what I'd uncovered. He'd lived for thirty years, abandoned by his family, given up by his father. The man who killed him had faced the most severe retribu tion possible. Yet a lingering doubt still remained, as I could see him on that street corner, tortured by some thing. Not Scotty Callahan. Not Kyle Evans.
Having dealt in vice for ten years, Stephen had seen more evil than most men did their whole lives. To do what he did took resolve, the knowledge that you were bringing poison into the world, that you couldn't be scared of the consequences. Every day could have brought jail or death. Yet he kept on living that life. And finally the odds caught up with him.
So what scares a man who isn't afraid of losing his freedom or his life?
My cell phone rang. It was the moving van. They were here to pick up our furniture, though we'd be lucky if it made it to their warehouse without disinte grating. I answered, and a hoarse voice told me the van would be there within fifteen minutes. I turned to
Amanda, said, 'Moving company's almost here. Should we, like, start bringing stuff down?'
She looked at me like I'd just admitted to wearing women's underwear. 'Henry. They're a moving company. We pay them to move us. That's their job.'
'I know, I just feel a little silly watching people carry all my stuff.'
'This is New York. If you can pay four bucks for a coffee and not feel bad, paying someone to carry and store your crap shouldn't even register on the guilty-o meter. So enjoy it, babe. It's not too often people are going to do your heavy lifting for you.'
Suddenly the buzzer rang. 'That was quick,' I said.
'They told me fifteen minutes.'
I went over to the window, expecting to see the truck and some burly, impatient men. Instead, I saw just one man standing on the street. He was wearing brown pants and a blue shirt that was untucked and flapping in the wind. He turned up to look at me, palms facing upward as if to say, Are you gonna let me in or what?
'No way,' I said. Amanda came over to join me at the window. She looked out.
'Who is that?' she asked.
'It's Jack,' I replied.
'I thought he was…'
'In rehab. Me, too. I guess he's out.'
'Well, you should go…'
I was out the door and running down the stairs before she could finish her sentence.
The steps couldn't be passed fast enough. I hadn't seen Jack in months, since his name was dragged through the mud and he disappeared to presumably battle his internal demons. He'd left no forwarding address, no note. And now he was here, at my doorstep.
I had so many questions to ask I hoped he didn't have plans for the next year.
When I arrived on the first floor, I sprinted through the lobby and burst through the front door. Jack O'Don nell was standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets.
Then he took them out, checked his watch.
'Forty-three seconds from buzzer to outside. Not quite Olympic caliber, but not too shabby for a guy who sits in front of a computer most of the day.' I didn't know what to say. So I just went up to Jack and threw my arms around him. He stumbled backward, saying,
'Easy now, Henry.'
When I untangled myself, I took my first real look at Jack in months. His gray hair was neatly combed, if slightly disheveled due to the weather. His face had none of the red ruddiness I was used to, and his cheeks seemed fuller. Jack's beard was neatly trimmed, cut razor sharp along his jawline, and he looked like he'd put on a few pounds.
'You look good,' I said, patting him on the shoulder.
'Scratch that, this is the best I've seen you look since we meet. Where have you been?'
'Away,' Jack said. 'We can discuss the wheres and whys later. Just think of what I went through as dialysis of the soul.'
'I'm getting a disturbing image of you passing
Ghandi through your urethra.' Jack laughed, a quick ha.
'It's good to see you, kid. Been a long time. I spoke to Wallace before. He filled me in on what you've been up to, you busy little bee.'
'You already talked to Wallace?'
'Hell, yes, my young friend, I spent all of last night in the office, getting reacquainted with my computer.
Making sure nobody stole my Rolodex. And asking him for permission to chase one particular story.'
'Oh yeah? What's that?'
'Well,' Jack said, 'while I was on my little sabbati cal, I got the Gazette delivered to me every day. Generally it was the same old stuff. World's going to hell in a handbasket, the dollar can barely buy so much as a loaf of bread, foreign investors are buying the Statue of Liberty. And Paulina Cole still has a job. All things that make you want to hide under your bed and cry.
Then I read one story last week, and that's when I knew
I was ready to step back into the light.'
'What story was that?' I asked.
'Stephen Gaines's murder,' Jack said. His face was now solemn. The grin gone.
'I didn't write that.'
'I know you didn't. Wallace told me he wouldn't let you since Gaines was your half brother. But there was one line in that story I knew came from you. Wallace told me how close you were, how you were right there when the Callahan and Evans boys bought the farm.'
'What line are you talking about?'
'Twenty years ago,' Jack continued, 'I wrote a book called Through the Darkness. In that book, I mentioned a man named Butch Willingham who scrawled the words The Fury in his own blood before dying. Wallace told me that you spoke to Willingham's son. All of this brought back my memories from that time. Willingham, that's a name I hadn't even thought of since my hair was still brown. See, I believed then, and I still believe now, that the Fury does exist. I don't know who he is or how he's stayed around for over two decades, but if anything, all these drug deaths have proved that what worked twenty years ago works today. Butch Willingham was one of many dealers killed during that period for reasons I couldn't uncover, and I got surprisingly little help with from the authorities.'
'I'm shocked,' I said with a grin.
'I think these murders,' Jack said, 'Gaines, Evans,
Callahan, the kid Guardado-are all history repeating itself.'
'I don't understand,' I said. 'You want to, what, write a story linking the murders?'
'Better,' Jack said, that smile coming back, sending a chill down my spine. 'I want to find the Fury. Once and for all. There's a reason behind all these murders.
I don't think Kyle Evans acted of his own accord. And
I sure as hell don't think your brother was behind it all.
I want you to help me find out the truth.'
'You really think he exists,' I said, a statement. Not a question.
'Do you think it ended with Scott Callahan and Kyle
Evans?' he retorted.
'No.' I said it definitively. Perhaps I'd thought it all along, but hearing Jack, a man whose instincts had served him well for nearly seventy years, say it gave me courage to speak it out loud. I didn't believe Scott and
Kyle were acting of their own volition. I didn't believe
Stephen Gaines was the Noriega of that operation. 'I want to know what 718 Enterprises is. Plus I get the feeling my brother wasn't as high up as Kyle thought he was. There was someone else pulling the strings. I'm sure of it.'
'Then we start tomorrow,' Jack said. 'I want you at the office at eight-thirty. Every minute you're late, you owe me ten bucks. That goes as long as we're working on this. And bring me a triple espresso. As long as I'm not drinking anymore I can do my best to make up for it with other stimulants.'
