Parker 01 - The Mark (10 page)

T
he Ringer slipped into his black Ford and closed the door. He could feel the warm sun on his face. He sank deep into the leather seat, closed his eyes and began the process.

His hand moved absently to his chest, stopping at the slim bulge in his shirt pocket. His fingers felt what lay beneath, pressed on it gently, making sure not to leave a mark or a dent. After so many years the photo was worn, faded around the edges, but the colors were still strong and vibrant. Just like his memory of Anne. The only woman he’d ever love in this lifetime.

In his mind’s eye he could see her face, her stunning blue eyes. He could almost touch her, feeling the silky strands of her hair as she gazed at him with a happiness he never knew existed. Anne had accepted the life he’d chosen. A selfish life, but one he would have abandoned in a heartbeat if he knew its consequences.

Breathing in, he could smell a hint of her favorite perfume, the acrid scent of sweat as they made love. Her soft moans and touches on his back, fingers tickling his senses, knowing just how to make him shiver. She was his first and his last. His only.

Anne.

Then agony ripped across his face as he saw blood splashed over his hands. Her eyes contorted into shock and then glazed over as she fell, dead, into his arms. His wails shook the walls as flames began to lick the ceiling. Cries that God himself must have heard. Cries that made the devil smile.

He saw his wife’s killer in the darkness, the knitted hood obscuring his features. Hands pale, skin soft. A young man. Only his eyes and mouth were visible. Eyes the Ringer would never forget.

His retribution was almost complete. There was only one man left.

The Ringer opened his eyes and picked up the newspaper. He looked at the photo of Henry Parker. Just twenty-four. Already a killer. Just like him.

In his mind’s eye the images slowly merged and became one, Henry’s face transposed as Anne’s killer. When he was finished, the shrouded face of the man who’d killed his wife was replaced by Henry Parker.

And now Parker was responsible for Anne’s death. A death waiting to be avenged. Hatred for this young man boiled up inside the Ringer. The tendons in his fingers tensed as he gripped the steering wheel, blood pounding in his temples.

The Ringer started the car and pulled onto Seventh Avenue, away from the old church where he’d been summoned, whose recesses currently housed some of the most remorseless men ever to walk the earth.

He cracked the window, let the breeze in.

Removing a cell phone from his pocket, the Ringer dialed the first number on his list. He had lots of calls to make.

He had a killer to find.

I
rode the subway like a man about to go in for surgery: eyes wide open, fear coursing through my veins, waiting for someone to burst through the door bringing pain and suffering. Palms flat on my seat, I was ready to shove off and run at the first sign of a uniform. Paranoia was a trait I hadn’t been exposed to often—aside from an ill-advised pot binge my sophomore year—and it seemed to enjoy taking over my body. My leg stung like hell, but the blood flow seemed to have stopped.

After a grueling sixteen-minute ride, I got off at the Union Square station and walked outside. The slight May breeze swirled around me. Demonstrators were chanting on bullhorns and holding well-made picket signs and L.L. Bean knapsacks, protesting corporate greed in style.

Ordinarily I’d stop and watch for a few minutes, but I was more concerned with the other people watching them. The cops. Standing by, hands on their hips, observing the docile demonstration. Making sure the crowd of neo-hippies didn’t start tossing hemp bricks at the Virgin megastore.

Keeping my eyes fixed on a small contingent of officers by a coffee shop, I edged along the low brick wall surrounding Union Square Park, walked south and headed down Third Avenue.

Ironic, I thought. After living in New York for a month I’d finally started to feel like I belonged. I’d come here hoping to be embraced, but now I was being expelled like a diseased organ. Chasing a story, doing my job, led me into this nightmare.

The decision was obvious. I had to leave the city. I had to find out why that cop nearly killed me. My options were dwindling. I still had the reporter’s notebook in my backpack, an unfriendly reminder of why I went to the Guzmans’ apartment in the first place.

The cops had gotten to Mya, and I was no longer safe uptown. Was she cooperating with the authorities? No matter what happened, when this was over, Mya would no longer be part of my life. That was for certain. Three years disappearing as though they’d never happened. A road of memories that led straight off a cliff.

It was too much to process. I had to look at it objectively. What I needed to do, and how to do it.

I picked up a pay phone on East 12th Street and dialed the operator. Two rings and an automated voice answered.

“What city and state?”

“New York, New York. Manhattan.”

“One moment while I connect you to an operator.”

The phone rang, and I heard the typing of keys and a cheery male voice.

“Directory assistance, this is Lucas, how may I assist you?”

“I’d like the main directory listing for New York University.”

“Thank you, sir, one moment.”

The seconds ticked by, each moment agonizing. Then Lucas came back on. “Sir, I have two listings. One is an automated directory, and the other is for the campus switchboard.”

“Is the switchboard manned by an actual human being?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“I’ll take that one.”

