31
“I have to go,” I said, standing up. Right under my
nose the whole time. My brother’s killer. I didn’t have
time to talk to Helen. To worry about how disturbing it
was that a mother would prefer to protect her own hide
than find justice for her son’s killer.
I couldn’t think about how this might affect Helen.
She could be helped. She could be protected. And if her
eyes hadn’t deceived her that night, I knew who had
killed Stephen Gaines.
“Tell me you’ll be here,” I said to Helen, looking at
Clarence. “I swear on my life I know people who can
protect you. And if I’m right, you won’t have to worry
anymore, because the man who killed Stephen will be
behind bars the rest of his life. There’s nobody else
who can hurt you.”
“You don’t know that,” Helen whispered. “Stephen
was much stronger than I ever was. And look what
happened to him.”
There was no boogeyman. No higher power. It was
the law of the jungle. Kill or be killed. Stephen found
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himself on the shit end of that equation. And it was time
for me to even the score.
“Please be here,” I said. “If I’m right, you’ll need
to testify.”
“If you’re wrong,” she said, “neither of us will be
around long enough for it to matter.”
I said nothing. I thanked Clarence for his help. Then,
crossing over to Helen Gaines, I put my hand on her
shoulder. The bones protruded, sharp angles. There was
no muscle, no strength there. She was a skeleton with
skin. A woman whose soul seemed to have left her long
ago.
Helen Gaines smiled weakly at me. I didn’t know if
she would still be here later. There were only so many
lives I could affect. My duty was to the truth, to uncover
it at all costs.
“Watch after her,” I said to Clarence. His nod told
me he would.
I left Bernita’s apartment, exiting the building. The
sun was hanging bright and hot over the city. Every
second seemed to take an hour. Every moment he
breathed thinking he’d gotten away with murder was
one that made my blood boil.
Before I left, I took out my cell phone and my wallet,
then removed the thick stack of business cards that had
turned brown from the leather. Shuffling through them,
I picked out the one I needed. Then I called the cell
phone number listed.
“Detective Makhoulian,” came the answer.
“Detective,” I said, “it’s Henry Parker. I know who
killed Stephen Gaines.”
I gave him the address and told him when to be there.
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Only, I would be there ten minutes earlier. We needed
some time alone.
I headed toward the subway, my mind completely
clear except for the anticipation of what was about to
come. The judicial system would have its turn. But first
I needed mine.
The train was hot, crowded and sticky. It only served
to get my blood up. Once I got out downtown, the walk
was short. My legs carried me faster than I knew they
could. In my mind I could see images of the people I
knew. Had known. And had never known.
My father.
My mother.
Jack.
And Stephen Gaines. The brother I never had.
I arrived on the block with half an hour to spare. I
checked my watch every thirty seconds, trying to
contain the rage building inside of me. Everything had
led up to this.
I paced up and down, breathing steady, controlled. It
wasn’t easy. The last time I remembered feeling like this,
helpless yet ready to explode, was several years ago when
my then girlfriend Mya was attacked and nearly raped.
That night I paced the street, a fifth of vodka in a paper
bag, praying I would somehow find the man who was
cowardly enough to attack a woman half his size. Though
Amanda and I had been through some trying ordeals, to
the point where I wondered if we would live to see the
next day, we were both strong-willed people. We could
overcome it. We knew that. Stephen wasn’t strong enough
to overcome his demons. He’d been seduced by the vial,
the needle, and once they were in they were in for good.
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And suddenly I turned around and there he was.
Wearing a brilliant suit, slightly disheveled after a long
day’s work. A briefcase slung over his shoulder. His
shoulders were slumped as he walked, his eyes cast
down to the street. As he got closer I could see the birth
mark on his neck. The same one Helen Gaines saw the
night he killed my brother.
He didn’t see me waiting for him. That was probably
for the best.
“Scott Callahan,” I said.
Scotty’s eyes snapped up to meet mine. At first he was
confused, then a small smile crossed his lips when he
recognized me. Then that smile disappeared when he
realized I was not there for a social visit. Nothing like
it.
“Henry?” he said, trying to understand what I was
doing there.
I walked toward him. Picking up my pace with
every step.
“Cops are on their way,” I said, voice even, teeth
gritted. Scott kept on walking, tentative, until we were
just a few feet from each other. “But they won’t be here
for a little while. So we have some time to chat.”
Scotty’s face went an ashen gray. “The cops?” he
said. “Wha…I don’t understand. You promised me
you’d keep my name out of this. Goddamn it, you
promised me!”
