Parker 02 - The Guilty (33 page)

perfunctory, like they were only waiting to...

And here she was.

"You're not getting me, Miss Loverne. Nod once if you're

okay, as in not hurt. Nod twice if you are hurt. Forget about

your hands. Can you walk?" Mya felt the blade dig in. She

tried to cry out, but the tape prevented her from emitting

anything but a pathetic whimper. She felt saliva coating the

tape sealing her mouth.

She nodded once. That was all.

"You had me worried," the boy said with a grin.

William.
His name was William.

"We have a busy night ahead of us," William said. "Are you

up for it?"

Her first instinct was to try and scream. Or at least nod

twice. But the knife made its horrible presence felt once again

and she tilted her chin down once. A single tear streaked

down Mya's cheek. The boy wiped it away.

44

After leaving the office, I called Amanda. We hadn't spoken

the whole day, mainly because I'd been swamped with Justice

Waverly, then presenting the information to Wallace, Evelyn

and Jack. Then I began to prep the outline of a blockbuster

story that would both force the reopening of the fire in Hico,

but present new information proving that Billy the Kid had

lived long after his alleged murder. It was too soon to claim

that Athena Paradis's killer was Billy's great-grandson, or that

I thought he was. I knew it was true, but had to be able to

convince others. Truth required proof, however, and since he

was still at large the only proof was four silent corpses.

One thing was for certain, and Waverly had confirmed it,

that William Henry Roberts was not among the victims who

died in the fire.

So if William did
not
die in that fire, why was there no investigation into his whereabouts? Hamilton County police department came up empty, and they moved mighty quick to

assume the body had simply "burnt up." Even I didn't think

they would be that careless. At least not by accident.

Not a single newspaper report asked questions about the

fire. They were too busy bemoaning the death of Mark Rhein-
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279

gold and four, less important, members of the Hico community. Everyone seemed more than happy to wash away any

unpleasant memories and get on with their lives.

That brought up another question. What was Pastor Mark

Rheingold--a statewide institution, a man who made millions

of dollars a year and had thousands of rabid followers--doing

at the Roberts house the night of the fire? I searched every

archive available but couldn't find anything linking Rheingold

to the Roberts family. It was a pretty big coincidence that

Rheingold paid a house call the night a four-alarm blaze

burned everything to the ground.

I dialed Amanda's line at work. It went right to voice mail.

"Hey, babe, it's me, I'm heading home now. You're probably still at work, just wanted to know if we should plan to

have dinner together. Anyway, give me a call back. Love you."

Click.

I needed a night to relax, unwind. Everything this past

week had come so suddenly. All those deaths--deaths of

people I knew. The NYPD was beside themselves at this

point, and the newspapers hadn't pulled punches in their criticism. And though New York had arguably the finest police department in the country, it was also a city in which it was all

too easy to disappear. I knew that firsthand. Sooner or later

the net would close in on Roberts. We could only hope it did

before that Winchester fired again.

The
Gazette'
s sales had gone through the roof the last few

days. The city hadn't seen such juicy copy in a long time, and

people were buying up papers in droves. Between Athena

Paradis's murder, the turmoil at Franklin-Rees after Jeffrey

Lourdes's death, the NYPD wanting blood for Joe Mauser,

and the societal fallout from David Loverne's murder, it was

a gold mine for newshounds.

280

Jason Pinter

Joe Mauser's death had been relegated to the back pages.

A cop dying in the line of duty just didn't sell as many papers

as a murdered pretty blond white girl. It was strange that this

pissed me off so much, considering Joe Mauser's bullet had

left a nasty scar on my leg. Just one year ago, Mauser wanted

to kill me. I held no ill will toward the man. If someone had

done to my family what he thought I'd done to his, I would

have wanted blood, as well.

I got off the subway and began walking toward our apartment. The summer sun was dipping below the clouds, the

shimmering towers of NewYork fading into night. The streets

began to fill as people straggled home from work. Finally,

after over a year I felt I was becoming a part of this city. It

hadn't been easy, thanks to assholes like Frank Rourke. Since

the dog crap prank, my desk had been left alone. I had gone

along with it, laughed it up, threw it in the trash and left it at

that. If you let guys like Frank know they'd drawn blood,

they'd grow addicted to the taste. I could bleed on my own

time.

I approached the apartment building and fished in my

pocket for the key. I wondered if we should move to a safer

neighborhood, live in a building with a doorman. Now that

Amanda was living with me I wasn't completely comfortable

with her walking home alone, especially since most days she

came home later than I did. I had to take care of the woman

I loved. Put her needs before mine. I was determined to prove

Jack wrong. I
could
balance work and relationships. I didn't

have to give in just because he did. Jack was a legend, but an

old school legend. I was strong. I could make it work.

As I turned the key in the lock, a voice broke the night and

froze my blood. I recognized that voice, only now it was

louder, angrier.

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281

I heard it again, turned around. Saw several pedestrians

staring up, up at the rooftops, their mouths open in masks of

horror. A man dialed his cell phone frantically. A woman

grabbed her son and ran.

Then I heard it again.

"Henry Parker!"

High above us, perched atop a four-story brownstone, illuminated by the moonlight, was William Henry Roberts.

One hand was empty. The other held a knife. The knife was

held to Mya Loverne's throat.

"Mya!" I shouted. Her eyes were frightened beyond

rational thought. Some sort of towel or cloth was in her

mouth. I ran forward, then stopped.

"Parker!" Roberts cried again.

