[Henry Parker 01.0] The Mark Read online

  Jersey City, New Jersey.

  Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

  Columbus, Ohio.

  The line extended straight to St. Louis.

  “Where’s this new one?”

  “I-70 West, heading toward Cincinnati. Assuming they’re headed to St. Louis, Amanda Davies and Henry Parker should arrive by midnight.”

  Mauser felt a surge of adrenaline. The conversation with Linda was still fresh in his mind. Parker was running. The fucking guy was trying to get away with it.

  “The hell with this,” Mauser said. “I want to be in the air in half an hour. And another thing.” He looked Denton right in the eye, lowered his voice. He checked the door; it was closed. “I don’t want St. Louis PD in the loop. Not yet.”

  “Joe?” Denton said, a hint of concern on his face. “What’re you gonna do?”

  Mauser’s voice was granite, not a hint of indecisiveness.

  “When we take Parker down, we take him down our way. Not one word about procedure or extradition. Henry Parker deserves to go down hard, and I don’t want anyone there to soften his landing.”

  “Joe,” Denton said, his voice imploring. “Remember there are other factors here. The drugs, number one. If Parker has info on Luis and Christine Guzman’s supplier, maybe we take down two birds on this case. I say we find the package and milk that.”

  Again, Mauser thought, with the career aspirations. More cases for superstar FBI agent Leonard Denton to solve. Fuck it. If it meant Denton worked harder, saw more angles, his delusions of grandeur were acceptable.

  “Fine,” Mauser said, throwing on his overcoat and heading for the door. “Before we take Parker down, we’ll bleed him dry.”

  Denton smiled and grabbed the car keys. “I hear ‘death by a thousand cuts’is popular these days. I’ll help you make the first incision.”

  20

  We pulled up at Amanda’s house on Teasdale Drive at 11:47 p.m., thirteen minutes before her self-imposed deadline. The air had an eerie quiet to it, as though the world was afraid to take a breath.

  The Davies residence was a large, Tudor-style home, painted white with delicate gray trim, paved driveway, two-car garage and covered deck. Amanda circled the driveway and parked in front of the garage.

  “Nice neighborhood,” I said.

  “We’re only five minutes from the Wash-U campus,” she replied, stretching her arms above her head and yawning. “I moved here when I was about twelve. Trust me, I was thrilled to get away from Midwest suburban hell.”

  She got out, knelt down in front of the garage door and yanked the metal handle upward. The garage rattled open. A silver Mercedes SUV was parked between cardboard boxes and rusty gardening equipment. She got back in the car and pulled inside.

  “I could have done that,” I said. “Opened the door for you.”

  “Why would you have?”

  “I don’t know. Feel like I should be helping out more.”

  “Please,” she said. “How do you think I’ve put the car in the garage the last thousand times? All of a sudden I need you to do it for me?”

  “I know, I know. You’re empowered. You don’t need any help.”

  “Damn right,” she said, shutting off the engine. “You okay? Look a little, I dunno, more than tired.”

  She was right, but I played it off. “I’m fine. I didn’t realize we’d bonded so much that you can judge my mental state.”

  “As long as you’re sleeping under my roof I’ll judge all I want, thank you very much.”

  “Well, at least let me help with your bags.”

  Amanda squinted at me.

  “Deal.”

  She tossed over the car keys, which I thankfully caught.

  “Front door’s the little flat key. Go to town.”

  I stepped out of the car, a sharp pain lancing up my leg. I needed to clean the wound again before it got infected. But every step felt queasy, reminding me of just why my leg hurt in the first place.

  “You okay there, spindly legs?”

  “It fell asleep in the car,” I said. “Just shaking it loose.”

  A soft wind blew, chilling the air. It was a challenge to open the front door while carrying two overstuffed duffel bags and my backpack, while simultaneously lugging a suitcase that exceeded the maximum weight limit of most airlines. While I lugged and pulled, Amanda tied her hair up in a ponytail and threw a baggy sweater over her tank top. She was effortlessly stunning, her natural beauty accentuated by the frumpy clothes. When she caught me staring, her lips curled into a demure smile. She had a look of fake pity.

