Parker 04 - The Fury (20 page)

her belt) rattled on about something the man couldn't

have seemed less interested in. In fact, he looked

slightly relieved that he would end the night in his cell

as opposed to in bed next to her.

We sat waiting. I wanted to take Amanda's hand. Felt

like I needed to hold on to something that was right.

Being here in this place accentuated my simple need to

feel like I was a part of something wholesome and decent.

Amanda represented everything I had in that department.

Soon I heard a jangling of chains, and my father

appeared behind a set of metal doors. Two guards were

poised on either side of him. They looked somewhat

disinterested, but the tense muscles in their forearms

told me differently.

They led him over to our table, hands under his

elbows as he struggled to walk with chains binding

both his wrists and ankles.

Finally he took a seat across from us, and I could see

what this place had done to him.

My father looked pale. Thin, reedy. He was never a

very muscular man, but any tone he had seemed to have

dissipated over the last week. His hair was stringy and

looked unwashed. His eyes wandered around the room.

They looked scared, as though he expected something

or someone to jump out of the shadows.

I wondered just what kind of hell this man was

enduring here.

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Jason Pinter

Part of me, and man I wished I didn't feel this way,

wondered if it was penance.

"Henry, good to see you, son." He smiled weakly as

he said this, and I knew he meant it. Those were the

warmest words my father had spoken to me since...I

couldn't recall when. And it was a shame they came

under these circumstances.

"How you holding up?"

He made a
psh
sound and leaned back. "S'not so bad.

You see all those movies where guys get gang-raped in

the shower and they're all getting stabbed waiting on

line for food."

"Nobody's tried to hurt you, have they?" Amanda

asked.

"No...well, one guy did get stabbed in the shower,

but I didn't know him."

My mouth dropped as Amanda looked at me. "We

need to get you out of here," I said.

"Well, what in the hell is taking you so long?" he

shouted. The other couple turned and started. I heard a

rustling as two guards moved closer. He looked at them

and shrank back. Suddenly the warmth was gone. This

was the man I grew up with. But that didn't mean he

was a murderer.

"We're working on it," I said.

"How's your attorney?" Amanda asked. "Has he

been to see you regularly?"

"He's been down here two or three times. How the

heck should I know if he's any good?" my father

seethed. "I mean, he knows more about this legal stuff

than me, but so does the janitor here. He could be the

smartest damn lawyer in New York or the dumbest and

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167

I wouldn't know the difference between him and the

Maytag repairman."

"What's his name?" she asked.

"Marvin something. Marvin Fleischman."

She shook her head. "Don't know him."

"Have you spoken to Mom?" I asked.

"Once," he said. "Her sister drove in from Seattle."

"She didn't want to be here?"

"I wouldn't let her be here," he said.

"If you're worried about the money, she could stay

with me," I said.

"She's not here because I don't want her to be. The

house won't take care of itself. Bills don't send their

own checks."

"People can help you and her, Dad."

"We don't need people. We're fine."

"Clearly."

"These public defenders," my father said. "Do they

know their ass from their elbow?"

"Depends," she replied. "A lot of lawyers go the PD

route because they believe everyone deserves a fair trial

and good representation. Believe it or not, a lot of

lawyers enter the profession for the nobility of it. Of

course, a lot of them go the PD route because it's a guar

anteed paycheck, as opposed to private practice where

you run the risk of getting stiffed on your bill by a client

who can't pay. And..." She trailed off.

"And what?" James Parker said.

"And some of them, well, let's just say that govern

ment work does not always attract the best and the

brightest." My father slumped into his chair. I got the

feeling he thought this Marvin Fleischman fit the latter

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category. "But seriously, Mr. Parker, every lawyer is dif

ferent. You could get great representation from a PD."

"So," I said, "let's hope you got a guy who graduated

from Harvard Law with a summa cum laude in nobility."

The noise my dad made said he wasn't quite expect

ing that to be the case.

"Listen, Dad," I said, "we've found out a lot. About

Stephen, his family. I think he was mixed up in some

pretty bad stuff."

"You're telling me. Remember, I knew that mother

of his."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that unless Helen

Gaines was a junkie back in Bend, she'd only gotten

worse. Two peas in a pod, her and James Parker.

I filled him in on what we did know. About Helen

and Beth-Ann Downing. About Rose Keller, and the

Vinnie brigade.

"We need to know more about the night you saw

them," I said. "We know Helen wanted money from

you, and she told you it was for rehab, but I don't think

that's the case. Think about your conversation with

Helen. Specific words. Gestures. Clues that might give

us a lead as to where the money would actually be

going, or what was running through Helen's mind when

you saw her."

He rubbed his head, either thinking very hard or

working very hard not to think. "Henry, it was a rough

night. I remember the big things. The gun, this woman

I hadn't seen in years looking like she was hopped up

on something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, I'm not a doctor. But her eyes were

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169

red as all hell and she had a bad cough. That girl was

not in good shape."

I looked at Amanda. That would jibe with the pos

sibility that Helen was still using.

"Anything else?" I asked.

He tapped his thumb against his cheek, tongue

flicking against his upper lip. "One thing seemed

strange," he said. "Helen."

"You mean besides the jitters and the gun? What

about her?"

