Parker 04 - The Fury (33 page)

"No better or worse, s'pose."

"How do you mean that?"

"I know a lot of kids my age who had more'n I did.

Know a lot that had less. My dad, he didn't have much

of an education. No college, no high school. Dropped

out at fourteen, spent the rest of his life slinging rock.

That's all the man knew. As far as I knew he was good

at it."

"How so?"

"Kept me well fed. My moms died when I was a kid

and I never had no brothers or sisters, so it was all up to

him. He made sure I went to school, beat my ass if I didn't

get good grades. I know a lot of dads who bought the rock

my dad sold and just sunk into a hellhole because of it.

My dad never smoked, never drank. To him this was his

livelihood, like someone who goes to a plant, punches a

clock. He didn't take his work home with him."

"I find that a little hard to believe. I mean..." I

motioned to the joint. Clarence laughed.

"Yeah, I used to do harder stuff. Crack. A little heroin

here and there. The weed's a cooling-down drug. I'll get

off it at some point." He took another long, deep, drawnout puff, then smiled lazily. "Just not yet."

"The sins of the father," I said under my breath.

"What's that?"

"Nothing. So do you remember when your father

was killed?"

"Remember?" Clarence said, coughing into his fist.

"I was the one that found him."

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"You're kidding," I said.

"Nope. Thursday nights I had me a pickup game of

basketball in the park with some other kids. I was about

six-two by high school, and could handle it like a dream.

I thought if I kept growing I could be another Magic

Johnson, the kind of big guy who had the skills of a

point guard. Then one Thursday I came home. Picked

up one of those ice-cream cones in a wrapper, you know

with chocolate around the cone and nuts in the vanilla?

Carried it home with me, went upstairs, first thing I see

is blood on the carpet. I couldn't see my dad, that's how

big the puddle was. He was lying in the living room, the

puddle had spread into the hallway. I go in there, and

he's facedown, arms above his head like he was trying

to fly and fell from the sky."

"You saw the words?" I said.

"Yeah. Just barely, but they were in the carpet. Lucky

for us we had an off-white carpet, otherwise I might

have missed it. The Fury. That's what my dad wrote

while he was dying on our floor."

"I can't even imagine," I said.

"No," Clarence said, putting the joint into an ashtray.

"You can't. The cops told me they used a silencer. It

took a few years until I knew what that meant."

"My brother was killed the same way," I said.

Nobody spoke for a moment. Then I said, "So once you

came out and saw him, you called the cops?"

"No. First I tried to wake him up," Clarence said. He

spoke slowly, the words rusty like they hadn't been

spoken in a long time. His voice was soft yet gritty, and

it chilled me to the bone. "I turned him over. The back

of his head was almost gone. I remember seeing bone

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and brain on the floor, but I was a kid. I figured there

was always a way to put someone back together. I

turned him over, saw that glassy look in his eyes, the

same look you see on the mannequins in department

stores. And I held my father's head in my hands and

tried to get my daddy to wake up. Finally a neighbor

heard me crying and called the cops. She actually

reported it as a domestic disturbance, thinking my dad

was beating me. Then when they came in and saw

him...man, that's a picture that'll never go away."

I was almost afraid to ask, but I said, "What hap

pened then?"

"The cops came and took me away. I stood outside

and watched a whole mess of them go into our building,

wearing gloves, carrying all sorts of equipment to bag

and tag my dad. I'd seen bodies before. Even if my dad

was straight, that's a dirty game, and some of his friends

didn't play the same way. It's not the same when it's

your kind. Whether you love 'em or not, when it's your

own flesh and blood lying there, something just dries

up inside of you. Drains the life out of you."

Inside, I knew how Clarence felt. Only to a much

smaller degree.

"Then I got sent to foster care. Lived with a nice old

family until I turned eighteen. Moved out, went to

school and never seen them since."

"You graduate?" I asked.

"Cum laude," Clarence said. "I don't like to keep up

appearances, but this is my crash pad. My real place of

business is in Gramercy."

"What kind of work do you do?" I asked.

"Graphic design," he said.

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277

"That's funny," I said. "Do you know a woman

named Rose Keller?"

"Sounds familiar, why?"

"Friend of my brother's. Also works as a graphic

designer."

"Hmm..." Clarence tapped a finger against his lower

lip. "Think I might have smoked with her once or twice.

Or maybe more." He smiled.

"She's kicked her habits. I guess creative people do

creative things to their mind."

"I never lose the sharpness. It doesn't affect my work."

Then Clarence rattled off the names of several mul

tibillion-dollar companies. He took a business card from

a pile on his desk and handed it to me. It had his name,

address, e-mail and Web site URL. The tagline read

Your dream can be a reality.
"I have a portfolio of all

my clients. You check out their Web sites, that's all me.

Half a dozen Fortune 500 companies."

"Not bad at all."

The joint had burned out. Clarence didn't seem to

notice.

"That all you need, Parker?" Clarence asked. "I ap

preciate thinking about the good times and all, but my

day is wasting."

"One more thing," I said. "The note your father wrote

on the floor. The Fury. Do you remember your father

ever talking about anyone who went by that name?"

"Nah," Clarence said, waving his hand. "My dad

never brought his work home with him."

"He was killed because of his work," I said. "I'd say

that's taking it home with you."

Clarence didn't take to that comment very kindly, and

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stood up. "He never mentioned anyone by that name.

But I know what you're getting at. I've read the books.

