The Mark Read online

  Anne left his world years ago. But to the Ringer, Henry Parker had just killed her all over again.

  22

  I don’t know how long we were in the back of the truck. Every second was gut-wrenching, the tension a suffocating blanket. Add to that potent mix the girl whose life I’d endangered, who would no doubt beat the living shit out of me as soon as we were safe, and the ride in the back of the flatbed felt similar to bodysurfing the seventh circle of hell. Country music notwithstanding, it was the worst two—or was it three, or four, or five?—hours of my life.

  We made a few brief stops—traffic lights I assumed, since we always were moving within minutes. I thought about my backpack, still containing the tape recording from the Luis Guzman interview, that I’d left at Amanda’s house. When the driver, David Morris, according to the sloppily scrawled name on his toolbox, finally came to a complete stop, we waited what seemed like eons before daring to poke our heads out.

  I eased the tarp up and saw a white neon sign hovering above us that read Ken’s Coffee Den. The C in Coffee had blown its bulb. Ken’s offee Den was good enough for me.

  We had stopped at a rest area—who really knew where-but we were out of St. Louis. There was a small diner and a Mobil station. A busy highway ran parallel. The black night was slowly easing into the gray of early morning. Where were we?

  “We’re clear,” I said to Amanda. “Let’s go.”

  They were the first words I’d said to her in hours. She barely acknowledged me, but before I could move she’d leapt out of the truck and started walking across the parking lot. I jogged up to Amanda, praying she wouldn’t scream bloody murder before I could explain.

  The first rays of sun began to peek out of the horizon, streaks of beautiful orange and gold melting the gray. I checked my watch. Another day had passed. It had been almost thirty-six hours since John Fredrickson had died. Thirty-six hours since my life had irrevocably changed. For a moment, I forgot everything. Forgot John Fredrickson, forgot that three people wanted me dead, forgot that I once had a life, a good life, which I might never see again. The beauty of the morning sky, the whispers of cool air, they took me far away. All I could think about was Amanda, the look in her eyes when I told her my real name and revealed my betrayal. This was my life now. And there was no turning back.

  “Amanda, please.” I tried to grab her sleeve. She pulled away and kept walking. “Just let me explain.”

  Suddenly she whipped around, her gaze cold as stone.

  “Who are you?” she said. “Right now, tell me the truth. And if I even think you’re lying, I’m marching right into that restaurant and calling the cops.”

  I closed my eyes. It was time to come clean.

  “I’m wanted for the murder of a New York City police officer named John Fredrickson.” The breath seemed to be forced from Amanda’s lungs as she took a step back.

  “Did you…” She took a deep breath. “Did you actually kill a cop?”

  “No, I didn’t. There’s something fucked up going on, but I don’t know what it is yet. Just give me a minute, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  Amanda stood and listened as I told her how I’d come to NewYork and taken a job at the Gazette. About Luis Guzman, how I had interviewed him for Jack’s story, how I’d tried to help them that night when I heard the screams. How John Fredrickson could have killed all of us. And how he’d died. How there was a package that went missing, and everyone assumed I stole it. Lastly I told Amanda how I found her, how I lied to her in order to flee the state. How I would be dead if it wasn’t for her.

  When I finished, it was like a two-ton weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Finally somebody else knew as much as I did. Amanda’s eyes stayed even. Listening, not judging. I told her the truth, that I didn’t know the man who’d held the gun to her head. That I’d recognized the two cops who’d followed me from New York, and that I didn’t know how they found me. When all had been said, Amanda looked at me and spoke.

  “I believe you,” she said, her voice earnest. A lead ball dropped into my stomach.

  “Why?”

  “Let’s just say that of the four people in the room last night, you were the only one I honestly knew wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “I guess that’s as good a reason as any to trust someone.”

  “That’s not the only reason. I look at you and I know you’re not an evil person. You’re not someone who would do such horrible things.”

  I couldn’t help but say, “I lied to you before, you couldn’t tell then, you bought it. How do you know I’m not lying now?”

