Furious Jones and the Assassin’s Secret (12 page)

I was operating with the belief that my dad's book was 100 percent true. Which meant that my mom had killed the Salvatore assassin who had been sent here to kill the witnesses. But,
judging from the recent accidents, the killing of the Salvatore turncoats had continued. Which meant that Anton was alive and well and still killing witnesses in Galena.

But Anton was also a CIA agent. And I would need proof that Anton had crossed over to the dark side if anyone was going to believe me. It seems like my dad had found the proof, but he was a highly trained and talented journalist. I had no idea what journalists did. I had no idea how to investigate. But I knew someone who did.

I took a piece of paper out of my wallet and dialed. Emma answered on the second ring.

“Hello.”

“Yes, miss, we have come into possession of a garment bag that you might have accidentally left behind on your recent Greyhound trip,” I said as seriously as I could.

“Ah, I don't think so. I mean—I have my bags.”

“Well, this bag contained many strange articles.”

“Strange articles?” Emma asked.

“Yes. Very strange. Including a very deranged—one might even say downright disturbing—script for a musical featuring a psychotic, murderous little orphan girl.”

“Furious! I'm so glad you called!” Emma said.

“How is my favorite journalist?” I asked.

“Worried sick about you,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Your grandpa's murder is national news, Furious. I mean front-page, on-the-television-twenty-four-hours-a-day news.”

“Have they mentioned me?”

“Oh, yeah. They mention you every time they mention your dad.”

“What are they saying?” I asked.

“They are saying you're dead, Furious. They are saying you died in the fire at your grandpa's house.”

“What?” Douglas knew I was alive. He saw me hours after the fire. And the firemen wouldn't have found anyone in the house. “That doesn't make any sense.”

“I know,” Emma agreed. “Look, I'm no professional, but the journalist who broke that version of events must have been told in no uncertain terms that your body was in that fire. And it must have come from someone in authority, other­wise they would never report it.”

“Right,” I agreed. “You didn't tell anyone that you met me, did you?”

“No. I haven't told a soul that we met. But I think you need to call someone. You need to tell them you're all right.”

Who would really care? I wondered. The only person that might possibly care was on the other end of the phone right now. And she knew I was okay. At least for now.

“I will. Soon,” I replied.

“What is going on? Are you in danger?” Emma asked.

“I don't know. I'm hoping you can help me answer that.”

“Me?” Emma's voice changed from concerned to scared. “How?”

“I need you to do a little research. I need you to look into a couple of people.”

“Ah, Mister ‘The Newspaper Is Gone. It's Dead.' now needs the skills of a trained journalist, huh?” Emma no longer sounded scared. Just overconfident.

“Yeah. Yeah. Help me out on this and I'll admit that it's a craft and that journalism will live forever. I'll yell it from the bluffs of Galena.”

“Oh, how do you like Galena? Isn't it beautiful?”

“It is,” I said.

“Did you find Betty's?”

“I did. You neglected to mention Betty's connection to the cosmos, though.”

“Hey, I love Betty,” Emma said. “Oh no, Furious, if Betty watches the news she'll see your name. It's not like you have a very common name.”

“We're okay,” I said. “I told her my name was Finbar.”

“Finbar? Why Finbar?” Emma asked.

“Honestly, it was the first name that popped into my head. But what if they show pictures of me? She might recognize my face.”

“No, because you're a minor, they couldn't run photos of you without your . . .” Emma's voice drifted.

“Parents' consent. Right,” I said. “And I don't have parents or guardians or anyone.”

“You have me,” Emma said.

“Thanks. I appreciate it. So, can you do a little research for me?” I asked.

“Sure. Anything to hear you sing my praises. What do you need?”

“I'm hoping you can find out the name of the guy who killed my dad. I'm assuming they have released his identity,” I said.

“He was killed at the scene, right?” Emma asked.

“Yeah,” I answered as images of his face flooded my mind. “I'm trying to see if there is a connection between him and the Salvatore crime syndicate.”

