The Mark Page 27

  Parker took a deep breath and spoke.

  “It starts with Michael DiForio and Jimmy Saviano,” Henry said.

  Mauser interjected. “Everyone knows about their war. It’s been brewing for years and nothing’s ever happened.”

  “Until now,” Henry said. “Michael DiForio owns a good chunk of real estate in the city. More specifically, he owns the building at 2937 Broadway. Where John Fredrickson was killed.”

  Parker took a breath, continued.

  “DiForio figured an easy way to help his business, while exposing himself to limited liability, was to use indentured servants, couriers, to run his errands. Men without ties, without hope. If these couriers had records, and they were arrested or killed, the finger would point right back at them alone. No questions would be asked.”

  A faint breeze drifted through the room, sending a shiver down Mauser’s spine.

  “Come on, Joe, forget this kid, let’s take him now.” Mauser looked at Denton, who shut his mouth. He felt light-headed, his world turning upside down.

  Nodding at Parker, Joe said, “Go on.”

  “Michael DiForio’s associates would reach out to recent parolees. Men with no money and no job. They were offered housing on the cheap in exchange for their services. Picking up payments, running drugs, the works. And in return they got to stay out of crummy halfway homes and didn’t have to bag groceries for a living.” Parker swallowed. “Luis Guzman was one of those men. In fact, over the last five years, at least ten ex-convicts have lived in that very building, getting huge rent discounts in exchange for their—” Parker paused “—services.”

  “I’m still not seeing it, Joe,” Denton said. “The fucking NYPD’s going to be here any minute and we’re fucking around with…”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Mauser yelled. “Shut the fuck up! This is about my goddamn family!”

  Denton looked like he’d been punched in the gut. He stepped back. Parker, clearly unnerved, tried to collect himself, his voice shaky.

  “Another man DiForio employed was a photographer named Hans Gustofson. DiForio paid Gustofson to take some very incriminating photographs of very important people.

  Photographs of cops and government officials. Just like the one he took of Officer Fredrickson.”

  “John,” Mauser said. Parker nodded.

  “Gustofson compiled a large album of these photos over the past two decades. They could have been used for any number of reasons—to blackmail city politicians, to gain better control over the cops already in his pocket, to find out which policemen were double-dipping and working for Saviano as well. Luis Guzman was a middleman. He was supposed to collect the photos from Gustofson and hold them for Fredrickson, who would deliver directly to DiForio. But the photos never made it to Luis Guzman.”

  “Why not?” Mauser asked. He could feel sweat pouring down his skull, warm and sticky.

  “Hans Gustofson was killed before he could deliver the photos. I know this because I found the body. And whoever killed Gustofson wanted those photos, but he’d hidden them well.”

  “Jesus,” Mauser said.

  “Unbelievable,” Denton added.

  “Luis Guzman never received them because Gustofson was dead. Fredrickson, assuming Guzman was holding them for his own personal gain—possibly to resell to Saviano—attempted to beat it out of him. That’s when I came in.”

  “You and John,” Mauser said. “You killed him.”

  “Officer Fredrickson is dead,” Parker said, his voice like meat through a grinder. “But I didn’t kill him. I tried to stop him from hurting the Guzmans, and somewhere in the struggle his gun went off. But I didn’t pull the trigger. And if you talk to the Guzmans, really talk to them, they’ll corroborate my story.”

  Mauser said, “And this photo album, where is it now?”

  “It’s safe, along with the negatives,” Parker said. “I don’t want it to get into the wrong hands any more than you do. But I can put the pieces together and help make things right. All I want in exchange is my life back.”

  “That’s not possible,” Mauser said. “There’s a whole city wants you dead.”

  “The city doesn’t know the whole story.” He paused. “What do you want?” Parker asked. Mauser lowered his head, his shadow cast long across the wall. Then he looked up.

  “I want justice for my brother. I want whoever’s responsible to pay.”

  “I want that, too,” Henry said. “And I can help.”

  Parker took a step forward, Mauser watching, but then he heard it. A slight sound. The fluttering of wings.

  The birds had been disturbed again.

