Parker 04 - The Fury (9 page)

grand. It's all I can do without biting into my 401k. Of

course, Helen tells me it's not enough. Rehab centers

cost tens of thousands of dollars. I tell her if she kisses

my ass, she can keep whatever money she finds in

there."

"And then what?" Amanda said.

"Then...Helen goes to the closet. I have no idea what

she's doing. And suddenly out she comes holding

this...this
cannon.
Then she pointed that thing at me

and told me she needed money. Of course I've handled

The Fury

73

a gun or two, and I notice the safety's off. But she's

holding the thing all awkward, and even though I didn't

think she'd shoot me on purpose, the way she was

holding it--both hands on the butt, two fingers in the

trigger guard--that thing could have gone off by

accident and blown my head off."

I looked at Amanda. She was thinking the same thing

I was. If Helen Gaines didn't know how to handle a gun,

chances are the gun she pointed at my father belonged

to Stephen. He was killed with his own gun. But if my

father never saw Stephen, how did his prints get on the

gun? And who
did
kill him?

"So I go up to her, slowly. And before she can move

I grab it out of her hands."

"Slick, Pop," I said.

"How did you take it from her?" Amanda asked.

"Just like this, I guess." My father mimicked

grabbing the barrel of a gun and yanking it away, the

chains holding his wrists preventing much of a visual

demonstration.

"The cops say your fingerprints are on the murder

weapon. If your prints were just on the barrel, and not

on the trigger, they wouldn't immediately think you

killed her." Amanda and my father met gazes. Then he

looked down. We both knew he was lying.

"So I might have held it normal," he said.

"Come on, Dad, we're trying to help you. Nobody

else will, trust me."

"I might have pointed it at her," he said.

"You might have or you did?" Amanda demanded.

"I fucking did, all right? The bitch wanted to take my

hard-earned money for her junkie son, then she points

74

Jason Pinter

a gun at me? What am I supposed to do? I just wanted

to scare her, is all. Just scare her."

"Did you fire that gun?" Amanda said.

"Absolutely not," James replied. "I pointed it at her

once."

"Somebody used that gun to kill Stephen Gaines,"

Amanda said. "If it wasn't you, someone was able to

kill Stephen while keeping your prints intact."

"The killer must have used gloves," I said. "Some

thing that didn't disturb fingerprints that were already

on the weapon. Human skin has oils, that's what leaves

the marks. Dry rubber gloves, if used carefully, would

leave whatever marks were already on the weapon.

Whoever it was not only knew enough about firearms

to keep those fingerprints intact, knew him well enough

to shoot him in the back of the head from close range,

and was cold-blooded enough to shoot him again after

blowing his brains all over the wall."

"They say keep your friends close but your enemies

closer," Amanda said. "Stephen's killer must have been

somebody he knew."

I noticed my father sitting there, his face looking

older than ever, fear gripping his whole body. He was

waiting for us to say something, to offer some piece of

advice or solace that would prove he was innocent. The

story he told us, assuming it was true, would have to be

proven in court. But from what Detective Makhoulian

had told me, Helen Gaines had disappeared. As of right

now she was the only person who could corroborate my

father's story. And she was a woman who certainly

owed him nothing.

"Sign the waiver, Dad," I said grimly, gritting my

The Fury

75

teeth, trying to force him to see that his only option

would be to fight nobly. The longer he held out, the

more public opinion would tilt away from his favor. "Go

to New York. We can do more for you there than we can

here."

"I don't want to go to jail," my father said. His words

were whispers, and if there was ever a moment my

heart might have bled for this man, it was now.

"Mr. Parker," Amanda said. "James. All we can do

right now is try to prove your innocence. We can't do that

here. Henry's right. We'll find you a lawyer. We'll help

you."

He looked at both of us. I could sense gratitude trying

to squeeze its way through his hardened veins. Instead,

James Parker simply nodded and said, "I'll sign it."

Amanda nodded, smiled. I couldn't show that

emotion, that happiness. My father had been lying to me

his whole life. Innocent or guilty, I had a hard time

mustering pity for him. Many times over the years I'd

hoped someone would lock him up for one of his

crimes. As a young boy I'd wished I was strong enough

to stand up to him. It didn't matter how far I went, how

much I distanced myself. His sins followed me wher

ever I went.

Amanda got up and knocked on the door. A cop

opened it, keeping his eyes on James Parker. As we left

the room, saw Captain Whalin talking to two uniformed

officers. When he saw us, Whalin came over, folding his

arms across his chest.

"Well?" he said.

"He'll sign the waiver," I said. "Let's get this over

with and get him back to New York."

76

Jason Pinter

Whalin let out a pleased sigh. "I'm glad to hear that.

Last thing we need is another body taking up a jail cell

we can't spare. He still needs to appear before the judge

tomorrow morning, but that's a formality. I'll call the

NYPD. We'll have the waiver ready for him to sign at

tomorrow's hearing, and they'll send officers to escort

him back to New York. Then he's all yours. Thanks for

talking some sense into him."

Whalin walked away. I was glad to hear he wanted

my father out of his hair, it would help the process move

faster. I felt Amanda's hand loop through my arm. I put

my palm on it. Her skin felt warm.

