An Empty Hell Page 6

  A Jersey City emergency room after dark is never empty. From drug overdoses to people living under the property line getting their kids checked out, there’s always a wait. But when Sarah dragged Herrick through the automatic doors, a trail of blood dripping behind him, the nurses didn’t waste any time. They got Herrick on a stretcher and brought him right in.

  They cut off his shirt and washed the excess blood away. The doctor came in, this one an Asian man who looked like he hadn’t slept in three weeks. He took a look at the wound, shook his head, and then said, “You’re lucky.”

  Herrick tried to adjust himself to get a better look at the wound, but stabbing pain kept him down.

  He said, “Yeah, seems like a good day to play the lottery.”

  The doctor ignored him. “The cut is not that deep, but you did bleed a lot. We’re going to clean it out, stitch it up, and then discharge you. I’ll write a script for an antibiotic to take in case of infection.”

  “Is it the kind of antibiotic you’re allowed to drink beer with?”

  The doctor didn’t answer verbally. Instead, he pressed a soapy wet sponge into the wound. Herrick hissed to keep from screaming. The stitching went by a lot easier—so he guessed they used some sort of numbing agent. When the doctor was done, he told Herrick that it would be sore in the morning and to take it easy for a day or two.

  Herrick asked if he could lie there and rest for a few minutes. The doctor told him he had at least fifteen minutes before they would get him his release papers. He told the nurse about Sarah, and the nurse said she’d try to find her and send her back. Herrick exhaled when they left.

  And then his phone rang.

  Herrick reached into his pocket and retrieved it. Checking the caller ID, he saw a blocked number. Rule number one of being a private eye, always answer blocked numbers. You can hang up mid-conversation if you need to.

  “Matt Herrick.” To describe the voice would be like describing grass growing. Nondescript. Emotionless.

  Herrick said that it was. Somehow, he knew this wasn’t a telemarketer. He glanced around the room to see if anyone was eavesdropping. It didn’t appear that way, too many people concerned with their own illnesses and injuries. He saw Sarah come through the double doors and head in his direction.

  “Were you a fan of my visit today? Have you stopped the bleeding?” The voice on the phone asked.

  “Only ten stitches, he said. But they had to cut my shirt off. I liked that shirt.”

  Sarah approached his bed, but Herrick held up a hand. Noticing the phone in his hand, she nodded and turned her back. It still felt like a rude gesture, even if she understood.

  “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Herrick. That boy who got on the bus before we met. Is he a student of yours? Do you care about him?”

  The pain in Herrick’s side turned to ice and spread throughout his body.

  “This has nothing to do with him.”

  A small chuckle. “But what if it did? What if I made it so?”

  “You’re asking for a world of hurt,” Herrick said.

  Sarah flinched, but didn’t turn around.

  “I’ve been doing my research on you,” the voice said. “I’ve only known about you for a few hours—a day maybe? But you’re easy to find on the Internet and you’ve got a lot of demons.”

  Call his bluff. “No more than anyone else.”

  “Hmmm.” The tapping of keys. “Matthew Benjamin Herrick. Afghanistan, shot a child suspected of being a suicide bomber. That must keep you up at night. It was the boy or your battalion, right? Must have been. But to kill a child, you must work hard to chase that one away.”

  Herrick didn’t respond. Whatever words came out of his mouth would only give this guy more information than he needed.

  “And then, only years later, your team, your precious team, lost a valuable member last year, didn’t they? You’re a private eye. Could you have stopped it?”

  Yes.

  “Your dreams must battle each other. Which nightmare will take top billing that night.”

  “How’s the ankle?”

  “Better than your psyche, I assure you.” The man exhaled. “Let me explain to you why I’m calling. This is your one and only warning. We are not going to let you continue on this case you’re working. We have methods. This is step one. If you continue on the path you’re traveling, you will suffer.”

  Sarah now turned back around. She shrugged in his direction. Mouthed Who are you talking to?

