Jason Pinter - The Mark

But the Ringer’s soul, his lost love, was the driving force behind every murder. The picture of Anne he kept in his breast pocket.

Right before climbing onto the fire escape, cradling his wife’s body in his arms, the Ringer managed to grab an old photograph from the dresser. The photo was of Anne, sitting on a sandy beach wearing a beautiful yellow dress, an orange sun dipping over the horizon. It was taken the first night of their honeymoon. As blood leaked from his body, the Ringer put this photo into his right breast pocket. The photo was his final memory of the woman he’d loved so dearly, the only memory left of her. Anne’s photo was his second heart, and it beat with the venomous blood of a man whose thirst for vengeance could never be quenched.

He would never love again, never care for another soul, living every day only to avenge his lover’s death. And someday, everyone knew he would.

This was the man standing two feet from Blanket.

DiForio walked around the table. He held a newspaper in his hand. Blanket recognized the picture on the front. Nobody had to say a word. As soon as the Ringer accepted the job, if he accepted the job, Henry Parker’s life was over.

DiForio held the front page up for the Ringer to see, then handed it to him. The man didn’t even look at it.

“Henry Parker,” DiForio said, “has something that belongs to me. A package with some important materials that I can’t afford to lose. I need you to bring it to me. And when that’s done, I want Parker to disappear.”

The Ringer didn’t move. DiForio looked him over.

“Don’t you need a notepad or something? Jot all this down?” Michael asked. The Ringer stared straight at DiForio. His eyes showed nothing.

Michael continued. “We have one source rather close to the investigation. We know that the police haven’t found Parker yet and that they expect him to try and flee the city. Most major departure points are guarded-Port Authority, JFK, LaGuardia. They think there’s a possibility he got on the Path. You know, the train that goes to Jersey?”

“He didn’t do that,” the man said.

“Oh, no?” DiForio said, amused.

“No,” the Ringer said, his voice monotone. “If Parker’s going to run, it’s not going to be across the Hudson. It’s going to be far, far away from here.”

“How do you know that?” Michael asked.

“Because that’s what I would do.” The Ringer thought for a moment. “Parker will need clothes and money. If he tries to use a credit card, the cops will be on him in no time. Get me his credit card numbers. There are too many variables the police can control that we can’t. They have more manpower. They’ve already started looking. We’re playing catch-up.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Hopefully Parker is as smart as his pedigree suggests. He’s not going to make stupid mistakes. With any luck, he’s already fled and we’re on even footing with the Department of Justice. Have the police started running taps yet?” DiForio looked at Blanket, who gulped, then spoke.

“They, uh, yeah. They’ve got taps up and running to, let’s see…his girlfriend, this Mya Loverne broad who’s a Columbia law student and…”

“Daughter of David Loverne. Where else?”

“His parents’ house in Oregon.”

“What else?”

“Cell phone, too. Police couldn’t find one at his apartment, they assume he still has it. They’re keeping a tap in case he’s stupid enough to carry it around.”

“He won’t. If he’s smart he’ll lose the cell phone,” the Ringer said. “Is that all?

“For now, yeah.” The Ringer nodded.

“Now, your price,” DiForio said. He fixed his tie and took a glass of water from the table. He put it to his lips but didn’t drink. The room was silent, half the eyes on the Ringer, the other half on DiForio.

“I’m offering your usual fee,” Michael said. He hesitated a moment, took a small sip of water, then added, “Times two.”

The Ringer shook his head. “Ten,” he said.

DiForio whistled. “A million bucks. That’s a rich asking price to track down one hippie kid asshole.”

“You wouldn’t have contacted me if Parker wasn’t threatening the sanctity of your organization,” the Ringer said derisively. “I’d be working against the police and federal government to find a man wanted for the murder of a New York police officer. The price is one million. That or nothing.”

DiForio looked at the ceiling, as though consulting the God of asbestos, then looked back and said, “Let’s split the difference. Five hundred K.”

Without warning, the Ringer turned, opened the door and left the room.

“Don’t you walk out on me!” DiForio yelled. The Ringer ignored him and began to disappear down the corridor. “Hey, asshole, I didn’t say you could leave!”

The Ringer turned around. His eyes held no interest in anything DiForio said.

“Your time is almost up, Michael. You won’t find Henry Parker. At least not before the police do. And from the look in your eyes, I can tell you’d rather not have the police find this package.” Blanket watched as DiForio’s face reddened, his jaw muscles tightening.

The Ringer turned to leave. Then Michael spoke.

“I meant to ask you,” DiForio said, the faintest glimmer of a smile on his lips. “How’s your wife?”

Blanket gasped. A hush fell over the room.

The Ringer stopped dead in his tracks. Slowly the killer’s head dipped into shadow. When he turned around, even in the darkly lit hallway, Blanket could see that his eyes were burning fire, hatred he never knew a mortal man was capable of.

Swiftly the Ringer stepped back into the meeting room. He whipped a pistol from his coat and pressed it to the base of Charlie’s neck. He took a moment to look at DiForio, then squeezed the trigger and sent a bullet into Charlie’s skull. The blast thundered around the small room as hands leapt to cover shattered eardrums. Charlie’s eyes flickered, his brain and skull sprayed against the wall like a bloody Rorschach.

“Charlie!” Blanket yelled as his friend’s lifeless body slumped to the floor. He looked at the Ringer with murder in his eyes. The man returned the glare, icy cold, and Blanket looked away. The Ringer turned his gaze to DiForio, the smoking pistol tracing a straight line to the powerful man’s heart.

“This entire room can die before you open your mouth again,” the Ringer said. “Now if you open your mouth and I don’t like what I hear, not only will this package disappear but I’ll hang the head of every miserable scum in this room from the tallest building in the city, and I’ll watch the sun roast your ugly faces every single day until all that’s left are your rotted, hollow skulls.”

DiForio barely seemed to notice either this or the dead man slumped against the wall. Instead he smiled and tented his hands in front of him.

“One million it is,” Michael said. “For that I want my package and Henry Parker. The package I want delivered without a scratch. Parker…his condition is entirely up to you.”

The Ringer nodded slowly and stepped outside.

The Ringer slipped into his black Ford and closed the door. He could feel the warm sun on his face. He sank deep into the leather seat, closed his eyes and began the process.

His hand moved absently to his chest, stopping at the slim bulge in his shirt pocket. His fingers felt what lay beneath, pressed on it gently, making sure not to leave a mark or a dent. After so many years the photo was worn, faded around the edges, but the colors were still strong and vibrant. Just like his memory of Anne. The only woman he’d ever love in this lifetime.

In his mind’s eye he could see her face, her stunning blue eyes. He could almost touch her, feeling the silky strands of her hair as she gazed at him with a happiness he never knew existed. Anne had accepted the life he’d chosen. A selfish life, but one he would have abandoned in a heartbeat if he knew its consequences.