The Fury

31

"I have to go," I said, standing up. Right under my nose the whole time. My brother's killer. I didn't have time to talk to Helen. To worry about how disturbing it was that a mother would prefer to protect her own hide than find justice for her son's killer.

I couldn't think about how this might affect Helen.

She could be helped. She could be protected. And if her eyes hadn't deceived her that night, I knew who had killed Stephen Gaines.

"Tell me you'll be here," I said to Helen, looking at

Clarence. "I swear on my life I know people who can protect you. And if I'm right, you won't have to worry anymore, because the man who killed Stephen will be behind bars the rest of his life. There's nobody else who can hurt you."

"You don't know that," Helen whispered. "Stephen was much stronger than I ever was. And look what happened to him."

There was no boogeyman. No higher power. It was the law of the jungle. Kill or be killed. Stephen found himself on the shit end of that equation. And it was time for me to even the score.

"Please be here," I said. "If I'm right, you'll need to testify."

"If you're wrong," she said, "neither of us will be around long enough for it to matter."

I said nothing. I thanked Clarence for his help. Then, crossing over to Helen Gaines, I put my hand on her shoulder. The bones protruded, sharp angles. There was no muscle, no strength there. She was a skeleton with skin. A woman whose soul seemed to have left her long ago.

Helen Gaines smiled weakly at me. I didn't know if she would still be here later. There were only so many lives I could affect. My duty was to the truth, to uncover it at all costs.

"Watch after her," I said to Clarence. His nod told me he would.

I left Bernita's apartment, exiting the building. The sun was hanging bright and hot over the city. Every second seemed to take an hour. Every moment he breathed thinking he'd gotten away with murder was one that made my blood boil.

Before I left, I took out my cell phone and my wallet, then removed the thick stack of business cards that had turned brown from the leather. Shuffling through them,

I picked out the one I needed. Then I called the cell phone number listed.

"Detective Makhoulian," came the answer.

"Detective," I said, "it's Henry Parker. I know who killed Stephen Gaines."

I gave him the address and told him when to be there.

Only, I would be there ten minutes earlier. We needed some time alone.

I headed toward the subway, my mind completely clear except for the anticipation of what was about to come. The judicial system would have its turn. But first

I needed mine.

The train was hot, crowded and sticky. It only served to get my blood up. Once I got out downtown, the walk was short. My legs carried me faster than I knew they could. In my mind I could see images of the people I knew. Had known. And had never known.

My father.

My mother.

Jack.

And Stephen Gaines. The brother I never had.

I arrived on the block with half an hour to spare. I checked my watch every thirty seconds, trying to contain the rage building inside of me. Everything had led up to this.

I paced up and down, breathing steady, controlled. It wasn't easy. The last time I remembered feeling like this, helpless yet ready to explode, was several years ago when my then girlfriend Mya was attacked and nearly raped.

That night I paced the street, a fifth of vodka in a paper bag, praying I would somehow find the man who was cowardly enough to attack a woman half his size. Though

Amanda and I had been through some trying ordeals, to the point where I wondered if we would live to see the next day, we were both strong-willed people. We could overcome it. We knew that. Stephen wasn't strong enough to overcome his demons. He'd been seduced by the vial, the needle, and once they were in they were in for good.

And suddenly I turned around and there he was.

Wearing a brilliant suit, slightly disheveled after a long day's work. A briefcase slung over his shoulder. His shoulders were slumped as he walked, his eyes cast down to the street. As he got closer I could see the birth mark on his neck. The same one Helen Gaines saw the night he killed my brother.

He didn't see me waiting for him. That was probably for the best.

"Scott Callahan," I said.

Scotty's eyes snapped up to meet mine. At first he was confused, then a small smile crossed his lips when he recognized me. Then that smile disappeared when he realized I was not there for a social visit. Nothing like it.

"Henry?" he said, trying to understand what I was doing there.

I walked toward him. Picking up my pace with every step.

"Cops are on their way," I said, voice even, teeth gritted. Scott kept on walking, tentative, until we were just a few feet from each other. "But they won't be here for a little while. So we have some time to chat."

Scotty's face went an ashen gray. "The cops?" he said. "Wha…I don't understand. You promised me you'd keep my name out of this. Goddamn it, you promised me!"

"I promised I wouldn't turn you in for dealing. I was looking for something more. But I never said a word about keeping your name clean from murder, you piece of shit."

"Murder? What the hell…" Scotty was breathing hard. I saw his eyes flicker to the building next to us, where he lived. He was carrying nothing but his brief case and his wallet. There was nowhere to go. No place to hide.