  “That’s what you get for offering to help. Here, before you get a hernia.” She took one of the duffels and carried it inside.

  The house was cold and filled with stale air. Amanda fiddled with a thermostat as I set the bags down. Between the cold, my T-shirt, fatigue and my leg, I began to shiver. Amanda noticed this, looked concerned.

  “Come on,” she said. She led me through the foyer to a closet. Inside were dozens of sweaters, threaded with some of the most horrendous fashion designs and colors I’d ever seen. Ugly maroon cotton. Green wool with a bald eagle sewn into the chest. A smiling deer embroidered with purple stitching. And they smelled like they’d last been worn by Daniel Boone.

  “Feel free to raid my dad’s sweater closet,” she said. “He hasn’t worn this stuff in years. I never was good at giving Christmas presents. Somebody might as well get some use out of them.”

  I thanked her, and while normally I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing sweaters so hideous they’d offend Bill Gates’s fashion sense, beggars can’t be choosers and all that. Besides, I didn’t want to insult my host. And hey, bald eagles are patriotic.

  I took a moment to take in the house’s grandeur, the tall white walls and long mirrors like something out of a Raymond Chandler novel, and the full bar with smoky brown liquor that could warm me better than any sweater. The walls were lined with lithographs encased in crystal-clear glass, an oil painting of the famous arch framed in polished bronze.

  “I’d offer you something to eat or drink,” Amanda said. “But unless you’re in the mood for instant oatmeal you’re out of luck. I’ll go shopping tomorrow, but I imagine you’ll have your situation figured out by then, right?”

  I nodded distractedly. We carried her bags up a narrow flight of stairs, Amanda flicking on a series of lights as we went. Down an off-white hallway, lined with deep blue carpeting, I lugged her bags into a dark room. I knew it was Amanda’s bedroom before she even turned on the light.

  Even with the moon’s faint rays shielded by the drawn shades, I could sense a soft femininity in the dark. Half a dozen stuffed animals were perched on her bed, arranged with care. The room felt warm, inviting, different than the rest of the house.

  Without thinking I said, “I like your room.”

  She turned to me with a big smile, the kind given when a genuine compliment comes from an unexpected source. Those always meant the most.

  “Thanks,” she said, a hint of girlishness sneaking into her voice for the first time since we’d met. I liked it, liked seeing that beneath the suit of armor was something delicate.

  Right now Amanda felt safe, secure in her home. Perhaps a slight hint of adventure brought on by the stranger in her bedroom. She knew nothing about me other than the superficial notes in her journal, the truth as deep as her pen’s ink.

  Maybe this was a thrill for her. But I felt no such joy, no comfort, no adventure. Even in a moment like this, where I should at least feel a sort of vicarious comfort, the emotion was wasted. Because my life was in a state of purgatory, all the small joys I experienced now would add up to nothing more than faded memories, lost opportunities.

  “Come on,” she said, leading me out of the room. “I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”

  She led me down the hall, past a bathroom and a linen closet, pointing out a closed door on the right.

  “You can use that bathroom. Just make sure to put the
seat down, okay? Otherwise we’ll have problems.” Smiling, I said I would.

  There was a small guest room, the bed looking like it had never been slept in. “There’s an extra blanket in the closet if you get cold,” she said. “Just do me a favor and strip the bed in the morning so I can wash the sheets.”

  “No problem. That’s the least I can do.”

  “Well, if I think of anything else involving manual labor I’ll let you know.”

  I thanked Amanda. When she left I immediately collapsed on the bed. It was hard and uncaring. Running my hand under the comforter, I felt lumpy egg crates and a plywood board underneath. Thankfully the pillows were soft. I kicked off my shoes, my leg throbbing with every movement. Sitting back up, I closed the door, tentatively took down my pants and studied the bullet wound. The gash on my thigh was angry and red, and it hurt to put my full weight on it.

  The pain was bearable, but suddenly I felt a dam burst in my head and all the frustration and hate and anger writhed inside me like demons trying to burst through my skin. I flailed against the mattress, my fists pounding, letting loose silent fury bottled up and shaken by the last twenty-four hours. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I cursed the events that had changed my life, that had made me a marked man. The hero of the day.

