The Fury hp-4 Read online

  "Must have been about a year. Maybe a little more.

  Who keeps track of these things?" he said. Who keeps track of these things. Like it was a bowling score from a few years ago.

  Without warning, my father stood up, cracked his back and went up the rickety stairs. Amanda and I sat there unsure what to do. We heard some rummaging around, and soon after, my father came back down. He held something in his hand I couldn't see. Then he gave it to me.

  It was a photograph of a young woman. It was worn, faded, kept somewhere it was not removed from often.

  The woman in the photo had pale skin, curly brown hair and luminous green eyes. She was sitting on a grassy hill, a blouse covering her knees. Her mouth was open in a smile, the shot taken in the middle of a laugh.

  Despite her young age she had deep laugh lines. She looked like the kind of woman it would be easy to fall in love with.

  "You kept this?" I said. "Why?"

  "I'm not keen on throwing things out. Never know when you might need them."

  "Didn't you worry Mom would find it?"

  "She hasn't yet."

  I handed the photo back to him. He hesitated, then took it, slipping it into his pocket.

  "You didn't care that you were married?" I asked.

  His glare told me he didn't.

  "When did you first learn about Stephen? That you had a son?"

  "When Helen was about four months along. She told me she wouldn't have sex anymore. And that was the reason. I thought she was going to get an abortion. That's what we both wanted, I thought. Then her belly keeps getting bigger and bigger and…" James looked down at his hands. "Then one day he's there. This little kid."

  "What then?"

  "She wanted to know where we stood. Whether she was going to raise the boy on her own. I told her I already had a wife, and she wanted her own kids. And that I didn't have the time or money for two families."

  "And then?"

  "And then she left. One day she's living a few streets over, the next Helen's moved out, packed up her stuff, sold her crappy house and disappeared forever."

  "Forever," I said. "You were never curious to see how your other son was doing?"

  "Didn't much care how the son who lived with us was doing, ungrateful as he was."

  Point made.

  "When was the last you heard from Helen?" I asked.

  My father looked down. His eyes twitched for a moment. I tried to look past them, tried to see just what this man was holding on to.

  Then he said, "The day before she disappeared.

  That's all I know. That mother of his never took care of

  Stephen. Maybe if she'd made some different choices he'd still be alive."

  "By different choices, do you mean never shacking up with you?"

  "Don't get smart," he said. "I guess that's one of those whaddaya callems, rhetorical statements."

  I bristled. "What do you mean, different choices?"

  "She was always one of those wild women, doing things to her mind and body. Tough to find a woman who drinks more than you do. And that's all I know. I don't wish the boy died. I'm not some monster. But he's no more my son than I was his father. Blood's only as thick as you make it."

  "Don't I know it," I said. Then I stood up. Amanda did as well.

  "I'd like to say it's been a good visit, Dad, but there's been enough lying in this family. The buck's gotta stop somewhere. Say hi to Mom for me."

  "I will," he said, and I actually believed him. As I left to go, all of a sudden Amanda spoke.

  "Are you sorry?" she asked. She was staring right into his eyes, not letting him go. In that moment I knew just how strong this woman was.

  James sat there, silent, for what must have been several minutes. He looked back at her. She wouldn't turn away.

  "No," he finally said. And oddly enough, I didn't believe him.

  I reached for the door. Took Amanda's arm. Nodded toward my father.

  And just as I was about to turn the knob, there came a loud knock at the door.

  At first I thought it was my mother, but she wouldn't have bothered or needed to make that much noise.

  "James Parker?" came the male voice from outside.

  My father stood up. Approached the door. He looked through the peephole, then stepped back. A look of concern and fear crossed his face.

  "What is it?" I said. "Dad?"

  "Sir, open up," the voice said.

  My father unlocked the bottom latch and opened the door.

  Three police officers-two men and one woman- were standing on the front porch. One of them held a piece of paper. The others held their hands at their hips.

  Specifically by their guns.

  Clearly, they were worried they might need to use them.

  "James Parker?" the lead officer said.

  "Yuh…yes?"

  The officer stepped forward through the doorway.

  He grabbed my father, spun him around until his chest hit the wall with a thud. The other two cops swarmed in, and within seconds my father was in handcuffs. I saw his eyes go wide, this proud, arrogant man. And in those eyes I saw emotion I'd never seen before in nearly thirty years.

  My father was afraid.

  "What the hell is going on?" I shouted.

  "James Parker," the cop said, "You're under arrest for the murder of Stephen Gaines."

  8

  Amanda and I sat on a small wooden bench in the lobby of the Bend police department. After they'd taken my father away in handcuffs, pressing his head down as he climbed into the backseat of the car like some common thug you'd see on COPS, we followed practi cally bumper to bumper in our rental car.

  Upon arriving at the station, I didn't have a chance to talk to my father before they led him into booking.

  The City of Bend Police Department had two sections: a two-level structure that sat next to a taller tower, both with sloped, tiled roofs. The sign outside read City of

  Bend Police and underneath that read Public Works.

