Parker 04 - The Fury (21 page)

red-meat alpha males, the kind of guys who would

normally be braying on the floor of the stock exchange

rather than riding the subway to dole out dime bags.

Thing is, the cocaine in the briefcase made it clear

that not all of their scores were small-time. Any

company built its business on a combination of small

revenue streams mixed with larger ones. The larger

ones took more effort and paid higher dividends, but the

smaller ones tended to be the most dependable, the ones

that would always be there.

With the economy tanking the way it was, with

people watching their wallets to a degree I'd never ex

perienced in my lifetime, it wouldn't surprise me if dis

posable income for recreational drugs--like it was for

The Fury

175

all other consumer products--was being severely

limited. Especially since coke was a favorite amongst

bankers, financiers (i.e., high-salaried types). The kind

of people whose livelihoods were being dashed against

the rocks as the economy tumbled.

Maybe Stephen and Helen really were trying to start

a new life. After all, Helen had desired nothing more

than to raise her son with James Parker (why on God's

green earth she would want to do this is an entirely dif

ferent matter. One I'm not sure had a satisfactory

answer).

Leaving the country would enable them to start

their lives anew, to begin fresh somewhere they

weren't known. Where demons and drugs wouldn't

follow them.

But that last word...Fury. I still didn't know what it

meant, if anything. It might have been a spasm, some

thing Helen Gaines wrote while her mental faculties

bounced around like Ping-Pong balls.

I put it on the back burner. If it was relevant, it would

come up again.

The apartment felt warm and inviting, though

compared to the visitation room in a correctional facility

an icebox would have felt warm and inviting. We both

stripped off our clothes, Amanda jumping into the

shower while I pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

Before long, steam was pouring through the slat in

between the door and the tiling.

I approached the door silently, then knocked gently.

There was no answer. I knocked again, and when there

was still no reply I knocked again, louder.

One more knock and I heard the water turn off.

176

Jason Pinter

"What is it, Henry?" She sounded annoyed.

"Just wanted to say hi," I said. "Go back to your

shower."

"Gee, thanks."

The water came back on. Good thing there was no

lock on the bathroom door.

I gently turned the knob, the cool air flowing into my

face. I could see Amanda's body hazy behind the

shower glass. She hadn't seen me yet.

I stripped off my shorts, flung the T-shirt onto a chair.

Then I pulled open the shower door.

Amanda spun around, shampoo in her hair. The look

on her face quickly went from annoyance to surprise to

pleasure. She pushed the door open and I joined her,

wrapping my body around her, feeling her warmth

surround me.

We kissed, and then our bodies were clinging to each

other, skin on skin. Pain and hurt and everything else

melted away as we touched. My body was on fire as I

kissed her neck, Amanda throwing her head back as she

sighed. I kissed her up and down her body, feeling her

skin tingle below my fingertips. Then I pressed myself

against her, hard, and she moved in perfect rhythm with

my body.

We touched and held and moved against each other

under that beating stream for a long time, until the heat

became so unbearable that we ended up in bed, naked,

clinging to each other like we always did when we

wanted the world to melt away for a little while.

I left Amanda sleeping in bed and crept into the living

room. Booting the computer up, I poured myself a cup

The Fury

177

of ice coffee from the jug we kept in the fridge. I took a

sip. Stale. It'd probably been sitting in there close to a

week. I checked the freezer, but we were fresh out of

grounds. Instead, I poured a healthy dollop of milk,

added enough sweetener to make my teeth chatter and

sat down.

Our Internet connection was spotty at best, so it was

a sigh of relief when my home page came up. I'd

changed my preferences so that the
Gazette
's page

would load whenever I opened my browser. I took a

moment to read the latest stories, then went to Google

and began my search.

I typed in the name "Scott Callahan." To no great

surprise, over four thousand entries came up. To refine

the search, I added "New York."

That narrowed it down to under a thousand. There

were a few wedding notices and Web sites for law

offices, but unfortunately none of them had any

pictures. I scrolled through a few dozen pages hoping

for something that would perhaps be linked to the Scott

Callahan I followed the other day, but nothing came up.

I went back to the Google home page and typed in

"Kyle Evans" and "New York." Two thousand entries

came up. I sighed, having no choice but to slog through.

Nothing seemed to be terribly interesting until the

fourth page. The page title was "Dozens laid off in

wake of financial collapse." I clicked the link.

The article was from a financial magazine, dated

about six months ago. It was a feature on the recent

meltdowns of several financial institutions and the

decision to lay off massive numbers of workers, some

of whom had just graduated from business school. The

178

Jason Pinter

author had interviewed several recently fired employ

ees, including one man named Kyle Evans.

The section read:

Kyle Evans expected to pay off his student loans

in a matter of months, having taken a six-figure

job right after receiving his MBA. Yet within

weeks of his first day, Evans, a twenty-seven

year-old Wharton graduate, was unemployed and

unable to find a job.

"Between undergrad and Penn I owe about a

hundred thousand dollars," Evans said. "I was

going to have a bitch of a time paying it back

anyway, but now what do I do?"

Though the article was posted on the Web, there were

several photos taken of its subjects. They were small

thumbnails, and according to the site these were exclu

sive and had not been printed in the physical magazine.

