Jason Pinter - The Mark

Breathing in, he could smell a hint of her favorite perfume, the acrid scent of sweat as they made love. Her soft moans and touches on his back, fingers tickling his senses, knowing just how to make him shiver. She was his first and his last. His only.

Anne.

Then agony ripped across his face as he saw blood splashed over his hands. Her eyes contorted into shock and then glazed over as she fell, dead, into his arms. His wails shook the walls as flames began to lick the ceiling. Cries that God himself must have heard. Cries that made the devil smile.

He saw his wife’s killer in the darkness, the knitted hood obscuring his features. Hands pale, skin soft. A young man. Only his eyes and mouth were visible. Eyes the Ringer would never forget.

His retribution was almost complete. There was only one man left.

The Ringer opened his eyes and picked up the newspaper. He looked at the photo of Henry Parker. Just twenty-four. Already a killer. Just like him.

In his mind’s eye the images slowly merged and became one, Henry’s face transposed as Anne’s killer. When he was finished, the shrouded face of the man who’d killed his wife was replaced by Henry Parker.

And now Parker was responsible for Anne’s death. A death waiting to be avenged. Hatred for this young man boiled up inside the Ringer. The tendons in his fingers tensed as he gripped the steering wheel, blood pounding in his temples.

The Ringer started the car and pulled onto Seventh Avenue, away from the old church where he’d been summoned, whose recesses currently housed some of the most remorseless men ever to walk the earth.

He cracked the window, let the breeze in.

Removing a cell phone from his pocket, the Ringer dialed the first number on his list. He had lots of calls to make.

He had a killer to find.

I rode the subway like a man about to go in for surgery: eyes wide open, fear coursing through my veins, waiting for someone to burst through the door bringing pain and suffering. Palms flat on my seat, I was ready to shove off and run at the first sign of a uniform. Paranoia was a trait I hadn’t been exposed to often-aside from an ill-advised pot binge my sophomore year-and it seemed to enjoy taking over my body. My leg stung like hell, but the blood flow seemed to have stopped.

After a grueling sixteen-minute ride, I got off at the Union Square station and walked outside. The slight May breeze swirled around me. Demonstrators were chanting on bullhorns and holding well-made picket signs and L.L. Bean knapsacks, protesting corporate greed in style.

Ordinarily I’d stop and watch for a few minutes, but I was more concerned with the other people watching them. The cops. Standing by, hands on their hips, observing the docile demonstration. Making sure the crowd of neo-hippies didn’t start tossing hemp bricks at the Virgin megastore.

Keeping my eyes fixed on a small contingent of officers by a coffee shop, I edged along the low brick wall surrounding Union Square Park, walked south and headed down Third Avenue.

Ironic, I thought. After living in New York for a month I’d finally started to feel like I belonged. I’d come here hoping to be embraced, but now I was being expelled like a diseased organ. Chasing a story, doing my job, led me into this nightmare.

The decision was obvious. I had to leave the city. I had to find out why that cop nearly killed me. My options were dwindling. I still had the reporter’s notebook in my backpack, an unfriendly reminder of why I went to the Guzmans’ apartment in the first place.

The cops had gotten to Mya, and I was no longer safe uptown. Was she cooperating with the authorities? No matter what happened, when this was over, Mya would no longer be part of my life. That was for certain. Three years disappearing as though they’d never happened. A road of memories that led straight off a cliff.

It was too much to process. I had to look at it objectively. What I needed to do, and how to do it.

I picked up a pay phone on East 12th Street and dialed the operator. Two rings and an automated voice answered.

“What city and state?”

“New York, New York. Manhattan.”

“One moment while I connect you to an operator.”

The phone rang, and I heard the typing of keys and a cheery male voice.

“Directory assistance, this is Lucas, how may I assist you?”

“I’d like the main directory listing for New York University.”

“Thank you, sir, one moment.”

The seconds ticked by, each moment agonizing. Then Lucas came back on. “Sir, I have two listings. One is an automated directory, and the other is for the campus switchboard.”

“Is the switchboard manned by an actual human being?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“I’ll take that one.”

“Yes, sir, and thank you for using…”

“Just connect me.”

Another ring as he patched me through. This time a female voice picked up, sounding considerably less enthused about her job than Lucas.

“New York University. How may I direct your call?”

“Yes, hi. By any chance, do you have a student shuttle service?”

“Yes, we do,” she said, and yawned audibly. “It’s not officially sponsored by the university, but we do facilitate student-to-student commuting.”

“Can you tell me which students have registered cars leaving today?”

“I’m sorry, we don’t offer that information over the phone. The listings are posted on the bulletin board at the Office of Student Activities.”

“And where is that located?”

“Sixty Washington Square South.”

“Can you tell me the cross streets?”

“Just a moment.” I heard the rustling of papers, then a sharp curse, mumbling in the background, something about a paper cut. “Hello?”

“Still here,” I said.

“The OSA is located on West 4th between LaGuardia and Thompson.”

“Thanks.” I hung up before she could say “You’re welcome.”

Heading west on 11th and then south on Broadway, I stopped at a bodega and bought an oversized Yankees T-shirt for five dollars. I ducked into a coffee shop that reeked of moldy gyros, went into the restroom and changed. My ripped clothes went in the trash can, buried under a pile of wet paper towels.

I winced and rolled up my pant leg to gauge the wound. My empty stomach lurched. An angry red gash ran across the side of my thigh, dried blood congealed around it.

Just yesterday I was sitting at my desk at the Gazette, and now here I was in a restaurant bathroom looking at a gunshot wound. Thankfully it looked like the bullet had just grazed the surface. I mopped the wound with wet towels, biting my lip at the pain.

This wasn’t possible, I kept telling myself. Any moment I’d wake up in bed.

Please, just wake up.

I reached the OSA at five minutes of nine. Most self-respecting college students would still be asleep, tired from a night of post-finals partying or wasting time before the start of their summer jobs. Hopefully I’d find at least one that bucked the system.

I walked up the steps and opened the front door, but then stopped. What if they had newspapers inside? It was a safe bet that students-encapsulated in their own private bubbles-hadn’t read today’s front page, but a registrar or another administrative figure might care about current events.

I had to keep going. Standing motionless on the steps was suspicious. I didn’t have a choice. My options were perilously few. This was my Plan B. There was no Plan C.

I took a deep breath, pressed the latch down and pulled the door open.

A cold blast of air-conditioning greeted me. Several students sat on a green couch held together by electrical tape, reading magazines they didn’t seem very interested in. The room had the sterile vibe of a doctor’s office combined with the comfort of the backseat of a New York taxicab.