  Amanda considered this. “Because you just said that. I know you weren’t lying to me before for the sake of lying. You were lying to save your life. Shit, I’d claim to be Lindsay Lohan—retch—if I thought it would save my life.

  “There is one thing, though,” she said, “that you haven’t been totally honest about.”

  I shook my head. “No, everything that’s happened I’ve…”

  “Your name,” she said. “You still haven’t told me your real name without someone holding a gun to my head. I want you to say it on your own.” I smiled and looked at her.

  “It’s Henry. Henry Parker. It’s really nice to meet you, Amanda.”

  Amanda took this in, tasting my name on her tongue.

  “Henry.” She squinted a bit, like she’d just tried on a pretty shirt that didn’t fit. “I’ve never met anyone named Henry before.”

  “And I’m happy to be the first.”

  “And what was that name you used on me? Carl?”

  “Carl Bernstein.”

  “Where’d you come up with that?”

  “Carl Bernstein?” I waited for a sign of recognition. She looked at me as if to say and? “You know, of Woodward and Bernstein? All the President’s Men?”

  Amanda slapped her forehead. “Ugh, you cheesy asshole. I can’t believe I didn’t catch that.” She still looked confused. “But of all people, why Carl Bernstein?”

  “Woodward’s kind of my hero. He’s one of the reasons I wanted to be a journalist in the first place. But I figured you’d recognize Woodward. Bernstein hasn’t really been on the radar.”

  “Well, I give you points for originality.”

  “I try.”

  “Come on, Mr. Bernstein, I could eat my body weight right now. We need to figure out what to do next.” She started walking toward the Coffee, er, offee Den.

  “What do you mean, next?”

  Amanda stopped and put her hands on her hips, lecture-style. “Well, unless you plan on running for the rest of your life, we need to figure out why this cop tried to kill you and what that man tonight was looking for. You’re a reporter, right? Got any theories?”

  “I haven’t really had time to do a lot of thinking the last few days. Kind of been spending too much time trying to save my ass.”

  Amanda checked her pocket, pulled out a crinkled wallet with a few bills inside. “Come on, first cup’s on me.”

  We walked inside the diner, passed David Morris, who was gorging himself on an order of eggs sunny-side up, and took a booth in the back. I buried myself in the menu, which, like all roadside diner menus was like the Yellow Pages, only thicker.

  A woman whose name tag read Joyce and who smelled like David’s truck asked for our order. Amanda ordered a bagel and cream cheese. I got a side order of toast. Two bottomless coffees.

  “Not hungry?” Amanda asked.

  “Starving.”

  “So why don’t you get something a little more, you know, filling than toast? There’s enough choices here they should rename this place the indecisive diner.”

  “Money,” I said. “I’m guessing we have a few hours max before they cancel or trace your credit card. We’ll have to make due on whatever cash we have on hand. Let’s just say the value of a dollar just appreciated.” Amanda immediately thrust her hand in the air.

  “’Scuse me, Joyce? Can you change my order to just toast, too? Th
anks.”

  When Joyce stalked back to the kitchen, Amanda said, “Now the big question. What was that man talking about, that package? What was he looking for?”

  I shook my head and took a sip of ice water.

  “I honestly have no idea. The New York papers said Fredrickson was killed over a drug deal gone bad, but I didn’t see any sort of drugs or paraphernalia in the Guzmans’ apartment. Luis was arrested for armed robbery, not drugs. Fredrickson was there to pick up some sort of package from the Guzmans, but I don’t think it was drug related.”

  “Maybe they kept it under the couch or something. Could you have just missed it?”

  I shook my head. “No way. I’ve been around people who’ve done drugs, even dealt, and they all have this tension about them. Not really paranoia, but like they’ve permanently conceded that they’re doing something wrong. It’s a little bit of shame, I think, a slouch in their shoulders, fidgeting constantly. I didn’t see any of that in Luis or Christine.”

