The Darkness Part 43

"Back in? Why would you do that?"

"Look," Jack said.

I turned around to see orange flames licking at the windows of the warehouse, thick black smoke pouring from inside.

"How'd it catch on fire?" I said.

"Don't know," Carruthers said. "But that smoke isn't from fire."

"The Darkness," I said. "Somebody's burning the place down from inside."

Before I could speak again, I heard a single gunshot report. Then there was something wet and sticky on my chest. Then I looked into Jack's eyes and knew what had just happened.

"Henry," Jack said, "what..."

Then the old man was flung backward, a red rose blooming on his white s.h.i.+rt.

"Jack?" I said.

He looked at me as he fell, his eyes wide and fearful.

Then another gunshot sounded out, this one hitting the adjacent car, less than six inches from where I stood. We ducked for cover, waiting for the firing to end. I stared at Jack, then quickly looked up to see who was shooting at us.

Eve Ramos was standing at the doorway, gun out, her face covered in blood and ash.

And then a barrage of gunfire like I'd never imagined 369.

tore the air apart, ripping Ramos apart in a hail of bullets and blood. Her body was flung through the air like a puppet, her gun firing wildly into the air, before she fell, lifeless, next to the burning building that housed her life's work.

I knelt down next to Jack, a knot in my throat as I hovered over him. A thin trickle of blood was streaming from his mouth.

"We need an ambulance!" I shouted as loud as I could.

"Somebody help us!"

Two cops ran over, one of them carrying an orange kit.

He placed it beside Jack, opening it, and began to work on my friend. My mentor. The man who was responsible for the person I'd become.

"You're gonna be fine, Jack," I said, holding his hand, praying for one squeeze.

Jack's eyes were open, and to my surprise he was actually smiling. That's when I felt that squeeze, the old, cracked palm in mine. The blood on my s.h.i.+rt from a man who'd lived a life that had seen more than I could ever hope to.

"It's okay, Henry," he said, his voice weak, raspy. "I've told my story."

"No," I said, tears welling, as I squeezed his hand harder. "You can't. This is our our story. You and me." story. You and me."

Jack smiled. Then he said, "I know. Butch and Sundance, Henry. Thank you for saving my life."

Then Jack O'Donnell closed his eyes for the last time.

Epilogue.Amanda held my hand through the entire funeral. I didn't cry once, and when the service was over, when the church had emptied, I hated myself for that. But then I realized that Jack had ended his life the way he wanted to, chasing that one big story, his name once again where it belonged. His final story.

Through the Darkness Comes the Dawn by Jack O'Donnell and Henry Parker Rex Malloy was dead. Eve Ramos was dead. Sevag Makhoulian was found less than an hour after Jack's death, hiding in a gas station in Queens. He was under indictment for enough crimes to keep him in prison until the rapture.

No less than a dozen people, ranging from accountants who handled the 718 a.s.sets to the mayor himself, were under investigation. And I had no doubt that what they would find would end perhaps the largest drug conspiracy the city had ever seen.

And by investigators' estimates, nearly ten tons worth of narcotics had gone up in flames in that warehouse.

371.

Though he died to tell the story, Jack had saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives.

He would be remembered the way he deserved to be.

A journalist who told the truth, a man who uncovered the greatest stories never told.

The day of the funeral, the Gazette Gazette ran a special edition ran a special edition with an insert that collected some of Jack's most famous pieces from his nearly fifty years on the job. Reading them on the subway to work reminded me of just what an amazing career he'd had. And just how rich a life had been lost.

When I got to my desk, there was a voice mail waiting for me. It was from Linda Veltre, the woman who'd edited Jack's book Through the Darkness Through the Darkness nearly twenty years nearly twenty years ago, chronicling the rise of the drug trade, the story where Jack had first learned of the Fury. Her publisher wanted to reissue Jack's book. And she wanted me to write the introduction.

Plus, she said, if I had any thoughts of writing my own book about the investigation of Eve Ramos and 718 Enterprises, she'd love to talk to me over lunch. Apparently she'd already received a call from Paulina Cole's literary agent expressing interest in writing a book about the story, but the editor felt mine was the right one to tell.

It was something to think about, but another day.

The day after Jack's funeral I walked into the offices of the New York Gazette, New York Gazette, and immediately something felt and immediately something felt different, off. I received several nods from my colleagues, the same ones who congratulated me with their eyes, but were afraid to speak because they knew what Jack had meant to me.

Sitting down, I looked out over Rockefeller Center, at a city Jack had known better than most people know themselves. It was a city that pulsed with a million dif-372 ferent veins, a million different stories. And those stories were still out there, waiting to be discovered.

Life would go on. Jack would have wanted it to.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Wallace Langston making his way across the newsroom floor. There was somebody with him. I couldn't see who it was, but Wallace was talking to him earnestly, pointing at things as they walked.

As they got closer, I could see that Wallace was leading around a young man. He looked to be twenty-one or twenty-two, a good-looking kid with short black hair, sharp features, and an air of wonder about him. He was following Wallace's lead like a child experiencing a museum for the first time.

A new reporter. I smiled. The day Wallace had shown me the ropes didn't feel that long ago.

Wallace was not introducing the new guy to anyone.

That would come later.

Then Wallace took a detour and stopped by my desk.

The new guy's cheeks were red, embarra.s.sed, and he had trouble making eye contact.

"Henry," Wallace said. "This is Nicholas Barr. He's fresh out of J-school."

