Parker 02 - The Guilty (19 page)

window for him.

160

Jason Pinter

"Man, you don't have to tell me that. I get a buzz just sitting

behind this desk." The
Albuquerque Journal
was still splayed

open on the counter.

"No doubt," I said absently. I nodded at the display containing Chisum's military sword. "How'd you come upon

that beauty?"

"John Chisum," he said without thinking. "One of the most

influential cattle drivers in U.S. history. Blazed the Chisum

trail from Paris, Texas, all the way to the Pecos Valley. You

know John Wayne himself played John Chisum in a movie?"

"No messing? Which one?"

"Was called
Chisum.
"

"Guess that makes sense."

"Anyway, when Mr. Chisum passed on, died in Eureka

Springs, his great granddaughter endowed this museum with

the sword. D'you know Chisum's only children were born to

him by a slave girl he owned?"

"I didn't know that."

"'At's a true fact."

"Sword like that," I said, "probably worth, what, few

grand?" I saw the man's eyes twitch, and he looked down for

a split second.

"Try a few hundred grand. The country's swarming with

collectors of old Western antiques. 'Course most of 'em call

it
memorabilia,
like a freaking baseball card. Most of 'em

wouldn't know a Winchester from Worcestershire sauce, and

I never heard of a baseball card used in a gunfight."

"Speaking of antiques," I said. "Is that a real Winchester

'73 on the wall?"

The man's chest puffed out with pride.

"You're darn right it is. Gun that won the West, gun that

made this country what it is today. Winchester made over

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161

seven hundred
thousand
of those darlin's back in the day.

Nowadays, a '73 in working condition goes for upward of six

figures on the open market."

"Bet it goes for even more on the closed market," I said.

The man winked at me, smirked.

"You'd probably be right there."

"Can't imagine the security you must have in place to

keep valuables like that. I mean, there must be a few million

dollars' worth of
memorabilia
here." The man bristled.

"We take the proper precautions," he said.

"Have you ever had a break-in? A robbery?"

The man took a split second too long to say, "Never."

"That Winchester," I said. "How long have you kept that

particular rifle in this museum?"

He took several seconds to say, "I reckon upward of ten

years."

"And you've never been robbed."

Finally he took a step back, eyed me suspiciously. "Mind

if I ask what you're asking all these questions fer?"

"I'm sorry," I said. I reached into my bag, pulled out the

tape recorder and notepad first, and then my press identification. "Henry Parker. Pleasure to meet you. I'm a reporter

with the
New York Gazette.
And I don't think that Winchester in your case is authentic. In fact, I'm willing to bet the gun

that's supposed to be in that case is the same one used in three

recent murders in New York this past week."

The blood drained from the man's face, and his jaw

dropped just a bit. "Murders, you're sayin'? I read something

in the papers, that pretty blond girl..."

"Athena Paradis," I said.

"She was killed by a--" he nodded his head toward the

Winchester case "--model '73?"

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Jason Pinter

I said nothing, turned on the tape recorder. "That's a replica

Winchester in your case, isn't it? Where's the original?"

"I'd like you to leave right now."

"If your Winchester was stolen, I need to know
now.
We

need to alert the authorities in New York. More lives are in

danger. Someone is using your gun and--"

"I don't know anything about that," he said, and picked up

the phone. I had seconds before he called the cops and I was

done. I looked at the nameplate. It read Rex Sheehan.

"Rex," I said. His eyes met mine. "Even if you call the

cops, at the very least they'll want to run tests on the gun. If

you tell me now, at least we can try to keep some people

alive." Rex put down the phone. He bowed his head and

crossed himself.

"I wanted to tell someone," he said solemnly. "But we

don't have the money for security. We're not a governmentfunded museum like that fancy one down at New Mexico

State. We get by on donations. And if you look around, I don't

need to tell you we're not exactly the Met here."

"So somebody broke in and stole the gun," I said. "Did

they steal anything else?"

He shook his head. His lip trembled. I felt sorry for him.

"Please don't tell anyone this," he said. "If people find out

we're displaying a fake they'll just stop coming altogether.

Besides, it doesn't really matter, does it? If people think it's

real, who gets hurt?"

"There are three dead people in New York who can answer

that better than me."

Rex bowed his head.

"But it still doesn't add up," I said. "1873 Winchesters are

a rare model, but not extinct, right?"

"No, there's a few still out there. Collectors, mostly."

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163

"So why come all the way out to Fort Sumner, New

Mexico? Why would someone rob a museum when there had

to be easier ways?"

Again Rex said nothing.

"Tell me about the gun," I said. "It's not just a model 1873,

is it? There's something else." The man nodded.

"The gun that was stolen," he sobbed, "the one you're

saying was used in those murders, well it belonged to William

H. Bonney. Most people know him as Billy the Kid."

25

Paulina Cole wrote long into the night.

She wrote until the other offices at the
Dispatch
were dark,

until her colleagues had long ago gone home and surrendered to the comfort of a glass of wine and their inviting beds.

She sewed together the interview like a trained surgeon, connecting arteries, nerves and capillaries together to create one

body of work that would pump blood and live just the way

she wanted it to. Read the way she wanted it to.

