The Fury hp-4 Read online

  "She said Stephen had a drug problem. She needed to get him help before it was too late. She couldn't afford treatment."

  "So why did you come all the way to New York?"

  "I hung up on her. She called back. She said if I didn't help them, she would sue me for child support and make sure my name was in every newspaper as one of those deadbeat dads. She said technically I owed her thirty years' of payments, and that if she hadn't wrecked my marriage thirty years ago she'd make it her mission to do it now. I couldn't afford thirty years back payments for the life of me. I told her I could give her some money, a little, but that's it. She said she needed to see me. That maybe meeting his father would snap some sense into

  Stephen."

  "And you agreed to go?"

  "Not at first," James said. "I told her I could send it

  Western Union. She said those two words again, 'child support,' and I was on a plane the next day." He looked at me and grinned. "Sorry I didn't call."

  "Where did you tell mom you were going?" I asked.

  "I don't know, just said I was going fishing or some shit. She didn't ask many questions."

  "They say your fingerprints ended up on the gun that killed Stephen," Amanda said. "That means two things. One, they found the murder weapon. And two, your prints were on it. Can you explain how that happened?"

  "Helen," he said, shaking his head slightly. "When I got to their apartment-a real rats' nest. Ugh, just dis gusting. Cockroaches everywhere, food left out.

  Anyway, I hadn't seen Helen in almost thirty years. I had some money with me. Not much, I ain't Ted Turner in case you haven't noticed. Stephen wasn't there.

  Helen told me he was working. It was late, and I didn't care much. I'd gone that long without seeing the boy."

  "The gun, Dad," I said.

  "I'm getting to that. So I give her some money, two grand. It's all I can do without biting into my 401k. Of course, Helen tells me it's not enough. Rehab centers cost tens of thousands of dollars. I tell her if she kisses my ass, she can keep whatever money she finds in there."

  "And then what?" Amanda said.

  "Then…Helen goes to the closet. I have no idea what she's doing. And suddenly out she comes holding this…this cannon. Then she pointed that thing at me and told me she needed money. Of course I've handled a gun or two, and I notice the safety's off. But she's holding the thing all awkward, and even though I didn't think she'd shoot me on purpose, the way she was holding it-both hands on the butt, two fingers in the trigger guard-that thing could have gone off by accident and blown my head off."

  I looked at Amanda. She was thinking the same thing

  I was. If Helen Gaines didn't know how to handle a gun, chances are the gun she pointed at my father belonged to Stephen. He was killed with his own gun. But if my father never saw Stephen, how did his prints get on the gun? And who did kill him?

  "So I go up to her, slowly. And before she can move

  I grab it out of her hands."

  "Slick, Pop," I said.

  "How did you take it from her?" Amanda asked.

  "Just like this, I guess." My father mimicked grabbing the barrel of a gun and yanking it away, the chains holding his wrists preventing much of a visual demonstration.

  "The cops say your fingerprints are on the murder weapon. If your prints were just on the barrel, and not on the trigger, they wouldn't immediately think you killed her." Amanda and my father met gazes. Then he looked down. We both knew he was lying.

  "So I might have held it normal," he said.

  "Come on, Dad, we're trying to help you. Nobody else will, trust me."

  "I might have pointed it at her," he said.

  "You might have or you did?" Amanda demanded.

  "I fucking did, all right? The bitch wanted to take my hard-earned money for her junkie son, then she points a gun at me? What am I supposed to do? I just wanted to scare her, is all. Just scare her."

  "Did you fire that gun?" Amanda said.

  "Absolutely not," James replied. "I pointed it at her once."

  "Somebody used that gun to kill Stephen Gaines,"

  Amanda said. "If it wasn't you, someone was able to kill Stephen while keeping your prints intact."

  "The killer must have used gloves," I said. "Some thing that didn't disturb fingerprints that were already on the weapon. Human skin has oils, that's what leaves the marks. Dry rubber gloves, if used carefully, would leave whatever marks were already on the weapon.

