposing his bastard child to his family. The motive
would still hold up.
But then I thought about seeing Beth-Ann Downing
lying facedown in that pool of blood. The scene was
gruesome and hard to look at, yet I’d trained myself to
do just that. You had to divest yourself of any emotional
attachment. Present the facts. They would tell the story
themselves.
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Beth was lying in a pool of blood. I remembered
seeing something floating in that pool. A small piece of
gray hair. I hadn’t thought much about it then, merely
processed it into my memory, but now I called it back
up.
The strand was very thin, very short, almost a hair’s
width. But it wasn’t hair—it was metal.
The conversation with Binks and Makhoulian came
back to me. The silenced gun that was used to kill
Stephen.
Most silencers were not professional. They were
made from simple items. A pillow.Aluminum tubing.
Aluminum tubing filled with steel wool.
I looked up at Amanda.
“Steel wool,” I said.
“What?”
“The gun that was used to kill Stephen—whoever
did it used aluminum tubing filled with steel wool to
create a silencer. They didn’t find evidence at Stephen’s
murder scene, but the coroner said the wounds sug
gested a silencer. But it was impossible to tell what
kind of silencer was used. When I saw Beth-Ann
Downing, there was a piece of metal near her body. I’m
positive it was steel wool. Which means the intruders
knew where Helen was. And between the silencer and
the offroad tires, they didn’t want anyone to know they
were there.”
Fear grew in Amanda’s eyes. “That means the same
people who killed Stephen probably killed Beth.”
“And are still after Helen,” I said. “Not only that, but
they’re actually taking precautions during the murders.
According to Makhoulian, no shell casings or bullets
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were found at Gaines’s apartment. Whoever killed him
took them to prevent analysis, but left the gun itself.
Somehow I don’t see my father on his hands and knees
picking up spent shell casings, or digging a bullet out
of the wall. And why would they leave the gun?”
“Someone out there has the answer,” Amanda said.
“We need to find Helen Gaines,” I said. “She has to
know what’s going on. And something has to be fright
ening her enough to stay away from the cops.”
“If someone doesn’t want to be found,” Amanda
said, “they won’t be found.”
“Not necessarily. If you have the resources, anyone
can be found. The trick isn’t going from point A to
point Z. There are stops in between. Each one will lead
you closer. We need to find the next step, even if it only
takes us a little bit closer.”
“So who knew Helen Gaines besides Stephen and
Beth?” Amanda said. “And who knew Stephen besides
Rose Keller?”
“The question isn’t necessarily who knew Helen and
Stephen,” I said, “but who else knew Rose and Beth?
Beth-Ann Downing had a daughter. Sheryl Downing,
who now goes by the name Sheryl Harrison. She’s
thirty-five, and according to the Indian Lake officer
who spoke to Sheryl, she and Beth hadn’t spoken in
nearly ten years, ever since Sheryl moved to California.
For there to be that kind of estrangement, something
had to have driven mother and daughter apart.”
“But it could be anything,” Amanda said dubiously.
“Maybe Beth disapproved of her daughter’s husband.
Maybe Sheryl didn’t like her mom’s cooking.”
“Or maybe there was something else,” I said. “It
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took a lot more than burned meat loaf to make me want
to leave a burning trail of rubber when I left Bend.”
“So how do you plan to get in touch with Sheryl?”
“She lives in Sherman Oaks. We have her name.
She’s on her way to New York, but will likely still be
checking her messages. Give me one minute.”
I went to my laptop and booted it. Opening Internet
Explorer, I went to 411.com. I plugged in Sherman
&nb
sp; Oaks as the city, then entered the name Sheryl Harrison.
The page loaded for a few seconds, and then three
names popped up, along with their phone numbers.
“Let’s hope this works.”
I called each of the three numbers. The first Sheryl
Harrison picked up. I told her I had a question about her
mother, Beth. She said her mother had died years ago.
I thanked her and hung up. Neither of the next two were
home. One of them might have been the right one. I had
no idea if they were, or which one. But I left them both
the same message:
“Hi, Sheryl, my name is Henry Parker. I’m so sorry
for your loss. I have a question about your mother. I
don’t mean to pry, and I know this is a difficult time for
you, but I wouldn’t be contacting you if this wasn’t of
the utmost importance. If you can, please call me back
at the following number.”
I left my number on both machines, and thanked them
again for their time. One Sheryl would call me back. I had
to believe that.And to believe that, all I had to do was wait.
After a quick slice of pizza, I threw off my clothes
and stepped into the shower. I immediately noticed there
were no towels hanging on the racks. Either we’d used
them all and they were in the laundry waiting to be
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shipped off, or Amanda had purposely taken them all out
so I’d have to beg for one. I had a feeling it was the latter.
For some reason she got a kick out of seeing me open
the bathroom door just a crack, then squirt through the
apartment naked looking for something to cover myself
up with. She called this game “hide and peek,” and I’d
be lying if I said she was the only one who enjoyed it.
For some reason, I was too scared to play it on her.
The water felt wonderful, hot and nearly scalding. A
long shower would do my body good, just to take my
mind off everything. We had to start up again soon, but
every brief respite was a moment to be savored.
After that, I threw a pair of shorts on while I airdried, then went to the bed and passed out. Amanda was
already asleep, surrounded by enough pillows to build
a fort big enough for both of us. No reason to ask where
all my towels were. Sleep came easily.
It must have been several hours later when a shrill
ring woke me up from the darkness. I blinked, noticed
Amanda was no longer on the bed. I groped around for
the phone, forgetting where I’d placed it. Then I heard
Amanda from the living room.
“Henry, your phone is ringing!”