“Yes, sir, and thank you for using…”

“Just connect me.”

Another ring as he patched me through. This time a female voice picked up, sounding considerably less enthused about her job than Lucas.

“New York University. How may I direct your call?”

“Yes, hi. By any chance, do you have a student shuttle service?”

“Yes, we do,” she said, and yawned audibly. “It’s not officially sponsored by the university, but we do facilitate student-to-student commuting.”

“Can you tell me which students have registered cars leaving today?”

“I’m sorry, we don’t offer that information over the phone. The listings are posted on the bulletin board at the Office of Student Activities.”

“And where is that located?”

“Sixty Washington Square South.”

“Can you tell me the cross streets?”

“Just a moment.” I heard the rustling of papers, then a sharp curse, mumbling in the background, something about a paper cut. “Hello?”

“Still here,” I said.

“The OSA is located on West 4th between LaGuardia and Thompson.”

“Thanks.” I hung up before she could say “You’re welcome.”

Heading west on 11th and then south on Broadway, I stopped at a bodega and bought an oversized Yankees T-shirt for five dollars. I ducked into a coffee shop that reeked of moldy gyros, went into the restroom and changed. My ripped clothes went in the trash can, buried under a pile of wet paper towels.

I winced and rolled up my pant leg to gauge the wound. My empty stomach lurched. An angry red gash ran across the side of my thigh, dried blood congealed around it.

Just yesterday I was sitting at my desk at the
Gazette,
and now here I was in a restaurant bathroom looking at a gunshot wound. Thankfully it looked like the bullet had just grazed the surface. I mopped the wound with wet towels, biting my lip at the pain.

This wasn’t possible, I kept telling myself. Any moment I’d wake up in bed.

Please, just wake up.

I reached the OSA at five minutes of nine. Most self-respecting college students would still be asleep, tired from a night of post-finals partying or wasting time before the start of their summer jobs. Hopefully I’d find at least one that bucked the system.

I walked up the steps and opened the front door, but then stopped. What if they had newspapers inside? It was a safe bet that students—encapsulated in their own private bubbles—hadn’t read today’s front page, but a registrar or another administrative figure might care about current events.

I had to keep going. Standing motionless on the steps was suspicious. I didn’t have a choice. My options were perilously few. This was my Plan B. There was no Plan C.

I took a deep breath, pressed the latch down and pulled the door open.

A cold blast of air-conditioning greeted me. Several students sat on a green couch held together by electrical tape, reading magazines they didn’t seem very interested in. The room had the sterile vibe of a doctor’s office combined with the comfort of the backseat of a New York taxicab.

I approached a portly guy pretending to read
Harper’s Bazaar,
his eyes lingering on the well-endowed redhead across the room instead of last summer’s fashion trends.

“’Scuse me,” I said. He lowered the magazine and leered. “Do you know where they post the student shuttle listings?”

“No, sorry.” He picked the mag back up and commenced fake reading.

“They’re down the hall to your left. Right before the registrar’s office.” I turned to see the redhead smiling at me. She was reading a paperback with the cover torn off. The word
Desire
was visible on the spine. I pointed down the hall she was referring to, and she nodded.

“You can’t miss it,” she said. “The red tickets are for day trips, blue are for overnighters. Where you headed?”

“Uh, home,” I said. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said, her eyes wide, as though expecting more conversation.

I grabbed a student newspaper and followed the hallway, hiding my face behind the pages as I passed a row of offices. Scraps and postings covered the light blue walls, hanging desperately on bent thumbtacks and staples. I casually glanced at a few. Table and chair sets for sale. One used rug, green. Three Siamese kittens looking for a home.

Then I found it. A wooden rack with about two dozen slips nestled inside, half red, half blue. A name was printed on each. Underneath the name was the student’s destination. Underneath the destination was the date and time each student was departing campus, along with how much money they expected their passenger to contribute. Most asked for gas, but some expected meal money and/or room and board in case a hotel stopover was needed.

I started with the blue batch, which were apparently longer trips. Three were driving to California, two to Seattle, some miscellaneous trips to Idaho, Nevada and Oregon. I considered Oregon for a moment, debated taking a chance at going home. No way. The cops would be waiting for me to contact my parents. Luckily I had no intention of doing so.

Looking through the last of the blue slips, my heart sank. The next trip was leaving three days from now. No good. Time was running out.

I replaced the cards, smiling at a heavyset woman who lumbered past me with a stack of manila folders under her arm.

I took the batch of red slips, which were for shorter, day trips. If I didn’t find what I was looking for here, the Path to New Jersey was a possibility. I really didn’t want to be anywhere near New York, but getting out of the city was priority number one.

As I went through the red batch, my hopes began to sink. Nobody was leaving today. The phrase
Plan C
echoed in my head, but unlike Plans A and B the words rang hollow.