“The Salvatore crime syndicate? You're kidding, right? Tell me you're not mixed up with the Mafia, Furious.” Emma sounded scared again.

“I'm hoping
you
can tell me if I am,” I said. “I'm also hoping you can look into a death that might have happened here in Galena before my mom was killed. It would have happened near Grant Park, and the dead guy would have been Italian. Well, Sicilian, actually.”

“Furious! Please! Just get on the bus and come back to Chicago. I'll help you get out of whatever mess you're in.”

“Thanks, Emma,” I said. “I really do appreciate your concern, but trust me, any information you can find will be a huge help to me.”

There was a long silence.

“Emma?”

“Okay,” she whispered into the phone. “I'll see what I can do.”

“If anyone can do it—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, cutting me off. “Is this your phone number?”

“Yes.”

“I'll call you soon. Stay safe.”

I hung up and thought about Douglas. Why would the authorities say I was dead? They had no body to prove it. Plus, Douglas knew I was alive. Was he running the cover-up? My dad's book said the Salvatores had penetrated every level of government. And my grandpa seemed to think Douglas was involved in my parents' murders. If he convinced the world I was already dead, then he'd be free to hunt me down and kill me. No one would be looking for a dead guy.

I spent the rest of the morning hiking the bluffs of Galena, trying to stay out of sight. I didn't need Anton spotting me. And who knew where Douglas was. I had ditched my phone in New York, but maybe the CIA could see my Web-browsing history. It would show my last search was looking for a bus to Galena.

I
got back to Betty's
a little after three. Betty was waiting for me in the living room.

“Well, Finbar, what do you think of our little town?” Betty asked as I closed the door behind me.

Why had I said my name was Finbar? Could I correct it now? Maybe I could say,
“Finbar”? Oh no, you must have misunderstood me. My name is Dave.

“The town is good,” I lied. It was a town full of mobsters and killers. One of which probably killed my mom. I hated the town.

“Isn't it? I just love this place. It's the galena in the ground that gives it the special vibe,” Betty said.

That was an odd way to put it. “Yeah, the ground, or, ah, the bluffs are pretty cool,” I said.

“No, I mean the mineral. Galena the town was named after galena the mineral. It's all around us here. And it gives off such a wonderful cleansing spirit.”

“Oh, right. Cool,” I said.

“Well, I'm all ready for you.” Betty motioned to the table. “I've prepared something very special just for you.”

The table was draped in bright neon-colored sheets. Just like the ones Betty was wearing.

“What's all involved with this?” I asked nervously as I motioned to the table.

“I'll align your spirits. Trust me, you'll feel great,” Betty said.

I had to admit I had felt great when I woke up in the Second House. And it was hard not to trust Betty, so I sat down on the table. She had me take off my shoes and lay faceup on the table. She started clapping, rubbing, and waving her hands above me. She was repeating something. I wasn't sure what I should look at, so I just closed my eyes.

“Sweetie, you are so out of balance. The galena will be good for you this week. But you are out of sync. Oh wait, just a minute,” Betty said as she walked into the other room and came back with a large pointed crystal on a leather rope. She hung the crystal directly over my forehead.

“Try not to move.”

I laid still while she spun the crystal above me. She repeated the process over various parts of my body. She seemed extremely disappointed with the results.

“Oh, hon,” she kept saying. “Oh, dear, dear, dear.”

Betty started placing crystals on me. She placed one in the middle of my forehead. Over what she called my “third eye.” And then she placed three crystals on my mouth.

“Do you know what a chakra is?” she asked.

“No,” I muttered beneath the crystals.

“ ‘Chakra' is derived from the Sanskrit word meaning ‘round' or ‘wheel.' Your chakra should be spinning effortlessly. It should be bright and brilliant.”

“I take that to mean mine is dull and slow?” I asked.

“Oh, hon. You just need help. Someone to show you the way. Look at me.”

I tried to turn and look at her.

“See how my energy flows?” Betty asked.

I saw nothing.

