Parker 04 - The Fury (38 page)

one line in that story I knew came from you. Wallace

told me how close you were, how you were right there

when the Callahan and Evans boys bought the farm."

"What line are you talking about?"

"Twenty years ago," Jack continued, "I wrote a book

called
Through the Darkness.
In that book, I mentioned

a man named Butch Willingham who scrawled the

words
The Fury
in his own blood before dying. Wallace

told me that you spoke to Willingham's son. All of this

brought back my memories from that time. Willingham,

that's a name I hadn't even
thought
of since my hair was

still brown. See, I believed then, and I still believe now,

that the Fury does exist. I don't know who he is or how

he's stayed around for over two decades, but if anything,

all these drug deaths have proved that what worked

twenty years ago works today. Butch Willingham was

one of many dealers killed during that period for

reasons I couldn't uncover, and I got surprisingly little

help with from the authorities."

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Jason Pinter

"I'm shocked," I said with a grin.

"I think these murders," Jack said, "Gaines, Evans,

Callahan, the kid Guardado--are all history repeating

itself."

"I don't understand," I said. "You want to, what,

write a story linking the murders?"

"Better," Jack said, that smile coming back, sending

a chill down my spine. "I want to find the Fury. Once

and for all. There's a reason behind all these murders.

I don't think Kyle Evans acted of his own accord. And

I sure as hell don't think your brother was behind it all.

I want you to help me find out the truth."

"You really think he exists," I said, a statement. Not

a question.

"Do you think it ended with Scott Callahan and Kyle

Evans?" he retorted.

"No." I said it definitively. Perhaps I'd thought it all

along, but hearing Jack, a man whose instincts had

served him well for nearly seventy years, say it gave me

courage to speak it out loud. I didn't believe Scott and

Kyle were acting of their own volition. I didn't believe

Stephen Gaines was the Noriega of that operation. "I

want to know what 718 Enterprises is. Plus I get the

feeling my brother wasn't as high up as Kyle thought

he was. There was someone else pulling the strings. I'm

sure of it."

"Then we start tomorrow," Jack said. "I want you at

the office at eight-thirty. Every minute you're late, you

owe me ten bucks. That goes as long as we're working

on this. And bring me a triple espresso. As long as I'm

not drinking anymore I can do my best to make up for

it with other stimulants."

The Fury

319

"I'll be there at eight-fifteen," I said. Just then a large

moving van turned onto the street and pulled up in front

of our building. The driver climbed out, looking at a

manifest, and eyed us both.

"One of you Henry Parker?" he said.

"That'd be me."

The driver nodded, went around to the back to start

unloading their gear.

"Looks like you've got a long night ahead of you.

Don't be late tomorrow."

"I won't."

"I know." Jack turned to leave.

"Hey, Jack?" I said.

"Yeah, kid?"

"It's good to have you back."

He smirked at me, said, "I'm not back yet. There's

a whole lot of story out there and we haven't even

started yet."

I watched Jack leave, then went back inside and took

the elevator to my apartment. Amanda let me in.

"So, that was Jack? How is he?"

"He's great," I said, my mind already starting to

think about all the threads that needed pulling. Then I

saw all the boxes waiting for us to pack up, thought

about the movers that would be up here at any moment.

Looking at Amanda, I said, "It's gonna be a long night."

Epilogue

The car pulled up to the chicken-wire fence and slowed

to a stop. The driver lowered the window and waited for

the guard to approach. When he came over, the driver

nodded at him, and received nothing in return but a

stone stare. One hand on the car's hood, the other on his

side, pushing out his hip just enough so the driver could

see the semiautomatic strapped to his side.

The driver did not flinch at this. In fact, he'd seen the

same man carrying the same gun numerous times. They

knew each other by now, and the display was merely a

reminder. Not a threat, just a friendly tap on the shoulder

to let the driver know it was still there.

After a minute, the guard pressed a button on a

remote and the gate began to creak open. When it was

wide enough for the car to pass through, the driver sped

off, gravel spewing out from under the tires.

The gravel soon turned into a dirt road, surrounded

on either side by fencing, and topped by razor wire.

Several trees stood on either side of the fence, numerous

branches caught in the wire. If removed, the wood

would be shredded instantaneously.

The Fury

321

The road went on about two miles before widening

into a small field. Standing in the middle of the field was

a brown warehouse, two stories high and surrounded on

either side by trees and, beyond that, more razorwire-topped fencing. Three cars sat in the entrance in

front of the warehouse, half a dozen large men trolling

about. And unlike the guard out front, these men

weren't shy about hiding their guns.

The driver pulled up behind the last car. Like moths

to a flame, all six men walked toward this new arrival.

The driver shifted into Park, turned the car off and

stepped outside.

The six armed men nodded to him. He returned the

gesture. One of them, a tall, lean Caucasian man with

white hair and a chiseled face, strode up to the driver's

side. He'd heard rumors that this white-haired man had

been on the ground in Panama in December 1989, as a

member of the Green Berets. The driver didn't quite

know how he'd ended up here, but he had one hell of a

hunch.

"Malloy," the driver said to the man.

"Detective," Malloy said back.

Malloy led the driver up to the warehouse's entrance.

He went up to a small control panel that appeared rusted

and bent. He inserted a small key into the side of the

panel. A tinny whirring noise emanated from the box,

and the panel receded, revealing a keypad and an elec

tronic monitor.

