Parker 04 - The Fury (13 page)

addiction started off as a disease I didn't know, but sure

as hell once those hooks dug in, the virus swam around

in your system until it ate you from the inside.

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Jason Pinter

"What do you do for a living, Rose? I mean, all those

drugs couldn't be cheap."

"Graphic designer," she said proudly. "I make eighty

grand a year."

She noticed how impressed I was.

"And your employer, they..."

"Never knew a thing. Been working for a television

studio doing Web site design for six years. They figure

the geeks are wired differently than everyone else, and

that we were all born in the same freaky nursery. So you

come in with your hair messed up smelling like stale

cigarettes and beer, they figure you were up late

'hacking.' Most people can't differentiate between a

designer and a programmer. As long as you know html,

you're golden. As if they even knew what the letters

stand for."

"Stephen," I said. "What did he do?"

The moment I said it I felt a sadness. The more I

learned about Stephen Gaines the closer I got to him.

The more I despised having never known this man at

all.

"I know he tried to write for a while. He wanted to

do culture reporting, trend pieces..." Rose's voice

trailed off.

"Did he get any published?"

"No," she said. "I'm not sure he ever really tried. He

just talked about it."

"So how did he make a living?"

"You know," she said, furrowing her brow, "I'm not

really sure. But at some point he stopped talking about

writing altogether. The drugs got a hold of him worse

than ever. It was all he could do to get up in the morning,

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and he looked like death when he did. I barely saw him

after that."

"When was the last time you saw him?" I asked.

"A week ago," Rose said. She sighed again, but this

time a sob cracked the noise. Her eyes began to water.

As hard as this was for me, I didn't know Stephen at

all. This woman had lost a loved one. A lover.

"He said he was going to get clean," she said, the

cracks in her voice becoming more evident. "He

promised me. He said he was going to get help. Rehab.

We spoke on the phone. He swore on his mother. Then

he stopped returning my calls."

Rehab, I thought. My father said Helen Gaines was

looking for money to help Stephen get help. That part

sounded like it was true. But unfortunately all it did in

the eyes of a prosecutor was likely bolster my father's

motive in Stephen's murder.

"Did you know Helen at all?" I asked.

Rose nodded. "They lived together. She was dirt

poor, and Stephen seemed to make enough money to

pay rent and keep food on the table. I met her maybe

half a dozen times. Kind of quiet, like she was scared

of life. Made good coffee, but never drank it with you,

if you get my meaning."

"I got it," I said. "You wouldn't by any chance

happen to have her contact information, would you?"

"I don't have a phone number or e-mail or anything

like that. But when Stephen used to write, he'd always

go to this cabin in the Adirondacks up by Blue

Mountain Lake. I think Helen's parents left it to her or

something. He went up there to work, and Helen usually

went with him. She was quiet enough, and it's not like

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she had anyone else. Not exactly the kind of woman

who liked to be alone."

The Adirondacks were about a four-and-a-half-hour

drive northwest of the city. I'd never been up there, but

knew it was a popular spot for camping, hiking and just

getting away from the world for a while.

Something a mother might do if her only son was

murdered.

"Rose," I said, "would you mind giving me that

address?"

14

We finished the car rental paperwork by noon, then

loaded the vehicle up with coffee, snacks and Amanda's

iPod. I fought the good fight to bring mine, but lost

despite a valiant effort. To be honest, it wasn't much of

a fight since I learned early in our relationship that

when it came to playing music, Amanda had the one and

only vote. The only thing I could do was learn to love

Fleetwood Mac and early Britney Spears. Though I did

worry that listening to "Rumors" right after "Oops!...

I Did It Again" might cause my head to distend like

when you poured cold water on hot metal.

It was Saturday. Hopefully we wouldn't hit much

traffic, the rest of the city either sleeping off hangovers

or snacking on fried dough with powdered sugar at a

street fair.

Luckily the car had an iPod dock built in. Amanda

hooked it up and began scrolling through songs. I

started the engine and pulled into traffic and headed

toward the George Washington Bridge.

"You know, isn't there some kind of rule stating that

whoever drives gets to choose the music?"

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"I think that law was considered outdated in the

1970s. Now the female in the car gets to choose the

tunes."

"What if there's more than one woman in the car?"

I asked.

"Then it goes to the most dominant female," she said

drily. "If need be you lock them all in a steel cage and

whoever is the last one alive chooses the music. Kind

of like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome."

"Nice to know after all these years Mel Gibson still

exerts influence over all realms of pop culture."

"Stop whining," she said. "Here. Try this one. And

if I hear one reference to 'sugartits' you can walk

upstate alone."

She pressed Play, and soon a familiar tune came over

the speakers. It was Bob Dylan's "Not Dark Yet." It was

a beautiful, melancholy song. I looked at her, confused.

"I know you like this song," she said, a sweet smile

spread across her lips. "I figured we can split music

choices. There's more stuff you like on there."

I stayed quiet, just smiled at her, listened to Dylan

sing.

As we began the drive, we fell into a routine that was

becoming familiar and comforting. Our conversations

came easily. Each silence felt warm rather than simply

because of a lack of topics to discuss. Being by this

girl's side filled me up in a way I'd never truly experi

enced. Nothing between us had been forced. From the

moment we met during the most stressful situation

imaginable, there were a million moments when, if

we'd not been stronger, things could have broken apart.

