The Evil That Men Do (2 page)

Artie nodded and waited.

“Bad date?” he asked when Donne didn’t elaborate.

“No, my sister.”

“You have a sister?”

Donne downed his pint and Artie took it to refill.

“There’s a reason you didn’t know that.”

“And now you have to call her about something?”

“You’re quick,” Donne said. There was no smile to go along with the comment.

Artie put the pint down so hard he nearly dropped it. He turned on his heel and walked away. Donne picked up his cell phone and dialed.

Susan picked up on the third ring.

“I’ll do it,” he said without preamble. “I can start tomorrow. Where’s Mom staying?”

“Uh,” she mumbled. “Grove Estates in Wayne. On Berdan Avenue.”

Two women walked into the bar, hair made up like they’d just come from shooting
The Sopranos
. They wore shorts and tank tops and cracked gum.

“I’ll be there in the morning.”

“Do you want me to be th—”

He snapped the phone shut.

Steve Earle on the CD player. A good way to go, because he did feel all right. Surprisingly so. There weren’t any nerves, no sweaty palms, just the job at hand.

The Ryder truck rumbled up Third Avenue, crossing Seventy-sixth. Mike Garibell could see the restaurant up ahead. He was going to need to find parking soon.

Mike Garibell. He smiled at the name.

He was going to have to think of himself that way tonight. That was the name on the fake driver’s license. In case he got pulled over.

Hey, Mike, how are you tonight?
the bouncer at the bar next door might ask, checking the ID.

I’m fine.

No, don’t say anything. Just smile and nod. Act like you belong.

Carter’s was on the corner of Seventy-ninth and Third. A banner hung from the canopy advertising “Our 75th Year!” Good a time as any for revenge. The exterior of the restaurant was wood paneled, with glass swing doors that led to a dark hallway. No one was inside. The place had closed down hours earlier.

Mike pulled the truck to a stop on the corner. Put it in park. He figured it would take about two minutes for someone to come out of one of the bars and notice the damn thing and call the cops. Another seven or eight minutes for the cops to get there and check it out. If it hadn’t been two in the morning, even less time.

That would give Mike about ten minutes to get some space between him and the truck. Doable. Might even get to suck a pint down before pressing the old button.

They had to learn. Family was the most important thing. Payback started now.

Fuck it, just get the hell out of there. He stepped down from the cab of the truck and crossed the street. He didn’t hurry. He walked. He looked like he belonged. Like Mike Garibell was supposed to be there.

He made his way up to Eightieth and turned left. There was an Irish pub on the corner, and he stopped in. The place was nearly empty. Five more minutes and the fuzz would be swarming around the big yellow truck.

When the bartender put a glass full of Smithwick’s in front of him, Mike decided it was time. He didn’t know how the fucking Arabs did it, sat in the car and pressed the button. Let themselves go with the truck. It didn’t make sense.

Even now, a block and a half away, he felt a moment of regret as he reached into his pocket.

Finding the remote, he pressed the button. A moment of hesitation, then an eruption of light and sound rattled the glasses. The bartender swore and hit the ground.

Mike finished the pint in two gulps, dropped a five on the bar, and left.

He was six blocks north when his ears finally stopped ringing.

DONNE’S SISTER CALLED WHEN HE WAS ON VALLEY
Road in Wayne, which, he was pretty sure, was the worst place to call anyone with Verizon in New Jersey. The phone buzzed once and then dropped out, sending it right to voice mail. He hoped she thought he was avoiding her.

He made a left onto Berdan and saw Grove Estates just up the street. It looked like a bed-and-breakfast. A house that reached back probably an acre, with a porch at the front door. Its roof pointed toward the sun, and its aluminum siding was pink. It looked comfortable and welcoming, as it was supposed to.

Inside, the reception area looked like the lobby of a hotel. A few senior citizens sat around a fountain, reading or talking with one another. Soft Tony Bennett played over the loudspeakers, and receptionists dressed like nurses smiled at everyone.

He stopped at the welcome desk. A woman with dark hair pulled back in a bun smiled at him.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes,” Donne said. “My name’s Jackson Donne.”

