Parker 04 - The Fury (30 page)

She slid them into a paper sheath, wrote a number on

it and handed it to us along with my credit card. "Room

2722 on the twenty-seventh floor. Please call if you

require any assistance."

"Please," Gabrielle added. "Any assistance."

"Anything at all, for you or your friend," Rae added.

"One thing," I said. "I don't want anyone to know

I'm here. So can you put me down under a different

name, just in case anyone calls?"

The sisters looked at each other with a worried glare.

"Sure..." Gabrielle said. "What name would you

like to put on the room?"

"Put down...Leonard Denton," I said.

"All set Mr....Denton."

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"Thanks. Come on," I said to Amanda. "Let's get you

some sleep."

I felt their glare in my back as we headed to the ele

vators. The ride was silent and smooth, and I barely felt

like we were moving, let alone going nearly thirty

stories. At some point, right around floor twenty-five,

I felt my eardrums pop. Once the elevator opened, we

made our way down the hall to room 2722, where I

managed the task of propping both Amanda and the

suitcase against the wall as I opened the door. Once

open, I threw the bag inside and helped Amanda in.

She collapsed on the bed, and I sat down next to her.

For the first time all night, I realized just how tired I

was. My nerves were still on edge, and tomorrow would

be a long day. I needed to find out who that man was,

who sent him, and just how deep in my brother was.

But in the meantime, Amanda had somehow

wriggled out of her dress, and was wearing nothing but

a silk bra and underwear, her eyes suggesting that

sleepiness had taken a hiatus for the time being.

Tomorrow would be a long day. As I climbed into

Amanda's waiting arms, I hoped the night would be

long enough to stay with me.

27

I woke up the next morning with my boxer shorts

dangling off my shoulder, the taste of secondhand

vodka in my mouth and a strange pain in my right knee.

Then the previous night came back to me, and I smiled.

Turning over, I saw Amanda lying next to me. She

was wearing my old Oregon Ducks sweatshirt. It was

at least three sizes too big for her, and I'd seen her

spend many nights sitting on the couch reading a book,

the sweatshirt pulled over her tucked-in knees.

My body ached as I threw my legs over the side of

the bed and surveyed the room. It was stunning. Satin

sheets, state-of-the-art stereo, a bar countertop on the

porcelain bath, a flat-screen television wider than our

bed at home.

Then I noticed the sunlight pouring into the room

from what seemed like every angle. Standing up, my

breath was taken away by the beautiful view outside and

the massive wraparound balcony just outside our room.

I opened the door, stepped outside and felt alive. The

cool, crisp air washed over me as my eyes adjusted to

the light. The sight of New York from twenty-seven

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stories up. It truly was a magnificent city, and I smiled

when I thought of the last time Amanda and I had hidden

out in a hotel room under a fake name. It was a sleepn-save somewhere outside of Springfield, Illinois. Even

though I hadn't lost my natural ability to get in way over

my head, at least we were starting to hide out in classier

hotels.

Reentering the room, I found my jeans crumpled

into a ball on the floor, found the room-rate card. When

I looked at it, I nearly had a heart attack. There had to

be other hotels in this city that wouldn't wipe me out

within days.

Amanda stirred. I got up and went into the bathroom,

not wanting to wake her just yet. I ran a hot shower,

stayed in a little longer than I needed to, thinking about

the previous day.

It was no secret that I would want to get to the bottom

of Stephen Gaines's death, and while yesterday I

thought about the possibility of Rose Keller or Scotty

Callahan being involved, the options were likely far

greater.

The
New York Dispatch
had certainly mentioned my

father's arrest, as did my own paper, and surely a few

other locals as well. Anyone who knew me and my rep

utation would correctly assume that I would do anything

to clear my family's name. It was possible I was being

followed, that somebody had seen me talk to Sheryl

Harrison, to Rose Keller, to Scotty. It was even possible

that my discovery of Beth-Ann Downing's body had

alerted someone to my interest. Whoever killed Stephen

wanted it to be seen as one single murder. A lone death,

unconnected to anything else.

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I knew better. And someone else knew
that.

When I stepped out of the shower, a towel wrapped

loosely around my waist, Amanda was sitting up in bed,

her knees tucked up to her chin, her arms wrapped

around them. She smiled at me. Her eyes were blood

shot.

"Hungover?" I asked.

"Just a little."

"Hang on." I went to the minibar, did a little trolling

and found a packet of Advil. I ripped it open, poured

her a glass of water and watched her down the pills.

"Thanks, Henry," she said.

"How you feeling?"

"Like a raccoon run over by a truck. Don't ever let

me go drinking with Darcy again."

"I think I told you that the last time you went

drinking with her."

"Well, next time come with us, so you can monitor

my alcohol intake."

"If memory serves me right, the reason you didn't

invite me last night was because you didn't want me to

monitor your alcohol intake."

"And you listened to me?" she asked with a smile. I

sat back down next to her. She scooted over, rested her

head against my shoulder. I could smell her hair, hear

her breathing. Then she sat back up and looked at me.

"Now, tell me why we're here."

Sighing, I faced her and told her everything that had

happened. About my meeting with Scott Callahan.

