Parker 02 - The Guilty (39 page)

there would be inquiries. There would be investigations. This

kind of scandal could not be covered up.

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When I got to my desk my voice-mail light was blinking.

I checked it; it was from Largo Vance.

"Hey, Henry, I don't know how she got it or why, but I have

a feeling I have you to thank for Paulina's story, you little

devil you. With any luck those pussies in D.C. will have no

choice but to exhume the proper body this time. If they screw

this one up they'll have more important people than yours

truly to answer to. Anyway, the wool's been pulled down

long enough. Now catch that Roberts prick and then give me

a call. I have an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue with

your name on it."

Before I could hang up the phone I saw a shadow hovering

over my desk.

"Hey, Jack," I said.

"Hey yourself. So, read any good stories today?"

"I just got in a minute ago. Why, is something breaking?"

"Something already broke," Jack said. He opened up a leather

valise and pulled out a copy of today's
Dispatch.
I'd passed it

on the way to work but didn't bother to buy a copy. I knew what

would be on the front page, and ignoring some basic sentence

structure I was pretty sure I knew exactly how the article would

read. Jack opened it, spread the paper across my desk.

Looking back at me in a salacious full two-page spread

were the glistening veneers of Mark Rheingold, a faded

family portrait of John Henry and Meryl Roberts with their

two young children, and a photo of Ollie P. "Brushy Bill"

Roberts at the deathbed of the man claiming to be Jesse

James.

The headline read: Sex, Murder, And The Gun That Won

The West.

Not Paulina's finest hour as far as headlines went, but

she more than made up for it with the story. I scanned it

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quickly while Jack stood there. She covered all the important bases: Mark Rheingold's affair with Meryl Roberts, the

fact that John Henry likely knew about it and approved.

And their son William's disgust at the shaming of Billy the

Kid's legacy.

"You have any idea where Paulina got these leads?" Jack

asked. "Seemed to me you were on top of this story a week

ago, and all of a sudden Jackie Collins is scooping you."

I held up my hand, still sutured together. "In case you forgot,

I had a bit of an
altercation
a few days ago. Oh yeah, my ex is

in intensive care. Oh yeah, and I broke it off with Amanda. So

pardon me if I've been off my game for a few days."

"Come on, kid, I don't buy that for a second. Don't get me

wrong, I'm not saying you haven't had, you know, stuff on your

mind, but the day you get scooped on your own story is the

day I start drinking wine coolers and dating British women."

"What do you want me to say?"

Jack looked me in the eyes. I held his gaze, unsure how to

respond. Then he stepped back.

"You don't need to say anything. I know what you did."

"Really? What's that?"

"Doesn't matter. I understand why you did it. But if you

ever fucking do it again, I don't care if you're Bob Woodward

the second or spawn of Jimmy Breslin and Ann Coulter, I'll

stuff your body down the trash compactor and make sure you

never work at this newspaper again. Understand me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course not. Glad to see you understand. If Wallace

asks--which he will--tell him exactly what you told me."

"I will."

"And Henry," Jack said, his eyes growing soft. I'd never

seen the man show a tender side, and it unnerved me. "I want

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you to know I'm sorry about Amanda and Mya. I know I said

some things a while back, I don't know how much you

actually listened to and how much you passed off as the loony

ramblings of an old idiot, but everyone lives their life differently. I never found the same kind of happiness a lot of others

have, but that doesn't mean what I did is the right way to live."

"Right or wrong, you made a career to be proud of."

A small choking sound came from Jack's chest.

He said, "You know what I consider the best story I ever

wrote, Henry?"

"It wasn't Michael DiForio?"

Jack laughed. "No offense to the guy who tried to rub you

out, but not even close. No, it was February third, 1987. Not

just because that's the day Liberace died--not a lot of people

paying attention to human interest stories that day--but I

wrote a piece about a woman in Nebraska who'd lost her

husband to cancer and her son to a carjacking. Childless and

widowed at forty-one. She'd never worked a day in her life,

and suddenly decided to join the police force, and became a

cadet on her forty-second birthday. Her name was Patti

Ramona, and I remember she told me that if she saved just

one life doing her job, if she prevented one family from going

through what she went through, then their deaths wouldn't

sting so much."

Jack coughed into his hand.

"A week after the article came out, I got a letter from a man

in Idaho, Robert something, his name escapes me. Robert had

lost his wife and daughter and had been dying of loneliness

for a decade. Robert told me the moment he finished reading

my story he went out and became a volunteer firefighter. He

said thanks to Patti he knew his life could still have a purpose.

You see what I'm saying, Henry? You don't need a whole city

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to remember you. If you make your mark on just one person,

change one life for the better, that's the noblest thing you can

ever do. It's easy to be a celebrity. It's harder to actually mean

something."

He clapped me on the shoulder and left without saying

another word. I watched him turn the corner and disappear.

And then I was alone.

Sitting at my desk, my mind was blank. I didn't know

what to write about. I stared down at the paper Jack had left

on my desk. My phone was silent. E-mail inbox empty. I had

a sudden and terrible feeling of deja vu, remembering walking

the streets of Manhattan after Mya had been attacked a year

ago. Getting drunk and hoping the needle in a haystack would

cross my path. I remembered the anger and sadness, a dangerously potent mixture. I felt that way now.