  Whoever it was not only knew enough about firearms to keep those fingerprints intact, knew him well enough to shoot him in the back of the head from close range, and was cold-blooded enough to shoot him again after blowing his brains all over the wall."

  "They say keep your friends close but your enemies closer," Amanda said. "Stephen's killer must have been somebody he knew."

  I noticed my father sitting there, his face looking older than ever, fear gripping his whole body. He was waiting for us to say something, to offer some piece of advice or solace that would prove he was innocent. The story he told us, assuming it was true, would have to be proven in court. But from what Detective Makhoulian had told me, Helen Gaines had disappeared. As of right now she was the only person who could corroborate my father's story. And she was a woman who certainly owed him nothing.

  "Sign the waiver, Dad," I said grimly, gritting my teeth, trying to force him to see that his only option would be to fight nobly. The longer he held out, the more public opinion would tilt away from his favor. "Go to New York. We can do more for you there than we can here."

  "I don't want to go to jail," my father said. His words were whispers, and if there was ever a moment my heart might have bled for this man, it was now.

  "Mr. Parker," Amanda said. "James. All we can do right now is try to prove your innocence. We can't do that here. Henry's right. We'll find you a lawyer. We'll help you."

  He looked at both of us. I could sense gratitude trying to squeeze its way through his hardened veins. Instead,

  James Parker simply nodded and said, "I'll sign it."

  Amanda nodded, smiled. I couldn't show that emotion, that happiness. My father had been lying to me his whole life. Innocent or guilty, I had a hard time mustering pity for him. Many times over the years I'd hoped someone would lock him up for one of his crimes. As a young boy I'd wished I was strong enough to stand up to him. It didn't matter how far I went, how much I distanced myself. His sins followed me wher ever I went.

  Amanda got up and knocked on the door. A cop opened it, keeping his eyes on James Parker. As we left the room, saw Captain Whalin talking to two uniformed officers. When he saw us, Whalin came over, folding his arms across his chest.

  "Well?" he said.

  "He'll sign the waiver," I said. "Let's get this over with and get him back to New York."

  Whalin let out a pleased sigh. "I'm glad to hear that.

  Last thing we need is another body taking up a jail cell we can't spare. He still needs to appear before the judge tomorrow morning, but that's a formality. I'll call the

  NYPD. We'll have the waiver ready for him to sign at tomorrow's hearing, and they'll send officers to escort him back to New York. Then he's all yours. Thanks for talking some sense into him."

  Whalin walked away. I was glad to hear he wanted my father out of his hair, it would help the process move faster. I felt Amanda's hand loop through my arm. I put my palm on it. Her skin felt warm.

  As we headed toward the exit, I saw a woman sitting in the lobby. Her hair was blond, unnaturally so, as though she kept her hair colorist in good business. She had on a white cotton blouse, simple jewelry. She was teetering, swaying back and forth. Her arms were wrapped around her thin body, one hand covering her mouth. She looked like she was debating between falling over and vomiting. A pair of knitting needles poked out from her handbag. Memories came flooding back. The more he raged, the more she knit. Losing herself in stitches and patterns.

  "Mom?" I said, approaching nervously.
I hadn't seen her in a long time. That pale, thin body turned around, hand still at her mouth. She cocked her head to one side, trying to determine whether she knew the man standing in front of her.

  "Is that…oh my God, is that you, Henry?"

  Suddenly she righted herself, ran over as fast as her sensible shoes could carry her. She flung her arms around me and I found myself nearly supporting her entire body weight. She sobbed onto my shoulder as I bit my lip, did everything I could not to break down as well.

  "The police…they called me at Spano's house…

  What have they done to him?" she wailed. My mother pulled away, looked at me, hoping for some answer, some assurance that this might have been a terrible joke.

  "He's going to be okay, Mom," I said, trying to inject belief into that line when deep down there was none.

  "It's a big misunderstanding."

  "When are they going to let him out? I bought chicken breasts for dinner."

  "Mom," I said, "I don't think he'll be back in time for dinner."

  "Then when will he be back?"

