Parker 04 - The Fury (28 page)

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

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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.

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Jason Pinter

"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.

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235

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.

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Jason Pinter

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

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237

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.

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Jason Pinter

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.

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239

"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.

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Jason Pinter

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.