Read Parker 04 - The Fury Online
Authors: Jason Pinter
She slid them into a paper sheath, wrote a number on
it and handed it to us along with my credit card. "Room
2722 on the twenty-seventh floor. Please call if you
require any assistance."
"Please," Gabrielle added. "Any assistance."
"Anything at all, for you or your friend," Rae added.
"One thing," I said. "I don't want anyone to know
I'm here. So can you put me down under a different
name, just in case anyone calls?"
The sisters looked at each other with a worried glare.
"Sure..." Gabrielle said. "What name would you
like to put on the room?"
"Put down...Leonard Denton," I said.
"All set Mr....Denton."
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"Thanks. Come on," I said to Amanda. "Let's get you
some sleep."
I felt their glare in my back as we headed to the ele
vators. The ride was silent and smooth, and I barely felt
like we were moving, let alone going nearly thirty
stories. At some point, right around floor twenty-five,
I felt my eardrums pop. Once the elevator opened, we
made our way down the hall to room 2722, where I
managed the task of propping both Amanda and the
suitcase against the wall as I opened the door. Once
open, I threw the bag inside and helped Amanda in.
She collapsed on the bed, and I sat down next to her.
For the first time all night, I realized just how tired I
was. My nerves were still on edge, and tomorrow would
be a long day. I needed to find out who that man was,
who sent him, and just how deep in my brother was.
But in the meantime, Amanda had somehow
wriggled out of her dress, and was wearing nothing but
a silk bra and underwear, her eyes suggesting that
sleepiness had taken a hiatus for the time being.
Tomorrow would be a long day. As I climbed into
Amanda's waiting arms, I hoped the night would be
long enough to stay with me.
27
I woke up the next morning with my boxer shorts
dangling off my shoulder, the taste of secondhand
vodka in my mouth and a strange pain in my right knee.
Then the previous night came back to me, and I smiled.
Turning over, I saw Amanda lying next to me. She
was wearing my old Oregon Ducks sweatshirt. It was
at least three sizes too big for her, and I'd seen her
spend many nights sitting on the couch reading a book,
the sweatshirt pulled over her tucked-in knees.
My body ached as I threw my legs over the side of
the bed and surveyed the room. It was stunning. Satin
sheets, state-of-the-art stereo, a bar countertop on the
porcelain bath, a flat-screen television wider than our
bed at home.
Then I noticed the sunlight pouring into the room
from what seemed like every angle. Standing up, my
breath was taken away by the beautiful view outside and
the massive wraparound balcony just outside our room.
I opened the door, stepped outside and felt alive. The
cool, crisp air washed over me as my eyes adjusted to
the light. The sight of New York from twenty-seven
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stories up. It truly was a magnificent city, and I smiled
when I thought of the last time Amanda and I had hidden
out in a hotel room under a fake name. It was a sleepn-save somewhere outside of Springfield, Illinois. Even
though I hadn't lost my natural ability to get in way over
my head, at least we were starting to hide out in classier
hotels.
Reentering the room, I found my jeans crumpled
into a ball on the floor, found the room-rate card. When
I looked at it, I nearly had a heart attack. There had to
be other hotels in this city that wouldn't wipe me out
within days.
Amanda stirred. I got up and went into the bathroom,
not wanting to wake her just yet. I ran a hot shower,
stayed in a little longer than I needed to, thinking about
the previous day.
It was no secret that I would want to get to the bottom
of Stephen Gaines's death, and while yesterday I
thought about the possibility of Rose Keller or Scotty
Callahan being involved, the options were likely far
greater.
The
New York Dispatch
had certainly mentioned my
father's arrest, as did my own paper, and surely a few
other locals as well. Anyone who knew me and my rep
utation would correctly assume that I would do anything
to clear my family's name. It was possible I was being
followed, that somebody had seen me talk to Sheryl
Harrison, to Rose Keller, to Scotty. It was even possible
that my discovery of Beth-Ann Downing's body had
alerted someone to my interest. Whoever killed Stephen
wanted it to be seen as one single murder. A lone death,
unconnected to anything else.
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I knew better. And someone else knew
that.
When I stepped out of the shower, a towel wrapped
loosely around my waist, Amanda was sitting up in bed,
her knees tucked up to her chin, her arms wrapped
around them. She smiled at me. Her eyes were blood
shot.
"Hungover?" I asked.
"Just a little."
"Hang on." I went to the minibar, did a little trolling
and found a packet of Advil. I ripped it open, poured
her a glass of water and watched her down the pills.
"Thanks, Henry," she said.
"How you feeling?"
"Like a raccoon run over by a truck. Don't ever let
me go drinking with Darcy again."
"I think I told you that the last time you went
drinking with her."
"Well, next time come with us, so you can monitor
my alcohol intake."
"If memory serves me right, the reason you didn't
invite me last night was because you didn't want me to
monitor your alcohol intake."
"And you listened to me?" she asked with a smile. I
sat back down next to her. She scooted over, rested her
head against my shoulder. I could smell her hair, hear
her breathing. Then she sat back up and looked at me.
"Now, tell me why we're here."
Sighing, I faced her and told her everything that had
happened. About my meeting with Scott Callahan.