“You’re
Isabelle’s son? She talks about you all the time. We were wondering when you were going to come visit.”

He felt a wave of guilt and tried to let it pass without showing it to everyone in the room.

“I’ve been busy,” he muttered.

“She’s in room three oh eight.” The way she spoke, Donne wondered if there was a poster in the break room reminding the employees to answer the phone with a smile.

She pointed to Donne’s right. Closed double doors with a combination keypad.

“Through there. Third door on the right. The code is one, five, seven. When you go through, make sure you pull the door closed. There is a pad on the other side for when you leave. Same code.”

“Why the security?” he asked.

“We don’t want any of the residents in that wing to get out. We have a staff that’s outnumbered by residents twenty to one. If the door is left open, one of the residents could wander unsupervised and injure either another resident or themselves.”

“Do I have to go in armed?” He smiled.

She didn’t. “We change the code every week or so, so be sure to ask. Sometimes the residents find the combination out and sneak through. Have a good day, Mr. Donne.”

He pressed the code and opened the door. He stepped into another room, much like the lobby. A large TV played the news — a picture of something that looked like a war zone — and a few people sat on a couch, staring at the screen blankly. A woman in a wheelchair cried. Another in an easy chair seemed comatose. A man screamed that he wanted to see his father. The man had to be nearing eighty.

Four closed doors down a pale, plain hallway, he found room 308. He knocked gently and pushed the door open. A small square room with a twin bed in the middle, his mother lying asleep in it. A dresser with a mirror above it and a small TV across from the bed next to a desk and chair. A long window with drawn curtains let sunlight seep through. He stood in the doorway and watched his mother’s chest rise and fall slowly.

Stepping closer, he saw how white her hair had gotten. The last time he’d seen her it had been a light blond, but now it nearly matched the pillowcase. Even as she rested there were wrinkles around her lips, eyes, and nose that hadn’t been there before. His mother had had her kids late, but she’d always acted young. Always looked young. Until now. He put his hands in his pockets, closed his eyes, and took a long, slow breath.

Donne’s cell phone buzzed and he stepped out of the room. The caller ID informed him it was his sister again. Flicking open the phone, he wasn’t even able to say hello before he heard her crying.

“Susan,” he said, “are you okay?”

“Jackson, I — Have you seen the news?”

“No. I just got to the nursing home. What’s wrong?”

“Franklin… the restaurant. I don’t know.” She couldn’t control herself, and the sobs continued, harder now. He was surprised she was able to hold the phone.

“Okay. Calm down. Just tell me what happened. Take a deep breath and go through it from the beginning.”

As Donne spoke, he looked up at the TV again. He knew what she was going to say before she said it.

“Franklin’s restaurant in New York. Terrorists or something, they don’t know. But it’s gone. They blew it up.”

The war zone on the TV screen wasn’t a foreign country. It was New York City.

“Jesus Christ. How many people were hurt?”

“No one is sure what’s going on. They haven’t found any bodies — Oh God.”

“All right. It’s okay. Where’s Franklin?”

“Trying to get into the city.”

“He’s not hurt, then?”

“No,” she said. “He’s all right. There probably wasn’t anyone there; it happened in the middle of the night. But just…” She trailed off.

“It’ll be okay. Could it have been an accident? A gas explosion, something like that?”

“No. They found pieces of a truck.”

“Well, keep me posted. I’m going to stay here and wait for Mom to wake up.”

Donne went back into the room, pulled out the desk chair next to the bed, and took his mom’s hand. For the first time since he’d last seen his mother, he was worried about his family.

The first thing Franklin Carter thought when he got to the site was that he was going to have to have his shoes shined. Here he was dressed to the nines, pin-striped suit, tailored blue shirt, red Armani tie, black shoes, and he was going to get dust all over them. Dust and who knew what else. Blood maybe?

Could someone have been inside?

He doubted it. The restaurant took its last table at ten-thirty and was usually cleared and closed up by one-thirty. The explosion had happened after two in the morning.

