The Fury

26

"You're a liar," I said. Panic and rage cut through my body like a hot blade. My stomach churned, the milk shake feeling like it could come back up at any moment. "Stephen Gaines can't be, he's…dead." The last word came out empty, hollow, as though I was arguing with thin air.

"I know that," Scotty said. There was no emotion in his voice. He was simply telling me the news as he knew it. "But what do you want me to say? You asked."

I had no energy to argue with him, and no argument to counter the claims. How the hell would Scotty even know my brother's name unless…unless…

It was too terrible to even think of. Was it possible that my brother was much higher up on this food chain than I'd thought? Not just one of the lower men, the

Vinnies, the ones who carried tinfoil and Saran Wrap around the city like some alternate-universe grocer, but someone who actually was responsible for a piece of the action. Perhaps much more than a piece.

Was it possible Stephen Gaines was the Fury?

No, I thought. That was impossible. Somebody killed him. He was innocent. A man with demons, sure, but not somebody who deserved to die.

The only way you're murdered in that kind of business is if somebody bigger than you thinks you're hindering the operation, preventing someone more am bitious from carving a larger slice of the pie.

Unless…what if he was knocked off by a smaller dealer, somebody whose eyes simply got too big for their head? Somebody who felt scalping my brother would give them street cred, a trophy, to assume the mantle for their own?

What if my brother wore a target on his back?

Immediately my mind went back to that night. The night Stephen found me at the Gazette. His face filled with fright, his body wracked with pain from the drugs and some secret he was carrying. Is it possible he knew he had a death wish, and simply needed help? If Stephen was so powerful, what could I possibly have done for him?

I'd seen men and women whose lives had been de stroyed by drugs, by alcohol. Hell, my idol, Jack

O'Donnell, was hidden away somewhere trying to drain the poisons and impulses from his body. Jack had been on the sauce for years, yet during that time he'd risen to the highest ranks of his profession. There were numerous examples of functioning alcoholics, drug addicts, people who achieved despite carrying the disease. I mean, I lived and worked in New York, which probably had the highest ratio of functioning addicts in the world. It would only make sense that if a person worked in that industry, they would be corrupted in some way, body or soul or both.

When I saw Stephen Gaines outside of my office building, his face pale, sweat streaking down his gaunt frame, it was clear he'd been wasted away by both.

Scotty Callahan sat there holding his glass while I tried to force his words from my mind, trying to will them to be false. Scotty didn't seem to care one way or another. Now that I had the information, it was no concern to him what I did with it.

And I could tell by the way he sat there eating, drinking, staring at his food, his mind completely oblivious to the anguish building inside me…this was not the face of a man lying to save his ass. There might have even been a slight catharsis in telling me.

Stephen Gaines wasn't just some random junkie, but in fact one of the leaders of this organization-718 En terprises. No doubt Stephen knew what that stood for, who worked in it, how widely it reached. Perhaps that's what he wanted to tell me. It's what I would have heard had I stopped. It's what he would have done that night, while a killer roamed the streets waiting for him to come home.

"You only met him once," I said to Scotty. "Just once."

"Just once," he said, holding up one finger. Then he burped, and a shred of pastrami tumbled over his lower lip. He slurped it back up.

"What about Kyle?" I said. "How much does he know."

Scotty put down his drink. He leaned over until I could smell the meat on his breath. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment my anger and frustration was replaced by the possibility that this guy might take a swing at me.

"You leave him the hell out of this," Scotty said. "His mom is sick. He brings home enough to pay her bills, and doesn't want or ask for any trouble. None of us are trying to get anyone hurt. You want to drag me through the mud, tell people I'm dealing, it'll suck but maybe I deserve it. You screw with Kyle's life, it's not just him but his family. I don't know you, Henry, but you'd have to be one heartless son of a bitch to do something like that."

"I need to know what he knows," I said, my voice trying to explain without any hostility. "It's my family, too. My father was arrested for the murder of Stephen

Gaines."

Scotty sat back at though slapped. The breath seemed to have left him. For a moment he said nothing, then he shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"Thanks," I replied.

"So that's what this is really about," Scotty said.

"Finding the truth to get your pops off the hook."

"That's right."

"Then I don't know what to say. I meant what I said about Kyle. I'll tell you anything you want. I know

Kyle didn't know Gaines any more than I did. He met him once, for an interview kind of thing. And we both have to check in at the office, make sure our receipts match up with what we're selling."

