Part 2 (1/2)

He brought the bags into the bedroom and unpacked. Strange, he thought as he placed the folded clothes back into the closet. He'd never been one of those people who unpacked right after a trip. His duffels would sit there stuffed to the gills for a week or more before Jack finally began to run low on underwear. But now, unpacking was something cathartic, cleansing. It meant he was home.

Jack had gone to see Henry even before returning to his loft. Henry was the reason Jack checked out of rehab, the reason he was here right now. He still had a few friends at the Gazette, Gazette, people he could trust with his ordeal knowing they wouldn't go blabbing to Wallace Langston-the editor-in-chief-or Harvey Hillerman, the publisher. And when they told him what had happened to Henry, about Stephen Gaines and the enigma known only as the Fury, Jack knew the time was right for him to reclaim his life. people he could trust with his ordeal knowing they wouldn't go blabbing to Wallace Langston-the editor-in-chief-or Harvey Hillerman, the publisher. And when they told him what had happened to Henry, about Stephen Gaines and the enigma known only as the Fury, Jack knew the time was right for him to reclaim his life.

Jack had written about the Fury nearly twenty years ago. It had been a small part of a larger book-the only reason it was not more prominent was that there was a severe dearth of facts. There were rumors, innuendos, but what Jack could print and back up was scant.

Now, it seemed, Henry had stumbled upon the scent Jack had left lingering all those years ago, and it seemed like fate that this would be the story to rejuvenate his career. Jack had never worked side by side with Henry on a story before, and he was curious to see what the kid could do. Henry was young, scarily young, but had broken more stories and shown more guts than some reporters who'd been around forty years. Bloodhounds were born, not made, and the key to finding the best stories was being able to sniff them out on your own. Any reporter could have a ”deep throat,” someone who handed them a lead on a platter. It took a special kind of person to find that thread themselves and pull it until the spool unraveled.

Jack had been like that. Years ago. And he wanted to believe Henry was like that.

He would find out tomorrow.

Once his bags were emptied, he stripped down and went into the bathroom. The mirror's reflection was not too kind. His gray beard had gone scraggly, his eyes had heavy bags. He did look worse than he felt, for whatever that was worth, and he hoped his appearance would not affect his job performance tomorrow. People could sense a man who was tired, and had been through too much to perform properly.

Jack took a long, hot shower. He scrubbed away at his body hard enough to remove a layer of skin. Then he trimmed his beard, clipped his nails and combed his hair.

The reflection this time came back a little better, a little more dignified, but Jack knew that what was inside him mattered the most. Still, he wanted to feel like a new man. Or at least the man he had once been.

Jack went over to the leather sofa in his living room, plopped down and sank into the plush cus.h.i.+ons. Comfy, he thought. Before rehab Jack had rarely taken the time to relax. Most hours spent on the couch were with a snifter of something strong, something to dull the nerves, while some idiotic show ran on the television.

Jack had been a zombie for years, and it took abject humiliation for him to realize it.

He turned the television on, flipped through a hundred channels of nothing before turning it off. When he'd exhausted that, Jack walked into his study. It was a room about twelve feet by sixteen, filled with cherry-wood bookshelves and a thick oak desk that was nearly bare. Funny.

When Jack was a young man, the only thing he wanted more than to be a reporter was to have a desk ma.s.sive enough to hold all his worldly possessions. A big desk was a sign of stature, a symbol that you'd made it. And now he had that desk, and it was embarra.s.singly empty.

Jack did a brief inventory of the items on his desk: -one printer, not hooked up-two empty picture frames-one picture of his old dog, Bubbles, who had been more of a partner than any of his wives-one beer mug, still with alcohol residue staining the bottom. It was a miracle fungus had not begun to grow from it.-between two heavy paperweights, first printings of the American editions of each of his books His old desk at the Gazette Gazette was a third of the size, but had three times as many items on it. Fitting, he supposed, since work was really where his life took place. That was where he kept newspaper clippings, notebooks, important phone numbers. It was at home where Jack ceased to function properly. At work Jack had everything he could possibly need. was a third of the size, but had three times as many items on it. Fitting, he supposed, since work was really where his life took place. That was where he kept newspaper clippings, notebooks, important phone numbers. It was at home where Jack ceased to function properly. At work Jack had everything he could possibly need.