  “So, what then, if not drugs? You said Fredrickson was looking for a package, and now this guy with a gun is looking for it, too. There are two common threads here involving that package—you and violence. People think you have it, and they’re willing to do terrible things to get it.”

  “The five questions,” I said.

  “What?” Amanda asked.

  “Every story has to answer five basic questions. Who, what, when, where and why. Unless every one of those questions is answered, you don’t have a full story. You can observe everything about anything and anyone, but unless you hit all five W’ s you’re missing the whole story. You’re getting a superficial imprint that carries no weight.”

  Something flickered across Amanda’s face. The notebooks. I knew I’d touched a nerve. And I’d done it on purpose.

  I cleared my throat. She did the same.

  “So let’s go through the list,” she said. “Who?” Thankfully, amidst all the chaos I’d managed to hold on to my notebook, now crumpled and wrinkled after hours in Amanda’s car and David Morris’s truck. “What do you know,” she said, grinning. “You keep one, too?”

  “I always keep a log when I’m on a story. Only shitty and lazy reporters go on memory.” I paused. “What happened to yours?”

  Amanda blinked, looked down. “I left it at home.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Amanda nodded remorsefully. I raised my hand and signaled Joyce. “Excuse me, but could we borrow a pen?” Joyce looked at me like I’d asked for her firstborn child, then took a pen from behind her ear and handed it over. I looked at the pen, took a napkin and wiped it down. Who knew where her ears had been?

  Flipping open the notebook, I uncapped the pen and prepared to write. “Okay,” Amanda said. “Who?”

  “Kind of a multipart question. The Guzmans. Luis and Christine. Christine knew what Fredrickson was talking about, so he went there for a reason. Fredrickson, of course. The man in black. The cops.”

  “Hold off on the cops,” Amanda said.

  “Why?”

  “Think about their motivations. Right now, they’re in it for you and you alone. We’re trying to figure out what was going on before they got involved. What were the Guzmans hiding? What was Fredrickson looking for? And this guy in my house, how exactly is he involved?”

  “I’m not sure, but he’s definitely not a cop. Maybe he knew Fredrickson somehow or knew about the missing package. Then he somehow connected me to you, and found us in St. Louis.”

  Amanda was chewing her nail.

  “Everything okay?”

  “I’ll let you answer that. But you know what’s scary? That this guy found us. I didn’t tell anyone about you, and I’m pretty sure you weren’t stupid enough to tell anyone about me.”

  “Pretty scary,” I said. She nodded.

  I wrote these names down, drew an arrow connecting Fredrickson to the Guzmans. Another one connecting the man in black to both of them. Looking up from the paper, I caught Amanda staring at me.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “But I’ve seen better handwriting from animals without opposable thumbs.”

  “Lay off. As long as I can read it.”

  “Suit yourself.” She leaned back, folded her hands above her head and yawned. “So is that it for the ‘who’?”

  I fiddled with the pen, tried to think of who else might be involved. Then it hit me. I flipped through my notebook, and found the name I’d written down two days ago. The Guzmans’ landlord. Grady Larkin.

  Amanda looked surprised. “Why do you think he’s involved?”

  “Grady Larkin was quoted in the newspaper article as saying he heard a strange noise, then saw me fleeing the scene. Something just seems a bit off. Like he preferred to give an ex-convict the benefit of the doubt.” I put Larkin’s name down with a question mark next to it, drew a dotted line from him to the Guzmans.

  “Anyone else?”

  “I think that’s it. For now.”

  “Okay, now the ‘what.’”

  “Big question,” I said. “Drugs, maybe, but doubtful. Something valuable. That man at your house was ready to kill us both for it. You don’t attempt murder for a package of Twinkies.”

  “Now that depends how old the Twinkies are. Maybe if they’re antiques you could get a good price on eBay.”

  “Point taken. But the ‘what’ is pure speculation. All we know is that to the right person, the package is worth killing for.” My statement sunk in like a hypodermic needle. Worth killing for. We stared at each other for a moment, the gravity of the situation hitting home. Amanda broke the silence, thankfully, because I was ready to break down and cry.