But still, blow the place up? That was a tough way to wake up in the morning. Never mind getting to the city when terrorism was suspected. That was a pain in the ass. The FBI had to come get him, in a black car, lights flashing. They tried to look undercover, but they could put on a show when they wanted to.

“Any idea who could have done this?” one of the agents in the front seat had asked.

No,
Franklin Carter thought.
I don’t have an idea. I know.

But he looked at the agent dead in the eye and said, “No. I don’t know anything about this.”

JACKSON DONNE’S MOTHER WOKE UP AN HOUR
later. She didn’t jolt awake or sit up, she simply opened her eyes and let out a deep breath as if she’d been holding it for a while. He squeezed her hand. She didn’t return the squeeze.

“Daddy?” she whispered.

“No, Mom,” he said. “It’s me, your son. It’s Jackson.”

“Dad,” she said again. “Dad, you can’t go there. You’ll get hurt.”

The words were directed at him. There was fear in her voice, her hands shook, and she breathed quickly as if she was nervous. Her dark eyes bored into his, but she didn’t see her son, she saw her father. And for some reason, he was in danger.

“Mom,” Donne said again. “Your father is dead. He has been for years.”

“Dad, please. Just stay.” She whispered the words, but they contained power. He remembered her ability to do that anytime he came home late. She didn’t want to wake up Susan, but she wanted Donne to know she meant business.
You never do what you’re told
.

Donne wasn’t going anywhere.

She told him or her father — Donne wasn’t sure which — to stay one more time, and then her entire body shook and tears ran down her cheeks. He squeezed her hand tighter. He didn’t know what she was talking about, but he told her it would be okay.

Eventually her breathing slowed, the crying stopped, and she slipped back to sleep. He let go of her hand and stood up.

It didn’t take a doctor to realize she was very ill and there wasn’t much time left. His sister had been right to ask him to come here.

He found a box of Kleenex in the desk after he returned to the chair. He took a few tissues and dried the tears off his mother’s face.

Donne’s throat closed up and he had to leave the room. He stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door of room 308 closed behind him. He dialed his sister.

When she answered, Donne said, “She didn’t recognize me.”

“What are you talking about?” Susan didn’t sound like she was crying anymore, but her voice was thick, as if he’d woken her up from a deep sleep.

“Mom didn’t recognize me.”

“Jackson, that’s just the disease. She doesn’t recognize me half the time. Of course, if you’d taken the time to visit earlier, it would be easier for her.”

“Fuck you, Susan. She kept calling me ‘Dad.’”

“She’s been talking about Grandpa Joe a lot lately.”

“Did you know him?”

“No. He died before I was born too. Mom always called him Grandpa Joe anyway. Don’t you remember?”

To be honest, he didn’t. He only remembered his mother crying the day his father walked out on them. It was the dominating memory of his childhood, his mother’s sadness. When she was disappointed in him, when she compared him to his father. And now she was comparing him to
her
father.

“Has Mom ever talked about her father being in danger?” he asked.

“What? What are you talking about?”

The old woman in the wheelchair who’d been crying earlier rolled past him and asked him to have a good day.

He told Susan what their mother had said.

“No,” Susan said. “She never said anything like that. I told you, she said he killed someone.”

“Who would know about Grandpa Joe? Are there any relatives still around I could speak to? Maybe they could tell us what Mom is talking about.”

“Aunt Faye is still around. She lives in Rutherford, I think. I’ll have to look up her address. Franklin and I send her a Christmas card every year. Hold on. Let me find the address book.”

The thought of Susan and her husband actually taking the time to write out Christmas cards was vaguely sickening. She was living a normal life, the kind he never imagined for himself.

Susan came back and gave him the address. Donne memorized it.

For the first time, he noticed the antiseptic smell of the nursing home. It was too clean, like everything had been washed away.

For all the work the staff put into making this a home, it still felt like a hospital, clean, sanitary, and distant.

Mike Garibell burned the fake ID and became Bryan Hackett again.

Standing in the middle of his living room, Hackett smiled as he watched the news. The feds had no idea. They hadn’t ruled out terrorism yet. He had plenty of time. And his job wasn’t even done yet.