The Fury - Jason Pinter [61]
thumb twiddler, but at this point I wasn't quite sure
where to go or who to talk to. And we still had no idea
where Helen Gaines was.
I opened up the music player on my computer, took
a pair of headphones out and put on some Springsteen.
Something about the Boss always made me think a little
more clearly. There was honesty in his voice that was
often missing from popular music, and his earlier works
were like pure blasts of adrenaline. That's what I needed
right now. An energy boost to carry me along. There
were half a dozen threads in this story, and I had no
doubt that when unravelled they would all lead to
Stephen's killer. I just needed that one connecting
thread that told me how the story would all play out.
I sat there for half an hour, shuffling between songs.
"Dead Man Walking" came on. It was a haunting tune,
composed for the movie of the same name where Sean
Penn played a character named Matthew Poncelet, on
death row for the murder of two teenagers. The film was
based on a book by Sister Helen Prejean, and Poncelet
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Jason Pinter
was actually a composite of two men Prejean had coun
seled. Prejean grows closer to this man many viewed
as a monster, trying to understand the humanity beneath
the inhumane crime. The music was simple, tragic, and
the lyrics filled my head as my eyes closed, the sounds
enveloping me.
All I could feel was the drugs and the shotgun
And the fear up inside of me
Suddenly my eyes opened. I stood up, the head
phones flying off my head and clattering on the floor.
Drugs.
The Fury. I knew that word had sounded familiar, in
a context that, if I was right, made terrifying sense.
We kept a bookshelf in the living room, spines three
deep and nearly pouring out onto the floor. I'd bought it
used for seventy-five bucks from a thrift shop. It was
maple, still in good shape, with one large crack running
lengthwise down the side. I figured a good book was one
read so often the spine was cracked, a good bookshelf was
one that was cracked as well. That might have been jus
tification for the piece's condition, but it made sense to
me.
Sometimes when I'd finish a book I'd bring it to the
office, drop it in the Inbox of a reporter who I thought
might enjoy it. Sports books went to Frank Rourke,
trashy celebrity tell-alls went to Evelyn Waterstone. I
knew the gal had her soft spot.
There were some books, though, that would never
leave this shelf. And no matter where I moved, or what
life planned for me, they would never be far away.
Without a second thought I pulled a pile of books
from the middle shelf and sent them toppling to the
The Fury
181
ground. The noise was loud, and soon Amanda entered,
bleary eyed, clearly wondering what was making such
a racket. I must have looked half-crazed, throwing books
on the floor, looking for that one book I knew was there.
But I couldn't find it.
I threw more books on the floor, the shelves
emptying, my frustration growing. Where the hell was
it? I knew it was here, somewhere.
"Henry," Amanda said, the patience in her voice sur
prising me. "I'm not going to ask. I assume there's a
good reason for this. What are you looking for?"
"A book," I said stupidly, still rifling through the few
books left. I told her the title and author. She looked at
me, then walked back into our bedroom. I figured she'd
had enough, would try to go back to sleep. But a minute
later she came back holding something in her hands.
And when my tired eyes focused, I saw what it was.
Through the Darkness, by Jack O'Donnell.
"I was reading it, remember?"
"You are so freaking beautiful," I gushed, standing
up and taking the book from her.
I opened the cover, thumbed to the table of contents.
There it was, chapter eight. "The Unknown Devil."
I began to skim, looking for that one word, that one
phrase I knew existed. It was the link, what Helen
Gaines was talking about. What she and Stephen were
running from.
Then I found it. Midway down one page. I read the
paragraph, feeling a chill run down my spine.
As the '80s