“I promised I wouldn’t turn you in for dealing. I was
looking for something more. But I never said a word
about keeping your name clean from murder, you piece
of shit.”
“Murder? What the hell…” Scotty was breathing
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hard. I saw his eyes flicker to the building next to us,
where he lived. He was carrying nothing but his brief
case and his wallet. There was nowhere to go. No place
to hide.
And then, from the opposite end of the street, we
both heard the faint shrill of police sirens. Scotty
whirled around. The cops weren’t within sight yet. He
was sweating, nervous. Then all of a sudden Scotty
came around and punched me in the stomach.
It wasn’t a hard blow, but I was unprepared. Rather
than buckling and trying to absorb the hit, it landed
square in my gut, knocking the wind from me. I fell to
a knee, gasping for air. Scotty began to run. So I did the
only thing I could. I grabbed his ankle as he ran past.
Scotty’s leg went out from under him, and he landed
with a thud on the pavement. His briefcase went flying,
fluttering pathetically in the wind. Forgetting about my
own la
ck of air, I leaped up and pounced on him. I dug
my knee into the small of his back, then rolled him over
and reared back to deliver my own blow. Scotty brought
his elbows up to protect his face, and my punch hit
nothing but bone. The pain was terrible, but it dissipated
in an instant. I connected with a solid right to Scotty’s
ear, knocking his face sideways. A scream escaped his
mouth.
I threw another punch, but Scotty was able to block
it, twisting sideways. I still hadn’t recovered from his
punch, so I was thrown off balance and fell off him. I
managed to keep my hand on his shoulder, pulling him
back down as he tried to get up.
Scotty was crawling for something; I couldn’t see
what. My face was still close to the ground, and I could
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smell the concrete. Then I heard a clang as something
toppled over, and that was followed by a whoosh of air
as he swung what appeared to be the lid of a garbage
can at my head.
I managed to roll away, catching a glancing piece of
the aluminum on my jaw. It stunned me and I fell back.
Scotty stood up, limping, clutching his knee. The sirens
were growing louder. Not long ago the police had been
after me, and I’d managed to escape. At least for a
while. Scotty had lived here for years, knew every inch
of the city. He had friends who would protect him. If
Helen Gaines, a frail junkie, could find a safe house, no
doubt a dealer with innumerable contacts could as well.
I couldn’t let him get away.
As Scotty began to run, I got to my feet, dived
forward and tackled him from behind. His legs gave out,
and Scotty screamed again as his knee slammed down
on the ground. By this point I could see several pedes
trians watching us, hands over their mouths in shock and
terror. A few were on their cell phones, no doubt calling
911.
A little late, but I appreciated the gesture.
Scotty was still writhing, and I managed to turn him
over, placing my knees in the crook of his elbows. Just
like I had to the guy who tried to jump me at the apart
ment. Scotty’s head was bleeding from where I’d
punched him. There was a ragged hole in his pants by
his right knee. There was a nasty cut that was bleeding
pretty heavily. I could feel the slow, hot trickle of blood
running down my neck, where he’d clipped me with the
lid.
I raised my fist, ready to exhaust all the rage and fury
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of the last few days. To get payback for my brother’s
murder, for my father’s incarceration.
This man, this killer, this hired dealer. The world
would be better off without him.
Yet as I stared at my own fist, poised and ready to
strike the helpless murderer, suddenly my hand went
slack. My fingers uncurled. I couldn’t do it. Justice
wasn’t about taking an eye for an eye. I was above that.
I had to be.
So I sat there, knees on his arms, the man below me
in terrible pain, tears streaming down his face.
“Please,” Scotty blubbered, “let me go. You don’t
know what you’re doing…”
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” I said. “I’m giving
you the chance you never gave Stephen. I’m going to
let you live.”
The sirens grew closer. I could see the red and blue
flashing off the windows on the street. The air was hot,
swirling around us as I waited, my breathing heavy,
angry.
“Get the hell off of him.”
I didn’t recognize the voice. The sirens screamed all
around us. I hadn’t heard a car pull up. It wasn’t a cop
talking. The voice did sound familiar, though.…
Turning my head, from the corner of my eye I saw Kyle
Evans standing two feet from our sprawled bodies. He was
holding a gun in his hand. It was pointed right at my head.
I heard more screams, and anyone who had been on
the street watching had run off when the gun was pulled.
It was just the three of us.