I know what some people think. But a hustle's a hustle.

There's no greater power. No Keyser Soze sitting up in

a tower somewhere twisting the wills of men. It's a big

racket, is all it is. People play to make money. The cards

are shuffled every so often, and my dad was one of

those cards. Sucks for him and for me, but that's the way

it goes. So don't go spreading any rumors, 'cause they

ain't true."

I wanted to tell Clarence that for untrue rumors, he

was quite adamant about making sure I knew he thought

nothing of them.

"Thanks for giving me some of your time," I said.

"And I'm sorry for your loss."

"About twenty years too late, but I appreciate the

sentiment."

Clarence led me to the door. The joint was a sad, for

gotten nub in the ashtray. I turned around to shake his

hand, when something caught my eye.

There was a futon resting in the far corner. Red

cushion. Lots of stains from cigarettes, liquor, or both.

Something underneath the sofa was twinkling, shining

in the low light.

I stepped around Clarence to get a closer look.

"What're you doing?" he asked.

I felt a tightness in my chest as I walked to the futon.

Dropping down to one knee, I peered underneath to

see. Something told me I already knew what it was.

I felt a strong hand, Clarence's hand, grip my

shoulder and squeeze. Pain coursed through the joint as

he found the bone and dug in.

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279

"Listen, man, you've had your fun. Leave or I'm

gonna call the cops."

Ignoring him, I reached under the futon and grabbed

the item. Standing back up, his hand still like a vise, I

opened it to see what lay in my palm.

I felt the grip loosen as we both stared. My heart was

hammering. I couldn't believe it.

Turning to face Clarence Willingham, I held out a

small diamond earring in my hand. The companion to

the earring I found up at Blue Mountain Lake by BethAnn Downing's body.

"Where is Helen Gaines?" I asked.

29

"I don't know what you're talking about," Clarence

said, but the tremor in his voice belied that statement. I

looked around. This apartment was too small. There

was nowhere for her to hide. She had to be somewhere

else.

But if Helen Gaines was hiding, if she'd left Blue

Mountain Lake because somebody was trying to kill

her, she wasn't out and about in New York City, sight

seeing and having her caricature drawn in Times

Square. If she'd come to Butch Willingham's son for

help, chances are he knew where she was at this

moment. She had to be somewhere close. In his office,

perhaps. Or somewhere nobody would expect. The

office might be out. Where...

I could hear Clarence screaming at me, trying to

push me out of his apartment. My body didn't respond.

She couldn't be at his office. She'd be somewhere

nobody would know about. Somewhere...

Then I remembered my bag. Bernita. Clarence's words.

Anytime you have something you need stored safely,

Bernita's your woman.

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281

I bolted out of Clarence's apartment, the diamond

earring still in my hand. The footsteps behind me said

that Clarence was right on my heels. And I didn't think

he was going to argue with me anymore.

The stairs disappeared under me two at a time, and

I used the railing on each landing to swing onto the next

set, trying desperately to keep ahead of Clarence. I

didn't know how we'd fare in a fight, but I was sure that

if we made enough noise one of the tenants surely

would call the cops. And I didn't have time for that. I

needed to know. Needed to see.

Safely stored.

As I hit the first-floor landing, I felt Clarence's fist

grab a chunk of my shirt. I pulled away, but not before

it ripped a sizable hole in the collar. I turned around, saw

Clarence behind me and shoved him as hard as I could.

It wasn't meant to hurt him, merely to buy me some

time, and to that extent it worked. Clarence fell back

about eight feet, tripping over the foot of the stairwell

and falling to the ground. Cursing like a maniac, I was

sprinting down the corridor before he could get himself

up.

I found Bernita's door. Knocked twice fast. I said,

"Bernita, it's Henry. You have my bag."

I saw Clarence on his feet, running toward me. I

only had seconds.

Then the door opened in front of me, and Bernita was

there in her pink bathrobe, the cigarette still in her

mouth. She was holding my bag in one hand, out

stretched, expecting me to take it then leave. When she

saw the rip in my shirt and Clarence barreling down the

hall, her eyes grew wide. She immediately tried to slam

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the door shut. Instead, I wriggled past her into the apart

ment, the door slamming shut where I'd just been

standing.

"Get the fuck out of my house!" she screamed,

slapping at me with both her hands, the cigarette still

miraculously dangling from her lip.

Then I heard a small, frightened voice from the

farthest room down the corridor.

"Bernita, is everything okay?"

I stared at Bernita for a second, then sprinted down

the hall. It was the last door on the right. Without hesi

tating, I barged in, the door swinging open and

smacking against the wall where it hit a doorstop and

swung back at me. I stopped it with my foot, then stood

there.

I heard two people breathing behind me. Bernita and

Clarence. But I didn't care about them; all I cared about

was the woman sitting on the bed mere feet from me.

Her hands were on her knees. Back ramrod straight.

Her eyes were wide, terrified, as though she'd been ex

pecting this moment for a long time and knew she could

only avoid it for so long. Then that terrified look turned

to anger, then confusion.

"Who...who are you?" she asked.

"Ms. Gaines," I said. "My name is Henry Parker. I'm

James Parker's other son."

30

The apartment was silent for what seemed like ages.

Helen Gaines sat there on the bed, unbelieving, her

mouth in a silent
O.
I couldn't tell what she was

thinking, if she knew who I was, or if I'd even existed.

Since she'd left Bend before I was even born, there was

a chance she didn't know about me. Didn't know that