Parker 04 - The Fury (36 page)

where he lived. He was carrying nothing but his brief

case and his wallet. There was nowhere to go. No place

to hide.

And then, from the opposite end of the street, we

both heard the faint shrill of police sirens. Scotty

whirled around. The cops weren't within sight yet. He

was sweating, nervous. Then all of a sudden Scotty

came around and punched me in the stomach.

It wasn't a hard blow, but I was unprepared. Rather

than buckling and trying to absorb the hit, it landed

square in my gut, knocking the wind from me. I fell to

a knee, gasping for air. Scotty began to run. So I did the

only thing I could. I grabbed his ankle as he ran past.

Scotty's leg went out from under him, and he landed

with a thud on the pavement. His briefcase went flying,

fluttering pathetically in the wind. Forgetting about my

own lack of air, I leaped up and pounced on him. I dug

my knee into the small of his back, then rolled him over

and reared back to deliver my own blow. Scotty brought

his elbows up to protect his face, and my punch hit

nothing but bone. The pain was terrible, but it dissipated

in an instant. I connected with a solid right to Scotty's

ear, knocking his face sideways. A scream escaped his

mouth.

I threw another punch, but Scotty was able to block

it, twisting sideways. I still hadn't recovered from his

punch, so I was thrown off balance and fell off him. I

managed to keep my hand on his shoulder, pulling him

back down as he tried to get up.

Scotty was crawling for something; I couldn't see

what. My face was still close to the ground, and I could

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301

smell the concrete. Then I heard a clang as something

toppled over, and that was followed by a whoosh of air

as he swung what appeared to be the lid of a garbage

can at my head.

I managed to roll away, catching a glancing piece of

the aluminum on my jaw. It stunned me and I fell back.

Scotty stood up, limping, clutching his knee. The sirens

were growing louder. Not long ago the police had been

after me, and I'd managed to escape. At least for a

while. Scotty had lived here for years, knew every inch

of the city. He had friends who would protect him. If

Helen Gaines, a frail junkie, could find a safe house, no

doubt a dealer with innumerable contacts could as well.

I couldn't let him get away.

As Scotty began to run, I got to my feet, dived

forward and tackled him from behind. His legs gave out,

and Scotty screamed again as his knee slammed down

on the ground. By this point I could see several pedes

trians watching us, hands over their mouths in shock and

terror. A few were on their cell phones, no doubt calling

911.

A little late, but I appreciated the gesture.

Scotty was still writhing, and I managed to turn him

over, placing my knees in the crook of his elbows. Just

like I had to the guy who tried to jump me at the apart

ment. Scotty's head was bleeding from where I'd

punched him. There was a ragged hole in his pants by

his right knee. There was a nasty cut that was bleeding

pretty heavily. I could feel the slow, hot trickle of blood

running down my neck, where he'd clipped me with the

lid.

I raised my fist, ready to exhaust all the rage and fury

302

Jason Pinter

of the last few days. To get payback for my brother's

murder, for my father's incarceration.

This man, this killer, this hired dealer. The world

would be better off without him.

Yet as I stared at my own fist, poised and ready to

strike the helpless murderer, suddenly my hand went

slack. My fingers uncurled. I couldn't do it. Justice

wasn't about taking an eye for an eye. I was above that.

I had to be.

So I sat there, knees on his arms, the man below me

in terrible pain, tears streaming down his face.

"Please," Scotty blubbered, "let me go. You don't

know what you're doing..."

"I know exactly what I'm doing," I said. "I'm giving

you the chance you never gave Stephen. I'm going to

let you live."

The sirens grew closer. I could see the red and blue

flashing off the windows on the street. The air was hot,

swirling around us as I waited, my breathing heavy,

angry.

"Get the hell off of him."

I didn't recognize the voice. The sirens screamed all

around us. I hadn't heard a car pull up. It wasn't a cop

talking. The voice did sound familiar, though....

Turning my head, from the corner of my eye I saw Kyle

Evans standing two feet from our sprawled bodies. He was

holding a gun in his hand. It was pointed right at my head.

I heard more screams, and anyone who had been on

the street watching had run off when the gun was pulled.

It was just the three of us.

I took my knees off Scotty, who scooted backward.

He clutched his knee, biting his lip.

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303

I stood up. Air was coming back to my lungs, but I

was still doubled over slightly.

"He's a killer," I said, the words coming out in

bursts. "He's--"

And then I saw it. And whatever breath had found

its way back into my lungs vanished.

Kyle was holding a black pistol. And attached to the

end of it was a thin metal tube. And I remembered what

Leon Binks had said to me the night I identified Stephen

Gaines's body in the medical examiner's office.

"The killer was using a silenced weapon. Now, very

few guns have those kinds of professional silencers you

see in movies, that screw on like a lightbulb. Usually

they're homemade, a length of aluminum tubing filled

with steel wool or fiberglass."

"It was you," I said. "You killed Stephen."

Kyle went over to where Scott Callahan was lying

on the ground. He was still holding his knee, but smiled

when he saw his friend approach. Kyle knelt down, put

his hand on his friend's shoulder. Scotty tried to prop

himself up, but he was too weak. I stood there, my body

rigid with anger and dread.

Kyle looked back at me. Then he said, "You gotta do

what you gotta do to survive."

Then he placed the gun under Scott Callahan's chin

and pulled the trigger.

