Read Parker 02 - The Guilty Online
Authors: Jason Pinter
grave site of Billy the Kid. Even though it wasn't where the true
Kid was buried, it was where his legacy lived. And that legacy,
that myth, I'd learned, was far more important than the truth.
Most argued a murderer didn't deserve such a burial. Those
in power argued what was good enough for one killer was
good enough for another, that evil should be contained.
After running the hostage crisis on page one the next day,
the next day
Dispatch
relegated the Roberts story to page
seven, where it was given quarter-page treatment in deference
to a color picture of a senator's wife who had an allergic
reaction to her Botox injection. After that, William Henry
Roberts wasn't mentioned again.
Paulina Cole was suspended for three weeks. But I knew
that her suspension was merely window dressing. Ted Allen
was forcing her to fly under the radar until everything quieted
down. Besides, with Costas Paradis looking to dig up Brushy
Bill Roberts, the Kid's defenders had bigger fish to fry than
a newspaper reporter.
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On page three of the
Dispatch
was a small item about the
custody fight for the Winchester rifle Roberts had used on his
rampage. Rex Sheehan claimed it was still the legal property
of the museum in Fort Sumner. Costas Paradis wanted to buy
the gun to smelt the metal and burn the wood. Despite my
desire for Costas to get some sort of closure and to see the
rifle destroyed, part of me felt the gun was a relic of American
history and should be treated as such. Provided, this time, Rex
got a security system worth a damn.
When I finished reading the day's papers, I put them in a
neat pile underneath the chair. It was only then when I noticed
the steady beeping, the humming. It came from Mya's bedside.
Staring at her small, frail body, a far cry from the strong,
vibrant girl I once knew, something inside me had burst. I
couldn't leave. Didn't want to. I told Wallace and Jack I needed
a few days off, that the trauma from the week's events combined
with the new sutures in my hand made it difficult to write, difficult to work. This was all bullshit, but it sounded better than
the truth. A lot of things were sounding better than the truth.
Mya came and went. Her eyes fluttering open and shut.
The doctors said she would make it. She would recover.
Physically. Mentally, it would take time. It would be hard.
And I would be there for her. Like I hadn't been before.
I called you, Henry.
And I wasn't there.
No more.
Cindy Loverne entered, holding a cup of coffee. She sat
down, blew some steam off the top and crossed her legs.
"How are you, Henry?"
I felt guilty even answering such a question.
"Feeling a bit better," I said.
"That's good. Listen, I want to thank you for being so
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good to Mya. I don't know what she's done to deserve such
a good friend, but--"
"Please," I said. "Don't finish that sentence. She deserves
much better than anything I've given her. And I want you to
know, I know she can't hear me right now, but I'll be there
for her and your family. It's the least I can do after everything."
Cindy smiled warmly. Then her eyes moved to the bed. She
looked back at me.
"I think somebody can hear you."
I looked over. Mya's eyes were open. They were filmy,
groggy, squinting to regain focus.
I nearly leapt off the chair, went over and knelt down by
her bedside.
"Hey you," I said.
"Henry," Mya said, her voice still weak.
"I'm here," I said. I took her hand in mine, gently stroked
her dry skin. "I'm here."
I waited outside the hospital. The sun had dipped below
the buildings, the sky turning a harsh gray. The air felt cold
and I cinched up my jacket. I'd asked Amanda to meet me
here, unsure why I chose this particular location, but in the
back of my mind I knew the reason full well.
I watched her as she walked toward me. Her eyes were
streaked with red, and I didn't have to ask why. She came
up to me. Her hands were in her pockets. She moved her toe
back and forth across the pavement, afraid or unwilling to
make eye contact.
"Hey, Amanda," I said.
"Hey" came the flat reply.
"Were you able to find--"
"Yes," she said, cutting me off. "A friend said I could sublet
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her studio for a few months. Rent's not too bad. Commute is
kind of a killer. Guess you take what you can get."
"Yeah," I said. "Guess so."
She looked at me, the pain and hurt and confusion in her
eyes nearly tearing me apart, letting loose everything I wanted
to say but knew I couldn't.
"So what happens now?" she asked.
"I don't know," I replied. "I do want to see you again."
Amanda shook her head, and it was just then that I saw
she'd begun to cry.
"Nope," she said. "If we end this...I want to end it. I don't
want to have to think about this every time I see you. I just
want to pull it off. Like you said."
"Amanda." I never wondered, in all my life, what it would
feel like to tell the girl I loved, who loved me back, that I
couldn't be with her. Part of being in love, part of being a man
was putting your loved ones above yourself.
I didn't love Mya anymore. Not like that. But she'd paid
a price for my failures. I had a debt to pay her back.
To keep Amanda safe, to keep her alive, I had to leave. I
knew pulling away from her would tear open a wound that
would probably never heal. But at least at some point the
bleeding would stop; it would scar over.
I noticed her hand had left its pocket and was fidding with
her jeans absently.
"What's that?" I asked. She seemed surprised.
"Nothing," she said. "Just, you know...guess old habits die
hard."
"Show me," I said, but had a feeling in the pit of my
stomach that I knew what it was. She stared at me as she
brought it out. A small spiral notebook. Just like the kind she
wrote in back when we met. Back when she had nobody, and
every person she met was cataloged in one of those note-368
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books. For a girl who'd grown up with no real family, no real
identity, those notebooks helped her hold on.
I hadn't seen her write in them in the year we'd been a
couple. And now that we were coming apart, she needed
them again.
It's for the best, I told myself. She's smart. She's beautiful. She has the world waiting to open itself for her. If you
stay with her, you selfish bastard, you could steal it all from
her.
And so I knew I had to end it.
"If you ever need anything," I said. "Someone to talk to..."
"I won't," she said. "But I appreciate the gesture."
"Right," I repeated blindly. "Gesture."
She wiped her nose, sniffed once.
"Well then, goodbye, Henry." She turned to leave.
"Amanda," I said. She turned back. The tears were flowing
from her eyes, and all I wanted to do was gather her in my
arms, kiss her and tell her everything would be all right. But
to do that would allow events like the other day to happen.
Jack was right. He'd been right all along. And Amanda nearly
paid for my ignorance with her life.
"If you want to say something, Henry, say it." My mouth
opened but nothing came out. So she said, "Goodbye, Henry."
Amanda walked away without saying another word. I
watched as her hand went to her pocket again, then wiped
at her eyes, and before I knew it she'd turned the corner and
disappeared.
I stared at the empty street for several minutes, half hoping
something would happen, the rest of me praying it wouldn't.
And when I was sure it wouldn't, I turned around and
went back inside.
(r)
ISBN: 978-1-4268-1341-2
THE GUILTY
Copyright (c) 2008 by Jason Pinter.
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MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and
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