The Fury

22

The subway was hot and humid as I went back uptown.

I had no idea how long it would take for Wallace to get me those files. The man had been gracious enough to offer, and frankly I didn't expect much going in. I des perately wanted to know what Jack knew, what else he knew about the Willingham murder. And what, if anything, it had to do with Stephen Gaines.

The strange thing was, the deeper I looked into this, the further away it seemed to go from Gaines. From him to Beth-Ann Downing, from Rose Keller to Butch Wil lingham, there seemed to be a pattern of behavior that went back twenty years. I had no idea how long, if at all, my brother had been dealing. But I was damn sure that it had somehow gotten him killed.

Now, I've read the books. I've seen the TV shows. I read as much news as I can take until my eyeballs hurt.

I'm well aware that pushing is not a profession made for duration. People get into it hoping to make a quick buck, usually because they have no other options. They have neither the education to get a job punching a clock, nor the desire to work for a corporation that can terminate them without a moment's notice. There was some thing romantic about the notion of a drug dealer, some thing that went against the system. But when I saw

Stephen Gaines that night on the street, I did not see a man defiant in the face of unspeakable odds stacked against him. I saw a defeated, emaciated, broken-down young man. A man scared of something. Something he felt, for some reason, I could help with.

I was a newspaper reporter. Nothing more, nothing less. I sincerely doubted Gaines came to me because I was his flesh and blood. He'd had years to try to reach out. He came to me because something about my pro fession, my line of work, could have helped him, thrown him a lifeline.

I sat down, my butt immediately becoming stuck to the seat by a clear substance I hadn't seen before. The joys of traveling on the MTA. Unfolding that morning's copy of the Gazette, I put all thoughts of Gaines and

Willingham out of my mind until I got home. Perhaps good old-fashioned newspaper reporting would help me out. Clear my mind.

But when I saw the story on page eleven, I nearly threw up.

Man, 27, Shot to Death in His Apartment

A photo accompanied the article. I recognized the man in the shot. I'd seen him just recently.

It was the guy whose briefcase I'd stolen. He was found last night, murdered, shot twice in the back of the head.