32

"What the fuck!" I shouted. The gun blast was more

of a meek
pfft,
like compressed air escaping from a

puncture. Gore sprayed out the top of Scott Callahan's

head. His body twitched once, then fell to the ground

and lay still.

My hands wouldn't work. I stared slack-jawed at

Kyle. He was still on the ground, the gun loose in his

hand. He looked at his friend, a sorrow etching across

his face for an instant. Then his eyes turned cold and

his gaze came to me.

"You have no idea," Kyle said, "how surprised I was

to get to Stephen's house and find a gun already there.

I had this one all ready. Instead, all I needed was the

capper." He pointed to the silencer.

"You used my brother's own gun to kill him," I said.

"But he wasn't the last one to use it."

"No, I really should have bought a lotto ticket that

night. When I heard that Stephen's
dad
got popped for

it? I nearly pissed myself laughing. See, that night I

wore gloves, figured it would slow the cops down, but

I had no idea about your dad's shenanigans. I was there

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305

to take out Stephen, but I kind of took out the whole

family. As long as they had someone else pinned for the

murder, we were in the clear."

"We?" I said.

"Scotty was supposed to do it. He knew Stephen

better than I did. They were pals, man."

I thought back to our conversation in the deli. Scotty

pretending to barely know my brother. That's how they

got so close to him.

"When your dad got popped, we were in the clear.

We even took the casings just in case. Turns out we

didn't even need to. Now, though, Scotty here's gotta

take the fall. Can't have anyone thinking the killer's still

out there."

"You son of a bitch."

"On a normal day, I'd get pissed at you for talking

about my mom like that, but I'll let it slide. Besides,

when I meant nobody could know, I meant it." Kyle

turned the gun to me. He had me less than five feet

away, dead to rights. There was no tremor in his hand.

By the time I even thought about running, he could pull

the trigger.

"Why?" I said. "Why did he have to die?"

"You said it yourself," Kyle replied. "The man just

had to. When you're the top dog in anything, you're

gonna get bitten."

"But Stephen was so young."

"There's no one guy," Kyle said. "It's like Ronald

McDonald. Every now and then someone new steps up

to the plate. Call it a
coup d'etat,
call it whatever you

want, but every company needs a regime change. Some

new blood at the top. Now it's my turn."

306

Jason Pinter

Curt Sheffield had told me that five people connected

to 718 Enterprises had been killed recently. Add to that

number my brother and now Scott Callahan. Helen

Gaines told me that Stephen had wanted to leave the

country, that he feared something terrible. Clearly he'd

gotten wind that there were rivals who wanted to take

him out. So, was Stephen systematically wiping out his

competition? Is that why Kyle killed him--just to beat

him to the punch?

If what Kyle said was true, and Stephen and Scotty

had been friends, Stephen trusted them both. That's

how Scotty and Kyle talked their way into my brother's

apartment. They were couriers for him, yet he didn't

fear them. My brother had been betrayed by his own

friends.

When Stephen came to the
Gazette
that night, he'd

wanted to come clean. He knew the chances of getting

enough money to hide were slim. So my guess was that

he was going to spill on the whole operation. He didn't

fully trust the cops to protect him, but he figured if it

made the papers first he couldn't be killed without the

public being aware of it. His only hope was to cause a

big enough story that he would be forgotten. That he

could disappear in the maelstrom.

But he was killed before he could ever come clean.

And his story was about to die as well.

Kyle then took the gun and placed it in Scotty's dead

hand. He wrapped his own finger around Scotty's in the

trigger guard and aimed it at me.

Just then a car sped onto the block. It was a black

CrownVictoria. Kyle's attention turned from me to the car.

The door opened.And out got Detective Sevi Makhoulian.

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307

"Freeze, police!" the officer yelled. Kyle couldn't

turn away from Makhoulian. A strange look crossed his

face, and I swear the gun began to lower. He was going

to give up.

And then three successive explosions turned the air

into a thunderstorm, and Kyle Evans's body was flung

backward onto the street. He landed next to Scotty, his

friend, Kyle's eyes and mouth open.

I turned to Makhoulian, hands covering my ringing

ears. He was saying something to me, but I couldn't

hear the words.

He walked closer, gun at his side, the flashing lights

now on our block. I felt the detective's large hand on

my elbow. He was mouthing,
Henry, are you all right?

I knew instinctively that my voice wouldn't work, so

I nodded. Then I turned back to see the dead littering

the street.

33

One week later

LaGuardiaAirport was surprisingly empty.We bought

a couple of coffees at a java stand in the food court. I

waited while he came back from the newsstand,

carrying a bag with a paperback book and a copy of the

Gazette.

My father was thinner than I'd ever seen him. His

eyes were sunken and his skin wrinkled. Gray hair

taking up most of whatever was left. My father no

longer looked angry; he just looked old.

Prior to a few weeks ago, I hadn't seen James Parker

in years. My family was a memory, one I'd longed to

forget. If you leave a person, your memory retains your

last image of them. My last image of my father was an

angry middle-aged man. Now he sat here, one step from

broken, waiting for a flight back home.

"Mom's picking you up in Portland?" I said.

"That's what she said," my father answered, as

though not believing her.

"If she says she'll be there she'll be there." He

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309

nodded, thinking more about it and agreeing with me.

I popped the top off my coffee and took a sip. Strong

and sweet. "At least you've got a great story for your

bowling league."

"I missed three league tournaments," he said, resent