"Can you give me the name of whoever handles that?" I said.

"It's always different," Scotty said. "And they never tell us their names."

"What happens if you screw up?" I asked.

Scotty sighed, said, "I guess you should ask Stephen."

We said nothing, as I processed what Scotty had said and he finished off the last of his cream soda. My milk shake sat lonely and untouched. If he was desperate enough for money to resort to drugs, I guess he valued a free meal when it came his way.

After the plates had been cleared and I'd taken care of the tab, we both stood up and headed toward the door.

I followed him, my legs feeling rubbery.

The air outside was warm, the night sky a lovely dark blue. Sometimes I hated the towering skyscrapers of New York and how they totally obscured the horizons. But nights like tonight I could stare at the pin pricks of light, the behemoths sparsely lit, and admire the grandeur of it all. This was a magnificent city. One that almost seemed to beckon you to claim it all for your own, to rise up one of those towers and stand out over the masses, arms spread, taking it all in. All for yourself.

And maybe that's what seduced Stephen. And got him killed as well.

The streetlight turned green, the red Stop hand switching to the white "happy walking" person.

"That's my signal," Scotty said. I nodded stupidly, unsure of how to end our little gab session. "Listen,

Henry, I respect what you're doing. If the guy was a dirtbag, it might not be worth your time if you didn't know him. I know better than anyone that sometimes you have to do things you're not proud of to make ends meet. You tell yourself it's okay, because it's the only way, and it's only for a short time."

"If that's what it takes to help you sleep at night," I said.

"Judge all you want. At some point you'll have to make some tough choices too. And you gave me your word about this being off the record. I know some bad people, people who don't really give pink slips."

"Your name won't come up and won't appear in the paper."

"Good. And maybe ten years from now you can look back and know you did the right things because they were the only things available. I-"

And then Scott Callahan turned and walked away.

I stared at his back, hands in his pockets, hunched over, acting like the weather was far colder than it actually was. And then he turned the corner and was gone.

Sometimes people forget about the weight on their shoulders until you point it out.

My legs felt weak, and I debated just hailing a taxi.

Then I remembered how long it would take to get back uptown, that I'd probably have to take on a second job to pay for it, and headed toward the subway. Consider ing prices of everything from milk to movies had sky rocketed in New York to the point where you had to hit an ATM just to buy coffee and a doughnut, you had to conserve wherever possible.

I couldn't wait to see Amanda, to hear her voice, to feel her arms again. Then I remembered she'd promised

Darcy Lapore a night on the town and realized it would be several hours before that would happen. But it wasn't all bad. Amanda didn't go out all that often, and had never been a big drinker, but Darcy was dangerous.

Her husband was a high roller and the one time we'd double-dated with them he took us to some club with a kinky name where he plunked down four figures for a table and two bottles, and we proceeded to get completely obliterated. In New York, when someone pays a grand for you to drink, you drink your money's worth.

Anyway, because of Amanda's relatively light drinking habits, she tended to get drunk rather easily.

Which had two results: the first that she would have a wicked hangover the next day, but second that she was frisky as all get out when she got home. One night a month ago, she came home from a night out with Darcy, and upon arriving home she proceeded to give me a piece of her mind. The reason for chewing me out? I was still wearing pants.

God, I loved that woman.

The train ride was uneventful, and I wondered what my father was doing at that very instant. I'd only been to see him once since his incarceration in the Tombs. Every part of me wanted to see him released, to go back home and live out the rest of his life with my mother in whatever hap piness the two of them could muster. I wanted to believe that, if he was released, he would treat her the way a wife deserved to be treated. Loved. Cared for. Respected.

But I knew none of that would happen. Chances were, things would not change. He would not suddenly become the husband he should have been years ago.

That ship had sailed.

But it didn't mean he deserved to be treated like a murderer. And like I told him that night two years ago, while I was holed up in a crummy building as three men were approaching to kill me, I used my father's short comings to fuel me. Because of him I wanted to be to

Amanda what he'd never been to my mother. I'd gotten it wrong once, with Mya.

I steadfastly believed that a person became who they were by choice. They achieved or they did not. They were decent or they were not. Those choices might be harder depending on the worldviews they are subjected to. The climb might be more difficult, but being a good man, working at my craft, those were possibilities that were attainable to me.