Finding the man waiting for me at the apartment last
night. The fear that if they knew where I was, that if
somebody had been following me, they could have been
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doing the same for her. Enough young women had been
killed in New York coming home from bars over the last
few years, the confluence of paranoia made it impera
tive we get to safety.
"How long do you think we need to stay here?" she
said.
"I honestly don't know. Until I know who killed
Stephen, and know that person isn't a threat to us
anymore. With any luck I can do that before my credit
card starts getting declined."
"And what am I supposed to do? Just stay here? I
don't think so, Henry."
"Today's Friday," I said. "Call in sick. If Darcy
shows up, she'll surely vouch for you. Then we have the
weekend. And I need to get my father out before the
grand jury convenes. But right now I just need to keep
you safe. Once things calm down we can talk about
what to do next."
"You need to keep me safe?" Amanda said with a
laugh. "You realize that since I met you I've had my life
jeopardized approximately a hundred and ninety-six
times. I won't be surprised if we both get turned down
for a life-insurance policy. Safe to say if I never picked
you up on the side of the road, Henry, I wouldn't have
to worry about my safety quite as much."
I opened my mouth, ready to question why, if that
was the case, she was still with me, but smartly stopped
before a word came out. I learned a long time ago that
she was still here by choice. No other reason. She'd had
plenty of opportunities to leave and had not, and every
moment I wasted contemplating why only divided
myself from the reality of our relationship. She was here
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to stay. And knowing myself, knowing that I'd learned
from past mistakes, as long as it was in her hands, she
wasn't going anywhere.
So instead of bucking for a compliment and starting
an argument, I just leaned over and kissed her. Her lips
were soft, and I could tell she was smiling.
"I've been meaning to ask you," Amanda said.
"Where is your mother in all of this?"
I sat back, rubbed my forehead. "To be honest, I
don't know. Probably nowhere. I remember the last few
years before I left for college, she and my father barely
spoke. It wasn't like she was angry with him, it was as
though she'd just withdrawn. To her, he was more like
a piece of furniture than a husband. He was there
whether you liked it or not. It was your choice to put
him there. But like a table or desk, you could ignore it."
"Why didn't she leave him?"
"I don't know. I wish she had. She turned inward.
You saw those knitting needles at the police station--
they became kind of her solace. She was a kind woman,
never hurt anybody. So whenever he went on one of his
rampages, she would take it like more of a man than he
ever was, then go back to her needles."
"That's awful."
"She deserved another chance at love, at life. It was
almost like at some point she became shell-shocked,
just her nerves and her wits fried by everything he'd
done. I remember one night when I was about eight. I
spent that summer working at a corner deli, restocking
shelves a few hours a day for a dollar an hour."
Amanda laughed. "Even for an eight-year-old that's
pretty far below minimum wage."
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"It wasn't the money. They couldn't afford to send me
to camp, and I didn't want to be around the house any
more than I absolutely had to. One night I came home
around seven, usually when we had dinner. It was one of
the few times he was getting a regular paycheck. He got
home from work around seven-thirty most days, and he
would walk in and head right for the dinner table, sit
down and start eating. It didn't matter if we were there to
join him. To him, that's what he worked the day for. To
be alone. This day, though, he came home early. We both
arrived home about seven, and the meat loaf was still in
the oven. One thing about her, my mom made the best
meat loaf in the world. Onions, red peppers, just deli
cious."
I continued. "He went to the table, sat down and
noticed there was no food out. No drinks set. He yelled
her name--Marilyn--and waited. She came out, stared
at him, simply said, 'It'll be about twenty minutes.' It
turned out he found out that day they were cutting back
his shifts, and he'd lose about twenty percent of his
salary. I didn't know this. Neither did she.
"He took a glass, threw it at the wall. It shattered into
a thousand pieces. My mother just stood there, her
mouth open, more confused than scared. Then he took
a plate, did the same thing. It exploded. Then he took
another plate, then another, then every piece on the table
and threw it at the wall. I remember screaming, telling
him to stop, worried he would hit her or me. Instead, he
kept throwing until piles of broken glass were laid over
our floor like a carpet. He was breathing heavy. My
mother just stood in the doorway, mouth open. Then she
turned around, went back to the stove and checked the
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temperature on the food. I called 911, but the cop they
sent over ten minutes later was in a bowling league with
my dad. Since nobody was hurt and my mother wouldn't
press charges, it all went away. After that my father
went upstairs, and twenty minutes later the food was on
the table and he was eating. Nobody picked the glass up
for a week. That's when I knew there was something
wrong, that she wasn't like most of my friends' mothers.
And it was eighteen years of my life before I could
leave. I actually tried to take her with me, to convince
her she could start a new life somewhere. You know
what she said to me?"
Amanda shook her head.
"She said, 'Why would I leave everything I have
here?' I had to leave before living there sucked the life
out of me like it did her."
"Mya," Amanda said. "Me. That's why you always
come back."
"I don't know," I said. My eyes felt heavy, my body
too tired for the morning. "I just never imagined at any
point in my life that I would lift a finger to help that
man. And now here we are."
"Doing what you're doing, helping him," she said,
"is why you're not him."
We sat there, the bright day outside hiding something
dark that was waiting for me. I stood up. Went to the
now-infamous suitcase and found a clean shirt. My cell
phone was on the floor. I picked it up, noticed I had a
message. It was from Wallace Langston. My heart sped