  Somebody was coming up the stairs.

  “Get back,” Mauser said urgently, shoving Parker toward the window. He and Denton whipped around and aimed their guns at the door, crouching to create a smaller target.

  Soft footsteps, but Mauser could hear them clearly. More than one. More than two. At least three people were approaching. Maybe more.

  Mauser felt the Glock in his hands, a trivial reassurance of protection. He looked quickly at Denton, nodded. Then a tremendous explosion shattered the silence, then another, and another. The room lit up like a firecracker had gone off, thunder echoing through the building, tortured screams from below.

  “Jesus Christ!” Mauser yelled. “What the fuck is that?”

  Another explosion rocked the building, and then there was silence. The police didn’t fire those shots, Mauser thought. They were shotgun blasts. Four in total. And from the intervals, it sounded like one person had fired them. Then Joe heard it.

  Footsteps coming up the stairs. Just one set now, deliberate. He saw Parker, fear etched on his face, backed into the corner.

  A shadow crept into the doorframe. Mauser saw the barrel of the gun before he saw the man.

  As he entered the room, Joe Mauser recognized his face.

  Shelton Barnes.

  The man’s pants and shirt were dark black, but in the moonlight Mauser could see red, like a dozen paintballs had exploded on his chest. Other men’s blood. Then Barnes spoke, his voice even.

  “All I want is Parker,” Barnes said, his shotgun at chest level. “For Anne.”

  Mauser looked at Denton, then back at Barnes. Joe stood up, gun outstretched.

  “You’ll get nothing and like it, Barnes,” Mauser said. “Now drop the fucking weapon.”

  Then Denton stood up, his eyes locked with Barnes. Mauser felt a shiver sweep down his spine as a cold grin spread across his partner’s face. A tremor swept through Joe’s body as a hard truth entered his brain, one moment too late.

  “They say you gotta make your own luck,” Denton said, before pumping three bullets into Mauser’s chest.

  41

  I watched the cop go down in a heap, a stunned look in his eyes. The man in the doorway, Barnes, didn’t move. The other cop, Denton, stood there staring at the body, a sick smile on his face.

  The stench of blood and gunpowder soiled the air, death lingering like steam, and it was blowing my way.

  “Better to take him out of the equation, leave it to the three that matter,” Denton said, looking at the assassin in the doorway. “Name’s Leonard Denton. Bet you don’t remember me, do you?”

  The assassin flinched, his shotgun wavering.

  “I just want Parker,” Barnes said, but his voice sounded unsure now, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle.

  “Come on, Shelton. You remember, don’t you? That night in your loft? That pretty wife of yours? Or maybe you’d remember better if I had a hood on. Your first and last warning, asshole.”

  Barnes’s arm went slack. The gun dropped to his side. With his other hand he gently touched his chest, as though making sure something was still there.

  “Anne…” Barnes said, his voice tremulous. I couldn’t move. Something was playing out here, an old wound being reopened between these two men.

  Denton nodded. “That’s right,” he said.

  “DiForio,” Ba
rnes added. Denton nodded.

  “Sometimes you have to do whatever it takes to get ahead in this world. When I was a rookie, I said, ‘Hey, what’s the big deal if I take a few bucks, kill some low-level punk who needed killing?’ You pissed off the wrong guy, my friend, and Michael made it my job to fix you. Problem was, Shelton, you didn’t die. Your wife died like she was supposed to, bless her heart, but you didn’t take the hint. You came back and killed everyone else, somehow missed out on me. My good luck, I suppose.” Barnes’s gun hand shifted, the shotgun stirring slightly. “Your wife—Anne was her name, right? She was a pretty thing. Shame it had to end that way for her.”

  Without warning, Denton raised his gun, three more explosions ripping through the room. Barnes flew backward against the wall, the shotgun coming to rest on his knee. I heard a ragged breath escape his mouth, then he lay still. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. But then it snapped into my head. The puzzle came together.

  “You killed Hans Gustofson,” I said to Denton, stepping into the light. “You were the one who tried to steal the album.”