"Nice to meet you, Nicholas," I said, offering my hand.

"Yeah, nice to meet me, too. You. I mean meet you.

Me, nice to meet you."

"Easy there, Nicholas," I said.

"You can call me Nick," he said, his voice shaking. "Or Nicholas. Nicky. Whatever you want."

"Nick it is."

"That's cool," he stammered. "I mean, okay."

"We'll catch up later, Parker," Wallace said, and I felt the veteran editor's hand on my shoulder. Wallace would 373.

miss Jack as much as I would. It'd be good to tell stories of the old man. "Maybe you'll show this new kid the ropes sometime."

"You got it."

And then, when Wallace and Nick Barr had left my desk, I heard the young reporter whisper enthusiastically to Wallace, "Dude, that was Henry Parker."

"He's a great reporter," Wallace said. "And actually, I think the two of you will get along quite well."

"Unreal," Barr said. "This whole place. Unreal."

I smiled, thinking about several years ago, my first day at the Gazette, Gazette, when I swiped Jack O'Donnell's coat with when I swiped Jack O'Donnell's coat with my hand just to see if it was real. I remembered the pride and disbelief in knowing I'd be working just mere feet from a living legend.

Unreal. It had all seemed unreal.

Then I looked at Nick Barr, standing where I'd been just a few short years ago, and knew that Jack might be living on through me.

Author's Note This book is a work of fiction, but many of the events discussed, specifically in regard to the growth of the drug trade in the United States in the 1980s and the CIA's involvement in the distribution of crack to fund Contra groups, are based in fact. Gary Webb's series of "Dark Alliance" articles in the San Jose Mercury News contributed mightily to the development of this book. As is often the case, the truth surrounding Webb's reporting and his alleged suicide is far contributed mightily to the development of this book. As is often the case, the truth surrounding Webb's reporting and his alleged suicide is far stranger (and more terrifying) than fiction.

The full text of Webb's reporting is online, and can be read at: www.narconews.com/darkalliance/drugs/index.htm The murder of Robert Paz was an actual international incident, and one that was instrumental in sparking the U.S. invasion of Panama and the eventual capture of Manuel Noriega. The manner of Paz's death described in this book is accurate, as was his alleged members.h.i.+p in the "Hard Chargers," a U.S.-backed insurgency brigade whose purpose was to incite conflict with the Panama Defense Forces in the hopes of inciting retaliation that would positively impact public opinion about the conflict.

While the actual event in which Ramos and Malloy were ambushed during their time as members of the Special Forces in Panama is fiction, it was inspired by the facts surrounding the murder of Robert Paz.

For further reading on these topics, I recommend the following books: DARKALLIANCE by Gary Webb (Seven Stories Press) KILL THE MESSENGER by Nick Schou (Nation Books) LEGACY OF ASHES by Tim Weiner (Anchor Books) CRACK IN AMERICA: edited by Craig Reinarman and Harry G. Levine (University of California Press) COCAINE by Dominic Streatfeild (Picador) THE COMMANDERS by Bob Woodward (Simon and Schuster) Acknowledgments.As always, my sincerest thanks to Dianne Moggy, Margaret O'Neill-Marbury, Donna Hayes, Mich.e.l.le Renaud, Heather Foy, Don Lucey, Adam Wilson, Christine Lowman, Craig Swinwood, Catherine Burke, Belinda Mountain and the whole worldwide MIRA team.

My editor, Linda McFall, has seen both Henry and myself through thick and thin, and her quick pen and spot-on instincts make his stories that much richer.

Joe Veltre is a first-cla.s.s agent and a great friend.

Here's to another book together.

The crime-writing community has been incredibly supportive of my books. For that I must acknowledge Jon and Ruth Jordan of CrimeSpree, CrimeSpree, George Easter and the George Easter and the staff of Deadly Pleasures, Deadly Pleasures, Lynn Kaczmarek at Lynn Kaczmarek at Mystery Mystery News, Andrew Gulli of Andrew Gulli of The Strand The Strand and everyone at ITW and everyone at ITW and MWA who allowed me into their families.

My two extraordinary families--one by birth, one by marriage--continue to be my biggest fans and I am incredibly fortunate to have your love and support.

James Ellroy's stunning novel L.A. Confidential L.A. Confidential was was the main inspiration for this book. Thanks to your searing tale, this story exists.

And to Susan, who has been my partner in every way, shape and form, the person whose approval means more to me than anything, thank you for again making me a better writer and a better man.

These Henry Parker fans went above and beyond helping to spread the word about my books. A sincere thank-you to all of them. Stacy Alesi, Alex Bash, Will Bernier, Vickie Bolton, Nicole A. Bowling, Michael Cader, Mike Cane, Simon-Luke Clark, Nancy Cobb, Rhonda Despins, Alex Faye, Seth Harwood, Ron Hogan, Dante Howard, Brenda Janowitz, Toni Kelich, Christopher Lawson, Mary Beth Lee, Michele Lee, Becky LeJeune, Dave Letus, Catherine Mambretti, R.J. Mangahas, Kevin Manning, Charles B. Mauldin III, Mary Menzel, Tricia Mescall, Michael O'Neill, Lisa Pietsch, Allison Pinter, Tracey Prindle, Yvonne Roberts, Tori Scott, Jennifer Shew, Jamie Singerman, Joy Smith, Jessica Stachak, Laurence Vergowven, Sarah Weinman, Chris Well, Jason Wells, Dave White and Jamieson Wolf.