I was born with ability. I knew that. But it took ev erything I had to wrench myself away from the grips of this man, and I was happy to forget him. And in the years since, I'd found a few times where that anger could be reversed. Where the climb became more man ageable because it lifted me.

Amanda, Mya.

We were all recovering from our injuries, emo tional and physical. Mya's would take longer, but inside the girl she'd become was the girl I once knew.

She would move on.

I'd moved on eight years ago. Now I wanted to be everything James Parker was not.

I wanted to be strong. Anger was a powerful tool.

And I wanted my anger to be used for the right reasons.

I stopped at a corner deli. The manager recognized me. He was a burly Arab man, very pleasant, who'd seen me once with Amanda and now greeted me with a humorous "hubba hubba" whenever I was alone.

"Large coffee," I said. "Cream and three sugars."

"Cream?" he said, surprised. "Usually you take it with milk."

"I need the extra jolt tonight," I said. He nodded, understanding.

"Where's your ladyfriend?" he asked, moving toward the pots.

"Out tonight," I said with a smile.

"That lady, whoo, hubba hubba," he said, pointing to the coffee. "Fresh pot, plenty hot," he continued.

"Just the way I like it," I said.

He poured me a full cup, steam rising off the top, and added the cream and sugar. I paid him, thanked him and left.

The coffee, cream and sugar would be enough to get through the night. Or at least keep me awake until

Amanda got home. Sipping it as I approached my apart ment, I set it on the call box and searched my pockets for my keys.

Staring ahead as my fingers felt around for the familiar metal, suddenly my body froze.

The door to our building was glass. Through the il lumination of the lamp on the corner, I could see the re flection of the street behind me. And what I saw was a man approaching holding what looked to be an unopened switchblade.

He was a few inches shorter than me, white, with a scraggly beard and loose-fitting clothes that had surely been bought when he was a few pounds heavier.

In that light, he looked scarily like my brother had the night I saw him.

Slowly I reached up, picked up my coffee cup, took a small sip. My fingers trembled as I pretended to be unsure of where I was.

Then I heard the chilling snick and saw a long, thin piece of metal protruding from the man's hand. His blade was now open.

My heart hammered. In just seconds he would be behind me. And I would be dead.

Then I saw the man's hand rise above his head, the knife pointed down, ready to bury itself in my neck. I had one shot to do this right, or I'd feel that knife point inside me, the cold steel lodging itself in me.

I spun around, startling the man, and swung the entire cup of steaming-hot coffee into his face.

He shrieked, his hands clawing at his face. The knife clattered to the ground, and I kicked it as far as I could before he could react. It skittered away and stopped beneath a parked car thirty feet down the block.

While he was still pawing at his face, I swung an elbow that hit him right in the chest. It connected solidly, and he went down in a heap, still moaning, his face red from the scalding liquid. He was curled into a fetal position, so I knelt down on top of him, spreading his arms wide.

Once his arms were spread I placed my knees inside the crook of his elbows until his upper body was pinned underneath me. His legs thrashed as he screamed like he was the one being attacked.

I raised my fist, ready to rain blows upon the man's head, but then when I saw the fear in his eyes, the utter helplessness of him, I relented. Keeping my knees pinned on his arms-just in case he had another weapon handy-I placed my palm under his chin and forced him to look at me. My other hand fished in his pockets to see if he had any more weapons. I found none. I patted him down-legs, ankles, even pressed an elbow into his crotch just to be sure. The squeal he let out was very satisfying. Then I dug back in his pockets until I found his wallet. I flipped it open, saw credit cards, a few crumpled singles and a driver's license.

Rule number one of attacking someone, never carry picture ID.

Suddenly I felt him rock forward, making me tilt slightly back, then he thrust his entire body weight forward. I lost my balance, toppling over. I could feel him squirm out from under me as my head smacked against the pavement.

I tried to stand up, but a kick to the side of my neck made me fall back over, the breath leaving my lungs for a moment. The man stood back up, then looked around, trying to locate the knife. He couldn't find it, and by that point I'd managed to prop myself up. I took my keys from my pocket, inserted them into my fist, each key sticking out from between my fingers like a makeshift pair of brass knuckles.

The man saw me do this. Looking around once more for the knife, he took one step toward me and said, "You don't watch out, your ass is a ghost. And if that doesn't bother you, maybe we'll stick one in your old lady, too."

