The Fury (2009)
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“You’re kidding,” I said.
“Nope. Thursday nights I had me a pickup game of
basketball in the park with some other kids. I was about
six-two by high school, and could handle it like a dream.
I thought if I kept growing I could be another Magic
Johnson, the kind of big guy who had the skills of a
point guard. Then one Thursday I came home. Picked
up one of those ice-cream cones in a wrapper, you know
with chocolate around the cone and nuts in the vanilla?
Carried it home with me, went upstairs, first thing I see
is blood on the carpet. I couldn’t see my dad, that’s how
big the puddle was. He was lying in the living room, the
puddle had spread into the hallway. I go in there, and
he’s facedown, arms above his head like he was trying
to fly and fell from the sky.”
“You saw the words?” I said.
“Yeah. Just barely, but they were in the carpet. Lucky
for us we had an off-white carpet, otherwise I might
have missed it. The Fury. That’s what my dad wrote
while he was dying on our floor.”
“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
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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.
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277
“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
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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 Söze 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.
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279
“Listen, man, you’ve had your fun. Leave or I’m
gonna call the cops.”
&nb
sp; 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.
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281
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
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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?
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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 r
acing. 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.
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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.”
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“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.