  Herrick shook his head back at her. Don’t worry about it.

  “You don’t scare me. You went down pretty easily. Bring it.”

  “You think I was trying to kill you today? That is not how we work. No, we will take everything from you. We take things from everyone. You’ll think of me every time you leave that gym. Every time one of your players leaves. Maybe I’ll be there. Maybe I won’t.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  Another chuckle. “One afternoon. That’s all it took. You are not a complicated man, Mr. Herrick. Not one bit. I know what you care about. You care about your team. Oh, and tell Ms. Cullen I said hello.”

  Before Herrick could respond, the line disconnected. Suddenly the burning sensation in his side wasn’t the worst pain he felt.

  Sarah approached the bed, but Herrick wouldn’t speak. He was too busy focusing his breathing.

  Controlling it.

  Because that was all he could do at this moment.

  ALEX ROBINSON pulled up to his parents’ house in Lyndhurst. He was lucky to find a parking spot on the narrow street. Driveways were at a premium and cars overpopulated the town, filled up the curbs. But Robinson had a stroke of luck and was able to park just outside.

  The house was dark save for the flickering TV in the living room and the glow of a light from the bedroom. Probably his mother’s lamp on the bed table. He got out of the car and went inside without knocking.

  “Dad?” he called out in the dark.

  The grumble back came from the living room. Beyond that was the hum of a crowd and the thunk of bodies flung into the boards—his dad was watching a hockey game on TV. Bernie Robinson loved hockey.

  He found his dad exactly how he expected to find him. Sitting in the recliner, bottle of Jim Beam and empty glass on the end table next to him. The bottle was open, and the glass had a film on it. Robinson wondered how much he’d had, and expected he’d be able to guess by the time their conversation was over.

  “What are you doing here?” The words were said slowly, as if his dad was focusing on them. The past two years had shown Robinson he was focusing on not slurring.

  “How’s Mom?”

  “Upstairs. Hasn’t said a word in three days.”

  “Is she eating?”

  “Here and there.”

  “Are you eating?”

  His dad waved a hand at him. Then he poured a drink. “Want some?”

  Another beer would be great, but that would wait until he got home. Not in front of his dad.

  “No.”

  “Go say hi to your mother.”

  “In a minute. I want to talk to you.”

  The silence hung in the air after his dad hit the mute button. He drank, and Robinson watched.

  When his dad put the glass down, Robinson said, “I’m going to make you proud of me, Dad.”

  His dad licked his lips and then said, “There’s a first time for everything.”

  Fire ran through Robinson’s skin, and it felt like something was tugging at his brain, pushing it into his sinuses. He wanted to scream, and was glad he turned down the drink. He counted to ten.

  “All our problems would be solved,” Robinson said.

  “How are you going to do that? You’re going to bring Angie back from the dead?” Spittle dripped from his dad’s cheek as he spoke. “That would make me proud of you, son.”

  “She died fighting for us, Dad. All of us.”

  “You can’t even say her name.” Bernie wiped his mouth. “She m
ade me proud. You? You were a terrible cop. You’re lucky not to be in jail. And now you’re a private eye, right? How can you even hold an apartment?”

  Robinson counted to ten again.

  “Just—I’m not going to see you for a while. I wanted to give you a head’s-up.”

  His dad poured another drink and downed it. Three fingers and it went down like a shot.

  “Go see your mother. Then leave. When it’s time for me to be proud of you, give me a call.”

  Robinson stood up, hovering over his dad. He wanted to give him a hug. Something to show him it was all going to be all right.

  Instead, he turned and climbed the stairs to his mother’s room. The light was on like he suspected and Esther Robinson was under the covers. There was a TV on their dresser, but it wasn’t on. There was a book on the table next to her, but it was closed. His mom’s eyes were open, however. She stared at the wall in front of her.

  “Mom?”

  She didn’t flinch.

  “Mom. I just wanted to tell you that I love you. I’m going to try and fix things.”