She could picture Mya Loverne's face, that poor, destroyed

face, the shell of a girl whose life's flame had been snuffed

out long before its time. So many factors had driven Mya to

the brink. Thanks to her father's chummy relationship with

most gossip columnists, the majority of his philandering never

made it to the printed page. That didn't mean it didn't ruin

many a dinner conversation, estrange a daughter in the midst

of the most difficult time of her life. Now it was time to

collect on that debt. Mya had suffered terribly. But through

pain she would regain her life. She was the victim. And the

culprit was not only her lech of a father, but Henry Parker, as

well.

Henry had fractured Mya, literally and figuratively. All her

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165

troubles since the dissolution of their relationship had applied

leverage to that emotional fracture, spreading it until she

cracked open fully.

Paulina had dozens of pages scattered about her desk, three

empty cups of coffee strewn about. She picked up the pages,

plucked a sentence from different ones, felt her collar begin to

burn when she read over all the stories about Henry she'd written last year. Henry, who came to New York as Jack O'Donnell and Wallace Langston's golden boy. Who was accused of

murder and embarrassed the profession she'd devoted her life

to. If payback was a bitch, Paulina was its mother.

And just like Henry struck the flint that burned Mya, this

story was the spark that would burn down the
New York

Gazette.
The kindling was there, David Loverne a juicy log,

and she was going to blast that place apart.

Fuck Wallace.

Fuck Harvey Hillerman.

Fuck Jack O'Donnell.

Fuck Henry Parker and everything he was.

But for now, she had to keep working. Soon the paper

would be printed. Soon enough, she would burn their whole

house to the ground.

Just several blocks away, at a desk cracked and worn with

age, an old man sat typing. The desk was covered in coffee

stains and pencil markings, its owner never bothering to clean

them, believing they added personality. The corkboard above

his computer was adorned with pictures, awards, plaques,

books with his name printed on the spine, and a life dedicated

to his craft. It was here that Jack O'Donnell put the finishing

touches on his story for the next day's
Gazette.

When the story was done, after he'd saved it on his word

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Jason Pinter

processor, made sure he'd written enough inches, and combed

through to minimize any errors that would drive his editors

crazy, Jack O'Donnell sat back in his chair. He pulled a flask

of Jack Daniel's from his leather briefcase and took a sip. It

was a good story, one that dropped a potential bombshell on

the Paradis investigation. No other paper had this. It was a

Gazette
exclusive.

After fifty years in news, his body still tingled at the thrill

of a good story.

Before sending it off, Jack put the final touch on the article.

Underneath the byline Jack added:
With additional reporting

by Henry Parker.

And come morning, the sparks would fly.

26

I stared at the weak metal fence which contained three graves

resting side-by-side, one of which belonged to the outlaw

known as Billy the Kid. The fence was in the middle of a large

patch of dirt, surrounded by piles of flowers, photographs and

even bullets. Never had I seen such gestures for such a shoddy

excuse for a tomb.

A headstone sat behind the graves, three names engraved

on it. The stone looked fairly well-maintained, as opposed to

the rest of the mausoleum.

"The headstone's been stolen three times since 1940," Rex

said. "At some point they figured it cost more to guard the

darn thing than it did to throw up a new headstone. That's why

you see here a gate my eight-year-old niece could pry apart."

"Kind of like the security system in your museum," I said,

with more than a hint of sarcasm. Inside the cage were three

burial mounds, side by side. At the far end of the enclosure

was one large headstone engraved with three epitaphs.

"That's Tom O'Folliard and Charlie Bowdre, on the ends,"

Rex said. "Friends of the Kid. Billy, he's in the middle grave."

A marker sat in front of the graves. It was carved in bronze,

about two feet tall, with a triangular top. It read:

168

Jason Pinter

THE KID

Born Nov. 23, 1860

Killed July 14, 1881

BANDIT KING

HE DIED AS HE HAD LIVED

Quarters were sprinkled atop the earth. "Tributes," Rex

said. On the headstone was chiseled one word,
Pals.
Above

the headstone was a garish yellow sign that read
Replica.

And according to dozens of signs, brochures and tourist

bureaus, this was the grave site of Henry McCarty, also known

as William Antrim, also known as William H. Bonney, also

known as Billy the Kid.

"This grave site's pretty much the only thing keeping old

Fort Sumner alive," Rex said. "State legislature made us put

that 'replica' sign up there, but once a year or so the cops

come out here to arrest some hooligans looking to steal the

damn thing. I swear, ain't nothin' sacred anymore, they could

buy their own sign for a buck ninety-five."

"But it wouldn't have been inside Billy the Kid's grave,"

I said. "There's a mystique to him. Just like to a murderer,

there's a mystique to using his gun."

Rex scratched at his neck. I could tell he'd long ago given

in to the lore and myth of this town. I didn't know a whole

lot about Billy the Kid, only what movies or books passed

down through their own lenses. I knew Billy was a celebrity

in the southwest during the late 1800s, had allegedly

murdered over twenty people before his twenty-first

birthday, and was eventually killed by Pat Garrett, a newly

appointed deputy who used to ride with the Kid. I remembered reading somewhere that other than Count Dracula, no

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other figure in popular culture had been immortalized so

often on page or screen. He was a legend, plain and simple.

"If you used to have Billy the Kid's actual Winchester, the

one he used to kill," I said, "why wouldn't you advertise the

hell out of it? Why display it as a regular Winchester 1873

when it could be the highlight of your museum?"

"We did, for a while," Rex said. "Then it got stolen, and

we didn't want to take the chance. Nobody knows who the

hell John Chisum is, but everyone wants a piece of the Kid.

Besides, people visit old Fort Sumner to see this grave site.