It was easier when there was a story. Something to focus

on, something to prevent my mind from wandering. But right

now all I could focus on was that emptiness. And hope it

didn't consume me.

And suddenly everything changed.

I saw Wallace running from his office down the hall.

Evelyn followed from Metro, her short legs having trouble

keeping up. Then two more got up and ran after them. Frank

Rourke ran past my desk. I grabbed his shirtsleeve.

"What's going on? Where's everybody running to?"

"Anonymous tip just came in, there's a hostage situation

going down. Some maniac took a girl."

"Where?" I asked.

"Downtown," he said. "199 Water Street." Then he ran

off.

I couldn't breathe. 199 Water Street. That building housed

the New York Legal Aid Society. Where Amanda worked.

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But the stringers...there was no police activity.Yet everyone

at the news desk knew about it. What the hell was happening?

My heart racing, I picked up the phone and dialed Curt

Sheffield's cell phone. He picked up, said, "This is Sheffield."

"Curt, it's Henry. Have you heard anything about a hostage

situation down on Water Street?"

"That's a negative, nothing's come over the radio, and I'm

downtown right now so I would've heard something. Why,

what's going on?"

"I don't know," I said. "Somebody called in an anonymous

tip about a hostage in the building where Amanda works. But

if it hasn't been reported to the cops yet... I'll call you back."

I hung up, dialed Amanda's number at the office. We hadn't

spoken in days. I didn't know how she'd sound, what to expect,

but I needed to know what was happening, that she was all right.

I regained my breath when the line picked up and I heard

Amanda's voice say, "New York Legal Aid Society, this is

Amanda."

"Amanda, it's me."

"Henry...hi..."

"Listen, is everything okay over there?"

"Of course it is, what do you mean?"

"Are you in trouble? Have you seen or heard anything

strange?"

"Other than your calling me just now, I was having a pretty

uneventful day."

"Thank God."

"Thank God I was having an uneventful day?"

"No, not that at all, I...well, yeah...I'm just glad you're safe."

"Safe? Why wouldn't I be? If there's something I should

know--"

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And that's when I heard a woman scream over the phone,

followed by a gunshot so loud it rattled my teeth. I recognized

that sound. I'd heard it this week. It was the sound of a Winchester rifle. William Henry Roberts was in Amanda's office.

"Amanda?
Amanda! What's happening?
"

"Oh God, Henry, there's someone here--
help us!
"

The line went dead.

I leapt up, heart hammering. I had to get down there.

Everyone was piling out the door, going to the scene of the

crime.

And then it hit me, just what he'd done.

He
called us. William Roberts.

You write about history. I
am
history.

55

At first Amanda thought that the sound of shattering glass

came from outside. A construction crew had been tearing

up the building across the street for what seemed like a

decade, and anything more than a dropped pen in their

office was cause for excitement. But then she recognized

Darcy's high-pitched voice as she screamed for help, and

Amanda knew that whatever was happening was happening terrifyingly close.

Then she heard the gunshot, a blast so loud it seemed to

shatter the air, and for a moment she heard nothing but ringing

in her ears. When her hearing returned, Amanda heard Henry

on the line.

"Amanda?
Amanda, what's happening?
"

She didn't know what she said next, or if she said anything

at all, but suddenly Amanda was scrambling away from her

desk, trying to bide her time while figuring out what the hell

was going on.

She crouched down, surveyed the office.

Their suite housed three shared offices and one large conference room, as well as a smaller waiting room by the elevator.

The waiting room door was made of glass. The others were

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metal. She immediately knew that the breaking glass was the

sound of somebody crashing through the waiting room door.

She wondered how he'd gotten past the security guard

downstairs--waited until he'd gone on break? Or something

more horrible?

Oh God...

She heard another scream, someone yelled,
"Get away

from me!"
and then Amanda heard a loud thud like something

heavy had hit the floor.

She saw Phil the intern run past her muttering, "Sweet

Jesus, sweet Jesus," over and over again. Amanda still

couldn't see what was happening, but if praying to Jesus or

any other deity meant she'd make it out of the building alive

she'd happily renew her faith in the Lord.

Crawling on all fours, Amanda moved past her desk until

she was next to the door to the conference room. She peered

up, looked through the small window pane. She gasped when

she saw what was happening inside.

Violet Lawrence was lying on the floor, facedown.

Amanda recognized the purple sports jacket she'd complimented her on just that morning. She couldn't see anything

else, couldn't see Violet's face. But she heard a small moan,

and that meant at least she was alive.

Nobody else was running. The office had grown deathly

silent. The watercooler gurgled. Then she saw the man walk

into the room, and Amanda froze.

He was tall, maybe six one or two, lean with short blond

hair. He was wearing a suit, the sleeves rolled up, sweat

beading through the fabric. His face was tan, eyes wild yet

focused.

He was holding a gun. No, not a gun, a cannon. And immediately she remembered their meeting with Agnes Trimble,

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the image her professor showed them. The one Henry was

captivated by.

The Winchester rifle.

That's what he was holding. The man in their office had

killed four people. Killed his family, all in cold blood. What

the hell was he doing here?

Another woman ran past, screaming. The boy--William,

the papers had called him--grabbed her by the ponytail. She

let out a shriek. He spun her toward him. Amanda could see

the veins and muscles in his forearms. The woman was crying,

blubbering, tears streaking her mascara. Then he suddenly let