  John Fredrickson’s death. God damn it, why had I even knocked on the Guzmans’ door? Barring some divine intervention, my life as I knew it was over. My pitiful thumps against the pillows meant nothing, only letting out the excess energy before it built right back up again. I pounded and punched until the blanket was covered in lumps and the stains of my tears, the first tangible evidence of my ever-growing sorrow. Alone in a strange girl’s house, abandoned by the world. Kept company only by my alleged sins.

  Once the anger subsided, I managed to stand up. My head was woozy, the adrenaline rush petering out.

  I heard a shower start down the hall. Cracking open the door, I saw a fine mist leaking from the bathroom. Amanda was gutsy, trusting a stranger with the run of the house. Every girl I’d ever known took a minimum of thirty minutes to shower. No reason Amanda would be any different. There was a guest bathroom downstairs. Hopefully I could wash up and be back before she finished.

  Gripping the banister tight, I eased down the stairs, toe to heel to hide any noise. The house was quiet save the shower, the wind outside building, whistling and whipping through the trees.

  As long as I stayed in my own little world, looked at everything rationally, it seemed manageable. Cleaning my leg would be simple. Finding somewhere to go tomorrow would be hard. A few nights sleeping at bus stops would be a humbling experience, but one I’d have to stomach. But what then?

  Two linen cabinets and one door to the basement later, I found the bathroom. The white tiles were freshly cleaned and I smiled at the quaint seashell-shaped hand soap. On a metal rack hung hand towels monogrammed with three letters—HSJ.

  I opened the medicine cabinet, swore under my breath. Nothing. Not even a goddamn Band-Aid. What kind of people were Amanda’s parents? What if a dinner guest accidentally swallowed a turkey baster? Shouldn’t they at least own some Pepto-Bismol?

  I closed the chest, ran a trickle of warm water from the faucet. I wiped away the dried blood with wet tissues. I gritted my teeth, tried to ignore the stabbing pain as my blood turned the water red. I threw the bloodied papers in the toilet and flushed.

  Creeping back upstairs, I couldn’t help but peek into Amanda’s empty bedroom.

  She was in the shower. What the hell.

  I took an old yearbook off the shelf, flipped to Amanda’s page. There was an aerial shot of her, the photographer standing on a roof or a ladder looking down. Amanda was cross-legged on a bed of grass, smiling. The picture was so happy, so serene, but there was sorrow behind Amanda’s eyes, as though she wished that moment had perhaps occurred at a different time and place.

  I noticed the covers on her bed had been pulled back a bit, revealing a small trunk underneath the mattress box.

  The shower was still running. I knelt down and slid it out. The top had plenty of dents and dings from years of being yanked from dark places. The Master Lock was undone. Without hesitation, I removed the lock and threw the cover back. When I looked inside, my breath caught in my throat.

  Dozens, no, hundreds of small spiral notebooks filled the trunk nearly to the brim. They were all different shapes and sizes, some with pages torn and falling out, some looking like they’d been read a thousand times. I plucked one from the top of the pile, felt the small indents where her pen had pressed hard on the paper. When I flipped it open, I saw that every single page had been filled top to bottom. The same kind of notes she’d been writing in the car. Immediately I knew the other books were filled as well.

  My fingers shaking, I read the first page:

  July 14, 2003

  Joseph Dennison.

  Probably early 30s but dresses like he’s 60, lots of beige sweaters and windbreakers, goofy grandpa hats. Kind of cute in a skinny, Tobey McGuire way, but older. Thin, but not a stick figure. Worked as a librarian for three years, says he wants to be a screenwriter. Helped me find that old V.C. Andrews book that the store in town didn’t have. Wears too much cologne. I don’t think he has a girlfriend and he’s definitely not married. Says he’s seen over a thousand movies and can remember the best lines from each one. I quizzed him once and he got them all right. It was kinda scary. Not attracted to him, but curious. Can’t imagine there’s much room for advancement at the library, so why work there when you’re 30? Some people’s motivations are strange.

