Jason Pinter - The Fury

There was a futon resting in the far corner. Red cushion. Lots of stains from cigarettes, liquor, or both.

Something underneath the sofa was twinkling, shining in the low light.

I stepped around Clarence to get a closer look.

"What're you doing?" he asked.

I felt a tightness in my chest as I walked to the futon.

Dropping down to one knee, I peered underneath to see. Something told me I already knew what it was.

I felt a strong hand, Clarence's hand, grip my shoulder and squeeze. Pain coursed through the joint as he found the bone and dug in.

"Listen, man, you've had your fun. Leave or I'm gonna call the cops."

Ignoring him, I reached under the futon and grabbed the item. Standing back up, his hand still like a vise, I opened it to see what lay in my palm.

I felt the grip loosen as we both stared. My heart was hammering. I couldn't believe it.

Turning to face Clarence Willingham, I held out a small diamond earring in my hand. The companion to the earring I found up at Blue Mountain Lake by BethAnn Downing's body.

"Where is Helen Gaines?" I asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Clarence said, but the tremor in his voice belied that statement. I looked around. This apartment was too small. There was nowhere for her to hide. She had to be somewhere else.

But if Helen Gaines was hiding, if she'd left Blue

Mountain Lake because somebody was trying to kill her, she wasn't out and about in New York City, sight seeing and having her caricature drawn in Times

Square. If she'd come to Butch Willingham's son for help, chances are he knew where she was at this moment. She had to be somewhere close. In his office, perhaps. Or somewhere nobody would expect. The office might be out. Where…

I could hear Clarence screaming at me, trying to push me out of his apartment. My body didn't respond.

She couldn't be at his office. She'd be somewhere nobody would know about. Somewhere…

Then I remembered my bag. Bernita. Clarence's words.

Anytime you have something you need stored safely,

Bernita's your woman.

I bolted out of Clarence's apartment, the diamond earring still in my hand. The footsteps behind me said that Clarence was right on my heels. And I didn't think he was going to argue with me anymore.

The stairs disappeared under me two at a time, and

I used the railing on each landing to swing onto the next set, trying desperately to keep ahead of Clarence. I didn't know how we'd fare in a fight, but I was sure that if we made enough noise one of the tenants surely would call the cops. And I didn't have time for that. I needed to know. Needed to see.

Safely stored.

As I hit the first-floor landing, I felt Clarence's fist grab a chunk of my shirt. I pulled away, but not before it ripped a sizable hole in the collar. I turned around, saw

Clarence behind me and shoved him as hard as I could.

It wasn't meant to hurt him, merely to buy me some time, and to that extent it worked. Clarence fell back about eight feet, tripping over the foot of the stairwell and falling to the ground. Cursing like a maniac, I was sprinting down the corridor before he could get himself up.

I found Bernita's door. Knocked twice fast. I said,

"Bernita, it's Henry. You have my bag."

I saw Clarence on his feet, running toward me. I only had seconds.

Then the door opened in front of me, and Bernita was there in her pink bathrobe, the cigarette still in her mouth. She was holding my bag in one hand, out stretched, expecting me to take it then leave. When she saw the rip in my shirt and Clarence barreling down the hall, her eyes grew wide. She immediately tried to slam the door shut. Instead, I wriggled past her into the apart ment, the door slamming shut where I'd just been standing.

"Get the fuck out of my house!" she screamed, slapping at me with both her hands, the cigarette still miraculously dangling from her lip.

Then I heard a small, frightened voice from the farthest room down the corridor.

"Bernita, is everything okay?"

I stared at Bernita for a second, then sprinted down the hall. It was the last door on the right. Without hesi tating, I barged in, the door swinging open and smacking against the wall where it hit a doorstop and swung back at me. I stopped it with my foot, then stood there.

I heard two people breathing behind me. Bernita and

Clarence. But I didn't care about them; all I cared about was the woman sitting on the bed mere feet from me.

Her hands were on her knees. Back ramrod straight.

Her eyes were wide, terrified, as though she'd been ex pecting this moment for a long time and knew she could only avoid it for so long. Then that terrified look turned to anger, then confusion.

"Who…who are you?" she asked.

"Ms. Gaines," I said. "My name is Henry Parker. I'm

James Parker's other son."

The apartment was silent for what seemed like ages.

Helen Gaines sat there on the bed, unbelieving, her mouth in a silent O. I couldn't tell what she was thinking, if she knew who I was, or if I'd even existed.

Since she'd left Bend before I was even born, there was a chance she didn't know about me. Didn't know that

James Parker had another son. Or that Stephen Gaines had a brother.

But there was a glimmer of recognition there as she searched for a reaction. Perhaps Stephen had mentioned me the night he died. Maybe Helen knew there was another son.

Clarence Willingham's hand was on my back, but there was no force to it. As if he himself wanted to know just what was going on. When he'd first opened the door to his apartment building, I assumed Clarence's paranoia was due to the high, not wanting to get caught.

The dead bolts on his door, they were protecting a man whose father had been gunned down mercilessly. He grew up in fear, and now he was protecting Helen

Gaines. But why? How did they even know each other?

And how did Helen end up here, of all places, after fleeing Blue Mountain Lake?

Bernita had stopped screaming. Perhaps because they were both curious. Or perhaps because they didn't want to get anyone else involved. Because they were still protecting Helen.

"You're Henry," she said. "Oh my…I've wanted to meet you for so long."

That answered my question.

"I only just found out you existed a few days ago,"

I said. "Why didn't you ever try to reach me?"

"I didn't know how," she said, but her voice betrayed that thought. She never really tried. The idea of my ex istence was grander than the reality of it.

I walked over to Helen. Extended my hand. She did not offer hers, and for a moment I was embarrassed, but then she stood up, took a breath and gathered me in her arms. It was a strange sensation, and one I wasn't sure was deserved or appropriate, but soon I felt my arms wrapping around this small, frail woman who'd been a part of my family's life long before I ever arrived.

Her pulse was racing. A slightly sour smell came off of her.

When Helen Gaines pried herself away from me, she stepped back, sat down on the bed with a sigh. The woman's pupils were dilated, and I had to take a moment to realize just how small, just how thin she was.

I remember the photo my father had shown me. The vi vacious young woman with the unruly brown hair, the bright green eyes. The eyes were still green, but they were slightly dulled. Too much life had passed by them.

Not enough love to keep them shining.

The veins in her wrists were thick, ropy. Blue streaks roamed underneath her skin. The brown of her hair had nearly all been wiped away, replaced with a stringy gray.

Then I heard a smacking sound and saw that she was licking her lips. Dry mouth. A symptom of crack addiction.