  I looked at Amanda. Her eyes said, What do you want me to do? My mother looked so lost, confused. It wasn't that I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth about my father and Stephen Gaines, it was that for whatever reason, she'd lost the ability to truly under stand just how many wrongs this man had committed toward her. Over the years her defenses had rusted.

  Nothing allowed in, no anger, hostility or resentment out. I wondered, now, if my attitude toward him, my anger, was compounded by the lack of hers.

  "I don't know when," I said. I took her hand. Held it. She held on to mine, but her eyes were far off, distant, trying to process the situation but clearly failing. To her, the notion of my father being arrested was like him being sent into outer space.

  "Well, what do I do?" she said. "Should I wait at home for him to be released?"

  "Home is a good idea, Mom," I said. "Do you have money?"

  She thought about this. "I don't know our checkingaccount information, but we keep a jar of emergency money in a safe."

  "How much is in there?" I asked.

  "Five thousand dollars," she said.

  "That should be enough for now," I said.

  "Mrs. Parker?" Amanda said. My mother turned to her. "My name is Amanda Davies. I'm Henry's…friend.

  I'm a lawyer, so please don't talk to anybody you don't know. Don't speak to reporters, don't give anybody money, and only talk to the police if you have a lawyer present. If you need one, tell the detective on the case and he'll help you retain one, free of charge. We'll do our best to get your husband out of this as soon as we can. So put that chicken in the freezer."

  "Thank you, dear," my mom said, her eyes twin kling as she smiled at Amanda. "You said you're a friend of Henry's…are you two in college together?"

  My mouth opened, but I didn't say anything.

  Amanda responded, "Something like that. You're welcome to come to New York with us if-"

  "Oh no, I could never do that." It was definitive. I wondered when my mother last left the state.

  "Do you want us to, I don't know, come over for dinner?" I asked.

  "Oh no," she said fervently. "The house is a godawful mess."

  I nodded, felt my eyes begin to sting.

  "Then I'll call you as soon as we get back," I said.

  "Be strong. We'll sort this out. Remember what Amanda said. Don't talk to strangers, and also don't believe anything anyone says about Dad."

  "I know your father," she said sweetly. "If anyone says he did something wrong, they just don't know

  James."

  "I love you, Mom. It's good to see you." I ap proached, wrapped my arms around her. She hugged me back, fragile, like the tension in her joints might cause them to shatter. When we untangled, I held her hands for an extra moment, then she let them go. Sitting back down, she turned her attention to the ceiling. And we walked away.

  "You okay?" Amanda asked. She could tell I was rattled. More than that. It was all my memories-good, bad and wrenching-flowing back at once.

  "I'm not sure yet."

  "Will she be okay?"

  "She's survived being married to him for almost thirty years. I think a little while without him will be easier."

  "How are you holding up?" she asked.

  "Given the circumstances? Could be worse. I haven't had the nervous breakdown I was sure was coming when I saw her."

  "Do you believe your father's story? About the gun?

  The money?"

  I sighed. "Guess I have to. You know what's funny?"

  "What?"

  "I've never felt closer to him. Guess not too many sons and fathers can have being accused of murder as a way to relate to each other."

  10

  Amanda and I sat in the first row of the Bend County

  District Courthouse as my father was led into the room in handcuffs. My mother sat next to us, her eyes distant like she was viewing a movie, not watching her husband accused of murder. He was seated at a small wooden table next to a man in a natty suit, his temporary courtappointed lawyer, Douglas Aaronson. Once the case was transferred to New York we'd have to find him new representation. None of us could afford much of anything, so the best we could hope for was someone competent enough to either prove my father's inno cence, or at least keeps things progressing until we could prove it ourselves.

  Judge Catherine Rawling entered the courtroom.

  "All rise," the bailiff said. Everyone stood up. Aaronson had to prompt my father. He stood up awkwardly.

  Rawling was younger than I would have expected for a judge, late thirties, with close-cropped blond hair. Her face was emotionless as she took her chair. She looked at my father for a moment.