And then, from the opposite end of the street, we both heard the faint shrill of police sirens. Scotty whirled around. The cops weren't within sight yet. He was sweating, nervous. Then all of a sudden Scotty came around and punched me in the stomach.

It wasn't a hard blow, but I was unprepared. Rather than buckling and trying to absorb the hit, it landed square in my gut, knocking the wind from me. I fell to a knee, gasping for air. Scotty began to run. So I did the only thing I could. I grabbed his ankle as he ran past.

Scotty's leg went out from under him, and he landed with a thud on the pavement. His briefcase went flying, fluttering pathetically in the wind. Forgetting about my own lack of air, I leaped up and pounced on him. I dug my knee into the small of his back, then rolled him over and reared back to deliver my own blow. Scotty brought his elbows up to protect his face, and my punch hit nothing but bone. The pain was terrible, but it dissipated in an instant. I connected with a solid right to Scotty's ear, knocking his face sideways. A scream escaped his mouth.

I threw another punch, but Scotty was able to block it, twisting sideways. I still hadn't recovered from his punch, so I was thrown off balance and fell off him. I managed to keep my hand on his shoulder, pulling him back down as he tried to get up.

Scotty was crawling for something; I couldn't see what. My face was still close to the ground, and I could smell the concrete. Then I heard a clang as something toppled over, and that was followed by a whoosh of air as he swung what appeared to be the lid of a garbage can at my head.

I managed to roll away, catching a glancing piece of the aluminum on my jaw. It stunned me and I fell back.

Scotty stood up, limping, clutching his knee. The sirens were growing louder. Not long ago the police had been after me, and I'd managed to escape. At least for a while. Scotty had lived here for years, knew every inch of the city. He had friends who would protect him. If

Helen Gaines, a frail junkie, could find a safe house, no doubt a dealer with innumerable contacts could as well.

I couldn't let him get away.

As Scotty began to run, I got to my feet, dived forward and tackled him from behind. His legs gave out, and Scotty screamed again as his knee slammed down on the ground. By this point I could see several

pedes trians watching us, hands over their mouths in shock and terror. A few were on their cell phones, no doubt calling 911.

A little late, but I appreciated the gesture.

Scotty was still writhing, and I managed to turn him over, placing my knees in the crook of his elbows. Just like I had to the guy who tried to jump me at the apart ment. Scotty's head was bleeding from where I'd punched him. There was a ragged hole in his pants by his right knee. There was a nasty cut that was bleeding pretty heavily. I could feel the slow, hot trickle of blood running down my neck, where he'd clipped me with the lid.

I raised my fist, ready to exhaust all the rage and fury of the last few days. To get payback for my brother's murder, for my father's incarceration.

This man, this killer, this hired dealer. The world would be better off without him.

Yet as I stared at my own fist, poised and ready to strike the helpless murderer, suddenly my hand went slack. My fingers uncurled. I couldn't do it. Justice wasn't about taking an eye for an eye. I was above that.

I had to be.

So I sat there, knees on his arms, the man below me in terrible pain, tears streaming down his face.

"Please," Scotty blubbered, "let me go. You don't know what you're doing…"

"I know exactly what I'm doing," I said. "I'm giving you the chance you never gave Stephen. I'm going to let you live."

The sirens grew closer. I could see the red and blue flashing off the windows on the street. The air was hot, swirling around us as I waited, my breathing heavy, angry.

"Get the hell off of him."

I didn't recognize the voice. The sirens screamed all around us. I hadn't heard a car pull up. It wasn't a cop talking. The voice did sound familiar, though…

Turning my head, from the corner of my eye I saw Kyle

Evans standing two feet from our sprawled bodies. He was holding a gun in his hand. It was pointed right at my head.

I heard more screams, and anyone who had been on the street watching had run off when the gun was pulled.

It was just the three of us.

I took my knees off Scotty, who scooted backward.

He clutched his knee, biting his lip.

I stood up. Air was coming back to my lungs, but I was still doubled over slightly.

"He's a killer," I said, the words coming out in bursts. "He's-"

And then I saw it. And whatever breath had found its way back into my lungs vanished.

Kyle was holding a black pistol. And attached to the end of it was a thin metal tube. And I remembered what

Leon Binks had said to me the night I identified Stephen

Gaines's body in the medical examiner's office.

"The killer was using a silenced weapon. Now, very few guns have those kinds of professional silencers you see in movies, that screw on like a lightbulb. Usually they're homemade, a length of aluminum tubing filled with steel wool or fiberglass."

"It was you," I said. "You killed Stephen."

