The Fury - Jason Pinter [43]
dozens of subway and bus lines that crisscross the city
like a drunk doctor's stitching, and even if the Second
Avenue subway remains a figment of the city's imagi
nation, there's always a way from point A to point B.
Of course, even though there happens to be a large
public transportation system, it was still as spotty ser
vicewise as your average Wi-Fi connection. Which is
why I stood sweating in a dank station for nearly half
an hour before the 4 train rumbled to its stop. By the
time I took a seat across from a heavily tattooed couple
playing tonsil hockey like they were trying out for the
Rangers, my nice blue shirt was soaked through with
sweat and my pressed slacks looked like they'd been
crumpled in a ball in a Russian steam bath for a week.
Thankfully, the one place in New York that was airconditioned was the subway cars, so when I transferred
to the 6 and got off at Twenty-eighth and Park, my
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clothes looked only mildly rumpled. I couldn't decide
whether this appearance would make Sheryl Harrison
more or less skeptical of my motives.
Hustling over to Twenty-seventh and Third, I saw an
attractive black woman standing on the corner. She was
finishing the last of what appeared to be a sandwich or
a wrap, and held a gigantic iced coffee in her other
hand. The smart yet subdued suit she wore seemed to
work for someone in mourning, yet keeping her ap
pointment book up-to-date.
Just as I approached, she strapped her purse to her
shoulder and began to walk away.
Sprinting across the street, I yelled, "Miss Harri
son! Sheryl!"
She turned to look at me, the expression on her face
unchanging. Panting, I caught up to her, composed
myself. "Mrs. Harrison, Henry Parker, so sorry, the
subway, I--"
"I'm on my way to the florist. I don't have time to
stop and chat. You're welcome to walk with me, but as
soon as we get there we're done."
"I understand," I said, falling into step with her.
It was a dry, sunny day, and pretty soon I wasn't even
thinking about the trip down. Sheryl Harrison walked
west down Twenty-seventh, and I followed.
"I'm sorry for your loss," I said.
"I doubt that," she said. "Though the police did tell
me you found her. Is that right?"
"That's right," I replied. Sheryl nodded, kept
walking. She was tall, about five-ten, with an almost
regal walk. Her hair looked professionally done, her
makeup highlighting her natural features rather than
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Jason Pinter
trying to add some that weren't there. She took long,
gallant strides, and though I wasn't a short guy I found
myself expelling quite a bit of energy just to keep step.
To my surprise, Sheryl did not ask a follow-up
question. Not about the circumstances in which I found
her mother, if she had any last words, nothing. If she
was in mourning, she hid it. If she had any feelings for
her mother, they were worn far below the sleeve.
Without Sheryl prompting, I told her about Stephen
Gaines, about my father's arrest for his murder. I also
told her how Rose Keller had pointed me in the direc
tion of the cabin at Blue Lake Mountain, and how I was
working to prove my father's innocence. She listened
without saying a word. I couldn't tell if she was merely
aloof, distracted with everything that had gone on, or,
more distressingly, not surprised at all.
"Were you two close?" I asked. A rhetorical
question, but what I hoped would be a baby step in
finding out more about Beth-Ann Downing and her re
lationship to Helen Gaines.
"I hadn't spoken to my mother in almost ten years,"
Sheryl said, her gaze straight ahead. She spoke as if I
was asking her about her previous employment. And I
noticed she used the past tense-- hadn't. Most people,
when discussing a recent death of a friend or family
member, would slip up, say haven't as though the
person was still alive. Somehow I got the feeling this
was a day Sheryl Harrison was prepared for.
"Did she ever try to reach out to you?" I asked. "Or
mention friends, associates, anyone?"
"Mr. Parker," Sheryl said, a hint of