Kevin Logan

Leaves 5/28—12:00 p.m.

Montreal—gas, meals

Samantha Purvis

Leaves 5/30—10:00 a.m.

Amarillo, Texas—gas, E-Z Pass

Jacob Nye

Leaves 6/4—3:00 p.m.

Cape Cod—gas

Then, right as I was about to give up, I saw the second-to-last slip.

Amanda Davies

Leaves 5/26—9:00 a.m.

St. Louis—gas, tolls

At the bottom of the slip she’d left two phone numbers—apartment and cellular—for interested parties.

I checked my watch—8:57 a.m. Amanda Davies was leaving in three minutes.

I dashed outside, through the waiting room and past the redhead, hurtling down the block where I stopped, breathless, at a pay phone. My leg was aching and my ribs throbbed.

Tune it out.

Sweat, once dried on my skin, was now oozing from my pores. I picked up the receiver—my watch read 8:58—and reached into my pocket for change.

In my palm lay a dime, two nickels, three pennies, and multicolored lint. I didn’t have enough money for a goddamn phone call. I took a breath, debated for a moment, and dialed 1-800-COLLECT.

Last year, after my cell phone was stolen from my dorm room, I’d registered a calling card for emergency use. The fees were so astronomical I’d only used it once, drunk dialing Mya after a party where I accidentally dropped my new cell phone into a vat of spiked punch.

When prompted I punched in the calling card number, then Amanda Davies’s cell phone number.

My watch read 8:59. I wasn’t going to make it. A friendly voice came on the line.

“Thank you for using 1-800-COLLECT. May I discuss our new long distance plan with you?”

“No thanks, just connect me.”

“Thank you, sir, have a good…”

“Just connect me!”

The automated voice of James Earl Jones thanked me for my patronage. Then the phone began to ring.

Two rings. Three. Four. I tried to match an image to
Plan C.
Still nothing.

Five rings.

I was about to hang up the phone. Then, with the receiver a fraction of an inch from the hook, a female voice came over the earpiece.

“Hello?”

I brought it to my ear, and said, “Hello?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Amanda Davies?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“Amanda, thank God. I got your number from the student shuttle posting in the OSA. Are you still driving to St. Louis this morning?”

“I’m in my car right now.”

“Shit. Listen, would you still be willing to take a passenger?”

“Depends. Where are you?”

“I’m on West 4th, somewhere on LaGuardia.”

“What’s your name?”

I hesitated.

“It’s Carl. Carl Bernstein.”

“Well, Carl, I’m in a red Toyota on 9th and 3rd, in front of the Duane Reade. I’m running into Starbucks to get a cup of coffee. If you’re here by the time I get out, you’re in. Otherwise, I’m gone.”

“I’ll be there.”

“That’s up to you.” Click, then a dial tone.

I dropped the phone and sprinted east. The muscles in my side began to tighten, a cramp settling in. Pain lanced through the wound in my leg. Hopefully there would be a huge run on mochachinos. Maybe the espresso machine would explode. Anything to give me more time. I prayed, running as fast as I could, my leg feeling like an iron fork was being repeatedly jabbed into it.

I got to the Duane Reade at 9:06, doubled over to catch my breath, had to refrain from dry heaving. As I surveyed the cars parked on the street, my heart skipped a beat.

There was an empty spot directly in front of the drugstore. Big enough to fit a car.

Please, no.

I stepped into the space, frantically looking at the adjacent few cars, hoping to find Amanda’s red Toyota.

“Fuck!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, all my frustrations escaping in a single, wretched outburst, all the pain and horror and shit that had suddenly fallen on me like a ton of bricks leaving me devastated. Amanda Davies had left. I was too late.

I collapsed on the curb, head in my hands, warmth spreading through my cheeks. My self-pity needed a minute to ferment. I had no other plans, nowhere else to go, nobody to turn to. My life was over. There was no salvation. Soon I’d be arrested, and if I got lucky I’d make it to trial.

Then a car horn blared, jolting the morbid thoughts from my head. I turned to see a humongous black SUV waiting to pull into the vacant spot where I was sitting. The driver was wearing designer shades and his hair looked like it could deflect small-arms fire. He lowered his window and said, “Hey, buddy, that spot’s reserved for cars.”

Nodding silently, I stepped onto the sidewalk and started walking. My fate, it seemed, was sealed.

“Carl? Hey, Carl!”

At first it didn’t register. Then I heard it again and I remembered.

My name. The name I’d given to Amanda Davies.

I spun around, searching for the source. Then I saw it. A red Toyota idling at the intersection. A girl was hanging out the driver’s side window. And she was staring right at me.

I jogged up to the passenger side, the pain in my leg and chest receding. The girl nodded at the empty seat. I opened the door, slid in and latched my seatbelt. She had a playful grin on her face.