  I read another entry.

  August 29, 2003

  Gas station attendant, likely late 40s, early 50s. Looks like he hasn’t bothered to shave in four or five days. His workshirt is covered in oil and he looks miserable while he fills up my tank. There’s no name tag, but someone who I assume is the manager calls him Ali. He says “thank you” when I tip him two bucks, then stuffs it in his shirt pocket. He gives the tip money to the guy behind the counter, who pockets it. I wonder how much Ali makes per year and if he has a family. I didn’t remember to look for a wedding ring. I wonder if he’s happy.

  I put the notebook back, took another. Read six entries. Each one described a different person who’d crossed Amanda’s path. Some were random, some familiar—an old boyfriend who dumped her the day after they exchanged I-love-you’s for the first time. Some she’d only met for seconds and some she’d known for years. I’d never seen anything like it.

  Then it hit me. Somewhere in the room was the notebook she’d used in the car with her first impressions of Carl Bernstein.

  I dug to the very bottom of the trunk until I scraped bottom. I pulled out a notebook and flipped it open.

  February 3, 1985

  I miss Mommy. I don’t know anyone else at school. The kids laugh when we sit in a circle and I don’t know who to sit next to. Jimmy Peterson poured milk in my hair. I hate Jimmy. He’s an ugly boy and his hair is too long. I pulled it once and Miss Williams sent me out of the room. Lacey and Kendra laughed when Jimmy poured milk on me. I hate them, too. Lacey has a pretty purple dress I wish was mine. Jimmy’s house is two streets away from my new one and I see him some mornings. I don’t like to look at him. Sometimes I hide behind trees. I wonder if his mother knows what a stupid boy he is. Maybe she’s stupid, too. If Mommy and Daddy were here nobody would laugh at me.

  I quickly closed the book and put it back in its place. The large, childlike handwriting, so heartfelt and pained, heralded a life that had been interrupted, deeply scarred.

  What sort of insecurities did this young woman have, that every person she met needed to be catalogued?

  I scanned the notebooks at the top of the trunk, found nothing about me.

  Then I noticed Amanda’s jacket thrown over her desk chair. I checked the pockets. Nothing. I gently opened her drawers. Nada. Sweat beaded down my neck. My leg ached.

  The clothes she was wearing in the car. Maybe in
her pockets.

  I checked under the bed, only found dust balls and bent plastic combs. About twenty of those elastic ponytail holders.

  Could Amanda have brought her clothes into the bathroom? It was possible she already put them in the wash. But then she wouldn’t have left the notebook in her pocket. She’d been doing this for too long to be careless. It had to be somewhere.

  I started rifling through her shelves, picking books off and searching behind them.

  Then I noticed that the shower had stopped running.

  I froze.

  Panicking, I closed the trunk and slid it back under the bed. I straightened out the bookshelf, praying she hadn’t caught me snooping.

  Then I heard a noise by the door.

  She’d seen me.

  I held my breath, waited for a sound, afraid to look at her. How long had she been there? Had she seen me going through her notebooks?

  I turned around slowly, fully expecting to see Amanda in the doorway, arms folded, ready to kick me out of her house and out of her life. I tried to sponge together an explanation. It was pointless. I had to come clean. I had to tell her the truth.

  Yet when I turned around, the image that burned itself into my mind wasn’t Amanda—who was standing in the doorway—but the man standing behind her with a gun to her head.

  21

  The look of absolute terror on Amanda’s face froze me instantly. Her body was rigid, her mouth pursed shut. She was too scared to scream.

  The man’s countenance was calm, relaxed. He wore black jeans and a dark jacket, covering everything up to his lightly stubbled jaw. His eyes were cold, perfunctory. He was in his early thirties, with high cheekbones, short hair, sinewy forearms. His gun hand was firm, his posture steady, not rigid, ready to strike. He spoke in an even tone, but through gritted teeth. There was a faint trail of mist coming from the hallway. The shower. Jesus. He was in the bathroom with Amanda, using the shower as subterfuge. She was still wearing the same clothing. I even noticed a slight bulge in her pocket. The missing notebook.