  “Guilty,” Denton said, raising his hands above his head. “And back up, will you Parker? I need to wait until the cops get here before I do this. Can’t just sit on a body for ten minutes, you know?”

  “Why?” I asked. Denton sighed, but his body remained solid.

  “You know, I guess I’m just like every other nine-to-five schlub. Just didn’t see my career progressing the way I wanted,” Denton said. There was a hungry ambition in his eyes that chilled me to the bone. All’s fair, they say. No matter whose life has to be destroyed.

  Or ended.

  “Working for Michael DiForio has its perks, but I genuinely did enjoy law enforcement. Problem was they don’t want to give you a break unless you make a major case, and I wasn’t as fortunate as our friend Joe here.”

  “So you steal the album, pretend you’re the hero.”

  “That’s one of two possibilities.”

  “And the other was switching sides, bringing it to Jimmy Saviano.”

  Denton’s smile widened.

  “You’re a bright guy, I’ll give you that.” Outside the building, I heard several car doors open and slam shut. Footsteps on the pavement. I turned to the window, saw a dozen uniformed policemen approaching the gate.

  “That’s my cue,” Denton said. “It’s been fun, Parker, but I’m tired of this. I kind of wish your friend Barnes there had gotten off a shot, but with all the shit you pulled the NYPD won’t really ask questions. If only you weren’t so goddamn persistent, none of this would have happened. Now the only thing I have to do is find Ms. Davies. I’m guessing she’s got the album, am I right? I’m sure she won’t be too hard to find or persuade.”

  Hate bubbled up inside me as I stepped forward. “You touch her with the tip of one finger, I swear you’ll die. I’ll come back from the fucking grave if I have to.”

  Denton seemed to consider this. “You know, let’s see if that’s true.”

  The muzzle flashed, then I heard a deafening roar, and a searing pain sliced through my chest. The blast threw me onto the floor, a burning sensation eating through my torso like scalding water. I cried out, gasped for air. It felt like a 400-pound weight was pressing on my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. I looked up, my breathing ragged, to see Denton approaching.

  “It’s a shame, Parker. You probably would’ve made a good reporter.” The gun was less than a foot from my face. I closed my eyes, waiting for the world to end.

  “No!”

  The scream came from the doorway. It was Amanda, and she was clutching the album. Denton turned and aimed the gun at her, and she screamed again.

  Summoning my last bit of energy, the hatred in me overcoming the wretched pain, I lunged at Denton, driving my shoulder into his back. He toppled forward, landed hard on the floor.

  The gun exploded again, splinters flying out of the wall. I couldn’t feel my left arm, but with my right I grabbed his gun hand. I was stronger than Denton, but weakened from the gunshot. I lifted my fist and brought it crashing down on Denton’s face. Again. And again, harder. I heard a snap as his nose broke, blood spurting out. Again. Blood covered my hand. I could feel nothing.

  Denton yelped beneath me and we both struggled to our feet. My hand was still on the gun, holding on for life.

  Like that night…

  A sticky wheezing sound came from my chest with every breath. Denton took a step back, gaining leverage, and I braced myself, my legs rubbery, barely able to hold my weight. But instead of using his leverage to better grip the gun, Denton swung his leg forward and up. Right into my groin.

  I fell back, pain like I’d never experienced shooting through every nerve in my body. I writhed on the floor, my chest burning, my energy completely sapped. My limbs didn’t work. I looked up to see Denton standing over me, a horrible leer on his face. He wiped blood from his busted nose, laughed at it.

  “Goodbye, Parker.”

  His gun traced an invisible line between my eyes.

  Suddenly a gunshot rang out. Then another. I saw smoke curling out of Denton’s chest. The man looked stunned, unbelieving. Small dark patches bloomed under his white shirt, visible in the moonlight. One more shot shattered the air and Denton fell forward, his gun clattering on the wood. His body spasmed once and then lay still. I looked to the corner.

  Barnes was sitting up. His face was pale, drained, and staring at Leonard Denton’s fallen body. He blinked twice, like a sleep-deprived man trying to stay awake.

  Like me, Barnes was losing the battle.

  “For Anne,” he whispered, then his eyes closed. The shotgun fell from his grasp.

