Parker 04 - The Fury (34 page)

James Parker had another son. Or that Stephen Gaines

had a brother.

But there was a glimmer of recognition there as she

searched for a reaction. Perhaps Stephen had mentioned

me the night he died. Maybe Helen knew there was

another son.

Clarence Willingham's hand was on my back, but

there was no force to it. As if he himself wanted to

know just what was going on. When he'd first opened

the door to his apartment building, I assumed Clarence's

paranoia was due to the high, not wanting to get caught.

The dead bolts on his door, they were protecting a man

whose father had been gunned down mercilessly. He

grew up in fear, and now he was protecting Helen

Gaines. But why? How did they even know each other?

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And how did Helen end up here, of all places, after

fleeing Blue Mountain Lake?

Bernita had stopped screaming. Perhaps because

they were both curious. Or perhaps because they didn't

want to get anyone else involved. Because they were

still protecting Helen.

"You're Henry," she said. "Oh my...I've wanted to

meet you for so long."

That answered my question.

"I only just found out you existed a few days ago,"

I said. "Why didn't you ever try to reach me?"

"I didn't know how," she said, but her voice betrayed

that thought. She never really tried. The idea of my ex

istence was grander than the reality of it.

I walked over to Helen. Extended my hand. She did

not offer hers, and for a moment I was embarrassed, but

then she stood up, took a breath and gathered me in her

arms. It was a strange sensation, and one I wasn't sure

was deserved or appropriate, but soon I felt my arms

wrapping around this small, frail woman who'd been a

part of my family's life long before I ever arrived.

Her pulse was racing. A slightly sour smell came

off of her.

When Helen Gaines pried herself away from me,

she stepped back, sat down on the bed with a sigh. The

woman's pupils were dilated, and I had to take a

moment to realize just how small, just how thin she was.

I remember the photo my father had shown me. The vi

vacious young woman with the unruly brown hair, the

bright green eyes. The eyes were still green, but they

were slightly dulled. Too much life had passed by them.

Not enough love to keep them shining.

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The veins in her wrists were thick, ropy. Blue streaks

roamed underneath her skin. The brown of her hair had

nearly all been wiped away, replaced with a stringy

gray.

Then I heard a smacking sound and saw that she

was licking her lips. Dry mouth. A symptom of crack

addiction.

She was Stephen Gaines's mother all right.

"Wait," I said. Suddenly I was the one confused. I'd

been so caught up in discovering the earring and

finding Helen that the biggest question hadn't even

occurred to me to ask.

"How in the hell do you two know each other?" I said

to Helen, then turned to Clarence.

Clarence bowed his head. Then he stepped by me,

went and sat down on the bed next to Helen. She placed

her hand on top of Clarence's head. He smiled weakly,

tilted it slightly.

"Butch Willingham," Helen said, "saved my life. When

I came to this city I had nothing. I started using, but I was

out of control. I bought from Butch, but he never sold me

enough to kill me, which is what I wanted. One day, Butch

found me passed out in a gutter. Facedown. Drowning in

filth. He took me in. Nursed me back to health. He was

my lover. My protector. He was the husband your father

never was. The father Stephen never had."

"And when my dad died," Clarence said, "Ms.

Gaines always looked after me. The city wouldn't allow

her to adopt me because of her...issues...but she visited

every day. She was the mom I lost when I was a kid."

"So when Beth-Ann was killed," I said, extrapolat

ing what I'd learned, "you called Clarence."

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"He was my only friend left," Helen said. Her eyes

were sunken. She began to weep softly, her small body

trembling. Clarence wiped her tears away with his

finger, took her frail hand and kissed the back. Helen

smiled, nestled her head against his neck.

"She was
here
when I called," I said. "That's who I

heard in the background."

"I wouldn't let her stay at my pad. Too many

people have my business card. Bernita here doesn't

even have e-mail."

"I found the earring," I said to Helen.

"Earring," she said, stumbling over her words. "Oh

my, from the cabin!"

"That's right."

"I didn't even know I had the other one with me. It

must have fallen."

"Onto Clarence's carpet," I replied. "So he shuttled

you downstairs to hide while I talked to him."

"Didn't have time for anything else," Clarence

replied.

"You went to all this trouble," I said.

"I'd do anything to protect this woman," Clarence

said. "Anything." Then he stared at me, his eyes gone

from tender to fiery in an instant. "Anything."

I knew he was talking to me. That if I even thought

about exposing Helen, about putting her in harm's way,

Clarence Willingham would have no problem making

sure nobody heard what I had to say.

"So you hid her here," I said.

Bernita chimed in, saying, "Man did pay me."

"I trust Bernita," Clarence said. "Helen wasn't so

sure at first."

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287

"I didn't--still don't--know who to trust," Helen said.

"I couldn't keep her with me," Clarence said. "I have

clients coming over to my office, and there's no way she

could have stayed upstairs. Besides, who would think

to look here?"

"I would. I did," I said.

"Yeah, well, most people ain't you, Parker." I wasn't

sure whether he meant that as an insult or a compliment.

"We need to talk about Stephen," I said. "Helen, I

need to know what happened. The police have arrested

my father for Stephen's murder. They know he came

into the city to see you. They know you tried to black

mail him. I need to know why. It wasn't for rehab for

Stephen. I need to know what that money was for, and

what happened that night."