Then he sprinted away and didn't look back.

I lowered my hand. Watched him go. I got lucky. If

I hadn't seen him, I could be lying in the street bleeding.

I remembered that I'd taken his wallet and removed the license. The man's name was Trent Buckley. His license stated that he was six foot one, a hundred and ninety pounds. According to the address, Buckley resided in Boulder, Colorado. The license was dated

2002, so it was likely that Buckley had moved to New

York from Colorado.

Who sent him here? And how did he know where I lived? And who was Buckley referring to as "we"?

Paranoia seeped in. I looked around, checking out the abandoned street, wondering if someone else was waiting to pounce.

Then my mind went to one place.

Amanda.

My "old lady." Did they really know who she was or where to find her?

If someone was after me, they could very well know various ways to get to me.

I knew where she was. Knew what I had to do.

Calling 911 was a priority, but I had a more pressing one right now.

Taking the keys from my pocket, I unlocked the front door and pressed the elevator button. It took a moment for me to notice that an Out Of Service sticker was pasted over the jamb.

I sprinted up the stairs, my lungs burning, until I reached our apartment. The door was locked, but I opened it with the caution of a man who'd previously wandered into his apartment only to find a psycho pathic killer waiting. When I was convinced there was nobody hiding in the closet, I grabbed the biggest suitcase I could find and began throwing clothes into it.

I had no idea what garments were most important to

Amanda, so hopefully she'd forgive me if in my haste

I couldn't put together a matching outfit.

Once the bag was full with clothes, I jammed it shut and zipped it closed. Then I dragged it carefully back down to the lobby, burst onto the street and began waving my hand in the air. It took only five minutes for a cab to see me and pick me up.

"The Kitten Club," I said breathlessly.

The driver nodded, and off we went.

The Kitten Club held a lot of memories for me. As well as being the hottest nightspot in the city, it was where blond diva Athena Paradis was murdered.

Strangely, once the investigation had ended and the club had reopened, its cachet as the most exclusive club in the city skyrocketed. Not only was it the place to be, it was basically a city landmark now. Lines that once stretched around the block looped each other. Darcy's husband was an old fraternity brother of Shawn Kensbrook, the Kitten Club's promoter, so they were able to hop the line. All that for the privilege of spending five hundred bucks on a bottle of Smirnoff.

The lights of the Kitten Club pulsated as the cab drew near. I lowered the window. The smell of cologne, perfume, cigarettes and sweat permeated the air. Natu rally there was a line snaking all the way out the door and down the block, and that it was three people deep led me to believe it would be a two-hour wait just to get in.

But I wasn't planning to wait in line.

As the cab pulled up in front of the club, I threw him a twenty and hopped out, dragging my heavy luggage behind me. A few people waiting in line noticed my odd appearance-jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, sneakers and a massive Samsonite-and pointed me out to their friends. A few laughed. The rest looked slightly worried, as though they expected me to be lugging a bomb or a body in the suitcase.

I had to shove my way through the line to get to the front. A massive bouncer with biceps veins thicker than his waist blocked the way. He looked at me and rolled his eyes.

"Line starts over there," he said. He jerked his thumb in the opposite direction of where I thought the line started. Based on a rough calculation, the people at the end of the line would be allowed in right around the

Rapture.

"I need to see Shawn Kensbrook," I said.

"I need a blow job," the bouncer said.

"One of those is going to be much easier to achieve than the others," I replied. "Listen, tell him this is about

Darcy Lapore and her husband, Devin. He'll know who you're talking about."

The bouncer looked me over, trying to see if I was for real. Then he picked up a walkie-talkie, pressed a button and spoke into it.

"Yo, Byron, some kid out here with a damn suitcase says he needs to talk to Shawn. Says it's about some chick named Darcy."

"And Devin," I added.

"And Devin." He clicked off the walkie-talkie and waited for a response. Then he said, "You be messing with me, I'm a make you give me that blow job."

"I don't think either of us would enjoy that very much."

Then a crackling sound came over the talkie, and a voice said, "Hold tight, he'll be right there." The bouncer nodded, clicked it off. "Guess you won't need that mouthwash after all."

A minute later, a man came through the door and walked right up to me. He was wearing an Armani suit and sunglasses, and looked like a white, slightly less bulky version of the bouncer. His cuff links were sterling silver, and I could see his belt buckle was engraved with the letters SK.