Finding the man waiting for me at the apartment last

night. The fear that if they knew where I was, that if

somebody had been following me, they could have been

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253

doing the same for her. Enough young women had been

killed in New York coming home from bars over the last

few years, the confluence of paranoia made it impera

tive we get to safety.

"How long do you think we need to stay here?" she

said.

"I honestly don't know. Until I know who killed

Stephen, and know that person isn't a threat to us

anymore. With any luck I can do that before my credit

card starts getting declined."

"And what am I supposed to do? Just stay here? I

don't think so, Henry."

"Today's Friday," I said. "Call in sick. If Darcy

shows up, she'll surely vouch for you. Then we have the

weekend. And I need to get my father out before the

grand jury convenes. But right now I just need to keep

you safe. Once things calm down we can talk about

what to do next."

"You need to keep me safe?" Amanda said with a

laugh. "You realize that since I met you I've had my life

jeopardized approximately a hundred and ninety-six

times. I won't be surprised if we both get turned down

for a life-insurance policy. Safe to say if I never picked

you up on the side of the road, Henry, I wouldn't have

to worry about my safety quite as much."

I opened my mouth, ready to question why, if that

was the case, she was still with me, but smartly stopped

before a word came out. I learned a long time ago that

she was still here by choice. No other reason. She'd had

plenty of opportunities to leave and had not, and every

moment I wasted contemplating why only divided

myself from the reality of our relationship. She was here

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to stay. And knowing myself, knowing that I'd learned

from past mistakes, as long as it was in her hands, she

wasn't going anywhere.

So instead of bucking for a compliment and starting

an argument, I just leaned over and kissed her. Her lips

were soft, and I could tell she was smiling.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Amanda said.

"Where is your mother in all of this?"

I sat back, rubbed my forehead. "To be honest, I

don't know. Probably nowhere. I remember the last few

years before I left for college, she and my father barely

spoke. It wasn't like she was angry with him, it was as

though she'd just withdrawn. To her, he was more like

a piece of furniture than a husband. He was there

whether you liked it or not. It was your choice to put

him there. But like a table or desk, you could ignore it."

"Why didn't she leave him?"

"I don't know. I wish she had. She turned inward.

You saw those knitting needles at the police station--

they became kind of her solace. She was a kind woman,

never hurt anybody. So whenever he went on one of his

rampages, she would take it like more of a man than he

ever was, then go back to her needles."

"That's awful."

"She deserved another chance at love, at life. It was

almost like at some point she became shell-shocked,

just her nerves and her wits fried by everything he'd

done. I remember one night when I was about eight. I

spent that summer working at a corner deli, restocking

shelves a few hours a day for a dollar an hour."

Amanda laughed. "Even for an eight-year-old that's

pretty far below minimum wage."

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255

"It wasn't the money. They couldn't afford to send me

to camp, and I didn't want to be around the house any

more than I absolutely had to. One night I came home

around seven, usually when we had dinner. It was one of

the few times he was getting a regular paycheck. He got

home from work around seven-thirty most days, and he

would walk in and head right for the dinner table, sit

down and start eating. It didn't matter if we were there to

join him. To him, that's what he worked the day for. To

be alone. This day, though, he came home early. We both

arrived home about seven, and the meat loaf was still in

the oven. One thing about her, my mom made the best

meat loaf in the world. Onions, red peppers, just deli

cious."

I continued. "He went to the table, sat down and

noticed there was no food out. No drinks set. He yelled

her name--Marilyn--and waited. She came out, stared

at him, simply said, 'It'll be about twenty minutes.' It

turned out he found out that day they were cutting back

his shifts, and he'd lose about twenty percent of his

salary. I didn't know this. Neither did she.

"He took a glass, threw it at the wall. It shattered into

a thousand pieces. My mother just stood there, her

mouth open, more confused than scared. Then he took

a plate, did the same thing. It exploded. Then he took

another plate, then another, then every piece on the table

and threw it at the wall. I remember screaming, telling

him to stop, worried he would hit her or me. Instead, he

kept throwing until piles of broken glass were laid over

our floor like a carpet. He was breathing heavy. My

mother just stood in the doorway, mouth open. Then she

turned around, went back to the stove and checked the

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temperature on the food. I called 911, but the cop they

sent over ten minutes later was in a bowling league with

my dad. Since nobody was hurt and my mother wouldn't

press charges, it all went away. After that my father

went upstairs, and twenty minutes later the food was on

the table and he was eating. Nobody picked the glass up

for a week. That's when I knew there was something

wrong, that she wasn't like most of my friends' mothers.

And it was eighteen years of my life before I could

leave. I actually tried to take her with me, to convince

her she could start a new life somewhere. You know

what she said to me?"

Amanda shook her head.

"She said, 'Why would I leave everything I have

here?' I had to leave before living there sucked the life

out of me like it did her."

"Mya," Amanda said. "Me. That's why you always

come back."

"I don't know," I said. My eyes felt heavy, my body

too tired for the morning. "I just never imagined at any

point in my life that I would lift a finger to help that

man. And now here we are."

"Doing what you're doing, helping him," she said,

"is why you're not him."

We sat there, the bright day outside hiding something

dark that was waiting for me. I stood up. Went to the

now-infamous suitcase and found a clean shirt. My cell

phone was on the floor. I picked it up, noticed I had a

message. It was from Wallace Langston. My heart sped