Helen Gaines's hand went to Clarence's and held it

tight. He put his arm around her, comforted her as she

began to cry, this time harder. She wailed, her hand

covering her mouth to stifle the sobs.

"Oh...my baby," she said. "My baby is gone..."

"Helen," I said. But all I could do was wait it out. It

hadn't even been a week since Stephen was murdered,

and though Helen Gaines seemed far from mentally

stable, there were some things that pierced the heart no

matter how calloused it had grown.

She cried for several minutes. Clarence held her

head, stroked her hair. His eyes were closed, too, and

on his face I could see the pain of a man whose surro

gate mother was going through hell in every way, shape

and form. Clarence had admitted abusing drugs in his

younger years, but recently had begun to wean himself

off of them. No doubt having a dealer as a father exac

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erbated any curiosity he had. And even though Butch

was a supposedly "clean" dealer, being exposed to that

kind of trade could stir a desire that wouldn't have

existed otherwise. The temptation was there. His father

put it there, and Helen Gaines had become a victim of

it as well.

Maybe Helen and Clarence had actually bonded over

this. Perhaps it was even Helen who, after Butch was

gone, tempted Clarence. But looking at them now,

young man and older woman, they needed each other

more than anything in the world.

"Helen," I said, "I need to know why you got in

touch with my father. After all those years, why did you

suddenly need the money?"

Helen removed her head from Clarence's shoulder.

She wiped her eyes, only succeeding in smearing the

mascara she had on. Clarence took a tissue from his

pocket, handed it to her. She thanked him, cleaned

herself up.

"The money wasn't for me," she said. "It was never

for me. It was for Stephen."

"Rehab?" I asked.

"No. That ship sailed a long time ago. We tried--

both of us, actually. But it's easy to say you want to stop,

it's another thing to do it. It'd be like rewiring your

brain. When you have two people so close, both

addicted, you can either band together and use each

other for strength...or you can slip into the comfort of

nothingness. We chose the latter."

"So you know your son was using, and that he

probably started because of you."

Helen nodded. "I was young and stupid when I came

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289

here. Do you know what it's like to be nineteen years

old with a baby? To have to leave the only place you've

ever known and go somewhere where you don't know

anybody? To raise a child in a different world? I

couldn't handle it. So I escaped. But Stephen could

have made so much more of himself."

"Stephen wasn't just some street dealer," I said. "He

was much higher."

Helen blinked. "I knew he wasn't standing out on

corners. He had nice suits. Lots of them. He would

wear them during the day, even though I knew where

he was going. I always found it strange that someone

in that...line of work would get dressed up so nicely.

We never had money for anything else."

I thought about the building in midtown. All those

suited young men entering to get their daily packages.

A horde of young, urban professionals. Only the defi

nition had turned a one-eighty.

"How long had he been selling?" I asked.

Helen looked at the ceiling. Wiped her eyes again.

Clarence was staring at her as well, his eyes soft. I

wondered if he'd ever heard these stories.

"Screw this," Bernita suddenly announced. "I'm

getting a beer and watching
Judge Judy.
" Her pink

bathrobe turned with a flutter, and she left the room.

"She's a great cook," Helen said. "Made chicken a

l'orange last night."

"I have about ten pounds of leftovers in my fridge

at home," Clarence said with a laugh. "I know what

you're saying."

"How long?" I repeated.

"Almost ten years. He dropped out of CCNY after

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his sophomore year. I worked about a hundred differ

ent jobs over the years, but even with that and the money

Stephen made, with his student loans, there was no way

we could ever really make ends meet. Not in this city.

That's actually where I met Beth. We were both secre

taries at a public-relations firm. They fired us both

within the month when we came to work high. So

Stephen dropped out. Partly because of the money,

partly to take care of me. He said the only experience

he needed was in the real world. And I was too stupid

to stop him. And besides, he was making more money

doing that than I ever did working real jobs. And none

of it was taxed."

"So he was working for ten years, making good

money, obviously moving up the ladder," I said. "Again,

why did he need the money?"

"We went through it fast," Helen said. "Stephen

started using more, and I was a mess. We never saved

much. One day, about a month ago, Stephen came home

from work. I remember him coming in the door with this

look on his face, and I just froze. He was so scared...oh

God, his eyes were wide and his face was pale and I

thought he might have overdosed. He collapsed on our

sofa and asked for a glass of water. When I brought it to

him, he just sat there with the glass in his hand. Not

drinking, just staring at the wall. Then my boy started to

cry."

"Why?" I asked. "What happened?"

"He didn't tell me," Helen said. "All he said was, 'We

need to leave. We need to get far, far away from this city.

When I asked him what the matter was, he just said,

'You're safer if you don't know. We'd both be safer if I

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291

didn't know either.' I looked into his eyes. They were

bloodshot. Not from drugs, but from crying. He'd never

spoken like that before in his life. I'd never seen him so

scared, so terrified. So I told him we'd find a way."

I said, "My father told me he found a notepad in your

apartment. It read 'Europe' and 'Mexico.' That's where

you were thinking of going. Right?"

Helen nodded. "We didn't know where to go. What

city or country. We wondered if Europe was too far, or

if Mexico was far enough. Stephen just wanted to go far,

far away. We barely had enough money to cover the

rent."

"And that's why you called my father," I said. "For

money to leave the country."