Jason Pinter - The Fury

"So he was working for ten years, making good money, obviously moving up the ladder," I said. "Again, why did he need the money?"

"We went through it fast," Helen said. "Stephen started using more, and I was a mess. We never saved much. One day, about a month ago, Stephen came home from work. I remember him coming in the door with this look on his face, and I just froze. He was so scared…oh

God, his eyes were wide and his face was pale and I thought he might have overdosed. He collapsed on our sofa and asked for a glass of water. When I brought it to him, he just sat there with the glass in his hand. Not drinking, just staring at the wall. Then my boy started to cry."

"Why?" I asked. "What happened?"

"He didn't tell me," Helen said. "All he said was, 'We need to leave. We need to get far, far away from this city.

When I asked him what the matter was, he just said,

'You're safer if you don't know. We'd both be safer if I didn't know either.' I looked into his eyes. They were bloodshot. Not from drugs, but from crying. He'd never spoken like that before in his life. I'd never seen him so scared, so terrified. So I told him we'd find a way."

I said, "My father told me he found a notepad in your apartment. It read 'Europe' and 'Mexico.' That's where you were thinking of going. Right?"

Helen nodded. "We didn't know where to go. What city or country. We wondered if Europe was too far, or if Mexico was far enough. Stephen just wanted to go far, far away. We barely had enough money to cover the rent."

"And that's why you called my father," I said. "For money to leave the country."

"It was a one-time thing," Helen said. "I figured after all those years, after what he'd done to me and our baby-that's right, our baby-the least he could do was help us start a new life."

I couldn't really argue with that. My father owed them far more than he could ever make up for.

"So you threatened to sue him," I said.

"I didn't know any other way. The old James Parker

I knew would rather burn his money than give it away."

"You couldn't say something a little more noble, like you needed it for a kidney transplant or something?

Maybe that would have tugged at his heartstrings a little more than the rehab story."

"I don't know how well you know your father,"

Helen said sardonically, "but he's not exactly the senti mental type."

I couldn't argue with that either.

"So he came into the city to see you, then what?"

"How much did he tell you?" she asked.

"He told me you pulled a gun on him," I said. "Is that true?"

Helen nodded. "Yes. But it was Stephen's gun. He kept it for protection. He taught me how to use it, just in case. I was scared, of your father and for Stephen. I got carried away."

"Where was Stephen during all of this?" I said.

"I'm not sure," Helen said. "He told me he was going to try and talk to someone. He said there was one person who might be able to do something if he knew the whole story."

"Oh God," I said. "He was with me. He was at the

Gazette waiting for me." I felt sick. I put that from my mind, tried to focus.

"My father said he took the gun from you. Is that true?"

"It is," Helen said.

"Would you be willing to testify to that? The police say my father's fingerprints were found on the gun. If you testify that they got there another way-other than him actually firing it-it will help his case."

"I don't know if I want to help his case," Helen said.

"As long as he's locked up, the cops aren't hunting the person who really killed my son."

"So you know it wasn't my father," I said. Helen said nothing. She turned away. Didn't even look at me. I was taken aback by this indifference. Stunned, I said, "Don't you care about your son's killer getting what he deserves?" I said.

Helen's face turned to stone. She said, "It must be nice to live in a world where everyone who deserves justice gets it. My son was taken from me. I tried to save him…help him save himself. And now he's gone. And let me tell you what I want now, Henry… I want to live.

And if living means letting this end, letting the people out there think that someone is taking the fall, I can't say that's an ending I dislike."

"You must know, though," I said. "You have to know who killed your son."

"I don't know for certain," Helen said. "After James and I had our…talk…he left for the airport. He put the gun back down. We both knew I wasn't going to use it.

And I knew that was the last time I would ever see your father."

"Then what did you do?" I asked.

"Then I went out. I needed a drink. Needed to smoke.

James didn't have that much money, only a few thousand dollars. I didn't know what was going to happen with Stephen. He was so scared, so afraid."

"So your choice then was to go out rather than see him."

"That's right. I did. I had to calm my nerves. I just needed something to get me by. And I thought if I could relax, I could figure out just how we were going to get out of the city. I must have been gone for, I don't know, two hours or so. When I came back to the apartment, I walked in and saw him…Stephen…facedown on the floor. Blood everywhere. And I just started screaming."

"And you felt you were in danger."

"I knew I was," Helen said. "Whoever killed him did it because they thought he knew something he wasn't supposed to. And if he knew, then chances were I would too. I left that night, before the cops ever came. And I remember the street, the quiet, the neighbors who didn't even know what had just gone on. I went right to BethAnn's apartment, and we went up to the lake. I had no idea they would find us there."

"So you didn't see who killed Stephen," I said.

"No. Just the people on the street. Neighbors, people I'd seen around before…" Helen trailed off, looked at Clarence.

"What is it, Mom?" he said.

"One man," Helen said. "There was one man standing on the street, staring at me as I left the apart ment. He was just there, standing by a lamppost, and I could have sworn he was crying. And honest to God, I think that boy looked at me and said…"

"Said what?" I asked.

"Said he was sorry. And all I could think to do was run."

"I don't understand," I said. "Why didn't you call anyone? The cops? Someone?"

"Stephen told me a long time ago not to trust anyone in this city. He said the people he knew, the people he worked for, if they thought you might hurt them they would hurt you first, and hurt you worse than you could ever do to them. When he came home that night, scared out of his mind, he told me our only option was to run.

That if we told anybody, we would be in trouble. That's all he said. Trouble. But the thing is-" Helen stopped, looked at the floor.

"What is it?"

"The night he died," she said, "Stephen told me there might be one way out. He said he knew one person who might be able to help us. He knew about your father, about his family, and I told him there was a good chance

James Parker wouldn't give us a dime and we wouldn't be able to leave the country. So finally he told me there was one last option. There was someone he knew wasn't on the take, wouldn't hurt us. Someone who could give them more trouble than they ever imagined. He went out that night. Never told me who he was going to see. And then, a few hours later, he was dead."

It felt like a piece of coal was burning in the pit of my stomach. I knew Stephen had been talking about me.

For some reason, he considered me his last hope. And then he died. Because I didn't trust him.

"You said the night Stephen died, you saw someone outside the apartment. A young man crying. Who was he?" I asked.

"I don't know. It was dark out," Helen said, her voice sorrowful, apologetic. "And my mind, I was so confused, so scared. I didn't see his face. All I remember is noticing something on his neck…a birthmark. Such a young man, younger than Stephen even…"