Jack went over and plucked out a hardcover copy of Through the Darkness. Through the Darkness. He hadn't picked up the book in years. He remembered all the aching late nights, spent hunched over a typewriter while the sun rose outside of the crummy one-bedroom apartment he rented in h.e.l.l's Kitchen. At the time Jack remembered hating it, but looking back, he couldn't think of any fonder memories. He hadn't picked up the book in years. He remembered all the aching late nights, spent hunched over a typewriter while the sun rose outside of the crummy one-bedroom apartment he rented in h.e.l.l's Kitchen. At the time Jack remembered hating it, but looking back, he couldn't think of any fonder memories.

He remembered the pride he felt when he sent the finished ma.n.u.script to his publisher, and the letter he received from his editor just days later with just one sentence on it: This book is an American cla.s.sic, and we will be honored to publish it as such.

Jack found a paperback copy on his shelf and read all the glowing praise reviewers had heaped upon it. He felt a swell of pride. This book was him, something he'd poured his heart and soul into and could never be taken away. The book was truth, it was light, and it was everything he could have been.

Only the book wasn't finished.

The Fury was out there, Jack was sure of it. He slipped the paperback onto the shelf and placed the hardcover gently back between the other books. He sat down at his desk. It was late. Much later than he'd stayed up in a long time, at least, the latest he'd stayed up while also sober.

It felt good.

Jack was nervous. Nervous about tomorrow, about seeing Henry, about what they would find.

He hadn't felt truly nervous in a long, long time.

Jack O'Donnell sat in that chair, folded his hands behind his head and decided he would try to stay awake to watch the sun rise.

Chapter 4.

At three in the morning, the blond man left an apartment building in Chelsea and tucked his s.h.i.+rt back in. His breathing was slightly elevated. He hadn't expected the chemist to fight back.

Over the years, the man named Malloy had seen many people die. He could usually tell from a glance just how people would react when faced with death, and how readily they would accept it.

The chemist he had just killed was a scrawny man without an ounce of muscle on him. He'd spent his life in a lab, poring over texts and notebooks. He had barely lived a day in his life, and despite that, he had the temerity to attack Malloy when confronted with the gun.

Malloy had confirmed that the mixture the chemist had made was complete and potent. He also made sure that it was easily replicated. Because once the chemist was gone, the operation would be run by people following the chemist's instructions.

At first, the chemist had begged for his life. He told Malloy that he had a wife and daughter back in Panama, that he needed to take care of them. This was true, Malloy knew, but he also knew that the wife and daughter had received well over a hundred thousand dollars from the chemist. In Panama, that would go a long way.

Malloy had met the chemist nearly twenty years ago, and when he was brought over to New York, Malloy trusted him implicitly. The man created drugs because that was all he knew how to do. Just like when people were bankers or lawyers or athletes because that's what they were born to do.

The chemist was not a bad man, and in fact Malloy did not believe he had ever even partaken in his own creations. The drugs paid the bills, so to speak, that was all. Malloy did feel a slight twinge of guilt at taking away the family's only breadwinner, but he knew that the dark-haired woman would make sure the family was taken care of.

The family was still in Panama. Their battle was not in America.

Hers was.

When Malloy rounded the corner, he raised his hand to call a cab only to see the dark-haired woman standing there, staring at him. He did not expect her to be there, but he'd ceased to be surprised by her a long time ago.

”Did he fight?” she asked.

”A little,” Malloy responded. ”Nothing that caused too much trouble.”

”That's good. Death hurts more when you fight it.”

”He begged first,” Malloy said, ”for his family.”

”They'll be compensated,” the woman responded. The chemist was dead, and three men were on their way to dispose of the body. Three men he trusted, who'd been with them a long time.

”Did he suffer?” the woman asked.

”Just for a moment, when he realized what was happening.”

She seemed disappointed.

”I see no body with you. I a.s.sume someone will be taking care of it.”

There's a butcher on the Upper West Side, done us some favors over the years. Two grand and n.o.body ever sees a body again.”

”Good price,” the woman said.

”We give him good business,” Malloy replied. His voice was soft, hesitant.

”You don't think we should have killed him,” she said.