Shawn Kensbrook walked up to me and said,

"You've gotta be him."

"It's me," I said. "Henry Parker. You must be Shawn.

I left you a few messages last year while I was covering the Athena Paradis story."

"I didn't talk to any reporters after that happened."

"I can understand. I know you two were close."

"Cut the crap. What do you want to do with Devin?"

"Long story short. My girlfriend, Amanda, is with

Devin and Darcy right now. She's in trouble. I mean, big, bad, lives-on-the-line trouble. I don't have the time to wait on line, I just need to see her. You let me in, I grab the girl, and we're gone. Simple as that."

"How do I know you're not messing with me?"

Shawn said.

I didn't know what to say. Then I thrust out the suitcase and said, "A deposit. I'm not back in ten minutes, you keep this. Some nice stuff in here. I know because I bought it for my girl's birthday. Plus, Captain

Shower Rape here can have his way with me."

Shawn looked at the bouncer, confused. The guy shook his head like he didn't know what I was talking about. Shawn turned back to me, the light from the neon signs reflecting in the shine of his suit.

"Even if you're on the level," Shawn said, "you're dressed like a homeless person and you have a freaking suitcase. I let you in, I might as well go around Central

Park inviting all the assholes sleeping on benches in."

"I didn't want to mention this," I said truthfully, "but

I know Tony Valentine."

"Valentine," Kensbrook said, trying to remember why he knew the name. "You mean the gossip hound, right?"

"That's the one. I work with him."

"No BS?"

I pulled out my business card, showing Shawn that

I, like Tony Valentine, worked at the New York Gazette.

Shawn eyed the card, his head clearly filling with the possibility of getting a good plug in the gossip pages.

Of course, I had as much intent of talking to Tony

Valentine as I did to O.J. Simpson, but that's the beauty of an internal monologue.

"You got ten minutes," he said. "And after that your ass is kicked and your clothes go to the incinerator."

"I accept."

"And I expect some ink from Valentine."

I gave him the most noncommittal thumbs-up in my arsenal.

Shawn nodded at the bouncer, who unhitched the velvet rope and allowed me passage. He took my suitcase and carried it to the coatroom, where a girl in a tight black top and capris unlocked a door so he could heave it behind the barrier. There were plenty of groans from the people waiting on line as they saw me enter. I hoped if they knew what was going on they'd under stand.

But this was New York, so I doubted it.

The Kitten Club was a massive place, with two dif ferent levels of action. This was about as far from my scene as I could get without being in the desert. I had no idea where to look first. My eyes were half-blinded by the strobe lights, and it took a healthy equilibrium not to get knocked over by the horde of drunken, dancing revelers. I could barely see five feet in front of me, let alone distinguish the VIP lounge.

To clarify the mess, I approached the bar, waited to get the tender's attention. When he came by, he said,

"What'll it be?"

"Where's the VIP lounge?" I asked.

He nodded and turned around. I had no idea what had happened, but then he turned back holding a glass of champagne with something sparkling at the bottom. He held it out to me.

"The VIP champagne," he said. "That'll be a hundred fifty."

"No," I shouted. "The VIP lounge. "

The bartender, looking quite pissed off, said, "Tables are upstairs." As I turned to go, I saw him fish the gem from the bottom of the glass and drop it into a small pail.

I pushed and shoved my way through a sea of fitted jeans, open-collared shirts revealing chests adorned with thick gold chains, and shimmering bosoms with even spray tans. At the back of the dance floor I found a short staircase that led to another level. Sliding through a couple making out on the railing, I managed to find the VIP area, a lounge of about a dozen round tables, each with between half a dozen and a dozen people circling them. Each table had several bottles of alcohol sitting in buckets of ice, with various mixers-cranberry juice, orange juice and tonic water-ready to go. According to Amanda, each bottle ran about a grand, and nobody bought just one bottle.

Then I heard a laugh. A distinctive laugh.

Amanda's laugh.

I fast-walked past the tables until I finally found the one I was looking for. Sitting in a circle were Devin and

Darcy Lapore, several suited men with gelled hair and manicures, and Amanda Davies.

Amanda was laughing hysterically at something, then she looked up and noticed me. I didn't believe that smile could spread any wider, but it did.

