Read Parker 04 - The Fury Online
Authors: Jason Pinter
hard to distance myself from him and what he repre
sented. My anger had, in essence, become a fuel.
Recently, the fuel had begun to burn itself out. But
sitting there, watching this man in front of me, knowing
what he'd done in his past, knowing just how little of
the story I knew, it was all I could do not to leap up from
my chair and knock him head over heels, that ugly
bathrobe flailing like paper in a gust of wind.
Those striking green eyes kept flicking to me, then
to Amanda, then back to me. Anytime he had unex
pected visitors, James Parker figured it was either a
court summons or an IRS audit. Amanda sat leaning
forward, eyeing James, as though trying to understand
an entire family history through those eyes.
He held a beer in his hand. The bottle was halfempty, and the bottom half was covered by his hand,
which was sweating. The air was hot, blowing from
some unseen fan that appeared to simply recirculate
the warm air over the whole house. He eyed me with a
look of confusion and contempt.
"Where's Mom?" I asked.
"Bridge lesson," he said. "Plays with her girlfriends
once a week. Whatever keeps her busy and out of my
hair."
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Jason Pinter
I bristled at the comment. "When will she be home?"
I hated being here, hated that he'd even put us in a situa
tion where we needed to be. But my hatred for this man
couldn't get in the way of finding out the truth about
Stephen Gaines. About myself.
"Listen, I don't know what you want from us," he
said, swigging from the bottle, grimacing because the
beer had likely grown warm. Not quite the "you never
call" line you'd expect from a parent you hadn't seen in
years.
"I just want to know the truth about you and Helen
Gaines. And how much you know about Stephen."
"What does it matter anyway?" James said, looking off
at the wall. "It was years ago. Before you were even
born."
"I know that," I said, anger rising inside me. "Did
you ever think to tell me I had a brother somewhere?
You never thought that I might be interested to know
that? Never occurred to you, huh?"
"He wasn't your real brother," James said slowly.
"Helen was not your mother. I never considered myself
that boy's father."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"She wasn't supposed to keep the baby," my father
said. I heard Amanda gasp under her breath. So far my
father had barely looked at her, like Amanda was a
referee, a third wheel, something to be ignored. I hadn't
bothered introducing her because I knew he wouldn't
care.
For a brief moment I glimpsed a flicker of pain
behind those eyes. A memory he thought forgotten had
come back to him.
The Fury
57
"But she did," I said. "And then she left. Tell me what
happened."
"I don't need to tell you anything," he snapped
suddenly, the beer sloshing liquid onto his bathrobe.
"It's thirty years ago. It's over."
"It's not over," I said, my voice quivering. "Your son
was found dead in a seedy apartment
this
week. It's not
over. You were the boy's father. I know it meant nothing
to you, but it damn sure meant something to him, and to
Helen Gaines. And it damn sure means something to
me."
"What?" he said, lurching out of his chair, knocking
the bottle flying. I recognized that look. The look of
rage, the look that said he didn't owe anybody anything.
"What does it mean to you? You never knew him. I
never knew him. He's a fucking stranger. What, just
because you share some, like, microscopic strand of
DNA in common all of a sudden this matters to you?
Please. Spare me, Henry. Go back to New York. Go
back to your big city and do whatever you do there." He
pointed at Amanda. "And take this
...whatever...
with
you."
"This is Amanda," I said. "And she's given me more
in just a few years than you have in a lifetime."
"Are you finished?" he asked, sitting back down.
"Because I have a league game tonight and I bowl like
crap when I'm not prepared."
"Right," I said. "Your bowling league. You cared
more about those pins than you did us."
"Pins don't talk back," he said. "Pins don't waste your
hard-earned money on books that don't put food on the
table. Speaking of that, will you be joining us for dinner?"
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Jason Pinter
"I'd rather break bread with Bin Laden," I said.
"How long were you sleeping with Helen Gaines while
you were with Mom?"
James sighed, leaned back, searched his memory. He
spoke as though this was a mere trifle to him, like I'd
asked what he had for lunch yesterday.
"Must have been about a year. Maybe a little more.
Who keeps track of these things?" he said. Who keeps
track of these things. Like it was a bowling score from
a few years ago.
Without warning, my father stood up, cracked his
back and went up the rickety stairs. Amanda and I sat
there unsure what to do. We heard some rummaging
around, and soon after, my father came back down. He
held something in his hand I couldn't see. Then he gave
it to me.
It was a photograph of a young woman. It was worn,
faded, kept somewhere it was not removed from often.
The woman in the photo had pale skin, curly brown hair
and luminous green eyes. She was sitting on a grassy
hill, a blouse covering her knees. Her mouth was open
in a smile, the shot taken in the middle of a laugh.
Despite her young age she had deep laugh lines. She
looked like the kind of woman it would be easy to fall
in love with.
"You kept this?" I said. "Why?"
"I'm not keen on throwing things out. Never know
when you might need them."
"Didn't you worry Mom would find it?"
"She hasn't yet."
I handed the photo back to him. He hesitated, then
took it, slipping it into his pocket.
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59
"You didn't care that you were married?" I asked.
His glare told me he didn't.
"When did you first learn about Stephen? That you
had a son?"
"When Helen was about four months along. She told
me she wouldn't have sex anymore. And that was the
reason. I thought she was going to get an abortion. That's
what we both wanted, I thought. Then her belly keeps
getting bigger and bigger and..." James looked down at
his hands. "Then one day he's there. This little kid."
