Jason Pinter - The Mark

“That’s one of two possibilities.”

“And the other was switching sides, bringing it to Jimmy Saviano.”

Denton’s smile widened.

“You’re a bright guy, I’ll give you that.” Outside the building, I heard several car doors open and slam shut. Footsteps on the pavement. I turned to the window, saw a dozen uniformed policemen approaching the gate.

“That’s my cue,” Denton said. “It’s been fun, Parker, but I’m tired of this. I kind of wish your friend Barnes there had gotten off a shot, but with all the shit you pulled the NYPD won’t really ask questions. If only you weren’t so goddamn persistent, none of this would have happened. Now the only thing I have to do is find Ms. Davies. I’m guessing she’s got the album, am I right? I’m sure she won’t be too hard to find or persuade.”

Hate bubbled up inside me as I stepped forward. “You touch her with the tip of one finger, I swear you’ll die. I’ll come back from the fucking grave if I have to.”

Denton seemed to consider this. “You know, let’s see if that’s true.”

The muzzle flashed, then I heard a deafening roar, and a searing pain sliced through my chest. The blast threw me onto the floor, a burning sensation eating through my torso like scalding water. I cried out, gasped for air. It felt like a 400-pound weight was pressing on my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. I looked up, my breathing ragged, to see Denton approaching.

“It’s a shame, Parker. You probably would’ve made a good reporter.” The gun was less than a foot from my face. I closed my eyes, waiting for the world to end.

“No!”

The scream came from the doorway. It was Amanda, and she was clutching the album. Denton turned and aimed the gun at her, and she screamed again.

Summoning my last bit of energy, the hatred in me overcoming the wretched pain, I lunged at Denton, driving my shoulder into his back. He toppled forward, landed hard on the floor.

The gun exploded again, splinters flying out of the wall. I couldn’t feel my left arm, but with my right I grabbed his gun hand. I was stronger than Denton, but weakened from the gunshot. I lifted my fist and brought it crashing down on Denton’s face. Again. And again, harder. I heard a snap as his nose broke, blood spurting out. Again. Blood covered my hand. I could feel nothing.

Denton yelped beneath me and we both struggled to our feet. My hand was still on the gun, holding on for life.

Like that night…

A sticky wheezing sound came from my chest with every breath. Denton took a step back, gaining leverage, and I braced myself, my legs rubbery, barely able to hold my weight. But instead of using his leverage to better grip the gun, Denton swung his leg forward and up. Right into my groin.

I fell back, pain like I’d never experienced shooting through every nerve in my body. I writhed on the floor, my chest burning, my energy completely sapped. My limbs didn’t work. I looked up to see Denton standing over me, a horrible leer on his face. He wiped blood from his busted nose, laughed at it.

“Goodbye, Parker.”

His gun traced an invisible line between my eyes.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out. Then another. I saw smoke curling out of Denton’s chest. The man looked stunned, unbelieving. Small dark patches bloomed under his white shirt, visible in the moonlight. One more shot shattered the air and Denton fell forward, his gun clattering on the wood. His body spasmed once and then lay still. I looked to the corner.

Barnes was sitting up. His face was pale, drained, and staring at Leonard Denton’s fallen body. He blinked twice, like a sleep-deprived man trying to stay awake.

Like me, Barnes was losing the battle.

“For Anne,” he whispered, then his eyes closed. The shotgun fell from his grasp.

A moment later Amanda burst into the room, tears flowing down her cheeks. She knelt down beside me, wrapping her arms around my head. I felt sleepy, leaned into her, feeling my body slowly drifting away.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “Don’t worry, Henry. You’ll be okay.” Hot tears dripped onto my face, warmth like a comforting hand. I let it soak in, letting my mind fall away. “It’s all over.”

I heard the sound of footsteps, looked up through a haze to see a dozen policemen enter the room, guns drawn. Immediately they came to me. Two men and a woman leaned over Mauser’s body. I heard a raspy breath as they placed an oxygen bag over his face, loading him onto a stretcher. Mauser’s fingers twitched, and he was carried out.

I could tell Denton was dead from the way they examined him.

A mustached officer knelt down next to me. My eyelids felt heavy and I let them close. Through the darkness I heard Amanda screaming, the sound so distant, so far away. Struggling to open my eyes I saw an officer holding her back. I smiled at Amanda, fell further and further into the darkness.

“Barnes,” I said, my voice merely an echo.

“Who’s Barnes?” the officer asked.

“In the corner, with the shotgun. He killed Denton. Saved our lives.” I could barely breathe the words out. No more energy. It was time to sleep. Good night, Henry.

The officer stood up, then knelt back down.

“There’s nobody there, son. All I see is an empty shotgun and a few shells. You sure there was another man?”

A laugh escaped my lips. Through the swarm of blue jackets I was able to see the room in its entirety. He was right. There was a splash of blood where Barnes had fallen. Nothing more.

I felt Amanda’s hand graze my back, her cries keeping me awake. Several hands lifted me into the air. Two words echoed in my head before the darkness consumed me.

It’s over.

One month later

I never liked spiders. Don’t really know anyone who does. But sitting on a bench in Rockefeller Plaza, sipping a cup of coffee and watching the brilliant summer sun gleaming off those metal arachnid monstrosities, I couldn’t help but think I’d missed something the first time around.

It was late June and deliciously warm, a gentle breeze wafting through the city. Summer nights in New York were long, and I planned to savor every second of them. I’d been back at the Gazette for less than a week, still taking my time from the staph infection in my leg and two subsequent surgeries. A week in ICU, armed policemen outside my door. My mother came to visit. She cried, then asked if I’d found a job yet. She said my father couldn’t take the time off work.

Mya visited me, too. Thankfully when Amanda wasn’t there. That would be an awkward conversation for a later time. She said she was glad I was okay. She said she was sorry things had ended so badly between us. She said she hoped we could still be friends. I told her I’d like that. And I meant it. But she looked at me in a way she hadn’t in a long time. And I knew friendship wasn’t all she hoped for. And a small part of me wished we’d had one more chance. I would never tell Amanda that. I’m with her now. My past might never be buried, but at least now I had a future.

The docs told me to wait a few weeks before returning to the Gazette. Try working two or three hours a day at first, they said. Increase your hours as your strength returns. But they knew that wasn’t going to happen. If I was back at the Gazette, I was going full bore.

So I took a few more weeks to sit on my ass, plowing through books and newspapers in an effort not to go stir-crazy, and now here I was, back where it all started. If only I’d agreed to write Wallace’s story about these stupid metal bugs, I’d have one more rib, one less incredible story. And one less love.

I felt a slight tug in my chest, took a deep breath. The scar would always be visible, but the pain would eventually subside. Denton’s bullet had shattered my lowest true rib, a sliver of which punctured my right lung. The doctors said when they opened me up it looked like a crumpled-up grocery bag. Tubes were inserted into my chest to siphon the air that had built up between my collapsed lung and rib cage. Before they put me to sleep I saw Amanda’s face through the glass. You couldn’t get a better vision before going under.