Parker 01 - The Mark (5 page)

C
hristine. She was screaming.

And then there was silence.

I heard a deep, baritone voice from inside apartment 2C. The voice was enraged, but the words were muffled. Then another bloodcurdling shriek sent shivers through my body.

Christine.

I stood in front of the door, afraid to move.

Could Luis be beating her? No, it wasn’t possible. I’d looked into his eyes, saw that violent life had left him long ago. But for most criminals, rehabilitation lasted only as long as chance. All it took was one moment to plunge back into the abyss.

Then I heard the voice again, more clearly. It wasn’t Luis. No, Luis had a thick Hispanic accent. This was a different person altogether. The voice was crisp, American. No Latin inflections.

I heard a loud
thunk,
like the sound of wood hitting wood.

Oh, Jesus, oh, God…

My feet were rooted to the floor. This was none of my business. I wasn’t supposed to be here. My job was done. I already had what Jack wanted. Nobody would think worse of me.

Then I heard it again. Another
thunk,
and a muted scream.

Mya.

That night, sitting by her bedside at the hospital.

I called you. You weren’t there.

I called you, Henry.

The screams grated my flesh. I heard Christine sobbing. Then the hush of another man’s voice, pleading. This voice had a Hispanic accent.

Luis.

Then the American shouted, and I heard another
thunk.

I was alone in the hall. Nobody else wanted any part of this. An evil quiet had set in, because nobody dared to stop it.

And then there was silence.

Maybe it was over. Maybe I could go back to the comfort of my bed, sleep off the terrible night and prepare to turn in my interview. Luis and Christine would be fine. Surely it was all a misunderstanding. Deep down I knew I would have helped if they needed it.

I called you, Henry.

Then Christine screamed again, and my thoughts were shattered. And in that moment, I knew what I had to do.

I set my backpack down. I took a deep breath. Then I knocked on the door.

“Luis!” I shouted. “Christine? Is everything okay?”

My words were met with silence. Then the sound of footsteps. The American was talking, his voice soft but firm. I could turn back, recede into the shadows, and whoever was inside wouldn’t know the difference.

Or I could be strong. Like I should have been for Mya.

And so my feet remained bolted to the floor as the door swung open. And in that moment, my life changed forever.

Thankfully I’d gone to the bathroom before leaving the restaurant, because when the door swung open there was a gun aimed right at my head.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man said, his narrow eyes surprised, taking me in.

He stood a hair over six foot two and outweighed me by a good fifty pounds. It wasn’t all good weight. His midsection was soggy, lines creasing his face like he’d fallen asleep on chicken wire. His hands were rough, calloused. Two of his knuckles were bleeding. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

I gulped down saliva, coughed on it, and forced myself to breathe.

“I said who the fuck are you?” His spittle pecked my cheek.

“Leave him alone!”

It was Christine, wailing from inside the apartment. I looked past the man with the gun and saw Luis sitting in a chair. His arms and legs were handcuffed and bloody. His suit was spattered with red, his tie unraveled. His face was shel-lacked with cuts and bruises. Blood leaked from several openings. Then I saw Christine. She was tied to the radiator.

“What…” was the only word I could muster. The man with the gun leaned in, peered at me.

“You got some business, kid?” I waggled my head, neither a nod nor a shake. “Then get the fuck out of here.”

He pushed the door closed, turned back to his captives. Without thinking, I blocked the door with my foot.

The man waited a moment, cocked his ear, then turned back to me. His gun was still raised, his finger gently tapping the muzzle. In Bend I wrote about guns and violence many times. I recognized his weapon as an old-school. 38 caliber. A six-shooter.

I called you, Henry.

“Let them go,” I said as defiantly as possible. It must have come off well, because he lowered the gun a fraction of an inch. Christine was working fervently at her bonds, rubbing them back and forth along the edge of the radiator. Our eyes connected for a moment, then I looked away. I didn’t want to clue him in.

“Kid’s got balls, Luis.” He let out a small laugh. “You know him?”

Luis’s head bobbed and he mouthed something unintelligible. His cheeks were swollen, his head lolling like a screw unfastened from its mooring.

