Jason Pinter - The Mark

I didn’t have the answer.

And now thousands, maybe millions of people, thought I was a cop killer. John Fredrickson was a hero. I was a common thug, a young punk who thought he was above it all, whose vices led to a cop’s death. I was part of the tainted blood I’d wanted to purify. And now they had to destroy me before I spread my disease.

I stepped outside the greasy deli where I’d been perched in a back booth with the newspaper folded in front of me. My stomach heaved every time the front door swung open, my muscles clenched and ready to run.

Ironic. I’d always wanted to be Bob Woodward. Pete Ha-mill. Jimmy Breslin. Recognized. Now, my only hope was that the world would see right through me.

I stopped at a thrift store and bought a pair of crappy warm-up pants and a white T-shirt whose collar had already begun to fray. My sneakers I threw into a mailbox, replaced them with a worn pair of Sambas. A cheap pair of sunglasses hid my eyes. But these were only stopgap measures, using bubble gum to plug a ruptured dam.

There were few people in New York I could turn to for help, and if they came up empty…I tried not to think about it.

I walked quickly toward the subway, keeping an eye out for lurking transit officers. I felt light-headed, searching amongst unknown faces for any hint of danger. My hands could be shackled before I knew what happened, I could be beaten to death in my cell, either by cops who thought I’d killed one of their own or by criminals who’d consider it a feather in their cap to kill a man who’d taken a policeman’s life.

Stepping onto the uptown 6 train, my legs felt weak, rubbery. It was all I could do to support my own weight.

The train chugged along, and at each stop I scanned the new passengers, watching intently for the royal blue dress of the NYPD. My life, it seemed, was now entirely up to chance.

I exited at 116th Street and found the nearest pay phone. It killed me to call him after this. I had to hope he’d believe the truth.

My fingers trembling, I inserted a quarter and dialed. The switchboard operator picked up, a woman’s superficially perky voice on the other end.

“ New York Gazette, how may I direct your call?”

“Wallace Langston, please.”

“Just a moment.” I heard a click, then ringing as my call was put through. I chewed on a fingernail, then stopped. Can’t draw any attention. Must act normal. Just another guy on the phone.

A guy with a murder charge hanging over his head. A dead man haunting his thoughts. An entire city turned against him. A whole life…

“Wallace Langston’s office.”

Shit. It was Shirley, his secretary. She’d recognize my voice. And once she did, I’d never get through. She’d call the cops in the blink of an eye.

I raised my voice an octave and gave myself a slight lisp. Thank God my chosen profession wasn’t acting.

“Yes, Wallace Langston. Is he in?”

“And who may I ask is calling?”

“Um…this is Paul Westington calling from Hillary Clinton’s office. Mrs. Clinton is ready to give the Gazette an exclusive on her presidential aspirations.”

Silence.

“Sure…just a moment.” Another click, more ringing. Then Wallace picked up.

“Hello, Mr. Westington, is it?” He sounded rushed. Excited for the story. Sorry, Wally, Hillary couldn’t make it, instead you’re on the line with a wanted criminal.

“Wallace, it’s me.”

Beat. I held my breath, pulse quickening.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Henry. Henry Parker.”

There was a moment of silence as I waited for a response.

“Henry. Oh, Christ, Henry.”

“Yeah.”

“Henry, what have you done?” His voice was sad, ashamed.

I felt hot tears welling in my eyes. Wallace believed it, believed what they were saying.

“Wallace, please,” I said, choking back a sob. “You have to believe me. I didn’t do it. Nothing in the papers is true. I…”

“Henry, I can’t speak to you. You need to go to the police. You need to turn yourself in.”

“I can’t turn myself in!” I cried. “I’ll be dead before I make it to trial! I can’t do it, Wallace. I need your help.”

“I can’t help you,” he said softly. “The only advice I can offer is for you to turn yourself in. Please, Henry, that’s what’s best for everyone. If they find you before you do that, I don’t know what will happen. God, Henry, how could you do this?”

The muscles in my jaw tensed. My outlets had just diminished by fifty percent.

“They won’t find me,” I said, and slammed down the receiver. Wallace. Jack. Could Jack have known about Luis Guzman? He was a lone beacon in the sea of journalistic turmoil, the man whose allegiances could never be bought, whose opinion never corrupted. But now I wasn’t so sure.

Wincing, I glanced around. Nobody seemed to have noticed the outburst. Shaking, my throat dry, I took another quarter and slid it in. Dialing the next number, the last number, I said a silent prayer. After three rings, a voice answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Oh, thank God. Mya.”

“Henry.”

“Mya, listen to me. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but none of it’s true. I need to see you. I need to talk to your father. He can help me.”

“Henry, I…I saw the newspapers. It’s all over the television. I don’t think my father can speak to you unless you go to the police.”

“I can’t do that, Mya. I can’t…”

“Wait one second, Henry.” I heard a soft clap-her hand covering the receiver-then a shuffling sound in the background.

“Mya, are you there? What’s going on?” Then she was back, her voice distracted.

“Oh, sorry, Hen. I’m just in the middle of breakfast.” Her voice seemed remarkably calm. It unnerved me.

“Anyway, I need to come over. I need somewhere to stay for a bit until I figure things out. What the papers say, that’s not what happened last night. Your father could…”

“I can’t do that, Henry, I told you.”

“Dammit, Mya,” I said, starting to lose it. I didn’t care if anyone was watching. “This is my life! You can’t just shut me out.”

“I don’t want to, Henry. I don’t have a choice.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

Joe Mauser pinched his thumb and forefinger together and pulled them apart. He mouthed the words, “Keep stringing him along.”

Mya nodded, her face grim. Denton was on his cell phone as he waited for the line to be traced. He held up three fingers. After a moment, two fingers.

“Twenty seconds,” Denton mouthed.

Mya nodded. Mauser had to give the girl credit. Tears were flowing down her cheeks and she was biting her lip so hard he could see white where the blood was being forced out, but she was remarkably composed. Sitting next to her on the bed, hearing Parker’s faint voice through the earpiece, it took all of Mauser’s patience not to grab the phone and tear it to pieces.

Denton dropped one finger, then held up ten. Slowly counting down.

“Nine…eight…seven…six…” Denton mouthed. Mya watched him. She shut her eyes, squeezing out several drops that spattered onto the comforter.

Joe’s heart fluttered. Just a few seconds and they’d have him.

“Four…three…two…”

Suddenly Mya yelled, “Henry, run!”

She bolted off the bed, the cell phone still in her hand. Denton lunged for her, catching the cuff of her jeans. She wriggled free and ran to the other end of the apartment. A door slammed shut and a latch clicked. She’d locked herself in the bathroom.

Mya screamed again, then Joe heard a beep as she severed the connection.

“God damn it!” Joe shouted. “Len, tell me we got something.”

Denton ran for the door, signaling Mauser to follow.