Blanket continued. “Mr. DiForio would like to remind you how important it is that we find whatever carry-on luggage these commuters had on them. He wants to remind you not to get overzealous in finding these commuters, and that you’re not to damage whatever carry-on luggage you find.”
The Ringer remained silent. He clenched the phone until he felt the plastic bend beneath his fingers.
Anne. I’m so close. I can see your face, your beautiful face. And I see his face crushed in my hands as he begs for his life. I want you to see it, too, baby. I want you to see what I will do for you. I’ll be with you soon. But I have one more mission to accomplish.
“Do you understand what Mr. DiForio wishes of you?”
Shelton Barnes hung up. He was no longer the Ringer. The facade had been lifted. The man underneath the mask revealed. Once again, he was nobody’s servant but Anne’s, and Shelton Barnes was the name she’d always known him by. The name he’d discarded years ago when his life exploded in a fiery ball. The name he was finally ready to reclaim.
Barnes took Anne’s photo from the flap in his breast pocket. A gasp escaped his lips. The pain would never die. Her delicate features obliterated. Now, the only true memory of her was in his mind.
A tear streaked down Barnes’s face as he gently placed the photo back in his pocket. The sky was darkening, a harsh wind blowing through the air, chilling him to the bone. A dark storm of vengeance was coming for Henry Parker, and the chase was drawing to an end.
Anne. I miss you so much. Soon the day will come when I can join you. I wait for that day with open arms, open lips. To feel your kiss, your touch. We’ll be together soon.
But not yet.
Not yet.
Barnes started his car and pulled onto the Interstate, following the signs toward I-90 East. Toward New York. Toward Henry Parker. Toward the man he had to kill.
32
I woke up as we were passing through a tolbooth, following a sign to the Harlem River Drive. I blinked the sleep from my eyes.
“Jesus, talk about the worst company in the world.” The driver shot me a glare, then returned his eyes to the road. “I mean you didn’t both have to fall asleep, did you?”
Mitchell Lemansky. He’d picked us up on the side of the road. Amanda spent half an hour showing off some leg on the highway, despite my protests. Mitchell wasn’t too happy when I climbed into the front seat, Amanda in the back. And we both feel asleep in approximately four milliseconds.
I turned around to see Amanda sprawled across the back seat, legs curled up beneath her, arms folded under her head like a makeshift pillow. She looked like she was catching up on a month’s worth of sleep. I only wished I could join her.
The sun had slipped beneath the clouds, a blue-black dusk settling over the city. I’d wanted so badly to be accepted by this town, to become a part of it, and now I was returning as an unwanted guest to a city that would love to dispatch me with extreme prejudice. I gently rubbed Amanda’s exposed ankle. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open.
“Wha…where are we?”
“We’re almost there,” I said. She nodded, yawned.
“I was dreaming,” Amanda said softly. “I was dreaming that something terrible happened to you and there was nothing I could do about it.”
“It was just a dream,” I said. “Nothing’s happened.”
My heart wasn’t in it. We both knew something terrible had already happened, and that rectifying it would be just as difficult.
“Are you two done? Christ, I’ve had better conversation from rocks. Now where you headed? 105th and Broadway, right?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Listen, sorry about all this. We’re just totally burnt out and…”
“Save it,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
We went crosstown on 114th Street, then made a right onto Broadway. I checked my watch. We’d apparently made good time, but I took no solace in that.
It had to end. There had to be a resolution. I knew Grady Larkin held some answers. The only problem was, I didn’t want him to know the questions.
Dread filled me as the apartment building came into view, memories of that night flashing in my head. Acid running through my veins like a psychosomatic warning sign. Mitch parked across the street, turning to me with a slightly annoyed look on his face.
“Well, 105th and Broadway, just like you asked. Now, would it be too much trouble to ask for some cash? Or would you rather just fall asleep again?”
I fished in my wallet and pulled out a crinkled ten. Amanda added a five.
“I’m sorry,” I said, the emotion genuine. “Really, you’re a lifesaver. It’s been a hell of a week.” Mitch nodded, picked at a hangnail.
“Right, sure. Well, listen, take care, guys. It was nice to meet you both in the eight seconds before you started drooling.” He extended his hand. I shook it. So did Amanda.
“Take care, Mitch.”
“Will do,” he said. “Be careful up here. I don’t like this neighborhood much. Always feels like something bad is about to happen.”
“I know what you mean.”
We waved as he drove off, flashing his blinker and disappearing into the night. Then we were alone.
The building stood in front of us like some vast gothic tenement. The last time I was here, nearly three days ago, I was almost killed. My life changed forever. What was once a run-of-the-mill apartment complex had taken over my nightmares.
Welcome home, Henry.
There didn’t seem to be any police activity, just a homeless man staggering around by the building’s entrance. He looked drunk, uninterested in us. I hoped looks weren’t deceiving, and he wasn’t an undercover cop. Paranoia came pretty easy when you’d been shot and hunted.
Moonlight bathed the street, and a chilled wind blew through the city.
“So what now?” Amanda asked.
“Now,” I said, “we see what Grady Larkin knows. It’s a good thing you’re in the market for a new apartment.” I explained what I had in mind.
I squeezed Amanda’s hand as we approached the front door, then pressed the buzzer for Grady Larkin’s apartment. A scratchy voice answered.
“Yeah?”
Amanda said, “Hello? I’m trying to reach the super? I need to lease an apartment and, well, I hope it’s not too late, but I’m getting desperate and I heard from a friend that you have some vacancies.”
“Are you shittin’ me, lady? You know what time it is? Office closed like four hours ago.”
“No, I’m not shitting anyone. Please?” She ad-libbed, “My boyfriend just dumped me and I have nowhere to stay.”
There was an exasperated sigh on the other end, then the buzzer rang and the door unlocked.
The lobby was cold, quiet. Not the quiet of mourning, the quiet of fear. Our steps echoed through the hallway. We were trespassing on dangerous ground, and the building seemed anxious to protest.
We took the stairs down to the basement. The tiling looked bright, fresh-scrubbed. Larkin must have cleaned up after the police had left the crime scene. A complete one-eighty from the grimy textures last time I was here.
We arrived at apartment B1. I looked at Amanda, mouthed the words thank you.
You’re welcome, she returned.
I took the thick black marker out of my pocket, purchased at Union Station for ninety-nine cents, and placed it on the floor by the doorjamb.
I stepped around the corner, out of view of Larkin’s apartment. I felt steam on the back of my neck from the nearby boiler room. Wiping sweat from my eyes, I heard Amanda knock on the door.
I heard the creak of hinges that hadn’t seen WD-40 in many moons, then a throaty voice said, “So you need an apartment?”
“Yeah, um, my friend said he heard about a few vacancies here, and I was hoping I could look at whatever’s available. I’m in the market to lease, like, ASAP.” Her voice was girlish and naive, like a child asking for a cookie and expecting a slap on the wrist. Grady Larkin cleared what sounded like a pint of phlegm from his throat.