Seeing Luis bleeding, helpless, watching Christine flail at her bonds, seeing this man, this animal, I felt a fire burning in my stomach. After Mya was attacked, all I wanted was a venue to prove myself, some way to prove I’d never turn my back again. Drunken bar fights and remote staredowns meant nothing. And so here it was. Standing directly in front of me. Wearing a trenchcoat and holding a loaded pistol.

Stepping into the apartment, I gritted my teeth and said, “I’ll call the cops. Right now.” I took out my cell phone and opened it.

The man stepped back like I’d slapped him. He was trying to gauge my resolve, to see if I truly had the balls to turn my back and make the call. I looked into his eyes for a moment, then started dialing.

“Okay, kid,” he said, amused. To my surprise he held up his hands, gun included, like a kid being held up in a game of cops and robbers.

“Don’t go doing anything stupid, kid. I’ll leave peacefully.”

“My name’s Henry,” I said, jaw muscles clenched.

“Henry,” he said with mock admiration, adding a faint laugh. “That’s an old man’s name.”

I said nothing.

“So, Henry, now that you’ve terrified the bad guy I guess I’ll go crawl into a hole and cry myself to sleep.” He turned to face Luis and Christine. Christine stopped working her bonds and looked up at him.

“Just leave us alone!” she cried. Luis struggled lamely against his ropes, but the man had no energy left.

“In time, hon. In time.”

“I don’t see you leaving,” I said.

“Don’t have a fucking heart attack, I’ll leave.” Then he whipped the gun around and pointed it at Luis’s head. “But not until I get what I came here for.”

Christine spoke softly, her will crumbling. “I told you. We don’t have it.”

“Bullshit!” he roared. “If you don’t tell me where it is in five seconds…” He looked back at me and smiled. “And if you do tell me, I’ll leave. Just like I promised Henry.”

Saliva spilled down Christine’s lips as she spoke. “Please, I swear, we don’t have it.”

“One.”

Christine’s body tensed, a helpless wail escaping her lips.

“I’m calling the cops,” I said. “Right now.”

“Go ahead,” he said. “This’ll be done in four seconds anyway. You think they’ll be here in four seconds?” Then he added, “Two.”

“Please don’t do this,” Christine sobbed. “Please just listen….”

“Three.”

Christine was frantically working her bonds, rubbing them harder and harder against the radiator. The ropes were fraying. She was almost free.

Then the man stepped forward and whipped his pistol against Luis’s head. His neck snapped back and blood poured from his temple.

“Jesus Christ!” Christine screamed. “Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus.” She rocked back and forth, reaching for her wounded husband. “You leave him alone!”

“Four.”

There was no thought process, no weighing of right and wrong. As soon as the man counted four, I drove my shoulder into the small of his back, sending him sprawling forward. The gun flew from his grip and landed by Luis’s feet. I kept driving until his head collided with the wall, a whoosh of air escaping his lungs. The man groaned. He swung an elbow that glanced off the top of my head, rattling me.

Luis was babbling, bubbles spraying red foam over his lips. Christine was working her ropes like a handsaw.

I dove for the pistol, my stomach smacking on the hard-wood floor. Then it was in my hand, my finger sliding through the trigger guard, when I felt a sharp pain as he kicked me in the ribs. I doubled over, fire burning through my side. The gun fell from my grasp.

I looked up at Luis, his eyelids fluttering, barely coherent. Suddenly, I was fighting for three lives.

As I struggled to get to my feet, the heel of his palm struck me in the solar plexus. The wind knocked out of me, I dropped to a knee and gasped. The man touched a finger to his nose, saw it come away red with his blood.

“You little fuck,” he said. “You had the chance to mind your fucking business. I didn’t want to kill you, you brought this shit on yourself.”

He bent down and reached for the gun. I leapt up, stomped on his wrist with my heel. A sharp crack reported as the bone snapped. He cried out in pain and stumbled back, cradling his maimed appendage.

Again I went for the gun, but he kicked it away, skittering it between my legs until it came to rest by the door. For a second neither of us moved. I was closer to the door.

I went for the gun but a massive shoulder slammed me against the door. The hinges groaned, and the door buckled. I grabbed a fistful of hair, pulled hard. The man screamed.