Malloy pressed both of his thumbs on the pad. A

green light flickered on. Malloy then entered a ten-digit

code on the pad. When that was complete, he opened

the door and ushered the driver inside.

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Jason Pinter

Inside the warehouse was a corridor that led to two

doors. The driver had seen this part of the warehouse

many times, but had never entered the door to his left.

He knew what went on behind it, but had not witnessed

it with his own eyes. Better he didn't. Better it stayed

in his mind as long as possible.

Malloy led the driver to the door on the right side.

He opened it, led the driver up a flight of stairs. At the

top floor, Malloy inserted a key card into a slot on a

metal door. The driver could hear a mechanism unlock,

and the door swung open.

The driver entered. He turned back to watch the door

close. Malloy stood on the other side. He would wait

for the driver. He always did.

The driver turned back around. He was in a room

about twenty feet long, fifteen feet wide, with high

ceilings. Track lighting adorned the ceiling, casting

white beams that harshly illuminated the room.

At the far end of the room was a small desk. It was

uncluttered, save for a reading lamp, a desk blotter and

assorted pens and pencils. Behind the desk was a

woman of about forty-five. She was of Latin descent,

dark skin and green eyes, silky black hair that flowed

down to the small of her back. She wore a sleeveless

black top. Each arm was muscular, solid, lithe. Though

the woman's face was beginning to show lines of age,

her body tone and the quickness of her gestures were

those of a woman half her age.

She watched him approach with a serenity on her

face, no sense of strife or impatience. He had only met

her twice before, but each time felt unnerved, like there

was something roiling beneath that calm exterior, some

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323

thing that if unleashed could tear him apart. Because of

that he never got closer than a few feet. Though they'd

met twice, he'd heard stories. The kind of stories that,

even if embellished (which over time they surely were),

must have had a ring of truth somewhere. He was taking

enough risks as it was. He wanted no part of anything

else, any part of the minimum ten men who were cur

rently in the ground because of her.

The woman looked up as the driver approached. She

stood up and said, "Detective Makhoulian. It's been

far, far too long. Please, sit down." She gestured for him

to sit at the table. There was a smile on her face that

made him feel queasy.

He nodded, approached and took a seat, making sure

to subtly push the chair back so it was not within reach.

He said, "With all due respect, I prefer it that way. If

I'm here it means there's a problem."

"Well, that really depends," the woman said. "If I

know all I need to know, then there is no problem. The

boys. Callahan and Evans, they're both dead, correct?"

"That's right."

"Then this murder of Stephen Gaines ends with

them. I'm led to believe there are no further investiga

tions into the deaths of any of those three men."

"As of right now, no. The department officially

declared Evans's death a clean shoot. He had a gun, and

there are numerous witnesses who concur that he killed

Callahan in cold blood. The newspapers are playing it

as a heroic cop putting himself in harm's way. The

families would be stupid to press charges. Their

children have already dragged their names through the

mud, and any protesting on their part would only

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Jason Pinter

deepen the wounds. My guess is the families will mourn

quietly and be out of the city within the year."

"That would make my holiday," the woman said.

"Now, you mentioned the newspapers. This reporter

who was on the scene. Parker. I don't like his reputa

tion, and he is one of your 'numerous witnesses.' The

last thing we need is for him to suddenly think he saw

something he didn't see. Do you think he will be a

problem?"

Sevi Makhoulian unfolded his hands, placed them

palms down on the table. From the angle he was standing

at Detective Sevi Makhoulian could see the three

numbers tattooed across the woman's toned right

shoulder.

7.1.8.

"I don't think so. Parker and I have spoken numerous

times over the last few weeks. Parker's only concern was

finding his brother's killer. He did that, in Evans. As far

as Parker is concerned, the case is closed. I do have

sources within the industry that will tell me if that

changes."

"You don't sound convinced," she said. Her eyes

narrowed. Makhoulian found his palms sweating. He

wiped them on his pants, hoping she didn't notice.

"Parker has a reputation as a young bulldog. He

was involved in the death of Michael DiForio a few

years back."

"That's right!" she said, now beaming. "DiForio

thought Parker had stolen from him. He even went so

far as to hire Shelton Barnes."

"That's right."

"And look how that turned out." She smiled. Mak

The Fury

325

houlian did too. "Bodies like Callahan, Gaines and

Evans can disappear without many tears. The families

bury them, the city moves on. They were insulated.

Parker has friends. I never authorized the hit on Parker

at his apartment. That was Evans acting alone when he

realized Parker was getting too close. We
do not move

unless we are forced."

"I understand that. If I hear anything..."

"You will let Corporal Malloy know before you take

another breath."

The woman stood up, revealing her full height, full

frame. She was a shade under six feet tall. She extended

a grip, which the detective took. She clasped Makhou

lian's hand, fingers digging in until the detective

winced. Her eyes were locked on Makoulian's, the

pupils wide, burning. For an instant, Sevi Makhoulian

feared for his life. Then the grip loosened. The woman

turned around and sat back behind her desk. As he stood

up to leave, Sevi Makhoulian noticed one more thing

sitting upon the nearly empty desk. A small black rock,

no larger than a pebble. It had a rough surface, the color

of coal.

With nothing else of note, Makhoulian knew it was