  He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. His mom blinked. The only acknowledgment he’d gotten from her in the past two years was a blink. Ever since the funeral, she wouldn’t talk to him.

  Robinson descended the stairs and yelled goodbye to his dad. No answer. He left the house and went back to his own apartment, dreaming about the case of Bud Light he’d splurged on.

  Before he started driving, he checked his phone. There was a text that read: It’s started.

  THE NEXT morning, Herrick called the Jersey City police station and got in touch with Patrick McKinny. He requested they send a cop down to hang around outside the school during practice time. When McKinny said they couldn’t spare a cop, he promised he would try to get some recruiting dirt from the football team. McKinny, a die-hard Notre Dame fan even though he went to Saint Peter’s—found some extra overtime pay in his budget.

  After the phone call, Herrick got back to work, despite the aching side. Clearly, someone had been tracking his movements because of this Jackson Donne thing. He’d only spoken to two people. Franklin Carter didn’t answer his phone, so Herrick left a message asking for a return call.

  The institution transferred Herrick’s call to Dr. Rettig and she answered on the fourth ring.

  After he identified himself, he said, “I’m going to try and do this right way, so please don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not sure you need to take that tone, Mr. Herrick.”

  He wanted to shout that he was nearly killed last night, and he would take whatever damn tone he wanted, but, after a deep breath, decided that would be a bad idea.

  Outside his window, a Hoboken bakery truck dropped off fresh hamburger and sub rolls at the nearby bars. People rushed toward the PATH train to get to their Manhattan office jobs. It was cold out, and those pedestrians clutched their jackets and steaming coffees tight. A handful of people milled around, checking cell phones or eating breakfast. Herrick wondered why they didn’t find shelter.

  “Can Carver make or receive phone calls?”

  “You’re wasting my time with this? Can’t you OPRA the court report?” She coughed.

  “Asking you is quicker than the government.”

  “He’s not in solitary confinement, but no. His lawyer can come speak to him, and you saw what he has to go through to have other visitors. Otherwise, he can’t talk to anyone. It was the compromise they made in court.”

  Another phone call beeped through on his cell. Taking his phone away from his ear, he saw it was another blocked call. An icicle formed in his stomach, but he let it go to voice mail. It was more important to talk to Rettig.

  “Did anyone come to see Carver yesterday?”

  “You. That’s it.” Rettig cleared her throat. “Mr. Herrick, I’m not really that happy to answer your questions, and I am really busy here.”

  “One more,” Herrick said. “After I spoke to him, did Carver act any differently? Agitated? Angry? Happy?”

  “Mr. Herrick—come on now. In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve given you way more information than I should have. I really can’t be discussing patients with you. Everything I’ve told you is public record. But I feel like I’m even toeing the line on that front. Have a nice day.”

  Click.

  Herrick ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. His wound didn’t hurt that much when he breathed, which had to be a good sign. The prescribed painkillers bottle stayed on the kitchen counter, untouched. So many of his buddies had seen worse in the sand and gone without it. He could too.

  He checked the voice mail via speakerphone, and the voice from the previous night hovered in the room.

  “Hello, Matt. I wanted to check in with you this morning. Make sure you were okay. And, well, apologize. It was rather clumsy of me to come at you with a knife, wasn’t it? I’m better than that. And you. You’ve been in that sort of situation before, haven’t you? I do hope you’re okay, because our game is just beginning.”

  Herrick set the phone down and went to the refrigerator. As the voice kept going, Herrick gulped some orange juice.

  “Anyway, I have a question for you. One I thought about all night. What was it like that day in Afghanistan? Leveling your gun at a boy, just a boy. Was he screaming? Were you? Did you look him in the eye? There had to be something else you could do. They hug suicide bombers, don’t they? Wrap their arms tight around the attackers’ arms to keep them from pressing that fateful button. You were close enough. I’m sure you were.

