Parker 04 - The Fury

Praise for the Henry Parker novels of

THE STOLEN

"A captivating and complex protagonist, one whose pithy

observations about New York are dead-on. Pinter's chunky

plot, rapid pacing and credible dialogue do the rest."

--
Publishers Weekly

"This thriller proves truly scary

as it explores every parent's worst nightmare."

--
Library Journal

"[An] exciting whodunit... Fans will appreciate this

entertaining suspense thriller with the right touch of

sexual tension to augment a fine read."

--
Midwest Book Review

THE GUILTY

"[A] suspenseful and shocking tale."

--
Library Journal

"A captivating and thought-provoking read and thoroughly

enjoyable. One of the great new voices in the genre."

--
CrimeSpree
magazine

"[A] fresh tale with original characters...

Pinter knows what he's doing."

--
South Florida Sun-Sentinel

"A fabulous thriller...

will prove to be one of the best of the year."

--
Midwest Book Review

"Well-executed gritty action..."

--
Lincoln Journal-Star

THE MARK

"Pinter's a wizard at punching out page-turning action,

and the voice of his headstrong protagonist is sure to win

readers over; his wild ride should thrill any suspense junky."

--
Publishers Weekly

"From the opening sentence to the exhilarating conclusion,

Pinter's debut thriller gets the reader's heart racing."

--
Library Journal
[starred review]

"An excellent debut.

You are going to love Henry Parker, and you're going to hope

he survives the story, but you're not going to bet on it."

--Lee Child

"[Pinter] dares to take the traditional thriller

in bold new directions."

--Tess Gerritsen

"A harrowing journey--chilling, compelling, disquieting."

--Steve Berry

"A stunning debut by a major new talent!"

--James Rollins

"It's 'Front Page' meets 'The Sopranos'

with a little Scorsese thrown in."

--Jeffery Deaver

"A top-notch debut... Fast-paced, gritty and often raw,

The Mark
is a tale you won't soon forget."

--Michael Palmer

"A gripping page-turner you won't be able to stop reading."

--James Patterson

(r)

To Joe Veltre and Linda McFall

For yesterday, today and tomorrow. Thank you.

Beware the fury of a patient man.

--John Dryden

1

At nine in the morning, the offices of the
New York

Gazette
are quiet. Reporters read the morning papers,

prepare to call their sources and blink off hangovers

over steaming cups of coffee. Today, however, it was a

different kind of quiet. The kind of quiet where

everyone seems to be waiting for the roof to cave in, or

the floor to suddenly give way and fall out from under

you.

Every morning I would swipe my ID card, wave

hello to the security guards who'd gradually warmed to

me over the years and wait for the elevator with lots of

other people who also looked like they'd rather still be

in bed. I would exit the elevators at the twelfth floor,

passing the receptionist, always too busy to acknowl

edge staffers, and walk to my desk. The offices of the

New York Gazette
towered over Rockefeller Center,

giving me a panoramic view of one of the busiest streets

in the city. Yet when I navigated the mess of chairs and

debris and entered the cubicle farm on this day, I noticed

the other journalists who shared my row were nowhere

to be seen. There were no faces hunched far too close

8

Jason Pinter

to computer screens, no whispered chats about the ump

teenth death knell sounded for our industry. No report

ers haggling over verb usage and tense like it was a

matter of life or death. It seemed every day across our

industry there were more layoffs, more cutbacks, more

reasons to fear the end. And it had been drilled repeat

edly into us by our corporate overlords and the media

that if the sickle wasn't already lancing the air above

our heads, it was in the midst of being lowered into

place.

I couldn't worry about that. Still a few years shy of

thirty, it had been my lifelong ambition to work at a pre

stigious, thriving newspaper. And while one could

debate whether the
Gazette
was thriving, in my short

time here I'd had the chance to work alongside some of

the greats, including my idol, Jack O'Donnell.

I'd also been wanted for murder and targeted by a

deranged serial killer. Hey, who doesn't complain about

their job sometimes?

Externally, you might think I looked the same. Inter

nally, though, I was a different man. A man learns who

he is when his life, innocence and freedom are chal

lenged. I was stronger than I ever knew I could be, but

deep down I wished I hadn't needed to find that out.

When I navigated the maze of empty desks to arrive

at mine, I put my coffee and muffin on the desk, sat

down and debated whether to ignore the silence or see

what was causing the sound vacuum. I reached for the

plastic tab on my coffee, but immediately thought twice.

To ignore the strange stillness of the office would have

gone against every bone in my body, and probably trig

gered some sort of spontaneous combustion. Curiosity

The Fury

9

not only killed the cat, but made my breakfast grow

cold. So I stood back up and took a lap around the news

floor to see what the hell was going on.

I didn't have to go far.