"Henry!" she shrieked, jumping out of her seat, knocking over an empty glass and toppling one of the guys onto the floor. She threw her arms around me, squeezed tight, and I gave her one right back. Her breath smelled like vodka, her body like sweet perfume. Her hair dripped onto my shirt and I held her tight, for reasons vastly different than hers.

"Hey, baby," I said, struggling to disentangle myself.

Suddenly Amanda looked confused. "Wait," she said. "What're you doo ing here?"

"I don't have time to explain right now," I said, taking her hand. "But you need to come with me."

A sultry smile spread across her lips. I didn't see her drunk all that often, so part of me couldn't help but be slightly amused. "So," she said. "You're taking me home?"

"Not exactly," I said, pulling her away. I apologized to Darcy and Devin, who seemed too preoccupied with how each other's lips tasted to notice.

"If we're not going home," she slurred, "where are we going?"

"A hotel," I said.

"Ooh baby!" Amanda said, suddenly grabbing a chunk of my ass and squeezing. She likely meant to be flirtatious, but the girl had some serious nails and I was reasonably certain she broke the skin. Hopefully stitches wouldn't be required, because that'd be one awkward explanation for the doctor. "Have you been working out?"

"Not recently, I haven't had time, but…that's not the point. We need to go."

Amanda finally relented, and we made our way down the steps and toward the exit. For the first time it seemed to dawn on Amanda that something was wrong.

I couldn't walk too fast due to the fact that she was in heels and had no hand-eye coordination to speak of, so to other clubgoers I looked like the no-fun boyfriend dragging his fun-as-hell girlfriend away because he didn't approve of her shenanigans.

I had to give Amanda credit, though. She looked stunning. Outclassed every girl at the club. I'd have to remember to tell her tomorrow, when she would remember.

We got to the tunnel leading to the outside, and the girl inside the coatroom remembered me. Guess not too many guys dropped off their luggage before entering.

"Can I get my bag?" I asked.

"Five dollars," she said, smacking gum between her lips.

"You just saw me with Shawn, I-"

"Five dollars," she repeated, bored by the whole thing. I didn't want or have time to argue, and pulled a crumpled ten from my pocket. She counted change, then swung the door open and let me take the suitcase.

As I lugged it into the hall, Amanda said, "Where are we going?"

"A hotel, baby," I said.

"I thought you were kidding," she said, a joyous glow in her eye. "I have the best boyfriend in the whole world. "

She threw her arms around me again, and I nearly stumbled over a small girl trying to make her way back into the club. She called me a name that I'd most defi nitely never been called by a girl before.

Gripping the bag with one hand and Amanda with another, we stumble/bumped our way outside. A row of cabs was waiting five deep down the block, knowing every minute brought another inebriated person out who needed a ride home (hopefully to another borough).

It was a delicate balancing act carrying Amanda and the suitcase outside since they were both essentially dead weight. The next cab in the line pulled up, and thankfully the driver came outside to help me with my, er, belongings. He hoisted the bag into the trunk while

Amanda and I slid into the back. As soon as he closed the door and said, "Where to?" I realized I had no idea where we were going.

The list of New York hotels I knew offhand was quite slim, and one of those, the Plaza, hadn't reopened yet.

Before I knew what I was doing, I said, "Times

Square. The W Hotel, please."

"Henry," Amanda cooed, her cheeks flushing red her hand delicately tracing the curve of my calf. "I had no idea…"

"Me, neither," I mumbled as the cab sped away.

Amanda spent the whole cab ride either staring outside, the world swimming by her drunken haze, or awkwardly trying to grope me. Ordinarily I might have felt frisky enough to try a little something in the backseat while the cabdriver wasn't looking, but Amanda was as subtle as a hyena and I had too much on my mind to truly focus.

Who was that guy outside my apartment? Clearly somebody knew I was following leads, but nothing had been printed in the newspaper, which limited the list of culprits significantly. I wondered, could it have been

Scotty Callahan? Sure seemed like it. The notion that this guy, an admitted company man, would have spilled his guts and walked away seemed awfully unlikely. But there were others. Rose Keller. She was a friend of

Stephen's, perhaps better than I knew. Stephen was more than I'd previously thought, so it occurred to me that Rose might have been as well.

I lowered the window, breathing deeply as I inhaled the warm air. Now Amanda was leaning back against her seat, eyes closed. I wondered if she was sleeping, dreaming peacefully.

Fifteen minutes later the cab pulled up in front of the

W Hotel. I ran my credit card through the cab's machine, gave him a twenty percent tip and helped Amanda out.

