The Fury

30

The apartment was silent for what seemed like ages.

Helen Gaines sat there on the bed, unbelieving, her mouth in a silent O. I couldn't tell what she was thinking, if she knew who I was, or if I'd even existed.

Since she'd left Bend before I was even born, there was a chance she didn't know about me. Didn't know that

James Parker had another son. Or that Stephen Gaines had a brother.

But there was a glimmer of recognition there as she searched for a reaction. Perhaps Stephen had mentioned me the night he died. Maybe Helen knew there was another son.

Clarence Willingham's hand was on my back, but there was no force to it. As if he himself wanted to know just what was going on. When he'd first opened the door to his apartment building, I assumed Clarence's paranoia was due to the high, not wanting to get caught.

The dead bolts on his door, they were protecting a man whose father had been gunned down mercilessly. He grew up in fear, and now he was protecting Helen

Gaines. But why? How did they even know each other?

And how did Helen end up here, of all places, after fleeing Blue Mountain Lake?

Bernita had stopped screaming. Perhaps because they were both curious. Or perhaps because they didn't want to get anyone else involved. Because they were still protecting Helen.

"You're Henry," she said. "Oh my…I've wanted to meet you for so long."

That answered my question.

"I only just found out you existed a few days ago,"

I said. "Why didn't you ever try to reach me?"

"I didn't know how," she said, but her voice betrayed that thought. She never really tried. The idea of my ex istence was grander than the reality of it.

I walked over to Helen. Extended my hand. She did not offer hers, and for a moment I was embarrassed, but then she stood up, took a breath and gathered me in her arms. It was a strange sensation, and one I wasn't sure was deserved or appropriate, but soon I felt my arms wrapping around this small, frail woman who'd been a part of my family's life long before I ever arrived.

Her pulse was racing. A slightly sour smell came off of her.

When Helen Gaines pried herself away from me, she stepped back, sat down on the bed with a sigh. The woman's pupils were dilated, and I had to take a moment to realize just how small, just how thin she was.

I remember the photo my father had shown me. The vi vacious young woman with the unruly brown hair, the bright green eyes. The eyes were still green, but they were slightly dulled. Too much life had passed by them.

Not enough love to keep them shining.

The veins in her wrists were thick, ropy. Blue streaks roamed underneath her skin. The brown of her hair had nearly all been wiped away, replaced with a stringy gray.

Then I heard a smacking sound and saw that she was licking her lips. Dry mouth. A symptom of crack addiction.

She was Stephen Gaines's mother all right.

"Wait," I said. Suddenly I was the one confused. I'd been so caught up in discovering the earring and finding Helen that the biggest question hadn't even occurred to me to ask.

"How in the hell do you two know each other?" I said to Helen, then turned to Clarence.

Clarence bowed his head. Then he stepped by me, went and sat down on the bed next to Helen. She placed her hand on top of Clarence's head. He smiled weakly, tilted it slightly.

"Butch Willingham," Helen said, "saved my life. When

I came to this city I had nothing. I started using, but I was out of control. I bought from Butch, but he never sold me enough to kill me, which is what I wanted. One day, Butch found me passed out in a gutter. Facedown. Drowning in filth. He took me in. Nursed me back to health. He was my lover. My protector. He was the husband your father never was. The father Stephen never had."

"And when my dad died," Clarence said, "Ms.

Gaines always looked after me. The city wouldn't allow her to adopt me because of her…issues…but she visited every day. She was the mom I lost when I was a kid."

"So when Beth-Ann was killed," I said, extrapolat ing what I'd learned, "you called Clarence."

"He was my only friend left," Helen said. Her eyes were sunken. She began to weep softly, her small body trembling. Clarence wiped her tears away with his finger, took her frail hand and kissed the back. Helen smiled, nestled her head against his neck.

"She was here when I called," I said. "That's who I heard in the background."

"I wouldn't let her stay at my pad. Too many people have my business card. Bernita here doesn't even have e-mail."

"I found the earring," I said to Helen.