He stepped back, wrenching himself free. Again I went for the gun, and again was driven into the door, my head slamming viciously against the metal. This time, the hinges gave way.

The door collapsed outward, and we toppled into the hallway. His two hundred and fifty pounds fell on top of me like a mushy sandbag. I felt a sharp pain in my ribs where he’d kicked me, every breath like a knife in my lungs. I was dizzy from the blow to the head.

The man rolled onto his back as I pushed myself up. When I got to my feet, I noticed that everything was silent.

Then I saw the gun pointed at my head.

“Stupid fuck,” the man said. His right arm was folded across his chest, sling-style, while his left was fingering the trigger.

I stopped breathing. My mouth went dry. I could be dead in less time than it took for my heart to beat.

“Wait,” I said.

“I didn’t come here for you,” he said, breathing slowly. I could tell from his eyes that he’d killed before. There was no fear, no hesitation. If he wanted me dead, I was dead. There was no moral ambiguity to it.

I gritted my teeth. Tried to think of something to say. Something that might dissuade him. Something poignant that might reach him.

Instead, the only word I could muster was “Don’t.”

He smiled. Blood stained his teeth.

I closed my eyes, thought of that night. Mya.

There was a yelp, and the thunder of a gunshot. I expected a ripping pain to tear through me, but when I opened my eyes Christine had managed to free herself from her bonds and was hanging on the man’s back, her fingers clawing at his face. The gun had discharged into the ceiling, pieces of plaster sprinkling down like snow.

As she pounded his head with her fists, red nail polish chipped and flaking, purplish ligature marks on her wrists, the man struggled to free himself. He leaned over and rammed Christine into the wall, back first. She whimpered and crumpled to the ground.

Again he aimed the gun at me and I charged. We both fell, and my hand closed around the gun’s muzzle. My heart felt ready to burst as I climbed on top of him, my knees straddling his chest, trying to pry the gun away. He was stronger. The gun was swinging back toward me.

To beat him, I needed leverage. To take him off guard.

I relaxed my grip, and as the gun lined up with my chest, I rolled over, heard a small gasp as he lost balance. I didn’t know where the gun was pointed, but suddenly I had a better grip. My fingers searched frantically for the trigger guard.

Just as my finger entered the smooth, circular hole, I felt his meaty finger join mine. On the trigger. Then his finger tightened its grip.

There was a tremendous explosion, and a flash of light burned my eyes. The gun propelled itself into my shoulder, knocking me backward. I got to my knees, surprised to find the gun in my hand. Finally I had control. I looked for my target.

He was lying on his side. And he wasn’t moving.

A faint curl of smoke wafted from a tattered hole in his raincoat. A pool of blood began to spread out on the floor beneath him.

“Oh fuck,” I said. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

The gun clattered to the floor. I looked around the hallway, saw faces peeking out of doorways. I locked eyes with an elderly woman, who quickly shut her door when she saw the carnage. Christine picked herself up, wincing as she touched the back of her head. She limped over and looked at the man. Terror was etched on her face, as though she were being lined up before a firing squad.

“Dios mío,”
she said softly, crossing herself. “He can’t be…we didn’t have it…”

“Is he…” I whispered. Christine said nothing.

I knelt down, my legs like cooked pasta. The man’s eyes were wide open, his mouth frozen in an
O
shape. A thick slab of tongue lolled in his mouth as I fumbled for his wrist, pressed my fingers against his veins. Nothing. I felt my wrist, just to make sure I was holding the right place, and felt blood coursing through my body faster than I thought possible. Gingerly stepping over the spreading pool of blood, I pressed my fingers against his fleshy, unshaven neck. Nothing.

“Oh…my God,” I said, standing up, stumbling backward.

“Is he…” Christine said, nodding at the body.

“I think so.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she whimpered. “God, no.” She should have felt safe now that he was dead, but the look of terror in Christine’s eyes was even greater than before.

Luis was still slumped in his chair. Christine stumbled past me into the kitchen, returning with a carving knife. She began slicing through her husband’s bonds. I caught my breath, dizziness spreading over me, the lifeless eyes of a corpse boring a hole in my back.