Parker 02 - The Guilty (25 page)

ignorance. "You're even dimmer than I thought. Maybe I

would be doing folks a favor 'n' get rid of you."

"Then go ahead, get rid of me or get the fuck out of here."

"Trust me, I have something better in mind." His mouth

curved into a vicious smile that made my skin crawl. "The

real reason I'm here is because there's some history best

stayed buried. I've seen you going to talk to all those people.

I watched you leave that college professor's office this

morning. And you know what I was thinking when you left?

When I saw that broad's face watch you from her dirty

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211

window? I pictured what her head might look like with a rifle

slug going through it at five hundred feet per second."

"A magnum slug," I said. "From your Winchester, you freak."

"That's right," the boy said. He took a step back. "I know

about your woman. Amanda, right? Pretty hair, got that cute

little birthmark under her neck. I know how she saved
your

life, Henry. Funny, she keeps your ass out of the ground and

all you do is keep bringing 'maggots' like me into her world.

What I'm wondering, Henry, is if her skin is that pretty on

the inside. Rifles aren't the only things I know how to use

pretty well. You don't get any smarter, we're going to find out

what her skin looks like when we turn that girl inside out."

"Amanda," I breathed. "You go anywhere near her..."

"I could walk up to her on the street
right
now and stick a

knife into her heart and you'd still be stuck here wriggling like

a stupid fucking fish on a hook. If I go anywhere near her you

can't do
goddamn anything.
"

The boy's face seemed to unwind, the tautness leaving it.

In other light it might have even looked kind.

"Amanda," he repeated. "Amanda Davies. Daughter of

Harriet and Lawrence Stein of St. Louis. I got her name from

someone at your office, that newspaper you work for that's

going down the drain. People there are awful free with information. I know where she works, I know what train she takes

to get to her office in the morning so she can save all the little

children whose mommies and daddies didn't love them

enough. Kind of like you and Amanda, right?

"That's right, smart guy. So listen, Henry, you and me,

we're on the same page, right? You can do all the storytelling

you want, hell there must be a
million
stories out there in this

big bad city. I'm asking nicely, stay away from this one. And

as a token of my friendship, I'll make it a little easier on you."

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Jason Pinter

The boy stepped around to where I was sitting. I saw something shiny, the glint of metal. He held a knife in his hands.

I tried to crane my neck but I couldn't see him as he leaned

down and reached toward where my hands were bound.

I started bucking like crazy, but between my head and the

bonds my strength was gone. I felt a hand clamp down on my

right wrist, holding it to the floor. I jerked my shoulder and

tried to free it, gritted my teeth and attempted to pull away.

Suddenly I felt a searing pain on my right hand and a shout

escaped my lips as the blade sliced through my skin. I cried

out again as the blade kept cutting, tearing through me for

what seemed like hours. I felt hot blood dripping through my

fingers, I bit my lips to keep from screaming.

Finally the blade stopped. The boy stood back up over me.

His hands and the blade were covered in my blood. I thought

my heart was going to burst through my chest, the room

fading away as blood leaked from my veins.

"Now I'm going to just use your bathroom, clean all this

mess up and then I'll be on my way." He stepped away and I

heard running water. The pain was unbearable, blood leaving

my body with every heartbeat.

Then he came back. Squatted down. Pressed the tip of the

knife against my chest, hard enough so I could feel the point

digging in between two of my ribs. One small shove and he

would pierce my heart.

"You have a lot to lose, Henry. Think about where you're

going. Take one bad step," he said, before walking out the

door, "and you'll know what bad means."

33

I sat still as the nurse sewed my hand back together. After

sinking the blade into my flesh, the man had traced every

finger, carving a gruesome glove on my palm. He hadn't severed any tendons, and he'd missed or purposefully ignored

the major blood vessels in my wrist. He wanted me hurt. Not

dead.

Curt Sheffield sat on a stool next to me, watching as the

black threads closed the wounds. He winced every time the

needle pierced my skin, which was slightly disconcerting

since between the novocaine numbing my hand and the extrastrength aspirin for my head, I wouldn't have felt it if someone

hit me with a two-by-four.

"Glad to know the boys in blue get squeamish at the sight

of blood," I said to Curt.

"Blood? Uh-uh. I'm just wincing in sympathy 'cause

you're gonna have one ugly-ass hand once those stitches

come out." Curt looked at me, shaking his head as if he

couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"Least I still have my looks."

"Yeah, right. I'd say you look like hell, but I don't want to

hurt hell's feelings."

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Jason Pinter

"Mmph," I replied, as another nurse placed an ice pack on

my head and secured it with an Ace bandage.

"You're lucky Amanda came home when she did," Sheffield added. "Docs said if you lost any more blood they might

have had to amputate the hand."

"They didn't really say that," I said. "Did they?"

"Nah, just jerking your chain."

"Please, just go away. I bet there are some strangers in the

waiting room who'd find you just hilarious."

But Curt was right. Amanda had come home to try and

make things right, only to find me passed out on the floor, my

hand flayed open, blood everywhere. I couldn't bear to think

what it must have felt like for her to see me like that. Because

I knew how I would feel if the tables were turned.

"Where is Amanda?" I asked. "Curt, is she here? Excuse

me, Nurse? Are you sure you can't give me any more novocaine? I think it's wearing off." The look the nurse gave me

confirmed that if she gave me any more novocaine I wouldn't

feel anything for a long time. She kept on sewing.

"Amanda's waiting outside," Curt said. "Girl's all broken

up, crying like she sprung a leak. Docs asked her to wait

outside while they finished upholstering you."