And there, in a group of three other men and woman

his age, was the very Kyle Evans I'd seen on the street

the other day. His hair was shorter and he was about ten

pounds heavier, but there was no doubt it was him.

Suddenly Kyle's career choice made more sense.

With no income, and training for jobs that didn't exist

anymore, Kyle had decided to take another route to

paying off his loans, joining an industry that didn't have

as many down cycles. One that could afford him the

same lifestyle. The same money.

It was a fair assumption that Scott Callahan--and

maybe some, if not
all,
the other briefcase men--were

victims of the same circumstances as Kyle. If you

The Fury

179

thought about it, who would make better drug couriers?

These people were young, energetic, highly motivated,

perhaps by money above all else. And, most of all, they

owed.
And if they owed enough, they'd be willing to

take a few risks, break the law for a while before they

found their footing. But who was employing them?

What was 718 Enterprises?

I pulled "718 Enterprises" into Google, Yahoo! and

half a dozen other search engines. Less than a dozen hits

came up, none of them looking as if they had anything

to do with a company of that name or with any relation

to New York. I twiddled my thumbs. I'd never been a

thumb twiddler, but at this point I wasn't quite sure

where to go or who to talk to. And we still had no idea

where Helen Gaines was.

I opened up the music player on my computer, took

a pair of headphones out and put on some Springsteen.

Something about the Boss always made me think a little

more clearly. There was honesty in his voice that was

often missing from popular music, and his earlier works

were like pure blasts of adrenaline. That's what I needed

right now. An energy boost to carry me along. There

were half a dozen threads in this story, and I had no

doubt that when unravelled they would all lead to

Stephen's killer. I just needed that one connecting

thread that told me how the story would all play out.

I sat there for half an hour, shuffling between songs.

"Dead Man Walking" came on. It was a haunting tune,

composed for the movie of the same name where Sean

Penn played a character named Matthew Poncelet, on

death row for the murder of two teenagers. The film was

based on a book by Sister Helen Prejean, and Poncelet

180

Jason Pinter

was actually a composite of two men Prejean had coun

seled. Prejean grows closer to this man many viewed

as a monster, trying to understand the humanity beneath

the inhumane crime. The music was simple, tragic, and

the lyrics filled my head as my eyes closed, the sounds

enveloping me.

All I could feel was the drugs and the shotgun

And the fear up inside of me

Suddenly my eyes opened. I stood up, the head

phones flying off my head and clattering on the floor.

Drugs.

The Fury. I knew that word had sounded familiar, in

a context that, if I was right, made terrifying sense.

We kept a bookshelf in the living room, spines three

deep and nearly pouring out onto the floor. I'd bought it

used for seventy-five bucks from a thrift shop. It was

maple, still in good shape, with one large crack running

lengthwise down the side. I figured a good book was one

read so often the spine was cracked, a good bookshelf was

one that was cracked as well. That might have been jus

tification for the piece's condition, but it made sense to

me.

Sometimes when I'd finish a book I'd bring it to the

office, drop it in the Inbox of a reporter who I thought

might enjoy it. Sports books went to Frank Rourke,

trashy celebrity tell-alls went to Evelyn Waterstone. I

knew the gal had her soft spot.

There were some books, though, that would never

leave this shelf. And no matter where I moved, or what

life planned for me, they would never be far away.

Without a second thought I pulled a pile of books

from the middle shelf and sent them toppling to the

The Fury

181

ground. The noise was loud, and soon Amanda entered,

bleary eyed, clearly wondering what was making such

a racket. I must have looked half-crazed, throwing books

on the floor, looking for that one book I knew was there.

But I couldn't find it.

I threw more books on the floor, the shelves

emptying, my frustration growing. Where the hell was

it? I knew it was here, somewhere.

"Henry," Amanda said, the patience in her voice sur

prising me. "I'm not going to ask. I assume there's a

good reason for this. What are you looking for?"

"A book," I said stupidly, still rifling through the few

books left. I told her the title and author. She looked at

me, then walked back into our bedroom. I figured she'd

had enough, would try to go back to sleep. But a minute

later she came back holding something in her hands.

And when my tired eyes focused, I saw what it was.

Through the Darkness,
by Jack O'Donnell.

"I was reading it, remember?"

"You are so freaking beautiful," I gushed, standing

up and taking the book from her.

I opened the cover, thumbed to the table of contents.

There it was, chapter eight. "The Unknown Devil."

I began to skim, looking for that one word, that one

phrase I knew existed. It was the link, what Helen

Gaines was talking about. What she and Stephen were

running from.

Then I found it. Midway down one page. I read the

paragraph, feeling a chill run down my spine.

As the '80s came to a close, police were baffled

by a string of homicides occurring at seemingly

182

Jason Pinter

random locations at random intervals. Between

August 1987 and October 1988, two dozen men

were found murdered execution-style, often with

one or two bullets emptied into their heads. These

men were notable because they had previously

been either arrested or identified as drug dealers,

peddling primarily crack cocaine (among other

narcotics).

It was felt, both by the law enforcement com

munity as well as within the criminal element it

self, that these murders were part of a larger

consolidation of Manhattan's drug trade. Whis