Parker 02 - The Guilty (20 page)

They come to our museum for side trips, before they spend

their money on souvenirs and lunch."

"And nobody cared that it suddenly was gone?"

"Anyone who asked, I told 'em some rich collector

bought it."

I asked, "How long ago was it stolen?"

Rex stared at the ground.

"You know Billy built this town," he said, nodding at the

grave site. "That man was a goddamn hero. Most don't look

at it like that. But he fought for good."

"I bet the twenty-some-odd people he killed would

disagree."

"Any war, man, you have to spill blood to do what's right."

"Said like a true patriot," I said, biting.

"You don't understand."

"Enlighten me."

"When he was young, Billy was hired by an Englishman

named John Tunstall. Tunstall was a rancher, in a territorial

feud with two men named Lawrence Murphy and James

Dolan. John Tunstall aimed to take Billy under his wing, turn

a troubled youth into a good man. John Tunstall was murdered

by Dolan and Murphy, who'd paid Sheriff William Brady to

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carry out the crime. After that, Billy and his boys united to

form a band called the Regulators. The Regulators killed

Brady, and because of that, the governor of New Mexico

sccked the hounds of hell on Billy and his gang. But somewhere along the line, the Regulators traded places with the

devil. The Regulators wanted to kill those who'd done wrong,

folks who were contaminating everything that was good."

"There's a man in New York," I said, "using Billy's gun to

kill people. There's no doubt in my mind he stole that gun

from your museum. A witness said the killer looked young,

in his early to midtwenties."

"Just like the Kid," Rex said. Then he cocked his head.

"How old are you, Henry?" I looked at him. And didn't answer.

"Someone is looking to carry on Billy's legacy," I said.

"You say Billy meant to create order. He wanted to kill those

who'd done wrong."

"That's right." Rex thought for a moment. "You reckon this

killer of yours is some screwed-up kid, wants to play cowboys

and Indians?"

"I doubt it. This isn't just some kid who wasn't loved

enough by his mommy and daddy," I said. "This guy has a

motive. He thinks he's doing good."

We stood there in silence, staring at the grave site of one

of the most legendary murderers in history. A man who died

at the age of twenty-one, having ended one life for each of

his years. And yet over the years the Kid had become immortalized as a hero. An icon worthy of legend. How could a

murderer incite such passion? How could a man seemingly

deputized by the devil himself be remembered as an angel?

A beeping sound broke the silence. I plucked my cell phone

from my pocket, opened it. It was a text message from Jack.

It was two sentences. When I read them, my blood ran cold.

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171

There's been another murder. It's David Loverne.

I couldn't speak. Mya's father.

The last time I saw him was at his daughter's side at the

hospital, where...

I called you, Henry.
I remembered Mya's voice on that

terrible day.

"I have to go," I said to Rex, shutting the phone. "I need

to get home right away. I appreciate the help."

"You gonna be, you know, telling the police about this?"

"Yes, I am."

"Figures. Anyway, you'll want to look at Brushy Bill.

Dollars to dineros if it's Billy's legacy you're investigating,

it's something to do with ol' Brushy."

I nodded at Rex, then half-walked, dazed, back to the

hotel. I threw everything in my duffel, jumped in the rental

car and headed toward Albuquerque.

The drive seemed to last for days. Visions in my mind

reminded me of that night, seeing Mya's father there, holding

her hand. Me not being able to apologize because words were

useless. Knowing Mya had been hurt, and that I hadn't been

there for her.

Athena Paradis, Joe Mauser, Jeffrey Lourdes and now

David Loverne. Somehow Mya's father fit in the killer's

demented pattern. But how?

I'd heard rumblings about David Loverne's misdeeds. That

his marriage wasn't as rock-solid as the facade he put on in

public. Many felt that at some point scandal would hit, and

hit hard. It was only a matter of time. I thought of Mya, how

she was so damaged, how she'd been reaching out to me and

I'd been slapping her hand away. If she ever needed a friend,

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someone who used to know her better than anyone, now was

the time for me to be there for her.

I tried Mya's cell phone. It went right to voice mail. I

couldn't leave a message. I had to see her. Then I remembered

her text message.

I'm sorry. Forgive me.

I was numb when I arrived at the airport. They charged a

hundred bucks to change my flight. I paid it in cash.

I called Amanda and left her a message. Then I called Jack

and told him I would get to the office that night. He told me

to read the
Gazette
and the
Dispatch
before I saw anybody in

New York. His voice had both an urgency and sadness to it.

My stomach turned over.

On my way to the terminal, I stopped by a news kiosk. I

grabbed a bottle of orange juice and went to the newspaper

rack. Thankfully they carried both the
Dispatch
and the

Gazette.
I paid for the drink and papers and took them to the

gate. Sitting down, I took a long gulp of juice and then laid

the papers out on my lap.

The
Gazette'
s headline read:

Ballistics Sheds New Light On Murders

Killer possibly using "Gun that won the West"

by Jack O'Donnell

with additional reporting by Henry Parker

Then I looked at the
Dispatch.
There were two stories

competing for dominance. The first headline read:

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173

Athena Paradis's Greek Boy Toy Speaks Out

Tells why murdered heiress was second to none

in the bedroom

Then I read the second headline. I didn't hear the juice

bottle hit the ground when I dropped it. Or the announcement

that my plane was boarding. All I could see was that headline:

"He Left Me Bleeding On The Street"

Mya Loverne, David's daughter, comes clean about

the relationship that nearly ended her life

by Paulina Cole

27

Just months ago, voters looked at congressional candidate

David Loverne as a man who held family above all else.