"Christ," I muttered. There was a dull throbbing in my

head, and my hand was stiff as a plank of wood. I watched as

the stitches were sewn in, knowing they would undoubtedly

leave one hell of an ugly scar.

"In the meantime," Curt said, "we have a security escort

looking after Agnes Trimble. Our guy would have to be crazy

or stupid to go after her now."

"He's definitely crazy," I said, "but not stupid. And he's

not going to touch her. That was just a threat. He's killing

people for a reason, and that doesn't involve spite."

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215

"Nothing more dangerous in this world than a fool with a

cause."

Prior to being loaded with painkiller, I'd managed to give a

sketch artist the best description I could of my assailant. Of

course, due to my being knocked silly and his bandanna, it

could have been any tan young white guy in New York City.

The nurse began laying strips of adhesive tape over the

sutures. I watched with detached curiosity, like it was somebody else's hand being sewn up. From the corner of my eye I

saw Curt playing with a spool of stitching. He was threading

it between his hands and wrapping it around his fingers.

"Those are absorbable stitches," the nurse said to Sheffield.

"What's that mean?"

"They're made from specially prepared beef and sheep

intestine."

Curt smiled and gently placed the spool back on the table.

Once the nurse finished taping me up, she said, "Keep it

dry and clean for twenty-four hours. You can bathe again in

forty-eight hours, unless the wounds begin to bleed or you

notice a discharge leaking through the adhesive. The tape

should fall off on its own in about five days. You need to come

back in ten days to have the sutures removed, unless you break

a stitch during that time. But try not to. You also have a grade

one concussion. You'll have a bad headache for a few days,

but nothing that some extra-strength Tylenol shouldn't help.

If you still feel dizzy or disoriented after a week, or you find

you can't remember certain things, come back immediately."

Sheffield looked concerned. "Gonna be awful hard to type

with all that junk in your hand. Not to mention your brain

floating around in your head." The nurse shot him a look.

"I think that was the idea," I said. "Make my job a little

harder."

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Jason Pinter

"I heard they've made some really good advances in voice

recognition software," Curt added. "Or maybe you can hire

a helper monkey or something."

"I think I'll manage." The nurse gave me a gentle pat on the

arm to let me know she was finished. I stood up tentatively.

My equilibrium was still off, and I had to lean on Curt for

support. "You think this kind of thing ever happened to

Woodward?"

"Not unless Bernstein got frisky with a tire iron. Besides,

shadowy parking lots are much safer than the gutters you go

digging in. But, hey, Amanda's waiting for you outside," he

said. "I swear, that girl gains Hulk-like strength when she

needs it. They practically had to handcuff her to the bench to

keep her in the waiting room."

"I don't know if I can see her," I said. "Not like this."

"Shut the hell up," Curt snapped. "You still have your hand

'cause of that girl. That shit happened to me I'd be writing

parking tickets with a hook. Get your ass out there. Give her

a hug. Let her know her big stupid boyfriend appreciates the

fact that in a few weeks he'll be able to cop a feel with both

hands."

"I got it, now give me a hand."

I wrapped an arm around Curt's shoulder as he led me

through the bright white corridors, navigating me around corners and blue-robed doctors until we reached the waiting room.

"I can stand," I said. Curt moved away, then opened the

door.

Amanda was sitting in the waiting room, tucked into a

beige chair, her feet tapping relentlessly. As soon as she saw

me she leapt up, ran over and threw her arms around me. I

winced as the blood flowed to my head, but I wrapped my

good arm around her and squeezed as hard as I could.

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217

"I'm tired of you being unconscious," she whispered into my

ear. I could hear the pain and relief in her voice. I wanted to find

the man who'd done this, who made Amanda feel this way.

"I'm okay," I said. "A little banged up. And I might need

you to open my soda cans for a few weeks."

"Not a problem," she said. Amanda unwrapped herself

and stepped back, wiping her face with her sleeve. Her eyes

were red, a clump of tissues falling from her hand. "Let's go

home."

I said goodbye to Curt and thanked him for his help. He

told me he'd give me a call in a few hours to make sure my

brain hadn't started leaking out of my ears. Nothing like a

good friend to help cheer you up when you're in pain.

We hailed a cab outside the emergency room of New

York/Columbia Presbyterian hospital. Amanda helped me

inside, as I made sure not to grip anything with my maimed

appendage. When we pulled up to our apartment, Amanda

again held the door and pulled me out of the cab. She paid

and all but carried me upstairs.

I fell into the couch as Amanda took off her coat and hung

it up. I took deep, slow breaths, closed my eyes, smelled something sweet. There was a mess of dried blood congealed by

the radiator along with the twine Amanda had cut from my

wrists. She saw what I was looking at and said, "I didn't have

time to clean up. I called an ambulance as soon as I found you."

She was standing over me, her face a mess of confusion,

fear and relief. "That's the second time you saved me," I said.

"Or is it the third?"

"I don't care," Amanda said, leaning down. Her hands

rested on my thighs, sending waves of electricity up my body.

"I'm sorry for leaving the other night. But when I saw you

and Mya outside, I--"

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Jason Pinter

"Stop," I said. "You don't have to explain anything." I

wanted to stroke her hair with both hands, to hold her face

with unscarred palms. "About Mya, it was nothing, it..."

"Stop. I don't want to talk about her. Not now, not ever."

I nodded. She was still wearing her work clothes--a smart

black skirt, a white blouse under a fitted black vest. I remembered the first time I met her--Amanda sitting in her car,