  I parked the car in a lot in back and we ran around to the entrance. Inside we refused to leave, or sit down, until we either spoke with my father or an officer who could tell us just what the hell was going on. My stomach was tied in knots. Though I'd long ago learned to give up loving my father, I knew this man wasn't, couldn't be a killer. Not to mention I couldn't even imagine what kind of evidence they had that would enable a warrant to be issued so quickly.

  From everything Makhoulian and Binks told me, it seemed as if Gaines was murdered. Not an impulse killing, but exterminated. How could the cops be so blind? How could they possibly connect my father to this when he was in Bend the whole time?

  For perhaps the first time in my life, I found myself feeling sorry for the man. He was alone, scared, accused of a crime beyond comprehension. It was all bogus, though. No doubt there was some mistake and he'd be released.

  I tried to call my mother, but she didn't have a cell phone. I left a message at home, hoped she would find it.

  Finally after an hour of waiting, a cop approached us where we stood. He was about forty, lean, with salt-and-pepper hair, a square jaw and dark, tan skin.

  His badge read Whalin. We stood up, desperate to hear why they'd taken my father in for such a horren dous crime.

  "You must be Henry," the cop said. He offered his hand. I looked at him, then shook it grudgingly. "I'm

  Captain Ted Whalin of the BPD. I'm in charge of the criminal investigations division."

  "Where's my father?" I demanded.

  "Your father is in a holding cell. Tomorrow he'll have to go before a judge to be properly processed.

  There is an outstanding warrant for his arrest in New

  York City for the murder of Stephen Gaines."

  "That's impossible," I said. "First of all, Stephen

  Gaines is his son. And second, my father's never even been to New York."

  Whalin looked confused. "I can't go into specifics,"

  Whalin said, "but
the warrant states that physical evidence does exist that links James Parker to the crime."

  "That's impossible," I said again. "I don't think he's left the state in twenty years."

  "That's not up to me to determine," Whalin said.

  "If he's wanted for murder in New York," Amanda said, "won't he be extradited?"

  "That depends on him," Whalin continued. "When he goes before Judge Rawling tomorrow, he'll have the opportunity to sign what's called a nonjudicial waiver of expedition."

  "What does that mean?" I asked.

  Whalin said, "It means that he agrees that he is in fact the same James Parker wanted on this murder charge.

  If he accepts the charge, he'll be brought back to New

  York City where he'll be entered into their system.

  Though that might be a problem."

  "What do you mean?"

  "We believe that your father is the James Parker referred to in this warrant. We know he has a relation ship with Stephen Gaines…"

  "That's not true," I said. "They didn't actually know each other at all."

  "Regardless," Whalin said, "it'd be a mighty coinci dence if the NYPD happens to be looking for a com pletely different James Parker in regards to the murder of Stephen Gaines. Wouldn't you agree?"

  I didn't have to. The odds were pretty nonexistent.

  "As of right now, your father is refusing to grant the nonjudicial waiver." Whalin said this with frustration evident on his face.

  Amanda said, "And what happens if he refuses to sign it?"

  "Then it's our job to prove that he is-or is not-the

  James Parker referred to in this warrant. We'll take fin gerprints, blood samples, and confirm with one hundred percent accuracy that he is James Parker. Of course, all that testing takes an awful long time, which means…"

  "He stays locked up in your jail until he's extradited."

  "Consider it time not served. Not a second of time he spends in prison here will be taken off any eventual sentence. So if your father wants to contest his identity, so be it. Not my ass sleeping every night on a metal bench. And did I mention he refuses to consult with a lawyer?"

  "We need to see him," I said. "Right away."

  "He's with two detectives right now, but I think he should be available in an hour or two."

  "Wait," Amanda said. "Are they questioning him?"

  "If they're doing their job."

  "But you said he didn't have a lawyer."

  "That's right."

  "Then we demand to see him. I have a license to practice law in New York State, where any legal hearings pertaining to this case will occur. Right now your police station is acting as nothing more than a glo rified holding pen. So I can promise you that anything

  James Parker says now will be disallowed in a court of law under the assumption that your officers coerced him into making a statement without legal counsel."

  "Listen," Whalin said, "right now he isn't even ad mitting to being the right James Parker, so I doubt we'll get much-"

  "Now," Amanda yelled.

  Whalin looked her over, then said, "Follow me."

  He led us into the heart of the BPD station, down a long brick corridor. At the end was a series of three rooms, marked simply 1, 2 and 3. He took us to the right, knocked on the reinforced-metal door.

  A small slat opened at about eye level, then the door opened. Inside were two cops, one in uniform and one plainclothes. And sitting in a metal folding chair, his wrists handcuffed to the table, was my father.

  His eyes were red. I could tell he'd been crying. He was still wearing the same clothes, but they were soaked through with sweat. He was shaking, as though his body was simply unable to process what was happening.

  When he saw us, his mouth opened and his face lit up.

  "Henry!" he exclaimed.

  "His son," Whalin told the cops. "And Parker's lawyer." Whalin nodded at Amanda. She went to say something, but I nudged her. She got the tip. This was the only way we'd get to speak with him.

  "You have half an hour," Whalin said as the other cops exited the room.

  "We'll take as much time as we damn well please,"

  Amanda said, staring right into the captain's eyes. He frowned, told the cops to take a hike.