  A moment later Amanda burst into the room, tears flowing down her cheeks. She knelt down beside me, wrapping her arms around my head. I felt sleepy, leaned into her, feeling my body slowly drifting away.

  “Oh, my God,” she said. “Don’t worry, Henry. You’ll be okay.” Hot tears dripped onto my face, warmth like a comforting hand. I let it soak in, letting my mind fall away. “It’s all over.”

  I heard the sound of footsteps, looked up through a haze to see a dozen policemen enter the room, guns drawn. Immediately they came to me. Two men and a woman leaned over Mauser’s body. I heard a raspy breath as they placed an oxygen bag over his face, loading him onto a stretcher. Mauser’s fingers twitched, and he was carried out.

  I could tell Denton was dead from the way they examined him.

  A mustached officer knelt down next to me. My eyelids felt heavy and I let them close. Through the darkness I heard Amanda screaming, the sound so distant, so far away. Struggling to open my eyes I saw an officer holding her back. I smiled at Amanda, fell further and further into the darkness.

  “Barnes,” I said, my voice merely an echo.

  “Who’s Barnes?” the officer asked.

  “In the corner, with the shotgun. He killed Denton. Saved our lives.” I could barely breathe the words out. No more energy. It was time to sleep. Good night, Henry.

  The officer stood up, then knelt back down.

  “There’s nobody there, son. All I see is an empty shotgun and a few shells. You sure there was another man?”

  A laugh escaped my lips. Through the swarm of blue jackets I was able to see the room in its entirety. He was right. There was a splash of blood where Barnes had fallen. Nothing more.

  I felt Amanda’s hand graze my back, her cries keeping me awake. Several hands lifted me into the air. Two words echoed in my head before the darkness consumed me.

  It’s over.

  42

  One month later

  I never liked spiders. Don’t really know anyone who does. But sitting on a bench in Rockefeller Plaza, sipping a cup of coffee and watching the brilliant summer sun gleaming off those metal arachnid monstrosities, I couldn’t help but think I’d missed something the first time around.

  It was late June and deliciously warm, a gentle breeze wafting through the city. Summer nig
hts in New York were long, and I planned to savor every second of them. I’d been back at the Gazette for less than a week, still taking my time from the staph infection in my leg and two subsequent surgeries. A week in ICU, armed policemen outside my door. My mother came to visit. She cried, then asked if I’d found a job yet. She said my father couldn’t take the time off work.

  Mya visited me, too. Thankfully when Amanda wasn’t there. That would be an awkward conversation for a later time. She said she was glad I was okay. She said she was sorry things had ended so badly between us. She said she hoped we could still be friends. I told her I’d like that. And I meant it. But she looked at me in a way she hadn’t in a long time. And I knew friendship wasn’t all she hoped for. And a small part of me wished we’d had one more chance. I would never tell Amanda that. I’m with her now. My past might never be buried, but at least now I had a future.

  The docs told me to wait a few weeks before returning to the Gazette. Try working two or three hours a day at first, they said. Increase your hours as your strength returns. But they knew that wasn’t going to happen. If I was back at the Gazette, I was going full bore.

  So I took a few more weeks to sit on my ass, plowing through books and newspapers in an effort not to go stir-crazy, and now here I was, back where it all started. If only I’d agreed to write Wallace’s story about these stupid metal bugs, I’d have one more rib, one less incredible story. And one less love.

  I felt a slight tug in my chest, took a deep breath. The scar would always be visible, but the pain would eventually subside. Denton’s bullet had shattered my lowest true rib, a sliver of which punctured my right lung. The doctors said when they opened me up it looked like a crumpled-up grocery bag. Tubes were inserted into my chest to siphon the air that had built up between my collapsed lung and rib cage. Before they put me to sleep I saw Amanda’s face through the glass. You couldn’t get a better vision before going under.

  I could feel the scar tickle the skin below my clothing, like an amputee who still feels pain in a missing limb—a silent reminder of that night. Sometimes I still see the bodies, smell the smoke, hear the gunshots. And I know they’ll never leave me.