The Fury - Jason Pinter [109]
I had so many questions to ask I hoped he didn't have
plans for the next year.
When I arrived on the first floor, I sprinted through
the lobby and burst through the front door. Jack O'Don
nell was standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets.
Then he took them out, checked his watch.
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"Forty-three seconds from buzzer to outside. Not
quite Olympic caliber, but not too shabby for a guy
who sits in front of a computer most of the day." I didn't
know what to say. So I just went up to Jack and threw
my arms around him. He stumbled backward, saying,
"Easy now, Henry."
When I untangled myself, I took my first real look
at Jack in months. His gray hair was neatly combed, if
slightly disheveled due to the weather. His face had
none of the red ruddiness I was used to, and his cheeks
seemed fuller. Jack's beard was neatly trimmed, cut
razor sharp along his jawline, and he looked like he'd
put on a few pounds.
"You look good," I said, patting him on the shoulder.
"Scratch that, this is the best I've seen you look since
we meet. Where have you been?"
"Away," Jack said. "We can discuss the wheres and
whys later. Just think of what I went through as dialysis
of the soul."
"I'm getting a disturbing image of you passing
Ghandi through your urethra." Jack laughed, a quick ha.
"It's good to see you, kid. Been a long time. I spoke
to Wallace before. He filled me in on what you've been
up to, you busy little bee."
"You already talked to Wallace?"
"Hell, yes, my young friend, I spent all of last night
in the office, getting reacquainted with my computer.
Making sure nobody stole my Rolodex. And asking
him for permission to chase one particular story."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"Well," Jack said, "while I was on my little sabbati
cal, I got the Gazette delivered to me every day. Gen
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317
erally it was the same old stuff. World's going to hell
in a handbasket, the dollar can barely buy so much as
a loaf of bread, foreign investors are buying the Statue
of Liberty. And Paulina Cole still has a job. All things
that make you want to hide under your bed and cry.
Then I read one story last week, and that's when I knew
I was ready to step back into the light."
"What story was that?" I asked.
"Stephen Gaines's murder," Jack said. His face was
now solemn. The grin gone.
"I didn't write that."
"I know you didn't. Wallace told me he wouldn't let
you since Gaines was your half brother. But there was
one line in that story I knew came from you. Wallace
told me how close you were, how you were right there
when the Callahan and Evans boys bought the farm."
"What line are you talking about?"
"Twenty years ago," Jack continued, "I wrote a book
called Through the Darkness. In that book, I mentioned
a man named Butch Willingham who scrawled the
words The Fury in his own blood before dying. Wallace
told me that you spoke to Willingham's son. All of this
brought back my memories from that time. Willingham,
that's a name I hadn't even thought of since my hair was
still brown. See, I believed then, and I still believe now,
that the Fury does exist. I don't know who he is or how
he's stayed around for over two decades, but if anything,
all these drug deaths have proved that what worked
twenty years ago works today. Butch Willingham was
one of many dealers killed during that period for
reasons I couldn't uncover, and I got surprisingly little
help with from the authorities."
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"I'm shocked," I said with a grin.
"I think these murders," Jack said, "Gaines, Evans,
Callahan, the kid Guardado--are all history repeating
itself."
"I don't understand," I said. "You want to, what,
write a story linking the murders?"
"Better," Jack said, that smile coming back, sending
a chill down my spine. "I want to find the Fury. Once
and for all. There's a reason behind all these murders.
I don't think Kyle Evans acted of his own accord. And
I sure as hell don't think your brother was behind it all.
I want you to help