We walked into the lobby quite a sight, Amanda wearing a slinky dress and clinging to my arm, me looking like

I'd just rolled out of a bed in a sewer and carrying a single suitcase. The building itself was beautiful and massive. I'd read somewhere that it housed a stagger ing fifty-seven floors, but in the dark of night it looked like even more, a mammoth structure in the heart of

Times Square. The lobby was awash in subtle blue and gray tones, and a waterfall ran down one of the walls.

There were two receptionists on duty, two young women who looked remarkably similar. They both had dark hair and skin, red fingernails and bright smiles that seemed almost attuned to one another. As we walked up they both said, "Good evening, sir."

Their name tags read Rae and Gabrielle. You could have switched the tags and I wouldn't have known the difference.

"I'd like a room, please," I said.

The one with the Rae tag began to punch some keys on her computer while Gabrielle stared at me with that same, unwavering smile. Suddenly I felt Amanda's breath on my cheek, and then a big kiss followed suit.

A split second later I felt her tongue on my jawbone, winding its way toward my earlobe.

Gabrielle was still grinning, but now it was the kind of grin you gave to your neighbor who got his morning newspaper while wearing nothing but tighty-whities.

Rae looked up and said, "We have two rooms avail able, one with two twin beds and another with one queen."

"I'll take the queen," I said, trying to push Amanda away while I feel my face turn bright red. Rae noticed what was going on, and her bright smile quickly turned like bad milk.

Gabrielle looked at Amanda, then looked at me, then looked at my suitcase. Her eyes went back and forth between the three while I stood there confused. Then I realized what she was thinking. Attractive girl wearing revealing clothes. Dorky guy wearing the same clothes he'd probably worn the last three days. A suitcase.

No doubt Rae and Gabrielle thought Amanda was a hooker, and would end up chopped to bits and stuffed into the suitcase by the end of the night. I noticed neither of them had made any movements to confirm my room or make a key.

"You okay, honey? " I asked, stressing the last word an attempt to let Rae and Gabrielle know that we did, in fact, know each other.

"I'm just peachy, Henry." I smiled. See, she knows my name!

"So…about that room…"

"I'll need a credit-card imprint," Rae said. I slipped her my AMEX, and she ran it through, never taking her eyes off of us.

"Hen- ree, " Amanda whined. "I'm ti -red."

"Just a minute, baby," I said.

Gabrielle seemed to be softening up, but Rae was eyeing me with squinty eyes, letting me know she could have hotel security at our room if she got the slightest hint that an ax might make an appearance.

"How many nights will you be staying?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "Can we just keep it open?"

"Sure," Rae said, taking two plastic cards and running them through the machine to magnetize them.

She slid them into a paper sheath, wrote a number on it and handed it to us along with my credit card. "Room

2722 on the twenty-seventh floor. Please call if you

Pinter, Jason – Henry Parker 04

The Fury (2009) require any assistance."

"Please," Gabrielle added. "Any assistance."

"Anything at all, for you or your friend," Rae added.

"One thing," I said. "I don't want anyone to know

I'm here. So can you put me down under a different name, just in case anyone calls?"

The sisters looked at each other with a worried glare.

"Sure…" Gabrielle said. "What name would you like to put on the room?"

"Put down…Leonard Denton," I said.

"All set Mr…Denton."

"Thanks. Come on," I said to Amanda. "Let's get you some sleep."

I felt their glare in my back as we headed to the ele vators. The ride was silent and smooth, and I barely felt like we were moving, let alone going nearly thirty stories. At some point, right around floor twenty-five,

I felt my eardrums pop. Once the elevator opened, we made our way down the hall to room 2722, where I managed the task of propping both Amanda and the suitcase against the wall as I opened the door. Once open, I threw the bag inside and helped Amanda in.

She collapsed on the bed, and I sat down next to her.

For the first time all night, I realized just how tired I was. My nerves were still on edge, and tomorrow would be a long day. I needed to find out who that man was, who sent him, and just how deep in my brother was.

But in the meantime, Amanda had somehow wriggled out of her dress, and was wearing nothing but a silk bra and underwear, her eyes suggesting that sleepiness had taken a hiatus for the time being.

Tomorrow would be a long day. As I climbed into

Amanda's waiting arms, I hoped the night would be long enough to stay with me.