Parker 02 - The Guilty (26 page)

wearing a simple tank top fit to her toned body, the floor of

her Toyota strewn with empty fast-food wrappers. There

weren't many girls like her, who could look stunning both in

elegant work clothes and pajamas. Who looked beautiful

when they tried, and even more so when they didn't.

I mustered up some strength, leaned forward and gently

kissed her on the lips. She was slightly surprised, but after a

moment she pressed back hard. I could taste her strawberry

lip gloss, felt her hand as it came up to cradle my face. The

throbbing in my head and my hand quieted to a dull ache as

Amanda straddled my legs, supported her body against my

chest and kissed me harder and more passionately than she

had in a long time.

Adrenaline began to kick in, and keeping my injured hand to

the side I began to slide my good hand along her body. Up her

side, across her chest, between her breasts. I felt her heart beating

faster, her breath quickening. She ground against me, started to

kiss my neck. I brought my right hand up, careful not to flex it

too much, but Amanda took it and held it against the sofa.

"This stays here," she said between ragged breaths. She

raised her arms and eased off her vest. I eased off her blouse

with my good hand, pressed my palm against her bare skin,

ran it up toward her bra, then underneath, cupping her warm

breasts in my hand. Amanda sighed, reached behind and

unhooked the clasp, letting the clothing fall free.

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219

She stood up, giving me a moment to gaze at her body. A

moment later my pants and her skirt were undone and she

managed to slip off my boxers. Amanda eased on top of me

again until I was inside of her. We both groaned and began to

move back and forth, up and down.

"I want to be so close to you." She sighed, her movements

growing faster and faster. "I love you, Henry."

"I love you, too," I managed to gasp, as we rocked violently for another minute before collapsing onto the couch,

Amanda's sweat-glistened body rising and falling against

mine. Our lips found each other one more time, and then we

fell asleep intertwined, as all the pain faded away.

34

Jack O'Donnell sat at his keyboard, fingers flying as he

typed away on the only story that currently mattered to him.

When he told Wallace he was going to write it for the

Gazette--
they had to cover it, after all, as the crime was committed by a man who'd already killed four people--there was

no argument, only a solemn nod and an assumption that the

most accurate and unbiased story would be written. Wallace

did point out that the
Gazette
would have an exclusive--the

only paper in town to interview the victim, Henry Parker. All

the other news organizations would simply have to credit

Jack's piece when they quoted from it.

Jack had arrived at the hospital less than ten minutes after

the ambulance arrived with Henry. He'd watched them unload

the stretcher. He saw Amanda leap out, doing her best to hold

back tears. Jack offered a terse hello, then asked how Henry

was doing. She said they didn't know, that he needed a CAT

scan and that his hand was hurt something bad. Amanda

looked at Jack in a way that made his stomach feel hollow,

like somehow he'd been responsible for the attack.

He waited as they made sure there was no cranial bleeding,

no fractures. When the tests confirmed a grade one concus-
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221

sion Jack sighed in relief, said goodbye to Amanda, and left.

He went straight back to the office, locked himself in a conference room, pulled a flask of whiskey from his pocket and

drank until his eyes were ruddy and the tears of frustration

were sufficiently dammed up.

A year ago, when Henry had recovered after being shot,

Jack had viewed him merely as a young reporter with potential. It was a professional relationship, nothing more, one that

could be severed at any time for a multitude of reasons. Over

the past twelve months, however, Henry had become more.

For a man in his sixties who hadn't spoken to his own offspring in more than a decade, Henry Parker was the closest

thing to a son Jack O'Donnell had ever known.

Jack was a legend. He knew this, but did not brandish his

legacy like some vulgar bayonet. Instead he cloaked himself in

it, remembered it every time he began a story, every time he

followed a lead. Jack had torn through three marriages because

he simply
could not
perform the duties most women expected

of a husband. He would not come home when they pleased. He

would not offer comfort or solace with any regularity. He stayed

out late, drank often, was surly and emotionless depending on

how a story was evolving. Every relationship was a bell curve.

Passion and romance rose to a peak, then fell into a trough until

they flatlined. And when that happened, it was time to move on.

But it made him a great reporter. He devoted himself to

the craft, and in doing so became something more than just

a newsman. Within Henry, Jack could see the same potential. He would have to make sacrifices. Sacrifices ordinary

men could never make. Family, friends, even some happiness. But by doing so Henry would become what Jack

believed he could be: someone who made a difference.

Someone whose work lived on.

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Jason Pinter

Amanda seemed like a nice enough girl, yet every loose

thread a man had was one that could be pulled. One that

could be leveraged. If a man had nothing, he risked nothing,

and would stop at nothing. A woman could hold him back.

Love could make him soft. Jack was unsure if he'd ever truly

been in love, though if he had he would have retired ages ago,

spent his elder years in some pastel retirement community,

flitting about in golf carts and wearing pants with shameful

plaid designs. Eating lunch at "the club" with the other

retirees before they went out and shot a hundred and fifty on

the back nine. That was no life for him. That was no life at

all.

He gulped down another hot sip of coffee, laced with just

enough Baileys to give it a little kick, keep his blood pumping.

He typed in his byline and got ready to send it off. It would

be in tomorrow's national edition. He knew many people

thought this killer was some sort of twisted hero, knocking

off people whose deaths would somehow benefit the common

good. They didn't think about the monster beneath, just what

it took to pull a trigger and end someone's life. The families

shattered. The soullessness of it all.

