Jason Pinter - The Mark

“Well, suit yourself, I got nothing to hide. Let’s go examine my vee-hi-cle.”

Better to get the cop off his back than give him a reason to get suspicious. Bates walked over to the truck and lifted the tarp covering the bed. He ran his finger along the metal, looked at it, nodded.

“Whaddaya got there?” David asked, squinting. He joined Bates at the car.

“If you look at the dust patterns in the flatbed…” Bates said.

“Ain’t no dust patterns in Betty. I keep her good and clean.”

Bates rolled his eyes. “If you look at the dust patterns, Mr. Morris, they’re uneven, like someone was wriggling around. You can even make out where a derriere might have lain for several hours.”

“A derriere?”

“Someone’s ass, Mr. Morris. Now let me ask you, did you examine your flatbed when you got home? Was it empty?”

Morris nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. I keep my toolbox there. Wouldn’t leave it sitting around overnight. Goddamn vagrants here’d steal it in half a minute.”

“Did you stop anywhere else last night on your way home? For gas? Food perhaps?”

David thought, put his hand to his lips. “One stop,” he said. “Gas and coffee. Some place on I-55. Ken’s something. Ken’s Coffee Den.”

David felt a surge of pride. He was assisting in a federal investigation. This shit ever made the news programs, maybe he’d get interviewed. Maybe write a book, be like that Mark Fuhrman guy, get as much money as that blond chick who screwed Scott Peterson. Plus those anchorwomen were hot. He’d ditch Evelyn for one of them in a heartbeat.

Bates took out a notepad and wrote the information down.

“Ken’s Coffee Den, you said? On Route 55?”

“Interstate 55,” David said. Bates nodded.

“Can you think of anything else? Any other stops you might have made?”

“No, nothing.”

“Any strange movements you may have noticed during the ride? Maybe a bump or a pothole, something unexpected jostle you?”

“Nope, nothing.” Bates folded the notebook up and slid it into his pocket. “Can I help with anything else, Officer?”

“Agent, actually.” Bates walked him back to the front door. David opened it and stood just inside.

“So, Agent Bates,” David said. “Let me ask you something. You find this Parker guy, people start asking who helped out with the, you know, the investigation…any chance you could drop my name? Tell ’em I might be interested in working for the, you know, federal government?”

Bates laughed. “I’d be happy to.”

“The government, they pay well?”

“Not well enough,” Bates replied with a grin.

“Doesn’t matter,” David said. “Anything to get out of this shithole. Listen, I hope you catch those fuckers. I mean that. You need anything else, give me a ring. Maybe I can help with, you know, the investigation.”

“I surely will, Mr. Morris. I surely will.”

David nodded, suddenly felt good. Really good. He’d done a good deed, and the FBI of all things owed him one. Wait’ll Evelyn heard about this.

“Just in case you think of anything else, here’s my card.” Bates reached into his pocket, fumbled around.

David heard the blade before he felt it, the thin whistle in the air right before it plunged hilt-deep into his chest. David felt his insides tearing, like a balloon was being ripped apart inside of him. Then there was a horrible burning sensation, then he felt cold, then another sharp pain as the knife was pulled from his heart. David Morris was dead before he hit the ground.

Shelton Barnes stepped over David Morris’s body and dragged it inside the house, closing the door gently.

A television was playing somewhere on the second floor. Barnes looked at Morris, blood still pumping from the three-inch gash in his chest, then slowly made his way upstairs.

“Columbia Presbyterian, this is Lisa speaking,” said the cheery voice. Not that I advocated people being morose, but you’d think a hospital operator would have a greater sense of gravity.

“Luis Guzman’s room, please,” I said. She put me on hold, my breath following suit. Amanda had paid for the motel room, a reasonable $39.99, in cash. We were standing on a Chicago street corner, crammed into a dingy phone booth, the afternoon sun fading away. Columbia Presbyterian was the fourth New York hospital we’d called. The first three had no record of a Luis or Christine Guzman. The newspapers hadn’t disclosed their location, so finding them came down to trial and error. Only in most trials, you didn’t have freaky men with guns breaking into your house and cops shooting you in the leg.

“Please hold,” Lisa said. Muzak pumped through the earpiece. I held it out for Amanda to listen.

“Couldn’t they play something a little more, I don’t know, uplifting?” she said. “I mean, Yanni and John Tesh, it’s almost like they want you to hang up.”

After a minute, Lisa clicked back on. “Thank you, sir, I’ll transfer you now. Have a pleasant day.”

I tapped Amanda on the arm. She mouthed that’s it?

I nodded, put my finger to my lips.

Two rings later, a husky voice picked up. It wasn’t Luis Guzman.

“Yeah?”

“Um, hi, I’d like to speak with Luis Guzman.”

“Who is this?”

I cleared my throat.

“This is Jack O’Donnell, New York Gazette. Luis and I spoke briefly last week in regards to an article I’m writing based on his prison experience. He knows the name, it’s part of his parole package.”

There was muffled speaking, like someone was pressing their hand to the receiver. I heard the words O’Donnell and reporter. Amanda gripped my sleeve with one hand and crossed her fingers on the other.

“One second, Mr. O’Donnell.” I wiped my brow. After a few seconds a different voice came on the line. It sounded sickly, weak. Like the person on the other end had just run a marathon and couldn’t get a water break.

“Hullo?”

I recognized the voice instantly. “Luis Guzman?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Mr. Guzman, are you alone in your room?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, but it’s imperative I know the police aren’t present.” I waited a moment. “If they are, I won’t speak to you. Do you remember me, Mr. Guzman?”

“Of course,” he said. “You’re the one who sent Henry Parker to my house. You said if I didn’t cooperate you’d call my parole officer. Thanks a lot.”

“That’s right, Mr. Guzman. But this isn’t about that. Right now, all I want is your story-your story-to be read by millions of New Yorkers. I want them to know the real Luis Guzman and I want them to know the truth about what happened with Henry Parker. I want you to be a celebrity, Luis, a star.”

“You still want my story?”

“Absolutely. But I’m afraid I can’t promise any of that if my security is compromised. Now, Luis, are the police present?”

“They stand outside my door, man. For protection, you know? They don’t come inside unless I buzz them in or someone calls.”

“Okay then, let me get to the point.” I was growing more confident with the charade. “As you know, Luis, I have a column that’s read by hundreds of thousands of people every day, syndicated in forty-three states and twenty foreign countries. And I can make sure that every one of those people hear, from you, what really happened two days ago.”

A few moments passed. My heart beat faster. Luis could hang up at any moment, call the police who were just outside his door. The line could be traced instantly, my search could end before I knew it.

“All right, Mr. O’Donnell. What do you need to know?” I cleared my throat. Amanda smiled, rubbed my elbow. For the first time in days I felt that rush again.