"Leave her alone!" I shouted, unsure of what else to do. I

wasn't close enough to get to them. No cops were in sight.

Fucking Carruthers had pulled off my security detail, and now...

I called you, Henry.

Mya.

"This," Roberts said, his voice a mixture of pathos and

breathless glee, like a man taking perverse excitement in reprimanding a dog. "This is what happens.
I
control information, not you, Parker. I give you history to write about. So

consider this a present, Henry. From me to you."

And with that, before I could react, before my weak legs

could respond or my mouth could cry out, William pushed

Mya off the roof.

I shouted "No!" as her body plummeted out of view. The

horde of onlookers gasped. Mya disappeared into the alley

behind the building. I ran toward it, then heard the most

horrible sound of my life. A terrible
thump
as something hit

the ground.

282

Jason Pinter

Then I looked up, and Roberts was gone.

I ran as fast as I could, the world around me disappearing in

a blur. I sprinted into the alley, then covered my mouth in shock.

Mya was lying on the ground. Her eyes were open, staring

at the sky. I could see a small pool of blood below her.

I ran over and grabbed her hand.

"No,"
I whispered, frantically checking her wrists, her

neck, anything. I thought I felt a pulse. Weak, but there. I

could hear 911 calls being made somewhere behind me.

"Mya, please, oh please God say something. Don't you
dare

die. Don't you dare.
Please.
"

Then she blinked. Once, twice. Her mouth quivered. A

noise came from her mouth, a small bubble of blood bursting

over her lips.

"Somebody get an ambulance!" I shouted, wiping away

the blood. "Please!"

"They're on the way," another voice yelled.

"Don't you go," I said to Mya. "Don't you go. You're

going to be fine." My eyes darted, hoping to catch a glimpse

of Roberts, but the murdering bastard was nowhere to be

found. I took Mya's hand. It was growing cold.

I called you, Henry.

"I know you did, and I'm here. Please, baby, please stay

with me."

"Henry? Oh my God..."

I recognized that voice. I stood up, my footing unsure.

Amanda was standing in the alley. Her face was white.

"Oh God, Henry, what happened?"

"Amanda..."

I looked at Amanda. Her beautiful eyes. Those arms that

had held me so close. The strong heart that had given itself

to me. Trusted me.

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283

Just like Mya had trusted me years ago. And now Mya was

lying, broken.

No.

Amanda stepped forward. "Henry, oh God, is she alive?

Please
say something.
"

"I..."

I heard a gasp behind me. Mya's mouth was opening and

closing. Another bubble of blood burst, coating her chin. I knelt

back down and wiped it off. Not again. Not Mya. Not Amanda...

"Henry, please..."

"Get the fuck away from me!" I screamed, bolting up. My

body felt ready to explode, and in my mind's eye I saw everything I touched, everything I loved, broken in pieces. I

couldn't see Amanda. Not like this. Not like Mya. I'd already

failed one woman. I couldn't do it again.

"Henry, please talk to me."

"Get the
fuck out of here!
" I yelled again, this time stepping

toward Amanda, a fire in my eyes that I could see reflected

via fear in hers. She stepped back. I stepped forward.

"Get out of here," I said, panting. "Don't ever come back.

Leave now."

"No," Amanda said, tears flowing from her eyes. "Don't

do this. I'm not Mya, I'm not..."

"Get away from me, and never come back." She didn't

move. "I said
get the fuck away from me!
"

Amanda looked at me, crying, unable to say a word. Then

she turned and ran into the night. And I turned back to Mya,

took her hand. "Baby, don't leave me...it's Henry...please

don't leave me...I'm here..."

45

Paulina Cole sat at her desk rifling through the transcription

of an interview with a Republican senator she had just spoken

to that afternoon. She didn't particularly like the man--

primarily because she knew a great deal more about his

predilection toward Guatemalan housemaids than did the

voters--but he was a shoo-in for reelection and Ted Allen's

instructions were to paint him in the most positive light. That

Ted had contributed close to six figures toward his reelection

campaign was not to be mentioned. Paulina had already

picked out six good sound bites, thankfully all taken within

some sort of context, and was in the midst of outlining

tomorrow's front-page story.

She was writing longhand when a sweaty, haggard James

Keach appeared in her doorway. Keach staggered in, dropped

into a seat across from her desk, his breathing hard, eyes

frightened. It was the first time James had taken a seat without

her express permission. Usually he stood by the doorway

taking instructions. He didn't even think twice about plopping

down, and it unnerved Paulina.

"Jesus, James, what happened to you?" she said, allowing

a hint of concern to creep into her voice.

The Guilty

285

James looked up, as though startled to realize he was

sitting in Paulina's office. He looked around, then locked

eyes with her and leaned forward. James looked like he'd just

witnessed something unspeakable, and would give anything

to take it all back.

"I was trailing Henry Parker," James said. "And...oh

God..."

"Spit it out."

James Keach's body began to convulse with sobs. She felt

panic well up, but the flavor of excitement, as well. Wherever

there was fear was also a great story.

"Mya Loverne," James said. "I was following Henry and..."

For the next five minutes, James told her what he'd seen

that night. The man atop the building. Mya's body hitting the

ground. Henry Parker screaming, crying. The ambulances, the

broken girl being sped away to the hospital.

The killer on the rooftop, grinning like the devil himself.

When James was finished, Paulina sat in silence. She

recalled her conversation with Mya at the diner; the small,

frail girl looking like she was one tap away from shattering.