The Darkness - Jason Pinter [129]
for the person I'd become.
"You're gonna be fine, Jack," I said, holding his hand,
praying for one squeeze.
Jack's eyes were open, and to my surprise he was actually
smiling. That's when I felt that squeeze, the old, cracked
palm in mine. The blood on my shirt from a man who'd lived
a life that had seen more than I could ever hope to.
"It's okay, Henry," he said, his voice weak, raspy. "I've
told my story."
"No," I said, tears welling, as I squeezed his hand
harder. "You can't. This is our story. You and me."
Jack smiled. Then he said, "I know. Butch and Sundance, Henry. Thank you for saving my life."
Then Jack O'Donnell closed his eyes for the last time.
Epilogue
Amanda held my hand through the entire funeral. I
didn't cry once, and when the service was over, when the
church had emptied, I hated myself for that. But then I
realized that Jack had ended his life the way he wanted
to, chasing that one big story, his name once again where
it belonged. His final story.
Through the Darkness Comes the Dawn
by Jack O'Donnell and Henry Parker
Rex Malloy was dead. Eve Ramos was dead. Sevag
Makhoulian was found less than an hour after Jack's
death, hiding in a gas station in Queens. He was under
indictment for enough crimes to keep him in prison until
the rapture.
No less than a dozen people, ranging from accountants
who handled the 718 assets to the mayor himself, were
under investigation. And I had no doubt that what they
would find would end perhaps the largest drug conspiracy
the city had ever seen.
And by investigators' estimates, nearly ten tons worth
of narcotics had gone up in flames in that warehouse.
The Darkness
371
Though he died to tell the story, Jack had saved hundreds,
if not thousands of lives.
He would be remembered the way he deserved to be.
A journalist who told the truth, a man who uncovered the
greatest stories never told.
The day of the funeral, the Gazette ran a special edition
with an insert that collected some of Jack's most famous
pieces from his nearly fifty years on the job. Reading them
on the subway to work reminded me of just what an amazing
career he'd had. And just how rich a life had been lost.
When I got to my desk, there was a voice mail waiting
for me. It was from Linda Veltre, the woman who'd edited
Jack's book Through the Darkness nearly twenty years
ago, chronicling the rise of the drug trade, the story where
Jack had first learned of the Fury. Her publisher wanted
to reissue Jack's book. And she wanted me to write the
introduction.
Plus, she said, if I had any thoughts of writing my own
book about the investigation of Eve Ramos and 718 Enterprises, she'd love to talk to me over lunch. Apparently
she'd already received a call from Paulina Cole's literary
agent expressing interest in writing a book about the
story, but the editor felt mine was the right one to tell.
It was something to think about, but another day.
The day after Jack's funeral I walked into the offices
of the New York Gazette, and immediately something felt
different, off. I received several nods from my colleagues,
the same ones who congratulated me with their eyes, but
were afraid to speak because they knew what Jack had
meant to me.
Sitting down, I looked out over Rockefeller Center, at
a city Jack had known better than most people know
themselves. It was a city that pulsed with a million dif-372
Jason Pinter
ferent veins, a million different stories. And those stories
were still out there, waiting to be discovered.
Life would go on. Jack would have wanted it to.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Wallace Langston
making his way across the newsroom floor. There was
somebody with him. I couldn't see who it was, but Wallace
was talking to him earnestly, pointing at things as they
walked.
As they got closer, I could see that Wallace was leading
around a young man. He looked to be twenty-one or
twenty-two, a good-looking kid with short black hair,
sharp features, and an air of wonder about him. He was
following Wallace's