The Fury - Jason Pinter [72]
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When I was finally able to wrap my head around what
Curt had just told me, I sent an e-mail off to Wallace
Langston informing him of our conversation and what
I'd learned. There had to be some sort of story in what
Curt had told me, and I wanted to let Wallace know my
mind was still sharp, I was still committed to the
Gazette, and that at some point I'd have a hell of a pageone exclusive for him.
As always Wallace showed excitement for the pos
sibility of the story, but again expressed concern that I
was too often finding myself in situations where uncov
ering a story would put myself or others in harm's way.
The fact was I'd never been to Iraq, never reported on
a war from the trenches, so neither he nor I could state
that any danger I found myself in could compare. Bad
things happened to find me. So be it. If I was still re
porting about cute kittens and big ugly metal spiders--
I mean, works of art--I would have impaled myself on
a number-two pencil by now.
And as much as it energized me to think of this as a
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Jason Pinter
story, I knew it helped distract from the apprehension I
had over finding the truth.
Five young men murdered, all with connections to
718 Enterprises. I had no idea what the company did,
but the name and address were clearly a front for some
thing. And somehow, after Helen Gaines brought him
to New York, my brother had begun to work for them.
If only he were alive today. If only I'd waited on that
street corner. If only I'd heard what he had to say.
According to Curt, when the dead mens' bodies were
investigated, a phone number attributed to 718 Enter
prises was found on their call lists. When dialed, the
numbers led nowhere, and in fact each man's cell had
a different number credited to 718. This cemented my
feeling that Stephen Gaines's murder was one part of
something much bigger, much broader, and that not
only did my father's freedom and his son's killer hang
in the balance, but potentially much more.
Amanda was asleep. Nights like this I would often
find myself sitting on the couch in our living room. No
music playing, no television. No noise at all beyond
what the city offered.
It took a few minutes to realize it, but it began to
dawn on me just how strange my world had become.
Nearly ten years ago I'd left the confines of Bend,
Oregon. In part because my ambition drew me to more
crowded, deeper waters. I was tired of living in what I
felt was a small world, confined to a small house made
even smaller still by the discomfort of being around my
parents. I longed for adventure, mystery.
I wanted to make a name for myself, and thought
nowhere better to do that than in the city that never sleeps.
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Now, however, I found myself glad for any quiet
that nighttime offered. The fact that my windows
weren't soundproof and I could hear car horns and
alarms all hours of the night only made the feelings
more intense. On those rare nights when I could hear
nothing but the hum of my air conditioner, night as I
knew it reminded me of those old days in Bend. Those
quiet nights I lay restless in my bed, longing for noise
that proved I was somewhere, had become someone.
Having been on the front page, having people know my
name and my face, it was everything I wanted but
nothing I'd expected.
Not for the first time I wondered if perhaps I'd be
happier elsewhere, if Amanda and I lived in a place
where I could report in a town where the media wasn't
the focus of the media itself, where good work could
be done out of the spotlight.
Where nobody else would get hurt.
News was in my blood. Had been for a long time. But
was this what I wanted, what I'd dreamed of? At first it
had been. That first day at the Gazette, seeing Jack
O'Donnell at his desk, the first time I read my own
byline, each of these was one of those moments in your
life that you remember for years. What was happening
now, though, I didn't want to remember. But if my father
was going to survive, and if Stephen Gaines's killer was
going to be brought to justice,