"Earring," she said, stumbling over her words. "Oh my, from the cabin!"

"That's right."

"I didn't even know I had the other one with me. It must have fallen."

"Onto Clarence's carpet," I replied. "So he shuttled you downstairs to hide while I talked to him."

"Didn't have time for anything else," Clarence replied.

"You went to all this trouble," I said.

"I'd do anything to protect this woman," Clarence said. "Anything." Then he stared at me, his eyes gone from tender to fiery in an instant. "Anything."

I knew he was talking to me. That if I even thought about exposing Helen, about putting her in harm's way,

Clarence Willingham would have no problem making sure nobody heard what I had to say.

"So you hid her here," I said.

Bernita chimed in, saying, "Man did pay me."

"I trust Bernita," Clarence said. "Helen wasn't so sure at first."

"I didn't-still don't-know who to trust," Helen said.

"I couldn't keep her with me," Clarence said. "I have clients coming over to my office, and there's no way she could have stayed upstairs. Besides, who would think to look here?"

"I would. I did," I said.

"Yeah, well, most people ain't you, Parker." I wasn't sure whether he meant that as an insult or a compliment.

"We need to talk about Stephen," I said. "Helen, I need to know what happened. The police have arrested my father for Stephen's murder. They know he came into the city to see you. They know you tried to black mail him. I need to know why. It wasn't for rehab for

Stephen. I need to know what that money was for, and what happened that night."

Helen Gaines's hand went to Clarence's and held it tight. He put his arm around her, comforted her as she began to cry, this time harder. She wailed, her hand covering her mouth to stifle the sobs.

"Oh…my baby," she said. "My baby is gone…"

"Helen," I said. But all I could do was wait it out. It hadn't even been a week since Stephen was murdered, and though Helen Gaines seemed far from mentally stable, there were some things that pierced the heart no matter how calloused it had grown.

She cried for several minutes. Clarence held her head, stroked her hair. His eyes were closed, too, and on his face I could see the pain of a man whose surro gate mother was going through hell in every way, shape and form. Clarence had admitted abusing drugs in his younger years, but recently had begun to wean himself off of them. No doubt having a dealer as a father exacany curiosity he had. And even though Butch was a supposedly "clean" dealer, being exposed to that kind of trade could stir a desire that wouldn't have existed otherwise. The temptation was there. His father put it there, and Helen Gaines had become a victim of it as well.

Maybe Helen and Clarence had actually bonded over this. Perhaps it was even Helen who, after Butch was gone, tempted Clarence. But looking at them now, young man and older woman, they needed each other more than anything in the world.

"Helen," I said, "I need to know why you got in touch with my father. After all those years, why did you suddenly need the money?"

Helen removed her head from Clarence's shoulder.

She wiped her eyes, only succeeding in smearing the mascara she had on. Clarence took a tissue from his pocket, handed it to her. She thanked him, cleaned herself up.

"The money wasn't for me," she said. "It was never for me. It was for Stephen."

"Rehab?" I asked.

"No. That ship sailed a long time ago. We tried- both of us, actually. But it's easy to say you want to stop, it's another thing to do it. It'd be like rewiring your brain. When you have two people so close, both addicted, you can either band together and use each other for strength…or you can slip into the comfort of nothingness. We chose the latter."

"So you know your son was using, and that he probably started because of you."

Helen nodded. "I was young and stupid when I came here. Do you know what it's like to be nineteen years old with a baby? To have to leave the only place you've ever known and go somewhere where you don't know anybody? To raise a child in a different world? I couldn't handle it. So I escaped. But Stephen could have made so much more of himself."

"Stephen wasn't just some street dealer," I said. "He was much higher."

Helen blinked. "I knew he wasn't standing out on corners. He had nice suits. Lots of them. He would wear them during the day, even though I knew where he was going. I always found it strange that someone in that…line of work would get dressed up so nicely.

We never had money for anything else."

I thought about the building in midtown. All those suited young men entering to get their daily packages.