A group of half a dozen reporters were huddled

around the desk of Evelyn Waterstone, the
Gazette
's

Metro editor. They were talking under their breaths,

worried looks in their eyes. I wondered if there were

going to be layoffs. If some of my colleagues--perhaps

even myself--would be out of a job. That Evelyn's desk

had seemingly replaced the watercooler as center of

office scoop was itself noteworthy. Evelyn stayed as far

away from gossip as those who gossiped stayed away

from her. Whatever happened had to be big enough to

pique her interest. I walked up casually, inserting myself

into the conversation through proximity alone.

Evelyn Waterstone was a short, squat woman whose

haircut resembled a well-manicured putting green--

only this particular green was gray with age--and

whose broad shoulders would have been a welcome

addition to most offensive lines. She was a discipli

narian in the gentlest sense of the word. It took several

years for her to warm up to me, but when my work ethic

and the quality of my reporting became clear, Evelyn

began to grudgingly show me a modicum of respect.

Still, I don't think you'd ever see the two of us tossing

back a couple of longnecks after hours. I made an effort

never to stop by her desk unless I had a specific

question, and Evelyn never stormed by mine unless I'd

made some terrible grammatical mistake that, to

Evelyn, was only slightly worse of an offense than

treason.

10

Jason Pinter

"Morning, Parker," Evelyn said. She held a black

thermos between her fleshy hands, and took a long,

drawn-out sip. "Another beautiful day at your friendly

local newspaper." She sniffed the air. "Glad to see

you've begun showering regularly again."

"Morning, Evelyn," I said, nodded to the other re

porters, who offered the same.

"You hear about Rourke?" she said. I hadn't, and

told her so. She raised her arms dramatically as if re

counting some heroic tale. "This paper's most contro

versial sportswriter--who incidentally once told a

linebacker he would 'whup his ass like a donkey'--got

mugged yesterday on his way home from the office.

Well, I shouldn't say mugged, because the guy didn't

take any money, but Frank ended up getting the donkey

side of the whupping."

"Really?" I said, incredulous. "Rourke?" I had no

love lost for Frank Rourke, considering the man had

once left a bag of excrement on my desk--but the man's

swagger seemed to come from years of always being the

one guy who was able to leave the fight on his own two

feet.

"Seems some hothead took umbrage to Frank's

calling the Yankees 'the most poorly run organization

since FEMA.' Some disgruntled asshat from the Bronx.

Anyway, this guy waits outside of the office until Frank

leaves. Then he yells, 'Yo, Rourke!' Frank turns his

head, and gets a sockful of quarters up against the side

of his temple."

"That's terrible, is he okay?"

"Concussion, he'll be fine. Police arrested the fan,

I'm just hoping he might have damaged the area of

The Fury

11

Frank's brain that makes him such an asshole. Maybe

he'll have one of those
Regarding Henry
kind of

epiphanies and come back a better man."

"That's probably too much to expect."

"We can dream, Parker. We can dream."

As we chatted, I noticed another group of reporters

huddled together in the hallway looking like they'd just

been told management had decided to restructure by

throwing them out the twelfth floor windows. The group

shifted nervously, whispering amongst themselves.

Never wanting to be the last one in the know, I ap

proached, said, "I thought Frank was going to be fine,

what gives?"

Jonas Levinson, the
Gazette
's science editor, said,

"Frank is the least of our concerns. Though, as a matter

of fact, something has died this morning. Something to

be mourned as long as we're employed by this godfor

saken newspaper. As of today, good taste, my friend, has

kicked the bucket."

I stared at Jonas, waiting for some kind of an expla

nation. Levinson was a tall man, balding, who wore a

different bow tie to the office every day. He very seldom

exaggerated his feelings, so at Jonas's remark a flock

of butterflies began to flutter around in my stomach.

"I'm not following you," I said to Jonas. "Good

taste? Jonas, care to explain?"

"Just follow the eyes, Parker," Jonas said. "Follow

the eyes."

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but then

I realized what he was saying. The eyes of every

member of our group were focused on two individuals

making their way across the
Gazette
's floor. They were

12

Jason Pinter

stopping at every desk, popping into each office for a

few moments. It looks like some sort of introduction

ritual was taking place.

Immediately this struck me as odd. I'd never met

another employee during a walkaround, and had not

received one myself. The fact that this one person was

being given the grand tour made it clear he was

someone the brass wanted to coddle.

One of the two men I recognized immediately as

Wallace Langston, editor in chief. Wallace was in his

midfifties, lean with a neatly trimmed beard. His brown

hair was flecked with gray, and he had the slightly bent

posture of a man who'd spent the majority of his years

hunched over a keyboard. Wallace had been a staunch

supporter of mine in the years I'd been employed by the

paper, and even though now more than ever he was

feeling the crunch of his corporate masters insisting on

higher profit margins, he knew what it took to print

good news. If not my idol, he was a good, loyal mentor.

"Is he," I said, "introducing someone around the

office?"

"That is precisely what it looks like," Jonas replied.

Evelyn walked up and said, "I never met a damn

person until my first staff meeting. I got as much of an

introduction as my stove has to a cooking pot."

"Me, neither," I said. When I started at the
Gazette,