  "We have to lock the door from the outside. Proce dure. If you want to leave, just knock."

  Amanda pointed at the camera hung up in the upper corner of the interrogation room. A small red light was blinking on it.

  "I want that turned off," she said. Whalin looked at it, then nodded, making a slicing motion across his throat, telling the cops to kill the feed. They walked away, and a moment later the light went off.

  "Thank you, Captain," Amanda said. "We'll be in touch soon."

  We went in and closed the door. A metal snick came from outside. The cops locking us in with the alleged murderer.

  We took two chairs and pulled them up to the table.

  My father reached out to us, but the handcuffs held his wrists firm. He looked dejected, then said, "Henry, thank God you're here. Did they tell you? They think I killed Stephen."

  "I know, Dad. The question is why do they think that?" My father leaned down, started to bite his nails, his head comically close to the table. "Dad?"

  James shrugged, but there was nothing behind it.

  "Listen, Mr. Parker," Amanda said. "Your best option right now is to sign the nonjudicial review waiver. Once you do that they'll bring you back to New York and begin actual legal proceedings. I'll help you get a lawyer, or at least weed out the bad ones."

  "I don't want to leave here," my father said softly.

  "Dad, jail isn't exactly comfortable," I said.

  "I mean, I don't want to leave Bend," he said more forcefully. "I didn't do anything. I didn't kill Stephen.

  They can't just take me wherever they want."

  I looked atAmanda. She said, "Mr. Parker, if you don't sign the waiver you'll stay in Bend, but you'll be in prison until they prove your identity. It could be weeks, months.

  And that's before any sort of trial. And trust me, you won't be doing yourself any favors with the judge assigned to the case. They will take you if you make them."

  "This can't be right," James said. " Goddamn it I shouldn't be here! Henry, you know me, you know this isn't right."

  I knew him, but I didn't. I'd seen the depths of his anger, his rage. It was up to me to believe he wasn't capable of reaching another level.

  "Dad…" I began. "Why do they suspect you?"

  Without hesitating, James said, "They told me there's evidence linking me to the crime. They said they found it in Stephen's apartment."

  "In New York?" I said. "How is that possible?"

  He looked down at the floor, his whole body seeming to sag into nothing. "They said they found my finger prints on the gun that killed him."

  9

  "Wait, step back," I said. It took me a moment to regroup, to process what my father had just said. "How could they possibly have found your fingerprints on the gun that killed Stephen?"

  "I don't know," my father said. He said it unconvinc ingly. There was more to this. Amanda looked at him with incredible frustration. She had a great legal mind, but I could already tell that she was thinking about

  James Parker's chances during a murder trial. Even if he was innocent-which he had to be-this man would never do himself any favors with his lawyer or a judge.

  He was already refusing easy extradition, and he was lying-or at least hiding the truth-from the only people here who gave a damn.

  Sadly, I knew what it felt like to be accused of a terrible crime you didn't commit. I knew just how lonely it could be, and how much a friendly hand meant. Amanda had been that for me. If not for her,

  I'd either be dead or in prison. She'd reached out, offered a hand, and I'd smartly accepted. My father, meanwhile, was dangling from the edge of a cliff, slapping our hands away in the misguided belief that he couldn't fall.

  "M
r. Parker," Amanda said. "You need to tell us what happened. All of it. You know why they arrested you.

  Even if you're innocent, you don't seem surprised.

  Shocked, maybe, but not surprised. I can see it in your eyes. You're thinking about the circumstances that led to this. How events could have been misconstrued. We need to know this so we can understand what hap pened."

  My father looked at Amanda, confused. She'd il luminated a path for him and his reluctance to see it was waning.

  "I was in New York," James finally said, the words coming out in a rush like air that had been compressed.

  "The day Stephen died. I was there."

  "You were in the city?" I asked, incredulous.

  "Why?"

  James looked at me, then Amanda. He stayed quiet.

  I got the picture. He wanted to talk to her. She was im partial. A lawyer. I was his son. And I would judge.

  "Mr. Parker," she said. "Why were you in New

  York?"

  "I saw him," James said. His eyes had grown wide, for the first time fully beginning to piece together the circumstances. There was terror in those eyes. They ripped a hole through me because right then I knew he understood why he'd been accused of the crime. "Helen called me."

  "Helen Gaines?" Amanda said. "Stephen's mother?"

  James nodded. "I hadn't spoken to her in, God, almost thirty years. After she had Stephen, I wanted nothing to do with either of them. I had a family. A wife.

  I told her that," he said, slamming his fist on the table.

  "From the beginning, I told her this won't go anywhere.

  It wasn't my fault the crazy bitch lied about being on the pill."

  "How did she get your number?" Amanda said.

  "It's called the phone book," James said drily. "Last

  I checked I'm not the president."

  "Why did she call you after so long?"

  James leaned over again, chewed his thumbnail. He ripped off a ragged piece of white, spat it across the room. I saw a small line of blood well up from where he'd ripped.

  "She said she was in trouble. That she needed money.

  That Stephen was in trouble."

  "Did she say what kind of trouble?"