another murder pinned to my chest. The scarlet M. My hole was growing deeper, the dirt walls caving in.
We scrambled to the bottom platform where a ladder dangled like a piece of spaghetti. There was a pile of black garbage bags below us. And beneath that, cement. Even the bottom of the ladder was a good fifteen feet from the ground.
“You go first,” Amanda said. I smiled back at her.
“And who said chivalry was dead?”
I handed her the album and wiped my sweaty hands on my shirt. Gripping the metal tight, I made my way down the ladder. Hand over hand, keeping my feet even and balanced. When I reached the bottom rung, I stopped. I didn’t want to land amidst the garbage bags, which were covered with broken bottles.
I leaned to my right, then exploded off with my left foot, jumping at an angle and landing just beyond the bags. My knees buckled as I hit the ground, my palm scraping the cement, tearing the skin from it.
Wincing, I gave Amanda a thumbs-up. I grabbed several garbage bags and tossed them off the pile, clearing a small landing area. She gently tossed the album to me. I set the book aside and positioned myself directly under the ladder. I cupped my arms.
“Your turn,” I shouted.
Hesitant, a twinge of fear in her eyes, Amanda climbed to the bottom of the ladder.
“You sure you can catch me?” she said.
“As long as you don’t weigh more than eighty pounds, no problem.”
“I’ll shove an eighty-pound foot up your ass if one toe touches the ground.”
“Fair enough.”
Amanda closed her eyes and let go. She tumbled through the air, a shrill scream escaping her lips. Then she was in my arms, her hands locked around my neck. I lowered her down and she slowly opened her eyes.
“You weigh a bit more than eighty pounds,” I said.
She jabbed me in the ribs, then gave me a gentle squeeze and said, “Thanks.”
I nodded, stared into her eyes. Then the sirens broke through our embrace, shattering the moment of peace.
We jogged toward the end of the alley, then headed east on Amsterdam. We hopped on the 81st Street crosstown bus, used the transfer still good from the subway, and shielded our faces behind a discarded copy of The Onion.
Headline: Journalist Changes Name To Hieroglyphic Symbol.
From the corner of my eye I saw a police car speed down the block and make a sharp right into the alley we’d just come from. I exhaled and pointed it out to Amanda. She took my hand, squeezed my fingers until they hurt.
We got off at the last stop, 80th Street and East End Avenue. The steel blanket of night had descended. The East River was dark, the moon glimmering off the water like silver beads. A warm breeze blew through my hair as I breathed it all in. On any other night, the city’s beauty would have been a moment to savor. But tonight it felt like a tomb.
This neighborhood was unfamiliar. Rows of expensive Upper East Side apartments ran down one side of the block. Trees with knee-high guardrails and doormen with constable caps opened the door for fashionably dressed tenants and their fashionably dressed dogs.
On the other side of the street, as though exported from another, less affluent universe, sat a squat tenement that looked completely abandoned. Windows were boarded up, bricks covered in graffiti and slime. Old, wheelless bicycles were chained to a fence. A gate opened up to a small path leading up to the building’s entrance.
“So what now?” Amanda asked. She’d wrapped her arms around her delicate body, looking at me for a sign of hope. I held the album under my arm, feeling the plastic edge biting my skin, unsure of what to say, what to do.
John Fredrickson. I knew he worked for Michael DiForio. He wasn’t just “in the neighborhood” three days ago, like Luis had said. He’d gone to the Guzmans with a purpose: to retrieve this album and deliver it to Michael DiForio. With these photos, DiForio had New York in a vise. Releasing the photos would damage the city beyond repair. And losing them wasn’t an option he’d want to consider. And yet somehow there had to be a way to use the album, some way to set us free. Turn evil into good.
Again I tried to distance myself, cast away all emotion, look at it like a journalist.
Like a magic trick, a great story was one where you showed all the facts but gave away none of the secrets behind them. You offered the audience what they needed to see, wanted to hear, and nothing else. There were two groups of people out there: those who wanted me dead and those who wanted this binder and then wanted me dead. The trick was giving them both what they needed, yet making them want only what I offered.
It had to end tonight. I had no energy left, nothing else to offer Amanda in the way of solace. I was tired, cold, hungry. And finally I’d been given a small foothold that might support my weight.
I looked at the large brownstone in front of us. So strange in this neighborhood. Like one rotten head of lettuce in a well-cultivated garden. Like Henry Parker in New York.
“This has to end,” I said to Amanda. Her head dipped, her eyes coming up to meet mine. She leaned into me and I wrapped my arms around her thin waist, pulling her close.
God, I just wanted to breathe her in, hold her near me, think of nothing else but her. Amanda’s breath was warm on my cheek. I inhaled it, closed my eyes, pressed myself against her skin. When I opened them her head was on my chest. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. Everything will be all right…
Then she tilted her face upwards, her lips parting slightly. I leaned down and pressed my lips to hers, felt her push back. Soft and inviting, we both gave in. The hurt and pain being sucked away. For a few seconds, we were the only people in the world, and I completely lost myself in Amanda Davies. And when we finally separated, Amanda’s head falling back onto my chest, I knew it was more intimate than anything I’d ever experienced. If only it were on another night, in a different world.
Then I stepped back, opened the photo album.
“I need to finish this,” I said. She nodded. She was crying.
“I want to help.”
“No. This is my responsibility now, and mine alone. I don’t know what’s going to happen or how it’s going to end, but you can’t be a part of it. You’ve already done too much, I can’t bear the thought of endangering you any more.”
“Please,” Amanda said, tears streaking down her cheeks. She put her hand on my face, her light touch sending shivers through my body. I bit my lip, warmth spreading through me. “Henry, I’m a part of this, like it or not. Let me help you.”
I shook my head. Then I opened up the binder and removed the photo negatives. I handed them to Amanda. She took them, confused.
“If anything happens to me, give these to Jack O’Donnell. Tell him everything. He’ll know what to do.”
“I don’t understand. Why can’t I help you?”
“You already have, as much as possible, more than I ever would have expected from anyone. I can’t let you do any more.”
Amanda nodded, bit her lip.
“What about you?” she asked.
I smiled faintly, stroked her cheek gently.
“Trust me,” I said. “I’ll think of something.”
38
The plane touched down a few minutes after 2:00 a.m. Joe Mauser made his way unsteadily down the narrow stairs, still feeling the effects of the seemingly endless blast of turbulence the jet had hit half an hour in. He closed his eyes, thought about the millions of tiny lights scattered over the New York landscape. Soon he’d be back into the heart of New York, and hopefully Henry Parker would be ready to have his heart ripped out.