A beautiful wife, Cindy. An ambitious daughter, Mya.

But all this is gone after a series of revelations that

have shocked New Yorkers and destroyed a family that

seemed indestructible.

David Loverne is being accused of perpetuating a

long affair with a former aide, Esther Margolis. Ms.

Margolis claims she is pregnant with Loverne's child,

and that Mr. Loverne paid her sums totaling nearly ten

thousand dollars in order to keep quiet and raise the

child alone. Mr. Loverne refused comment for this article, but Ms. Margolis said, "I couldn't face looking at

my son years from now and lying to him about who his

father is."

I read the rest of the article, my heart hammering, hands

shaking. Then I came to a line that nearly had me shouting

in anger. It read:
Yet David and Cindy Loverne are not the only

members of the Loverne family whose world has been shat-

tered.

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175

Mya. Paulina was going to exploit Mya's fragility to sell

newspapers. I read on, rage building inside me.

When you first look at Mya Loverne, you see a

woman brimming with potential. Young, with strong

green eyes, a confidence and solidarity that tells you

she's taken on everything the world has thrown at her.

At first glance you would think the world is this young

woman's oyster.

But that isn't the case. In fact, far from it.

In the last eighteen months, Mya Loverne has been

attacked. She's had her bones broken by an attempted

rapist. And she's been abandoned by the one person

who promised to be there for her.

For Mya Loverne, the wine has grown warm, the

roses wilted. The one person to whom this misery can

be pinned is
Gazette
reporter Henry Parker, with whom

Mya ended a three-year relationship last summer. The

relationship was halted in the most disgusting, careless

way possible, when Henry dumped Ms. Loverne for another woman. This was prior to Mr. Parker being accused of murder, a charge that was not pursued, despite

a nationwide manhunt that left several dead.

"We shared our bed and our lives for almost three

years," Mya told me when we met yesterday at a coffee shop near her apartment. "Do you know what it's

like to have someone know every intimate detail of

your life and then not even return your phone calls?"

The original sin, however, was the night last year when

Mya was attacked while on her way home from a party.

"A man pulled me into an alley," Mya told me, the

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pain from that night still evident in her eyes so many

months later. "He wanted to rape me. He told me he was

going to hurt me."

In an effort to call for help, Mya pressed the redial

button on her cellular phone. It dialed the last number

she'd called. Her boyfriend, Henry Parker.

"I called him while this man was on top of me," Mya

said. "And Henry hung up."

Thankfully Mya, ever resourceful, was able to get a

shot of pepper spray off, deterring her attacker from

committing the heinous crime of rape. It did not, however, prevent him from breaking Mya's jaw in retaliation. Henry Parker, though, did not see Mya until the

next day, when after a frantic night of phone calls from

Mya's parents they were unable to locate him. The reason they couldn't find Henry?

"He told me," said Mya, "that after he hung up he

turned his cell phone off."

We all know how Henry Parker has destroyed the

family of his former pursuer Officer Joseph Mauser, deceased, John Fredrickson, deceased, and Linda Fredrickson, widowed. We have seen the careless havoc he

has wrought upon the lives of good and decent people

like Mya Loverne. And yet he is allowed to cover the

news for this city's "esteemed" newspaper, the
Gazette.

Well, readers, if this is the kind of human being they

have reporting the news, the kind of human being Harvey Hillerman and Wallace Langston claim is qualified

to enter
your
lives every morning, I must say this is a dark

day in the history of journalism, and for humanity itself.

The question is, fellow citizens, will you stand for

men like David Loverne and Henry Parker occupying

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prestigious roles in our society? If you're like me, the

answer is obvious. Rise up, and demand more from our

newsmen and our leaders. Demand they be held accountable for their actions. Demand that they not be allowed to harm one more innocent life.

I put the paper down. Noticed the newsprint smudged on

my fingers. Didn't bother to wipe it off. My hand trembled

as I laid it down. In an article about the infidelity of David

Loverne, Paulina had stooped to a level lower than I imagined

possible.

Mya.

The article had clearly been written and submitted before

her father's murder.

I called you, Henry.

And I didn't answer. And now the whole world knows it.

And the whole world sees me as a demon. But I'm not. And

they won't believe me.

Oh God, Mya, how could you?

I stared out the window, alone in an airport in a strange city,

thinking of the girl whose heart I'd broken, the girl whose

destiny I had changed for the worse, the girl whose life would

never be the same. I sat there and stared at the newspaper and

thought of Mya, and thought of Amanda, and wondered if

Paulina Cole was right.

28

The flight touched down just before five o'clock. I turned

on my cell phone while people were still prying their oversize luggage from the overhead bins. There were eleven

messages waiting for me. And I didn't have that many friends.

I speed-walked through the terminal listening to the messages. The first was from Amanda. Wanting to know if I'd

seen the
Dispatch
today. Wanting to know if I'd heard from

Mya. Wanting to know if I was okay. Her voice was a combination of sorrow because I'd known David Loverne, and

anger because of what Mya had done. Ordinarily I'd be

thrilled to know a girl was willing to fight for me, but all I

could think about was Mya. She didn't ask for this. And now

her father was dead.

The second message was from Jack O'Donnell, telling me

to expect hellfire and brimstone but not to say
a goddamn