A horde of young, urban professionals. Only the defi nition had turned a one-eighty.

"How long had he been selling?" I asked.

Helen looked at the ceiling. Wiped her eyes again.

Clarence was staring at her as well, his eyes soft. I wondered if he'd ever heard these stories.

"Screw this," Bernita suddenly announced. "I'm getting a beer and watching Judge Judy. " Her pink bathrobe turned with a flutter, and she left the room.

"She's a great cook," Helen said. "Made chicken a l'orange last night."

"I have about ten pounds of leftovers in my fridge at home," Clarence said with a laugh. "I know what you're saying."

"How long?" I repeated.

"Almost ten years. He dropped out of CCNY after his sophomore year. I worked about a hundred differ ent jobs over the years, but even with that and the money

Stephen made, with his student loans, there was no way we could ever really make ends meet. Not in this city.

That's actually where I met Beth. We were both secre taries at a public-relations firm. They fired us both within the month when we came to work high. So

Stephen dropped out. Partly because of the money, partly to take care of me. He said the only experience he needed was in the real world. And I was too stupid to stop him. And besides, he was making more money doing that than I ever did working real jobs. And none of it was taxed."

"So he was working for ten years, making good money, obviously moving up the ladder," I said. "Again, why did he need the money?"

"We went through it fast," Helen said. "Stephen started using more, and I was a mess. We never saved much. One day, about a month ago, Stephen came home from work. I remember him coming in the door with this look on his face, and I just froze. He was so scared…oh

God, his eyes were wide and his face was pale and I thought he might have overdosed. He collapsed on our sofa and asked for a glass of water. When I brought it to him, he just sat there with the glass in his hand. Not drinking, just staring at the wall. Then my boy started to cry."

"Why?" I asked. "What happened?"

"He didn't tell me," Helen said. "All he said was, 'We need to leave. We need to get far, far away from this city.

When I asked him what the matter was, he just said,

'You're safer if you don't know. We'd both be safer if I didn't know either.' I looked into his eyes. They were bloodshot. Not from drugs, but from crying. He'd never spoken like that before in his life. I'd never seen him so scared, so terrified. So I told him we'd find a way."

I said, "My father told me he found a notepad in your apartment. It read 'Europe' and 'Mexico.' That's where you were thinking of going. Right?"

Helen nodded. "We didn't know where to go. What city or country. We wondered if Europe was too far, or if Mexico was far enough. Stephen just wanted to go far, far away. We barely had enough money to cover the rent."

"And that's why you called my father," I said. "For money to leave the country."

"It was a one-time thing," Helen said. "I figured after all those years, after what he'd done to me and our baby-that's right, our baby-the least he could do was help us start a new life."

I couldn't really argue with that. My father owed them far more than he could ever make up for.

"So you threatened to sue him," I said.

"I didn't know any other way. The old James Parker

I knew would rather burn his money than give it away."

"You couldn't say something a little more noble, like you needed it for a kidney transplant or something?

Maybe that would have tugged at his heartstrings a little more than the rehab story."

"I don't know how well you know your father,"

Helen said sardonically, "but he's not exactly the senti mental type."

I couldn't argue with that either.

"So he came into the city to see you, then what?"

"How much did he tell you?" she asked.

"He told me you pulled a gun on him," I said. "Is that true?"

Helen nodded. "Yes. But it was Stephen's gun. He kept it for protection. He taught me how to use it, just in case. I was scared, of your father and for Stephen. I got carried away."

"Where was Stephen during all of this?" I said.

"I'm not sure," Helen said. "He told me he was going to try and talk to someone. He said there was one person who might be able to do something if he knew the whole story."

"Oh God," I said. "He was with me. He was at the

Gazette waiting for me." I felt sick. I put that from my mind, tried to focus.

"My father said he took the gun from you. Is that true?"

"It is," Helen said.

"Would you be willing to testify to that? The police say my father's fingerprints were found on the gun. If you testify that they got there another way-other than him actually firing it-it will help his case."

