The Fury - Jason Pinter [42]
After a quick slice of pizza, I threw off my clothes
and stepped into the shower. I immediately noticed there
were no towels hanging on the racks. Either we'd used
them all and they were in the laundry waiting to be
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shipped off, or Amanda had purposely taken them all out
so I'd have to beg for one. I had a feeling it was the latter.
For some reason she got a kick out of seeing me open
the bathroom door just a crack, then squirt through the
apartment naked looking for something to cover myself
up with. She called this game "hide and peek," and I'd
be lying if I said she was the only one who enjoyed it.
For some reason, I was too scared to play it on her.
The water felt wonderful, hot and nearly scalding. A
long shower would do my body good, just to take my
mind off everything. We had to start up again soon, but
every brief respite was a moment to be savored.
After that, I threw a pair of shorts on while I airdried, then went to the bed and passed out. Amanda was
already asleep, surrounded by enough pillows to build
a fort big enough for both of us. No reason to ask where
all my towels were. Sleep came easily.
It must have been several hours later when a shrill
ring woke me up from the darkness. I blinked, noticed
Amanda was no longer on the bed. I groped around for
the phone, forgetting where I'd placed it. Then I heard
Amanda from the living room.
"Henry, your phone is ringing!"
"Who is it?" I replied, picking crust from my eyes.
"Check the caller ID."
"I don't know, but it's an 818 area code."
Eight-one-eight. That was a California area code.
I leaped out of bed, toppling half a dozen pillows
onto the floor. I was wearing nothing but a towel. Not
like whoever was calling would notice. Then I bolted
out of the bedroom--stark naked, the towel fluttering
to the floor--and made a beeline for the phone.
126
Jason Pinter
Amanda was standing there, holding it in one hand
while trying to stifle a laugh with her other.
"Sweet dreams?" she said, looking south.
I scowled at her, crossed my legs, grabbed the phone,
looked at the ID and pressed Send.
"Hello?" I said, hoping I'd made it in time.
"Is this...Mr. Parker?" It was a woman's voice I did
not register in my memory.
"Yes, who is this?"
"Sheryl Harrison. I had a voice mail from a Henry
Parker asking to call back at this number. Something
about my mother."
"Yes, Mrs. Harrison, thank you so much for calling
me back. I was wondering if I could talk to you about
your mother, Beth. Do you have a few minutes?"
"I'm leaving the church right now. My mother's
funeral is tomorrow. I have an hour before my appoint
ment with the florist, that's all the time I can give you. If
you can meet me on Twenty-seventh and Third, you'll
have whatever time is remaining before my appoint
ment."
"I'm leaving right now," I said, looking around to see
where I put my pants.
"Just so we're clear, I know who you are, Mr. Parker.
You're a reporter. To be honest, I really want nothing
to do with you, and you're not going to get much more
than a 'no comment.'"
"This isn't for my job," I said. "It's personal. It's
about my father. He's linked to this crime. You'll under
stand when I see you."
"Is that right. So none of this will end up in print."
"Not a word."
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"In any event, everything that passes between us is
officially off the record."
"I understand," I said. "You have my word."
"So if any word of our conversation ends up in print,
I'll own your newspaper, your apartment and every pen
and pencil you've ever held."
"I swear on my life, this is personal."
"We'll see." She hung up.
I looked up to see Amanda standing there holding a
pair of slacks and a clean blue shirt.
"If you're not out this door in three minutes," she
said, "I'm going down there to meet Sheryl Harrison in
your place."
16
The good and bad thing about New York is that if you
don't have time to sit stuck in traffic while your cab
racks up forty cents every one-point-two blocks, you
can pick from myriad transportation