  "Be seated," she said, averting her gaze. Chairs and benches squeaked as we obeyed. "Counselor, I'm under the impression that Mr. Parker has agreed to sign the nonjudicial waiver. Is that correct?"

  The lawyer next to my father stood up, hands at his sides. "Yes, Your Honor."

  "Do you have that document present?"

  The bailiff, a hulking bald man, approached the table and took the paper from Aaronson. He brought it up to

  Judge Rawling, who put on a pair of reading glasses and pored over the sheet. Once finished, she looked up.

  "I now remand James Parker to the custody of the New

  York Police Department, who have a warrant out for Mr.

  Parker's arrest on the charge of murder in the first degree."

  I shuddered as I heard those words. Though my father and I had this terrible thing in common, I'd thank fully never heard those words uttered. They seemed to affect him too, as he turned to the lawyer, eyes open, as though expecting the man to suddenly yell surprise and remove the handcuffs.

  Rawling continued.

  "Mr. Aaronson, am I also correct in the information that two deputies from the NYPD have arrived to take

  Mr. Parker into custody pending a grand jury hearing?"

  "That is correct, Your Honor." So far Aaronson was doing a bang-up job.

  "Bailiff," Rawling said, "please show them in."

  The bailiff walked to the double doors at the front of the courtroom. He pulled them open, and nodded at whoever was waiting outside to follow him. When the bailiff reentered, there were two men trailing him. One was a young officer, couldn't have been more than twenty-four or -five, but with muscles that stretched out his blue uniform. And right behind him, wearing a standard suit, to my surprise, was Detective Sevi Mak houlian.

  "Your Honor," the bailiff said. "Officer Clark and

  Detective Makhoulian of the NYPD."

  "Thank you, Bailiff. I hereby grant transfer of this prisoner into custody of the NYPD for extradition to

  New York City." She looked at the two cops as she spoke. "From this point forward James Parker is under your responsibility and jurisdiction, in accordance with

  New York State. Gentlemen, thank you for your prompt ness in coming ou
t here. Mr. Parker," she said, "you are remanded into the custody of these officers."

  The bailiff approached. The three men took my father by his cuffs and led him outside. As soon as they did, Amanda and I got up and followed.

  "Detective!" I shouted. Makhoulian turned around.

  He looked slightly surprised to see me.

  "Henry," he said.

  "My father's innocent," I blurted. I had no idea how he was supposed to respond to that. Maybe part of me was hoping he'd simply nod, smack his head and say,

  "Whoops, you're right!"

  Needless to say, that did not happen.

  "Henry, we can talk more in New York. For now, it's my job to get your father back to New York safely. All you can do is make sure that happens."

  "How can I do that?" I asked.

  "Stay away. Go home. There's nothing more you can do right now."

  Then Makhoulian and Officer Clark took my father by his manacles and led him away.

  "There's a computer in the courthouse library,"

  Amanda said. "Let's change our flight home and get the next plane out of here. He's right. There's nothing more we can do here."

  After a brief goodbye to my mother, we managed to book a red-eye from Portland to JFK. I would have thought that after everything we'd been through, the confrontation with my father, the arrest, the hearing, that I would have slept like a baby. And while Amanda's head rested comfortably on my shoulder while she slept, I was awake the whole flight, my eyes open, staring at nothing. Wondering how this had happened.

  When the crew turned off the cabin lights to allow other passengers to sleep, I stayed up in the dark.

  Nausea had taken the place of normal functions, and a cold sweat had been running down my back for hours.

  I couldn't understand it, not a word. That I had a brother to begin with, even one related only half by blood, was shock enough. That my father-that his father-was now accused of murdering him, that was enough to make my world stop.

  And as I sat there, one image refused to leave my mind's eye: that of my father, clothed in dirty pants and a rumpled shirt, being led away from the court room in handcuffs. I'd grown up used to a sense of rage in the man's eye, a frustration and impotence that perhaps the world had left him in the dust. His voice and mannerisms were that of an animal who bore its claws at anyone who came close, and even when he seemed calm, the wrong look could turn him into a dif ferent man.