"What then?"
"She wanted to know where we stood. Whether she
was going to raise the boy on her own. I told her I
already had a wife, and she wanted her own kids. And
that I didn't have the time or money for two families."
"And then?"
"And then she left. One day she's living a few streets
over, the next Helen's moved out, packed up her stuff,
sold her crappy house and disappeared forever."
"Forever," I said. "You were never curious to see
how your other son was doing?"
"Didn't much care how the son who lived with us
was doing, ungrateful as he was."
Point made.
"When was the last you heard from Helen?" I asked.
My father looked down. His eyes twitched for a
moment. I tried to look past them, tried to see just what
this man was holding on to.
Then he said, "The day before she disappeared.
That's all I know. That mother of his never took care of
Stephen. Maybe if she'd made some different choices
he'd still be alive."
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Jason Pinter
"By different choices, do you mean never shacking
up with you?"
"Don't get smart," he said. "I guess that's one of
those whaddaya callems, rhetorical statements."
I bristled. "What do you mean, different choices?"
"She was always one of those wild women, doing
things to her mind and body. Tough to find a woman
who drinks more than you do. And that's all I know. I
don't wish the boy died. I'm not some monster. But he's
no more my son than I was his father. Blood's only as
thick as you make it."
"Don't I know it," I said. Then I stood up. Amanda
did as well.
"I'd like to say it's been a good visit,
Dad,
but there's
been enough lying in this family. The buck's gotta stop
somewhere. Say hi to Mom for me."
"I will," he said, and I actually believed him. As I left
to go, all of a sudden Amanda spoke.
"Are you sorry?" she asked. She was staring right
into his eyes, not letting him go. In that moment I knew
just how strong this woman was.
James sat there, silent, for what must have been
several minutes. He looked back at her. She wouldn't turn
away.
"No," he finally said. And oddly enough, I didn't
believe him.
I reached for the door. Took Amanda's arm. Nodded
toward my father.
And just as I was about to turn the knob, there came
a loud knock at the door.
At first I thought it was my mother, but she wouldn't
have bothered or needed to make that much noise.
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61
"James Parker?" came the male voice from outside.
My father stood up. Approached the door. He looked
through the peephole, then stepped back. A look of
concern and fear crossed his face.
"What is it?" I said. "Dad?"
"Sir, open up," the voice said.
My father unlocked the bottom latch and opened the
door.
Three police officers--two men and one woman--
were standing on the front porch. One of them held a
piece of paper. The others held their hands at their hips.
Specifically by their guns.
Clearly, they were worried they might need to use
them.
"James Parker?" the lead officer said.
"Yuh...yes?"
The officer stepped forward through the doorway.
He grabbed my father, spun him around until his chest
hit the wall with a thud. The other two cops swarmed in,
and within seconds my father was in handcuffs. I saw
his eyes go wide, this proud, arrogant man. And in those
eyes I saw emotion I'd never seen before in nearly thirty
years.
My father was afraid.
"What the hell is going on?" I shouted.
"James Parker," the cop said, "You're under arrest for
the murder of Stephen Gaines."
8
Amanda and I sat on a small wooden bench in the
lobby of the Bend police department. After they'd taken
my father away in handcuffs, pressing his head down
as he climbed into the backseat of the car like some
common thug you'd see on
COPS,
we followed practi
cally bumper to bumper in our rental car.
Upon arriving at the station, I didn't have a chance
to talk to my father before they led him into booking.
The City of Bend Police Department had two sections:
a two-level structure that sat next to a taller tower, both
with sloped, tiled roofs. The sign outside read City of
Bend Police and underneath that read Public Works.
I parked the car in a lot in back and we ran around
to the entrance. Inside we refused to leave, or sit down,
until we either spoke with my father or an officer who
could tell us just what the hell was going on. My
stomach was tied in knots. Though I'd long ago learned
to give up loving my father, I knew this man wasn't,
couldn't be a killer. Not to mention I couldn't even
imagine what kind of evidence they had that would
enable a warrant to be issued so quickly.
The Fury
63
From everything Makhoulian and Binks told me, it
seemed as if Gaines was murdered. Not an impulse
killing, but exterminated. How could the cops be so
blind? How could they
possibly
connect my father to
this when he was in Bend the whole time?
For perhaps the first time in my life, I found myself
feeling sorry for the man. He was alone, scared,
accused of a crime beyond comprehension. It was all
bogus, though. No doubt there was some mistake and
he'd be released.
I tried to call my mother, but she didn't have a cell
phone. I left a message at home, hoped she would find
it.
Finally after an hour of waiting, a cop approached
us where we stood. He was about forty, lean, with
salt-and-pepper hair, a square jaw and dark, tan skin.
His badge read Whalin. We stood up, desperate to
hear why they'd taken my father in for such a horren
dous crime.
"You must be Henry," the cop said. He offered his
hand. I looked at him, then shook it grudgingly. "I'm
Captain Ted Whalin of the BPD. I'm in charge of the
criminal investigations division."
"Where's my father?" I demanded.
"Your father is in a holding cell. Tomorrow he'll
have to go before a judge to be properly processed.
There is an outstanding warrant for his arrest in New
York City for the murder of Stephen Gaines."