Jason Pinter - The Fury

The phone was still on. The screen said there were five missed calls. I checked the log, and saw they'd all come from the same number. I didn't recognize it, and rather than a name popping up it was just the number.

Most likely it was the kid whose briefcase I'd stolen calling from a pay phone, praying someone would pick up. It was only a matter of time before the phone was disconnected.

Though somehow I didn't think there was a high probability of the owner calling the cops to report it.

On the LCD screen, there was a "contacts" line directly above a flat, rectangular button. I pressed it.

Immediately a roll call of the kid's contacts came up.

I scrolled through the names, hoping for something.

Then I saw two names that did ring a bell.

Scott Callahan and Kyle Evans.

Scotty and Kyle from this morning.

It didn't shock me that they were listed in the kid's contacts list. They did share the same "occupation," and odds were Scotty and Kyle had this kid's number in their database as well. I kept scrolling.

Then a name appeared on the list that made me catch my breath.

"What?" Amanda said. "What it is?"

I showed her the phone, my finger underlining the name.

"Oh my God," she said. "Why would he be…"

I looked at her. We both knew why he was there.

Halfway down the lists of contacts was the name

Stephen Gaines.

"He knew my brother," I said. "Wait a second…"

I exited the contacts list and returned to the main menu. I knew what I was looking for but didn't know if it was there.

I hoped it wasn't.

I pressed the send button to bring up the list of the

most recent calls from this cell phone. There were several from a name marked Office. I clicked edit to see the number. It was from a 646 area code in Manhattan.

I wrote it down, then kept on scrolling.

None of the names were recognizable.

But then, at the very end of the list, was the one name I'd hoped not to see.

"He called Stephen," I said to Amanda. "He called my brother the night he died."

The next morning, Amanda and I took the subway to

100 Centre Street, which housed the New York County

Correctional Facility. My father was being held there before his grand jury hearing, and we were on our way to show support, discuss his court-appointed lawyer.

And ask him some questions to which I hoped he would hold the answers.

Amanda and I had spent the previous night talking and thinking about the Gaines family, Rose Keller and

Beth-Ann Downing. Drugs seemed to be the only link between the four people. Two of them were dead,

Stephen Gaines and Beth-Ann. And the stash of narcot ics from the stolen briefcase was hidden inside my laundry hamper. I figured if anyone were to break in, the stench itself might deter even the most hardened thief.

Stephen used to date and party with Rose Keller.

She claimed they'd met randomly. But I had to wonder.

Stephen's name was in the kid's cell phone I stole.

Which meant one of three things.

First, the two were merely friends. Which was highly unlikely.

Second, that Stephen was the kid's client. That one was a possibility.

Third, and perhaps the most frightening yet the most plausible, was that Stephen Gaines was a dealer himself.

Perhaps Stephen, before he died, was one of the faceless suit monkeys who entered that office building in midtown for re-ups. Perhaps had I gone there another day, I would have seen my brother enter with an empty briefcase and exit with a full load of narcotics.

Helen Gaines had somehow befriended Beth-Ann

Downing after relocating from Bend to New York City.

They both had children-though I had no reason to suspect Sheryl and Stephen had met, unless Stephen happened to have sold to Sheryl's mother. Sheryl was likely gone by the time Helen and Stephen settled in.

And at some point along the line, both Helen and BethAnn had developed drug addictions.

Chances were Stephen discovered the path to his own demise through his mother. Anytime you grow up in a household in which such evils were not only common but encouraged, it was just a matter of time before you followed in step.

In my relatively short time on this planet, I'd learned that there were two types of people. Those who were doomed to follow in whatever footsteps had been laid out for them, and those who were strong enough to carve their own path.

Amanda and I were lucky. I could have turned out like my father, with a general disregard for decency and an attitude toward women that could be described as combative on a good day. Amanda could have been swallowed by her grief as a child, stifled by the tragic deaths of her parents. She never grew close to Lawrence and Harriet Stein, her adoptive family. She feared that she would never truly be close to another person again.

She began to write in diaries. There were hundreds of them, each one chronicling every waking moment of her life, cataloging every soul she met on her aimless journey. A moment-to-moment timeline of loneliness.

After we met and later began seeing each other, she stopped writing in them. I like to think that, in each other, we found a path through the darkness. She found someone who would be with her every night and every morning, and I found a woman strong enough to show me my weaknesses as well as my strengths, beautiful enough beneath the skin to make me want to smooth over the rough edges.

And there were a lot of them.

Stephen Gaines never found that path. He'd never had a chance. Between his mother and her friends, the darkness was too much for him to bear.

I gripped the handrail tight as I approached my des tination. My childhood memories of my father were of this great and powerful man who never feared anything.

He was an omnipotent tyrant, a man unconcerned with convention or emotion. I never saw him cry, never saw him beg. Even when I knew our finances were dwin dling and my mother was as distant as the sunset at dusk, he stood rock solid, impenetrable. Seeing him today would be the opposite of everything I knew as a child. He was the negative in my life's photograph. And

I wasn't sure if I was prepared.

The New York County Correctional Facility had several outlets, and as a prisoner your stay was largely dependent on a combination of luck and just how many criminals were waiting their turn before your case came to the docket. Some ended up on Riker's Island, but many, like James Parker, were relegated to the facility known affectionately as the Tombs.

The Tombs had actually been the name for several locations over the years, beginning in 1838 back when it was called the New York Halls of Justice and House of Detention (or NYHOFJAHOD for short. No wonder they called it the Tombs).

After numerous successful escapes and the dete riorating quality of the cells themselves, the old building was merged with the Criminal Court building on

Franklin Street, separated by what was called the Bridge of Sighs.

In 1974 much of the old Tombs had finally been shut down due to health concerns. Currently the Tombs consists of two facilities connected by a pedestrian bridge, with a prisoner capacity nearing nine hundred.

Ironically, in 2001 the Tombs were given the official name of the Bernard B. Kerik Complex, though in 2006 after Kerik pled guilty to ethics violations (including several violations of infamous book publisher Judith

Regan in an apartment near ground zero that was supposed to be used for the rescue effort) the moniker was removed.

Currently my father was awaiting a grand jury hearing on the charges of first-degree murder. Accord ing to Amanda, the prosecution was surely in the process of collecting evidence to convince the jury that there was "reasonable cause to believe" that my father might have killed Stephen Gaines. We both admitted the likelihood of a trial at this point, so time was becoming more and more precious. We had interlocked several pieces, but we couldn't see the whole puzzle.