“These crystals will help your chakra flow. They will help balance you. You have so much negativity and anger for someone so young.”

Right again
, I thought.

Betty spent the next two hours piling rocks on me, lighting candles, burning herbs, and waving her hands. Call me crazy, but I actually felt better when it was over.

I sat up and Betty put a necklace around my neck. She
made me promise I wouldn't take it off. She said it was some sort of protective amulet. It looked like a giant blue eye. It actually reminded me of Lily Freiburger's eye. But who was I to argue with Betty? Clearly I needed protection, and I decided I would take it in any form I could get it. But I did decide it was best to wear it under my shirt.

W
hen I got back to
my room, I found that Betty had hung another giant eye above the futon in my room. It was painted on a sheet of plywood and hung from a rope. I grabbed the last of my Piggly Wiggly minidonuts and sat down on the futon. I pulled up my dad's website and downloaded the next excerpt from
Double Crossed
.

Kidd loaded the Sicilian's body into a canoe from a nearby dock and paddled downstream. He dragged the canoe ashore about five hundred yards down­river. He searched through the Sicilian's clothing and found a wallet with over one thousand dollars in cash and an ID with a Galena PO box for an address. The
picture on the ID looked like the Sicilian's, but the name read James Dutton. Kidd stuck the cash and ID in his pocket and flipped the canoe over to conceal the Sicilian's body.

The crowd had died down by the time Kidd got back to Cannova's Pizzeria.

“Ah, Mr. Kenney,” the hostess greeted Kidd. “I was starting to wonder if we would see you tonight.”

“Yeah, I apologize for being late.” Kidd motioned across the street to the DeSoto House Hotel. “I had some fires to put out.”

“My hero.” She smiled. “Well, I have a table ready for you.”

Kidd ordered gnocchi and a glass of Zinfandel. And the hostess had been right: The gnocchi was out of this world. Maybe even the best he'd ever had.

“I'm so glad you liked it,” the hostess said, clearing the empty dish from the table.

“Say, maybe you can help me out,” Kidd said.

“Sure, what's up?”

“Well, I was supposed to meet a friend of mine here,” Kidd lied. “Actually, he works here. But I haven't seen him all night.”

“Who's your friend?” the hostess asked.

“James,” Kidd said. “James Dutton.”

“Yeah.” She now looked a little surprised. “Well
we haven't seen him either. That's why I'm bussing.” She motioned to the dishes in her hand. “He didn't show up for work tonight.”

“Well, that's odd,” Kidd said. “Does he work another job? He told me to meet him at work. But this was the only work he's ever mentioned.”

“No. This is it. And it's very unlike James to just not show up. He's very prompt and very dependable.”

“Right.” Kidd nodded. “Do you happen to know where he lives? Maybe I'll check in on him.”

“Yeah. He lives down the block, above Dirty Gert's bar.”

“Dirty Gert's?” Kidd asked.

“Yeah, room 22B. Take the stairs up from the alley. You can't miss it.”

“Great. Thanks again. The gnocchi was perfect.”

Kidd paid the bill with the Sicilian's cash and stepped out onto Main Street. Most of the tourists were gone now, and Galena didn't appear to have much nightlife.

The alley behind Main Street played host to a labyrinth of old wooden staircases and planks that led to the apartments above the Main Street shops. Kidd found the Sicilian's apartment a couple of blocks down from Cannova's. The apartment was dark, and a white lace curtain blocked his view into it. Kidd
tapped lightly on the glass and waited. He slid the Sicilian's fake ID between the door and jamb. The door popped open without any force.

Kidd stepped inside and his hand subconsciously went to his hip. No SIG. Kidd suddenly remembered his SIG was at the bottom of the Galena River. He closed the door behind him and wished he had fished the gun out of the river. Maybe he still would.

Kidd stood still as his eyes adjusted to the dark. It appeared to be a one-room place. He could make out an unmade bed in the middle of the room and a countertop that served as the kitchen. He carefully walked to the counter and searched the drawers for a knife. He found a butter knife. It would have to do.