Jack was too old to go chasing villains. That was a job for

a younger man, one ready to claim the mantle for his own.

And Jack knew that if Henry kept his head on straight,

snipped off any loose threads, the story would be fully told.

And he could only hope it was told before the next victim fell.

35

I tossed and turned the whole night, every position bringing

a new bolt of pain. Whether it was my hand, my head, or

Amanda accidentally kneeing me in the groin, I would have

had a better night sleep covered in honey and stuck in an ant

farm. Amanda didn't wake once. I tried to be jealous, but

watching her sleep soundly, all I could do was smile.

After making love we fell asleep for an hour. When we

woke, I threw on a pair of boxers, Amanda slipping into

cotton underwear and one of my T-shirts that came down to

her knees. We fell into bed and wrapped our bodies around

each other, my head on two pillows and numbed by two

aspirin, my hand stretched above my head to prevent undue

pressure from ripping the stitches.

When the sun came up, I blinked the crust from my eyes

and went to the bathroom. After peeing for what felt like an

hour, I turned the water on for a shower.

"You're not supposed to shower for forty-eight hours,"

Amanda mumbled from the bed.

"Crap, I forgot. Good thing I'm all sweaty from last night,

I've always wanted to smell like a hobo at work." Though

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Jason Pinter

Amanda's face was mushed into a pillow, I saw the edge of

a small smile.

I got dressed, and pulled out the note Agnes Trimble had

written me yesterday. My stomach clenched as I wondered if

the killer was watching me from the window. Watching

Agnes. Watching Amanda.

I took out my cell phone and called Curt Sheffield.

"Hey, Henry, how's the noggin feeling?"

"Feels like I went twelve rounds with Mike Tyson circa

1989."

"Damn, that's bad. Don't worry, give it a few years and you'll

be biting off ears and threatening to eat people's children."

"Those are some nasty side effects."

"You're telling me."

"Listen, Curt, I was wondering if you could get someone

to watch Amanda. Just while I'm gone during the day."

"Bro," Curt said, laughing. "Look out your window."

Confused, I pulled open the window with my good hand

and poked my head out. Below me I could see the sidewalk

and the building's entrance. Parked right in front was a blueand-white squad car. I could see two officers inside. And I

swear I could make out the outline of a donut.

"They'll be on your ass every morning and night for the

next week. You got a private escort to and from work, as does

your ladyfriend. You decide to shop for groceries, go to the

Chinese laundry mat during the day, that's all you."

"Thanks, Curt, I appreciate it."

"Don't thank me. Orders came down from Chief Carruthers's office. Guess there are people who want you to

stay alive."

"I'll be sure to send Carruthers a fruitcake."

"No fruitcake. His in-laws send one every Christmas and

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225

he chucks it. Later, Henry, give me a ring if you need

anything." I hung up, then dialed the number Agnes Trimble

had given me for Largo Vance. Hopefully Vance was an early

riser. The phone picked up on the very first ring.

"Yes, who is this?" a high-pitched voice croaked out.

"Hello, is this Professor Largo Vance?"

"If this is Jehovah's Witness, then no. If it's anyone else,

depends who's calling."

"Mr. Vance, my name is Henry Parker. I'm a reporter with

the
New York Gazette
and I was given your name by Professor Agnes Trimble--"

"Agnes! I haven't seen that minx in years." There was a

moment of silence as I tried to think of what to say. "Oh, come

now, Mr. Parker, don't be offended. I mean that with the

highest compliments. Agnes is a randy little minx, she and I

go way back."

"That's, um, wonderful. Anyway, Mr. Vance, if you have

a few moments today, I'd like to talk to you about Brushy

Bill Roberts."

This time the silence came from Largo Vance's end. His

response came sputtering out. "How fast can you be here?"

"Um, I don't know where you live, Mr. Vance..."

"3724 Bleecker. Be here in half an hour." He hung up.

"Who was that?" Amanda asked. She was sitting up in bed,

clutching a pillow in her arms.

"A potential source Professor Trimble gave me yesterday,"

I said. "An old professor. I think he has some more information on the Billy the Kid lead."

"Henry," she said, "please...be careful. Just yesterday you

were in the emergency room and..."

"I know that." I went to the bed and sat down next to her.

I took her hand in my good one, raised it to my lips and

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Jason Pinter

kissed her fingers. "I promise I'll be careful. There are policemen downstairs who are going to watch you, just to make

sure this lunatic doesn't come after us again. If you go

anywhere other than work, you know Curt's number. Call

him."

"This lunatic killed four people," she said. "If he wants to

kill, he's going to get them." I let that sink in, knew she was

probably right.

"Call in sick today. Just this once. I have to go talk to this

guy Vance. I
have
to."

"Then go," Amanda said. "The sooner you go, the

sooner you get back, the less time I have to spend worrying

about you."

"Listen, that guy wouldn't have attacked me if he didn't

have something to hide. He has an entire city police force

looking to draw and quarter him. A newspaper reporter

doesn't pose that much of a threat, comparatively."

"If he was willing to break into our apartment and do what

he did, it must be something awful he wants to keep a secret."

"That just means I'm going to find it," I said. "I'll call a

locksmith, have him change the locks and get a security

system installed."

"This apartment?" Amanda said. "That's like getting rims

on a 1987 Yugo."

"Now that sounds like one crunked-up car. Don't worry

about me," I said. I was having trouble pulling a shirt over

my head, so Amanda came over to help. "I'm Mr. Incredible."

"Well, please ask Mr. Incredible why he needs help getting