"I don't know if I want to help his case," Helen said.

"As long as he's locked up, the cops aren't hunting the person who really killed my son."

"So you know it wasn't my father," I said. Helen said nothing. She turned away. Didn't even look at me. I was taken aback by this indifference. Stunned, I said, "Don't you care about your son's killer getting what he deserves?" I said.

Helen's face turned to stone. She said, "It must be nice to live in a world where everyone who deserves justice gets it. My son was taken from me. I tried to save him…help him save himself. And now he's gone. And let me tell you what I want now, Henry… I want to live.

And if living means letting this end, letting the people out there think that someone is taking the fall, I can't say that's an ending I dislike."

"You must know, though," I said. "You have to know who killed your son."

"I don't know for certain," Helen said. "After James and I had our…talk…he left for the airport. He put the gun back down. We both knew I wasn't going to use it.

And I knew that was the last time I would ever see your father."

"Then what did you do?" I asked.

"Then I went out. I needed a drink. Needed to smoke.

James didn't have that much money, only a few thousand dollars. I didn't know what was going to happen with Stephen. He was so scared, so afraid."

"So your choice then was to go out rather than see him."

"That's right. I did. I had to calm my nerves. I just needed something to get me by. And I thought if I could relax, I could figure out just how we were going to get out of the city. I must have been gone for, I don't know, two hours or so. When I came back to the apartment, I walked in and saw him…Stephen…facedown on the floor. Blood everywhere. And I just started screaming."

"And you felt you were in danger."

"I knew I was," Helen said. "Whoever killed him did it because they thought he knew something he wasn't supposed to. And if he knew, then chances were I would too. I left that night, before the cops ever came. And I remember the street, the quiet, the neighbors who didn't even know what had just gone on. I went right to BethAnn's apartment, and we went up to the lake. I had no idea they would find us there."

"So you didn't see who killed Stephen," I said.

"No. Just the people on the street. Neighbors, people I'd seen around before…" Helen trailed off, looked at Clarence.

"What is it, Mom?" he said.

"One man," Helen said. "There was one man standing on the street, staring at me as I left the apart ment. He was just there, standing by a lamppost, and I could have sworn he was crying. And honest to God, I think that boy looked at me and said…"

"Said what?" I asked.

"Said he was sorry. And all I could think to do was run."

"I don't understand," I said. "Why didn't you call anyone? The cops? Someone?"

"Stephen told me a long time ago not to trust anyone in this city. He said the people he knew, the people he worked for, if they thought you might hurt them they would hurt you first, and hurt you worse than you could ever do to them. When he came home that night, scared out of his mind, he told me our only option was to run.

That if we told anybody, we would be in trouble. That's all he said. Trouble. But the thing is-" Helen stopped, looked at the floor.

"What is it?"

"The night he died," she said, "Stephen told me there might be one way out. He said he knew one person who might be able to help us. He knew about your father, about his family, and I told him there was a good chance

James Parker wouldn't give us a dime and we wouldn't be able to leave the country. So finally he told me there was one last option. There was someone he knew wasn't on the take, wouldn't hurt us. Someone who could give them more trouble than they ever imagined. He went out that night. Never told me who he was going to see. And then, a few hours later, he was dead."

It felt like a piece of coal was burning in the pit of my stomach. I knew Stephen had been talking about me.

For some reason, he considered me his last hope. And then he died. Because I didn't trust him.

"You said the night Stephen died, you saw someone outside the apartment. A young man crying. Who was he?" I asked.

"I don't know. It was dark out," Helen said, her voice sorrowful, apologetic. "And my mind, I was so confused, so scared. I didn't see his face. All I remember is noticing something on his neck…a birthmark. Such a young man, younger than Stephen even…"

I nearly fell to the floor. The room went blurry on me.

Clarence got up, came to my side, helped me stand.

"You okay?" he said.

I nodded, but felt anything but okay. I knew who that man was. And now I knew who killed Stephen.

And I knew where he lived.