Parker 02 - The Guilty (38 page)

created the myth. Like Garrett, Henry Parker had the power

of the written word. The power to create a legend.

It was fate that William chose to use Henry's quote when

he killed Athena. And so a hundred and thirty years after his

great-grandfather changed this country, so would William.

Yet as he walked down the street, William felt a cold stir in

the pit of his stomach. Every so often, another stranger would

glance his way. Eyes scanning his face, like they had recognized him from somewhere. Like they knew him somehow.

A twinge of panic began to rise in William's gut. He

walked faster. Began to sweat. He didn't like this. Didn't like

people looking at him. So far he had survived by blending in,

looking like every other young punk in this city that people

were happy to dismiss. But now there was recognition, and

from random people on the goddamn
street.

William passed a small bodega. He thought about stopping

for a pack of gum, just to calm his nerves. He went over.

Debated getting a pack of cigarettes, too. People avoided

smokers. He tried to remember how much money was in his

wallet. Then he looked at the newspapers.

They were neatly arranged under triangular metal paperweights. The headline of the
New York Gazette
read The Face

Of Sorrow. It ran beside a picture of Cindy Loverne crying

at her husband's funeral. A picture alongside it showed Mya

Loverne, taken the day before he'd thrown her from the roof.

She was smiling in the pic. The caption read Injured Daughter

Hanging On.

William smiled. Looked like the girl could make it. Wasn't

that from Rocky?

If she lives, she lives. If she dies...

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Jason Pinter

Then the smile faded. The pit in his stomach opened up,

and he felt a wave of nausea overcome him. Then the nausea

turned to anger, the anger turned to hate, and he ripped the

paper from the kiosk.

It was the
New York Dispatch.
The page one headline read:

The Face Of Evil?

There was a photo on the front page. He recognized it. He

hadn't seen the photo in years, but knew exactly when it was

taken. Clearly visible in the photo were three men and a woman.

One of the men was his father.

The other man was Pastor Mark Rheingold.

The woman was his mother, Meryl, and she was reaching

for the pastor, preparing for a deep embrace. William's father

looked on in joyous approval.

And in the background William recognized himself, just

four years ago, staring at his mother and her lover as they

mocked their family name.

William H. Bonney would never have stood for that.

And so neither would William Henry Roberts.

Despite the newsprint, the tiny pixels, William saw the

anger in his eyes. He remembered setting fire to the house,

the fire that claimed the lives of his father, sister, mother and

his mother's God-fearing lover.

They were the same eyes he was showing to the world right

now.

Millions seeing his face in black and white.

Millions recognizing him on the street.

His heart beating faster than it had since the night he sent

a bullet through Athena Paradis's head, William Henry

Roberts turned and sprinted down the street.

He couldn't waste any more time. He had to find her.

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323

It was only a matter of time before somebody recognized him

and called the cops. Tried to end his crusade before he was

ready.

Amanda Davies had to die before that happened.

53

Louie Grasso picked up the phone. He gently placed the

receiver to his ear and wondered if there was anywhere near this

godforsaken building he could grab a shot of whiskey to throw

in his coffee. If the rest of the day went the way his first half an

hour did, he'd quit his job by noon. He'd been working the lines

at the
Dispatch
for nearly seven years and had weathered complaints and grievances from all walks of life. Never, though, had

he heard such anger due to a story. Goddamn Paulina Cole, at

some point she was going to get them all killed.

Louie took a breath, said, "
New York Dispatch,
how may

I direct your call?"

"You have two choices," said the man with the Southern

twang on the other end. "You can either put this shithead Ted

Allen on the phone or that sassy bitch Paulina Cole. Your

choice, either one will do, but I'm not hanging up until one

of those worthless dung heaps is on the line."

Louie recited what his boss had told him to after the first

barrage of calls came in.

"Any complaints you have regarding Ms. Cole's article in

today's edition should be addressed in the form of a typewritten letter or e-mail directed to the
New York Gazette
public

The Guilty

325

relations department. Your concerns are duly noted. They

will be responded to either individually or as a whole."

"Listen, I got my whole extended family just waiting to call

in as soon as I hang up, and my grandma Doris is ready to

hop on the plane and whack Allen upside the head. So I'll fill

out your stupid forms, but I hope you're ready to repeat those

directions another few thousand times this morning. So 'duly

note' my ass."

Louie sighed as the line went dead. He drained his coffee

and picked up another one of the dozen lines that hadn't

stopped flashing in hours.

"
New York Dispatch,
how may I direct your call?"

Paulina had just hung up the phone when James Keach

appeared in the doorway. Sweat was streaking down his face,

and his work shirt looked several different shades of blue.

"This is not the time, James."

"I need to know what to do. People are calling me asking

for a statement. Some guy from the
Associated Press,
another

one from the
Times.
I don't know how they got my number."

"Our company directory isn't a secret. What are you telling

the people who call?"

"I've been hanging up on them."

"Good," she said. "You say one word to anyone who

doesn't work inside this building I'll roast your nads in my

Foreman Grill. Now get."

Keach disappeared.

Paulina turned back to her computer. Her inbox had three

hundred new messages, and another ten were appearing every

minute. They all bore colorful subject headings like you're

wrong and eat shite and die and does your mother know

you lie for a living?