Kyle went over to where Scott Callahan was lying on the ground. He was still holding his knee, but smiled when he saw his friend approach. Kyle knelt down, put his hand on his friend's shoulder. Scotty tried to prop himself up, but he was too weak. I stood there, my body rigid with anger and dread.

Kyle looked back at me. Then he said, "You gotta do what you gotta do to survive."

Then he placed the gun under Scott Callahan's chin and pulled the trigger.

"What the fuck!" I shouted. The gun blast was more of a meek pfft, like compressed air escaping from a puncture. Gore sprayed out the top of Scott Callahan's head. His body twitched once, then fell to the ground and lay still.

My hands wouldn't work. I stared slack-jawed at

Kyle. He was still on the ground, the gun loose in his hand. He looked at his friend, a sorrow etching across his face for an instant. Then his eyes turned cold and his gaze came to me.

"You have no idea," Kyle said, "how surprised I was to get to Stephen's house and find a gun already there.

I had this one all ready. Instead, all I needed was the capper." He pointed to the silencer.

"You used my brother's own gun to kill him," I said.

"But he wasn't the last one to use it."

"No, I really should have bought a lotto ticket that night. When I heard that Stephen's dad got popped for it? I nearly pissed myself laughing. See, that night I wore gloves, figured it would slow the cops down, but

I had no idea about your dad's shenanigans. I was there to take out Stephen, but I kind of took out the whole family. As long as they had someone else pinned for the murder, we were in the clear."

"We?" I said.

"Scotty was supposed to do it. He knew Stephen better than I did. They were pals, man."

I thought back to our conversation in the deli. Scotty pretending to barely know my brother. That's how they got so close to him.

"When your dad got popped, we were in the clear.

We even took the casings just in case. Turns out we didn't even need to. Now, though, Scotty here's gotta take the fall. Can't have anyone thinking the killer's still out there."

"You son of a bitch."

"On a normal day, I'd get pissed at you for talking about my mom like that, but I'll let it slide. Besides, when I meant nobody could know, I meant it." Kyle turned the gun to me. He had me less than five feet away, dead to rights. There was no tremor in his hand.

By the time I even thought about running, he could pull the trigger.

"Why?" I said. "Why did he have to die?"

"You said it yourself," Kyle replied. "The man just had to. When you're the top dog in anything, you're gonna get bitten."

"But Stephen was so young."

"There's no one guy," Kyle said. "It's like Ronald

McDonald. Every now and then someone new steps up to the plate. Call it a coup d'etat, call it whatever you want, but every company needs a regime change. Some new blood at the top. Now it's my turn."

Curt Sheffield had told me that five people connected to 718 Enterprises had been killed recently. Add to that number my brother and now Scott Callahan. Helen

Gaines told me that Stephen had wanted to leave the country, that he feared something terrible. Clearly he'd gotten wind that there were rivals who wanted to take him out. So, was Stephen systematically wiping out his competition? Is that why Kyle killed him-just to beat him to the punch?

If what Kyle said was true, and Stephen and Scotty had been friends, Stephen trusted them both. That's how Scotty and Kyle talked their way into my brother's apartment. They were couriers for him, yet he didn't fear them. My brother had been betrayed by his own friends.

When Stephen came to the Gazette that night, he'd wanted to come clean. He knew the chances of getting enough money to hide were slim. So my guess was that he was going to spill on the whole operation. He didn't fully trust the cops to protect him, but he figured if it made the papers first he couldn't be killed without the public being aware of it. His only hope was to cause a big enough story that he would be forgotten. That he could disappear in the maelstrom.

But he was killed before he could ever come clean.

And his story was about to die as well.

Kyle then took the gun and placed it in Scotty's dead hand. He wrapped his own finger around Scotty's in the trigger guard and aimed it at me.

Just then a car sped onto the block. It was a black

CrownVictoria. Kyle's attention turned from me to the car.

The door opened. And out got Detective Sevi Makhoulian.

"Freeze, police!" the officer yelled. Kyle couldn't turn away from Makhoulian. A strange look crossed his face, and I swear the gun began to lower. He was going to give up.

And then three successive explosions turned the air into a thunderstorm, and Kyle Evans's body was flung backward onto the street. He landed next to Scotty, his friend, Kyle's eyes and mouth open.

I turned to Makhoulian, hands covering my ringing ears. He was saying something to me, but I couldn't hear the words.

He walked closer, gun at his side, the flashing lights now on our block. I felt the detective's large hand on my elbow. He was mouthing, Henry, are you all right?

I knew instinctively that my voice wouldn't work, so

I nodded. Then I turned back to see the dead littering the street.