  “Okay, where?”

  “New York,” I said. “Harlem, specifically. The apartment building at 2937 Broadway. Fredrickson was a New York cop, so it’s probably New York specific.”

  “You don’t think St. Louis is involved?” I shook my head.

  “St. Louis was circumstantial. The cops and the other man somehow tracked me there. It was blind luck that we ended up at your house.”

  “Okay, another question,” Amanda said. “How exactly did they track you? How’d they figure out you were with me?”

  “I really don’t know. Maybe someone saw me at NYU and reported it. The receptionist saw me checking out the student shuttles, she could have done something, said something. Maybe there was a camera set up at a tollbooth. There are a hundred possibilities.” Amanda hardly seemed satisfied by my response.

  Joyce returned with our toast. Amanda’s looked crisp, light. Mine was burnt. Amanda sighed and handed me a slice of hers. I thanked her and spread a generous dollop of strawberry jam on it.

  “Okay, when?” she said.

  “My involvement began the day before yesterday, but the meeting between the Guzmans and John Fredrickson was likely set up earlier.”

  “Why do you think so?” Amanda asked.

  “When I arrived for the interview, Luis was decked out like he was going on a date with Hillary Clinton. But my question is this—if the Guzmans didn’t have this package, why did Luis bother getting dressed up?” Amanda thought about this, took a sip of coffee.

  “Sympathy,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Come again?”

  “Obviously Luis knew Fredrickson wanted something he didn’t have.” She took a bite of toast, smeared the rest with butter. “You ever get called to the principal’s office in high school?”

  “Why?”

  “Just humor me.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, once or twice.”

  “Well, what’d you wear?”

  “I don’t know. Khakis, a sweater.”

  “But you showered and shaved right? You looked presentable, didn’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “The same reasoning applies. When you know you’re in trouble, you want to look like you’re really sorry, dress your best, yada yada yada. Luis knew Fredrickson would be pissed, and he wanted to soften the blow.” />
  “Lot of good it did him. Which means they were probably protecting themselves by lying to the newspapers. They figured it was better to pin the package’s disappearance on me.” We both nodded, a joint sense of satisfaction that brought levity to the situation. This was what we were both born to do.

  “Now the big one,” Amanda said. “Why?”

  “Why,” I said, then repeated it softly, looked at Amanda, ran my palm over my two days of beard stubble, and said, “I have no idea. But those three men after me, I don’t think they’re going to just stop. If I can’t figure it out, in the next few days I’ll either be in prison or dead.”

  23

  M auser took two Advil and popped them in his mouth. Then he thought twice and popped two more. He thanked the young kid who stood over him with the medicine bottle, grinning like a dog who’d just won first prize. Joe’s head throbbed, blood pounding in the knot over his left temple. The Advil couldn’t work fast enough. The kid in the light brown St. Louis County Police Department uniform looked thrilled just to be at the scene. Mauser thanked him again, slowly pushing off the bed where he’d been sitting for the last half hour, trying to shake away the cobwebs.

  Denton was out in the hallway. The head of the Bureau of Fugitive Affairs, some guy named Wendell whose face didn’t look a day over thirty, yet whose hair was already going salt-and-pepper, was scolding him, cursing like his schoolmates had just taught him some brand-new four-letter words. Mauser had gotten the first half of Wendell’s riot act before shooing the man away, claiming his headache might trigger involuntary violent reactions to “assholes who think that their mouths are bullhorns.”

  Denton had a blueberry-colored bruise on the side of his neck where he’d hit the armoire. He’d been absolutely livid, but Mauser was able to calm the man down, told him the department would give hazard pay for hickeys attained in the line of duty.

  They found a knapsack that belonged to Parker. Denton tore it open, had a dismayed look on his face when all they pulled out was a tape recorder and a reporter’s notebook. Nothing on the tape except an interview with Luis Guzman, the man Parker later attacked. A perfect cover, really. Parker interviewed him, pretended to do his job, to make it look like he had a legitimate reason to be there.