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Jason Pinter

Never in her career had Paulina witnessed such an onslaught of offended readers, and that was counting the time

they ran a still photo from Pamela Anderson's sex tape with

her nipples blocked out. Hundreds of angry readers were

calling in, demanding her head, and every new message was

directed at the story she'd written for today's
Dispatch.
The

story Henry Parker had dropped on her lap. That sneaky shit

knew it would provoke this response. He wanted that story to

run, but didn't want the
Gazette
to go through exactly what

the
Dispatch
was right now. She'd have to remember to send

him a cyanide fruitcake for Christmas.

Once the brushstrokes are painted, the picture becomes clear as a Midwestern day. One hundred and

twenty-seven years ago, a lie was told, and that lie has

been perpetuated for generations by deluded, smallminded townfolk whose entire lives and economies live

and die on the wings of a myth. Once you know the truth

of Brushy Bill Roberts's identity as Billy the Kid, once

you know how William Henry Roberts burned his house

down with his family inside, once you know that

William's mother had an affair with a millionaire man

of God (with his father's blessing, no less), you know

that a hundred years too late, the truth has come to collect its revenge.

Soon the facts will prove that William H. Bonney did

not die in 1881 in Fort Sumner, New Mexico. He and

his bloodline lived on. This country has been living in

denial for years. And it is because of this veil of ignorance that nine people are dead, with another young

woman fighting for her life.

If there is any justice in the world, if the truth is

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327

regulated at all, then the entire citizenry of New Mexico, Texas and all those who convinced themselves that

the nightmare was over will wake up to the violent reality and confront a demon who manifested himself

right here, today.

Never had Paulina seen such an outraged reaction from a

"concerned" group of citizens. But to her surprise, many of

the protesters were from far outside the delusions of Texas

and New Mexico, and the sandblasted states who perpetrated

the myth. She'd only received about twenty messages from

Fort Sumner, ten or so from Hico and Lincoln County, but the

vast majority were from New Yorkers, Californians. She had

even received harsh rebukes from several members of

Congress, writing to say that at best her article was in poor

taste, and at worst a selfish attempt to discredit one of the most

enduring legends in history.

She didn't bother to respond to the irony of calling a mass

murderer an "enduring legend," but therein, she supposed, was

the point.

William H. Bonney, despite his violent history, was now

considered a hero, a vigilante, a romantic icon. And having

read the dozens of articles about William Henry Roberts's

deadly spree, she knew that more than a fair share of "concerned citizens" considered him the same way. Roberts was

a bandit, an outlaw. And like Bonney's Regulators years ago,

he was purging the landscape of those who poisoned the well.

Yet unlike other articles she'd written that had stirred up

controversy, there was no joy at the
Dispatch
at the prospect

of increased circulation. There were no high fives in the hall

or talk about holiday bonuses. Nobody from senior management had stopped by Paulina's office to congratulate her on

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Jason Pinter

a terrific story. In fact, nobody had come by at all. And if there

was one thing that frightened Paulina more than anything, it

was silence.

Ordinarily she might respond to one or more complainants, just for kicks. But today she merely forwarded all the

messages to their PR department. They'd be earning their paychecks this week. Then one e-mail popped up in her in-box

that made her forget all the others.

The sender was Ted Allen. The subject heading read We

need to talk.

She took a deep breath before opening the message.

...hurts the credibility of our newspaper...

...true or not the Dispatch had been placed under a mag nifying glass...

...witch hunt...

...my mother grew up in Texas...this is akin to pissing on

the Pope's grave...

He requested her presence in his office in fifteen minutes.

The
Dispatch'
s legal team and PR department would be on

hand. She had no doubt her job would be safe, but this fire

had to be handled with extreme caution.

Henry had gotten away clean. She couldn't mention his

name. If the public found out she'd received information from

a reporter at a rival paper, the
Dispatch
would lose its credibility faster than Jack O'Donnell downed a shot of whiskey.

Take credit for your successes, take credit for your mistakes,

hope the former outweighed the latter.

Paulina picked up her phone, dialed James Keach's extension.

"Ms. Cole?"

"Where is Henry Parker right now?"

The Guilty

329

"I...I don't know. Work, I assume?"

"Find him. Then call me. You have half an hour."

She hung up, stood up, smoothed out her skirt and headed

for Ted Allen's office.

54

There was no stopping it; the juggernaut had begun

lurching forward. Reports stated that the
Dispatch
was receiving more complaints and hate mail than at any point in

the last ten years. The most since they ran a story about a

presidential candidate paying off a cocktail waitress with

whom he'd had an affair. The complaints weren't about the

story, of course, but of a photo on page one in which readers

claimed they could see more than fifty-one percent of her

left butt cheek.

Nobody ever said people didn't have their priorities straight.

The gossip websites and blogs claimed that Ted Allen was

considering canning Paulina Cole. They paid her to piss

people off, under the maxim that controversy created cash,

but now it looked like she'd pissed off too many people who

spent the cash. Challenging an American legend, as well as

asserting that a beloved (and deceased) clergyman had an extramarital affair, was too much to handle.

The story on William Henry Roberts was out. It was public.

And despite the protests and pitchfork-waving townsfolk,