Not too long ago I'd done just that. I thought I was

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being noble, chivalrous. Putting her life before mine. I

learned quickly my heart didn't agree with that

decision, and neither of us had rested easy.

When I contacted her for help on a story--that phone

call as much for emotional help as professional--it was

only a matter of time before we got back together.

Amanda was smart, tough, resilient. Stronger than I

was. And together we were more than the sum of our

parts. If not for her, my father might still be sitting in an

Oregon prison trying to simply wait out the legal

process. At least now we had a chance to help set things

right.

Of course, the one bad thing about being together

was our tendency to snack. We went through two large

coffees, a giant bag of Combos and half a dozen cookies

by the time we hit I-95. If we kept going at this pace I'd

have to ask Amanda to start hauling my big ass around

in a pickup truck to talk to sources.

The scenery driving up was truly breathtaking. Pine

trees studded the landscape as we passed numerous

hiking and cross-country skiing trails. There was little

up here for visitors other than what nature offered. I

could see why Stephen Gaines liked to come here. As

much as I loved the clicks and clacks of the newsroom,

there was something about the peace and quiet this area

offered that appealed to me.

It was six o'clock by the time we turned onto I-87

North heading toward Blue Mountain Lake. The city

itself was nestled in Hamilton County, in the town of

Indian Lake. After passing Albany and Saratoga

Springs, we turned onto Route 28 toward Indian Lake.

The drive down 28 was breathtaking. The roads were

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teeming with lush, green trees, small-town stores and

crisp blue water. It was the NewYork that existed outside

of what people commonly associated with New York.

Nearly untouched by technology, commerce and

industry.

About half an hour down 28, we passed a brownbrick building on our left. The sign read, Adirondack

Museum. The lettering was burned into a wooden

plaque, and unlike some other museums I'd seen in my

travels this one looked remarkably well maintained. It

was a shame, I thought, that I'd seen so many places yet

actually experienced so few. When I traveled, there was

always a reason. A story, something pulling me to a des

tination. There was never much time to enjoy my sur

roundings. I was here for business, and as much as I

could admire the beauty of this place, I wouldn't--at

least now--be able to lose myself in it.

We drove several miles down Route 28, the majesty

of Blue Mountain Lake on our left. I could picture

Stephen Gaines (or was it myself?) sitting in a chair by

the water, writing in a spiral-bound notebook, listening

to nothing but the world itself. It was a far cry from what

I'd gotten used to in the city. Either I could love being

here for the blissful solitude--or it would drive me

crazy not to hear blaring horns and the music of the

newsroom.

There were several unpaved roads, which, according

to Rose, led to various cabins. There weren't many

year-round residents up here, and most of the occu

pants were, like Stephen and Helen, city dwellers who

came to get away from the hustle and bustle. Each house

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stood far enough away from its neighbor to allow peace

and quiet, but were close enough that it did feel like

somewhat of a community up here.

As we approached the turn onto Maple Lodge Road,

on the northeast ridge of Blue Mountain Lake, I noticed

a set of tire tracks leading up to the cabin that looked

fairly recent, and another set leading away. They looked

like the same type of tread. The weather reports said that

it had rained here just two days ago, so whoever had

come here had done so in between the time Stephen

Gaines had died and now. And if, as Rose thought,

Helen
had
come here, we would hopefully find her.

The tracks leading away could have been Helen

shopping, picking up supplies.

Amanda turned the stereo off. I could feel the breath

become shallow in my chest. Helen Gaines had to have

answers. Even if she didn't know who killed her son,

she would certainly know what he might have been

mixed up in that got him killed. She was our only hope,

our only lead. My father's only hope.

We pulled onto the driveway and slowly entered the

Gaines residence. The only sounds were the rustling of

leaves in the slight wind. I could hear Amanda breathing

beside me. I felt her hand on my elbow for reassurance.

As we got closer we could see the cottage. It was two

stories tall, made from rounded interlocking logs. The

front door was bracketed by six logs surrounding a

makeshift porch. A chimney jutted from a roof lined

with a green material. It looked as if some sort of moss

or other plant life was growing on it. The chimney was

static. I lowered the window, smelled the air. It was

clean. If Helen was here, she hadn't made a fire recently.

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"Henry," Amanda said, her hand gripping my arm

tighter. "Look at that."

In the dirt driveway, we could clearly make out the

tread markings from a second set of tires. These treads

were marked with numerous crisscrossing lines, both

vertical and horizontal in even patterns. Truck tires

tended to have more grooves, deeper cuts, better for

sluicing water and specifically designed for off-roading.

These tracks likely belonged to a some sort of SUV. Our

eyes followed the tracks back to a clearing in the woods.

Whoever had come here hadn't used the front door.

They'd come in a different way. They didn't want to be

seen arriving. Who could have come here besides

Helen? And what kind of person would have come not

wanting to be seen? Clearly, whoever had come here

knew they would be coming in through the woods, and

needed treads that could handle it. Somebody wanted

to not be seen using the front door.

"This can't be good," Amanda said under her breath.

"What if someone is still there?"

She didn't need to say that that person might not be