I took my knees off Scotty, who scooted backward.
He clutched his knee, biting his lip.
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I stood up. Air was coming back to my lungs, but I
was still doubled over slightly.
“He’s a killer,” I said, the words coming out in
bursts. “He’s—”
And then I saw it. And whatever breath had found
its way back into my lungs vanished.
Kyle was holding a black pistol. And attached to the
end of it was a thin metal tube. And I remembered what
Leon Binks had said to me the night I identified Stephen
Gaines’s body in the medical examiner’s office.
“The killer was using a silenced weapon. Now, very
few guns have those kinds of professional silencers you
see in movies, that screw on like a lightbulb. Usually
they’re homemade, a length of aluminum tubing filled
with steel wool or fiberglass.”
“It was you,” I said. “You killed Stephen.”
Kyle went over to where Scott Callahan was lying
on the ground. He was still holding his knee, but smiled
when he saw his friend approach. Kyle knelt down, put
his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Scotty tried to prop
himself up, but he was too weak. I stood there, my body
rigid with anger and dread.
Kyle looked back at me. Then he said, “You gotta do
what you gotta do to survive.”
Then he placed the gun under Scott Callahan’s chin
and pulled the trigger.
32
“What the fuck!” I shouted. The gun blast was more
of a meek pfft, like compressed air escaping from a
puncture. Gore sprayed out the top of Scott Callahan’s
head. His body twitched once, then fell to the ground
and lay still.
My hands wouldn’t work. I stared slack-jawed at
Kyle. He was still on the ground, the gun loose in his
hand. He looked at his friend, a sorrow etching across
his face for an instant. Then his eyes turned cold and
his gaze came to me.
“You have no idea,” Kyle said, “how surprised I was
to get to Stephen’s house and find a gun already there.
I had this one all ready. Instead, all I needed was the
capper.” He pointed to the silencer.
“You used my brother’s own gun to kill him,” I said.
“But he wasn’t the last one to use it.”
“No, I really should have bought a lotto ticket that
night. When I heard that Stephen’s dad got popped for
it? I nearly pissed myself laughing. See, that night I
wore gloves, figured it would slow the cops down, but
I had no idea about your dad’s shenanigans. I was there
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305
to take out Stephen, but I kind of took out the whole
family. As long as they had someone else pinned for the
murder, we were in the clear.”
“We?” I said.
&nbs
p; “Scotty was supposed to do it. He knew Stephen
better than I did. They were pals, man.”
I thought back to our conversation in the deli. Scotty
pretending to barely know my brother. That’s how they
got so close to him.
“When your dad got popped, we were in the clear.
We even took the casings just in case. Turns out we
didn’t even need to. Now, though, Scotty here’s gotta
take the fall. Can’t have anyone thinking the killer’s still
out there.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“On a normal day, I’d get pissed at you for talking
about my mom like that, but I’ll let it slide. Besides,
when I meant nobody could know, I meant it.” Kyle
turned the gun to me. He had me less than five feet
away, dead to rights. There was no tremor in his hand.
By the time I even thought about running, he could pull
the trigger.
“Why?” I said. “Why did he have to die?”
“You said it yourself,” Kyle replied. “The man just
had to. When you’re the top dog in anything, you’re
gonna get bitten.”
“But Stephen was so young.”
“There’s no one guy,” Kyle said. “It’s like Ronald
McDonald. Every now and then someone new steps up
to the plate. Call it a coup d’etat, call it whatever you
want, but every company needs a regime change. Some
new blood at the top. Now it’s my turn.”
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Jason Pinter
Curt Sheffield had told me that five people connected
to 718 Enterprises had been killed recently. Add to that
number my brother and now Scott Callahan. Helen
Gaines told me that Stephen had wanted to leave the
country, that he feared something terrible. Clearly he’d
gotten wind that there were rivals who wanted to take
him out. So, was Stephen systematically wiping out his
competition? Is that why Kyle killed him—just to beat
him to the punch?
If what Kyle said was true, and Stephen and Scotty
had been friends, Stephen trusted them both. That’s
how Scotty and Kyle talked their way into my brother’s
apartment. They were couriers for him, yet he didn’t
fear them. My brother had been betrayed by his own
friends.
When Stephen came to the Gazette that night, he’d
wanted to come clean. He knew the chances of getting
enough money to hide were slim. So my guess was that
he was going to spill on the whole operation. He didn’t
fully trust the cops to protect him, but he figured if it
made the papers first he couldn’t be killed without the
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