  “Why didn’t you just hug the child?”

  There was a long pause. The orange juice had gone sour. He put the carton down and rested his hands on the counter, staring at the phone. The timer on the voice mail showed there were still thirty seconds of message left.

  “Could you imagine that image if a news reporter had gotten a hold of it? The headline: MARINE JUST WANTS PEACE. With you holding that kid tight. People would see it as a sign of peace. You just praying the kid didn’t blow up. Oh, it could have been a watershed moment.”

  Herrick’s breathing was ragged. He could see the small boy in front of him. Standing there, praising God. People running, while Herrick’s hand went to his holster.

  “But that’s not how it worked for you. Or for the kid. That’s gotta be why you don’t carry a gun anymore. Yeah, I found that out too. There are a lot of stories about you out there. Time—that inverview about the kid. How you just wished you could talk to his family.”

  Herrick squeezed the trigger and the boy fell, hands at his side. Blood splattering the corporal standing behind the kid, three steps away. The screaming echoing in his head.

  “And all your cases covered by the Star Ledger. And all those big wins too. Those boys, do they look up to you?” He heard traffic in the background. The squealing of a bus.

  Herrick’s eyes burned.

  “Well, this message has gone on long enough. We’ll talk soon. Unless you stop what you’re doing.” A deep sigh. “We both know you won’t stop. Until next time…”

  The voice mail cut off.

  Herrick was sweating. He slammed his palms down on the counter and let the pain reverberate up through his wrists into his shoulders. The phone’s screen faded into black while he stood there.

  The images burned into his frontal lobe didn’t.

  JACKSON DONNE’S morning was different. The wet, showered beard, the defined lines on his face, and the overly bitter coffee were the same, but the morning was different.

  There was no place to go. No wood to cut. No repairs to do.

  Just silence in his cabin. He sipped the coffee and thought. His next move would be key. Mario could be dead already, the voice mail essentially signing his death certificate. But if he wasn’t, and this wasn’t ever about Mario, finding and saving the man rested on Donne’s shoulders.

  And he would have to do that without being caught.

  The one thing Donne had sta
yed away from was the Internet. In the year he’d been here, he’d only checked once, and the pain still rested in his shoulders. She was still dead, and checking a web browser wouldn’t change that.

  But knowing Mario better would help. The Internet was a tool, not a trigger. Donne put the coffee down. He wondered how long he’d get at the café. Would the men be tracking every IP address in the area? The possibility seemed remote, too overwhelming.

  Especially if it was only one man.

  Donne promised himself he would be quick. Google Mario, get as much information as he could, and get out.

  He wouldn’t look up her. Wouldn’t find pictures, wouldn’t read the obituary. He wouldn’t Google Jeanne either. He already knew there’d be nothing to find on that end.

  She was better than he was at hiding.

  Donne rinsed out his coffee mug, pushed his hair back, put on a wool cap and jacket, and left the house.

  THE CAFÉ smelled the same as it did a year ago. Roasted beans and sugary baked goods needled their way into his brain. Images of Kate flooded back to him, and for an instant he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the pain. He’d been through this before, settling into years of darkness.

  He wouldn’t let it happen again. Life was worth too much. She’d have wanted him to go on. She’d saved him.

  Donne walked to the counter and ordered another coffee and a corn muffin. The barista—or whatever this place called him—wrote “Joe” on the cup without asking and told him to have a seat, it’d be a minute or two. Takes a long time to pour a cup, apparently.

  Finding an open computer, Donne sat down and logged onto the Internet. Google came up. Donne ignored the doodle of the day and typed in the name of Mario’s motel. The website loaded and Donne scrolled through it. Start simple; see if anything catches your eye.

  If someone were watching for Donne, he’d have found him already.

  Nothing stood out on the motel website. The barista put his coffee down on a coaster next to him. The corn muffin too. Donne took a bite, and the butter added some salt to the sweet. He typed Mario’s name into the Google search this time.