“Who is it?” I replied, picking crust from my eyes.
“Check the caller ID.”
“I don’t know, but it’s an 818 area code.”
Eight-one-eight. That was a California area code.
I leaped out of bed, toppling half a dozen pillows
onto the floor. I was wearing nothing but a towel. Not
like whoever was calling would notice. Then I bolted
out of the bedroom—stark naked, the towel fluttering
to the floor—and made a beeline for the phone.
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Amanda was standing there, holding it in one hand
while trying to stifle a laugh with her other.
“Sweet dreams?” she said, looking south.
I scowled at her, crossed my legs, grabbed the phone,
looked at the ID and pressed Send.
“Hello?” I said, hoping I’d made it in time.
“Is this…Mr. Parker?” It was a woman’s voice I did
not register in my memory.
“Yes, who is this?”
“Sheryl Harrison. I had a voice mail from a Henry
Parker asking to call back at this number. Something
about my mother.”
“Yes, Mrs. Harrison, thank you so much for calling
me back. I was wondering if I could talk to you about
your mother, Beth. Do you have a few minutes?”
“I’m leaving the church right now. My mother’s
funeral is tomorrow. I have an hour before my appoint
ment with the florist, that’s all the time I can give you. If
you can meet me on Twenty-seventh and Third, you’ll
have whatever time is remaining before my appoint
ment.”
“I’m leaving right now,” I said, looking around to see
where I put my pants.
“Just so we’re clear, I know who you are, Mr. Parker.
You’re a reporter. To be honest, I really want nothing
to do with you, and you’re not going to get much more
than a ‘no comment.’”
“This isn’t for my job,” I said. “It’s personal. It’s
about my father. He’s linked to this crime. You’ll under
stand when I see you.”
“Is that right. So none of this will end up in print.”
“Not a word.”
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“In any event, everything that passes between us is
officially off the record.”
“I understand,” I said. “You have my word.”
“So if any word of our conversation ends up in print,
I’ll own your newspaper, your apartment and every pen
and pencil you’ve ever held.”
“I swear on my life, this is personal.”
“We’ll see.” She hung up.
I looked up to see Amanda standing there holding a
pair of slacks and a clean blue shirt.
“If you’re not out this door in three minutes,” she
said, “I’m going down there to meet Sheryl Harrison in
your place.”
16
The good and bad thing about New York is that if you
don’t have time to sit stuck in traffic while your cab
racks up forty cents every one-point-two blocks, you
can pick from myriad transportation options. There are
dozens of subway and bus lines that crisscross the city
like a drunk doctor’s stitching, and even if the Second
Avenue subway remains a figment of the city’s imagi
nation, there’s always a way from point A to point B.
Of course, even though there happens to be a large
public transportation system, it was still as spotty ser
vicewise as your average Wi-Fi connection. Which is
why I stood sweating in a dank station for nearly half
an hour before the 4 train rumbled to its stop. By the
time I took a seat across from a heavily tattooed couple
playing tonsil hockey like they were trying out for the
Rangers, my nice blue shirt was soaked through with
sweat and my pressed slacks looked like they’d been
crumpled in a ball in a Russian steam bath for a week.
Thankfully, the one place in New York that was airconditioned was the subway cars, so when I transferred
to the 6 and got off at Twenty-eighth and Park, my
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clothes looked only mildly rumpled. I couldn’t decide
whether this appearance would make Sheryl Harrison
more or less skeptical of my motives.
Hustling over to Twenty-seventh and Third, I saw an
attractive black woman standing on the corner. She was
finishing the last of what appeared to be a sandw
ich or
a wrap, and held a gigantic iced coffee in her other
hand. The smart yet subdued suit she wore seemed to
work for someone in mourning, yet keeping her ap
pointment book up-to-date.
Just as I approached, she strapped her purse to her
shoulder and began to walk away.
Sprinting across the street, I yelled, “Miss Harri
son! Sheryl!”
She turned to look at me, the expression on her face
unchanging. Panting, I caught up to her, composed
myself. “Mrs. Harrison, Henry Parker, so sorry, the
subway, I—”
“I’m on my way to the florist. I don’t have time to
stop and chat. You’re welcome to walk with me, but as
soon as we get there we’re done.”
“I understand,” I said, falling into step with her.
It was a dry, sunny day, and pretty soon I wasn’t even
thinking about the trip down. Sheryl Harrison walked
west down Twenty-seventh, and I followed.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
“I doubt that,” she said. “Though the police did tell
me you found her. Is that right?”
“That’s right,” I replied. Sheryl nodded, kept
walking. She was tall, about five-ten, with an almost
regal walk. Her hair looked professionally done, her
makeup highlighting her natural features rather than
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trying to add some that weren’t there. She took long,
gallant strides, and though I wasn’t a short guy I found
myself expelling quite a bit of energy just to keep step.
To my surprise, Sheryl did not ask a follow-up
question. Not about the circumstances in which I found
her mother, if she had any last words, nothing. If she
was in mourning, she hid it. If she had any feelings for
her mother, they were worn far below the sleeve.
Without Sheryl prompting, I told her about Stephen
Gaines, about my father’s arrest for his murder. I also
told her how Rose Keller had pointed me in the direc
tion of the cabin at Blue Lake Mountain, and how I was
working to prove my father’s innocence. She listened
without saying a word. I couldn’t tell if she was merely
aloof, distracted with everything that had gone on, or,
more distressingly, not surprised at all.
“Were you two close?” I asked. A rhetorical
question, but what I hoped would be a baby step in
finding out more about Beth-Ann Downing and her re
lationship to Helen Gaines.
“I hadn’t spoken to my mother in almost ten years,”