"She was a mess, but she was scared, too," my father

said. "And not of me. Kept looking around, like

someone could burst through the door at any moment.

I could tell from her eyes something was wrong. Now,

does that make sense? She wants to check her son into

rehab, seems to me that'd be a cause to have hope, you

know, these two chuckleheads finally getting their act

together. But Helen wasn't like that. When she didn't

think I was going to give her the money, she just...

freaked out."

"Maybe that's why she took the gun out," Amanda

said. "She was worried that if she didn't get the money

from you something terrible was going to happen."

"What?" my father asked.

"I don't know, but you're right about her being

scared. Granted, I've never been to rehab, but you'd

think fright isn't the number-one emotion running

through a mother's head when helping her son. Unless

she was scared of you. Is that possible?"

"Oh, she was scared of me at the end of the night,

I'll say that, but this was there when I got to the apart

ment. Something else scared Helen."

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Jason Pinter

Amanda said, "I'd be surprised if what scared Helen

didn't kill her son."

We both looked at her, knowing she was on the

money.

Turning back to my father, I said, "Please, Dad, think

hard. Did she say anything, anything at all that could

give you a clue as to what she was afraid of?"

My father raised his head, his eyes red. His breath

ing grew labored. Immediately I recoiled and Amanda

looked at me. I could see my father's teeth, bared

through his lips. I'd seen this before. It was rage boiling

inside him, ready to explode. It was how he would get

when my mother or I upset him. It was how he looked

before a rampage, before he made us too scared to live

in our own home. It was the rage and confusion of a man

who couldn't do anything to stop his world from

spinning on an already tilted axis. So all he could do was

force that energy outward onto the people closest to

him.

I watched this from across the table as he simmered

for several minutes. Then the rage subsided, his breath

ing returning to normal. He realized there was nowhere

for the rage to go here. No outlet for it. He was an

animal surrounded by barbed wire.

I finally realized that what it took to subdue my

father was not him seeing the pain he caused others, but

him seeing the pain he could cause himself.

"There was a notepad," he finally said quietly. "At

one point Helen went to the bathroom. I took a look

around the apartment, just curious. So I see this lined

pad she must have just been writing in."

"What was on it?" I said.

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171

"First thing she wrote, weird as hell, was 'Mexico'

and 'Europe.'"

"Any specific country in Europe?"

"No, just Europe."

"Maybe those were rehab spots Helen had in mind.

Cheaper ones since she couldn't afford the tony places

in the States. What else?"

"Next she wrote '$50,000,' with a question mark

after it."

"Thirty years' back child support," Amanda said.

"That could add up to fifty grand. Maybe that's what

the number represented."

"The last word she wrote was--" my father thought

for a moment "--fury."

"Fury?"

"It was capitalized, like a name. And she underlined

it. A few times. With another question mark at the end."

"We can guess what the other words represented," I

said. "But what does the 'Fury' mean?" I asked the

question, but a small chime went off in my subcon

scious. Like I'd heard the word before. And not in

relation to its standard usage. Something more specific.

But I couldn't conjure up just what it was.

"What if," Amanda said, "they had nothing do to

with rehab facilities or resorts. What if Stephen and

Helen were trying to get away from something?"

"Like what?" my father asked.

"I don't know, but that kind of money seems kind of

high for a rehab joint, especially when he could

probably just check himself into detox. It would,

though, be just enough money if you wanted to disap

pear."

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Jason Pinter

"Fifty grand might get you somewhere," I said, "but

is it enough to start a new life?"

"Maybe not," she said. "But it might be enough to

survive."

20

We arrived back home feeling like we'd taken a few

too many punches to the head. So many thoughts and

ideas were swimming around in there--mixed in with

the fear and apprehension of what my father was going

through--that I wished we could just curl up in bed, fall

asleep for a month or two and wake up with everything

back to normal.

Even if we did manage to prove that my father didn't

kill Stephen, James Parker would go right back to Bend

where he would reenter that joke of a life. My mother

hadn't even come because he refused to let her. He

wouldn't be seen like this. Chained. Weak. And

knowing my mother, she wouldn't question it.

I wondered if it was worth it. Saving him. Maybe the

universe was a little more right with James Parker in jail.

Maybe I was saving a man who didn't deserve to be

saved.

Yet here I was, doing what needed to be done. Trying

to find the proof that would free him. I wondered if he

would do the same for me. The answer was fairly

obvious.

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Jason Pinter

I thought about the money Helen Gaines had asked

for. Amanda was right. If Stephen's aim was to check

into rehab, fifty grand was overkill. It could have been

for more drugs, I supposed, but if the two of them had

subsisted for nearly thirty years to this point, it didn't

make sense that they suddenly needed a lump sum to

sate their cravings.

From what it seemed like, the dealers I'd seen the

other day had more than enough business to keep them

going. True, on the surface the ones I saw looked far

more put together than my brother. Scott Callahan and

Kyle Evans barely looked like they touched the stuff.

What was the old drug dealer's maxim--never get high

on your own supply?

These two, as well as their well-heeled cohorts,

looked as if they were in this game to make as much

money as possible. With the exception of the kid whose

briefcase now sat in my living room, they all looked like