As we headed toward the exit, I saw a woman sitting

in the lobby. Her hair was blond, unnaturally so, as

though she kept her hair colorist in good business. She

had on a white cotton blouse, simple jewelry. She was

teetering, swaying back and forth. Her arms were

wrapped around her thin body, one hand covering her

mouth. She looked like she was debating between

falling over and vomiting. A pair of knitting needles

poked out from her handbag. Memories came flooding

back. The more he raged, the more she knit. Losing

herself in stitches and patterns.

"Mom?" I said, approaching nervously. I hadn't seen

her in a long time. That pale, thin body turned around,

hand still at her mouth. She cocked her head to one side,

trying to determine whether she knew the man standing

in front of her.

"Is that...oh my God, is that you, Henry?"

Suddenly she righted herself, ran over as fast as her

sensible shoes could carry her. She flung her arms

around me and I found myself nearly supporting her

The Fury

77

entire body weight. She sobbed onto my shoulder as I

bit my lip, did everything I could not to break down as

well.

"The police...they called me at Spano's house....

What have they done to him?" she wailed. My mother

pulled away, looked at me, hoping for some answer,

some assurance that this might have been a terrible joke.

"He's going to be okay, Mom," I said, trying to inject

belief into that line when deep down there was none.

"It's a big misunderstanding."

"When are they going to let him out? I bought

chicken breasts for dinner."

"Mom," I said, "I don't think he'll be back in time

for dinner."

"Then when will he be back?"

I looked at Amanda. Her eyes said,
What do you

want me to do?
My mother looked so lost, confused. It

wasn't that I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth

about my father and Stephen Gaines, it was that for

whatever reason, she'd lost the ability to truly under

stand just how many wrongs this man had committed

toward her. Over the years her defenses had rusted.

Nothing allowed in, no anger, hostility or resentment

out. I wondered, now, if my attitude toward him, my

anger, was compounded by the lack of hers.

"I don't know when," I said. I took her hand. Held

it. She held on to mine, but her eyes were far off, distant,

trying to process the situation but clearly failing. To her,

the notion of my father being arrested was like him

being sent into outer space.

"Well, what do I do?" she said. "Should I wait at

home for him to be released?"

78

Jason Pinter

"Home is a good idea, Mom," I said. "Do you have

money?"

She thought about this. "I don't know our checkingaccount information, but we keep a jar of emergency

money in a safe."

"How much is in there?" I asked.

"Five thousand dollars," she said.

"That should be enough for now," I said.

"Mrs. Parker?" Amanda said. My mother turned to

her. "My name is Amanda Davies. I'm Henry's...friend.

I'm a lawyer, so please don't talk to anybody you don't

know. Don't speak to reporters, don't give anybody

money, and only talk to the police if you have a lawyer

present. If you need one, tell the detective on the case

and he'll help you retain one, free of charge. We'll do

our best to get your husband out of this as soon as we

can. So put that chicken in the freezer."

"Thank you, dear," my mom said, her eyes twin

kling as she smiled at Amanda. "You said you're a

friend of Henry's...are you two in college together?"

My mouth opened, but I didn't say anything.

Amanda responded, "Something like that. You're

welcome to come to New York with us if--"

"Oh no, I could never do that." It was definitive. I

wondered when my mother last left the state.

"Do you want us to, I don't know, come over for

dinner?" I asked.

"Oh no," she said fervently. "The house is a godawful mess."

I nodded, felt my eyes begin to sting.

"Then I'll call you as soon as we get back," I said.

"Be strong. We'll sort this out. Remember what

The Fury

79

Amanda said. Don't talk to strangers, and also don't

believe anything anyone says about Dad."

"I know your father," she said sweetly. "If anyone

says he did something wrong, they just don't know

James."

"I love you, Mom. It's good to see you." I ap

proached, wrapped my arms around her. She hugged me

back, fragile, like the tension in her joints might cause

them to shatter. When we untangled, I held her hands

for an extra moment, then she let them go. Sitting back

down, she turned her attention to the ceiling. And we

walked away.

"You okay?" Amanda asked. She could tell I was

rattled. More than that. It was all my memories--good,

bad and wrenching--flowing back at once.

"I'm not sure yet."

"Will she be okay?"

"She's survived being married to him for almost

thirty years. I think a little while without him will be

easier."

"How are
you
holding up?" she asked.

"Given the circumstances? Could be worse. I haven't

had the nervous breakdown I was sure was coming

when I saw her."

"Do you believe your father's story? About the gun?

The money?"

I sighed. "Guess I have to. You know what's funny?"

"What?"

"I've never felt closer to him. Guess not too many

sons and fathers can have being accused of murder as

a way to relate to each other."

10

Amanda and I sat in the first row of the Bend County

District Courthouse as my father was led into the room

in handcuffs. My mother sat next to us, her eyes distant

like she was viewing a movie, not watching her husband

accused of murder. He was seated at a small wooden

table next to a man in a natty suit, his temporary courtappointed lawyer, Douglas Aaronson. Once the case

was transferred to New York we'd have to find him new

representation. None of us could afford much of

anything, so the best we could hope for was someone

competent enough to either prove my father's inno

cence, or at least keeps things progressing until we could

prove it ourselves.

Judge Catherine Rawling entered the courtroom.

"All rise," the bailiff said. Everyone stood up. Aaronson

had to prompt my father. He stood up awkwardly.

Rawling was younger than I would have expected for

a judge, late thirties, with close-cropped blond hair. Her

face was emotionless as she took her chair. She looked

at my father for a moment.

"Be seated," she said, averting her gaze. Chairs and

The Fury