Read Parker 04 - The Fury Online
Authors: Jason Pinter
addiction started off as a disease I didn't know, but sure
as hell once those hooks dug in, the virus swam around
in your system until it ate you from the inside.
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"What do you do for a living, Rose? I mean, all those
drugs couldn't be cheap."
"Graphic designer," she said proudly. "I make eighty
grand a year."
She noticed how impressed I was.
"And your employer, they..."
"Never knew a thing. Been working for a television
studio doing Web site design for six years. They figure
the geeks are wired differently than everyone else, and
that we were all born in the same freaky nursery. So you
come in with your hair messed up smelling like stale
cigarettes and beer, they figure you were up late
'hacking.' Most people can't differentiate between a
designer and a programmer. As long as you know html,
you're golden. As if they even knew what the letters
stand for."
"Stephen," I said. "What did he do?"
The moment I said it I felt a sadness. The more I
learned about Stephen Gaines the closer I got to him.
The more I despised having never known this man at
all.
"I know he tried to write for a while. He wanted to
do culture reporting, trend pieces..." Rose's voice
trailed off.
"Did he get any published?"
"No," she said. "I'm not sure he ever really tried. He
just talked about it."
"So how did he make a living?"
"You know," she said, furrowing her brow, "I'm not
really sure. But at some point he stopped talking about
writing altogether. The drugs got a hold of him worse
than ever. It was all he could do to get up in the morning,
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and he looked like death when he did. I barely saw him
after that."
"When was the last time you saw him?" I asked.
"A week ago," Rose said. She sighed again, but this
time a sob cracked the noise. Her eyes began to water.
As hard as this was for me, I didn't know Stephen at
all. This woman had lost a loved one. A lover.
"He said he was going to get clean," she said, the
cracks in her voice becoming more evident. "He
promised me. He said he was going to get help. Rehab.
We spoke on the phone. He swore on his mother. Then
he stopped returning my calls."
Rehab, I thought. My father said Helen Gaines was
looking for money to help Stephen get help. That part
sounded like it was true. But unfortunately all it did in
the eyes of a prosecutor was likely bolster my father's
motive in Stephen's murder.
"Did you know Helen at all?" I asked.
Rose nodded. "They lived together. She was dirt
poor, and Stephen seemed to make enough money to
pay rent and keep food on the table. I met her maybe
half a dozen times. Kind of quiet, like she was scared
of life. Made good coffee, but never drank it with you,
if you get my meaning."
"I got it," I said. "You wouldn't by any chance
happen to have her contact information, would you?"
"I don't have a phone number or e-mail or anything
like that. But when Stephen used to write, he'd always
go to this cabin in the Adirondacks up by Blue
Mountain Lake. I think Helen's parents left it to her or
something. He went up there to work, and Helen usually
went with him. She was quiet enough, and it's not like
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she had anyone else. Not exactly the kind of woman
who liked to be alone."
The Adirondacks were about a four-and-a-half-hour
drive northwest of the city. I'd never been up there, but
knew it was a popular spot for camping, hiking and just
getting away from the world for a while.
Something a mother might do if her only son was
murdered.
"Rose," I said, "would you mind giving me that
address?"
14
We finished the car rental paperwork by noon, then
loaded the vehicle up with coffee, snacks and Amanda's
iPod. I fought the good fight to bring mine, but lost
despite a valiant effort. To be honest, it wasn't much of
a fight since I learned early in our relationship that
when it came to playing music, Amanda had the one and
only vote. The only thing I could do was learn to love
Fleetwood Mac and early Britney Spears. Though I did
worry that listening to "Rumors" right after "Oops!...
I Did It Again" might cause my head to distend like
when you poured cold water on hot metal.
It was Saturday. Hopefully we wouldn't hit much
traffic, the rest of the city either sleeping off hangovers
or snacking on fried dough with powdered sugar at a
street fair.
Luckily the car had an iPod dock built in. Amanda
hooked it up and began scrolling through songs. I
started the engine and pulled into traffic and headed
toward the George Washington Bridge.
"You know, isn't there some kind of rule stating that
whoever drives gets to choose the music?"
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"I think that law was considered outdated in the
1970s. Now the female in the car gets to choose the
tunes."
"What if there's more than one woman in the car?"
I asked.
"Then it goes to the most dominant female," she said
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 crisscrossing 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