The Guilty (2008)
Page 14
long as I have, I’d have to ask for sure though.”
“And you’ve had no other rifles come and go since then?”
“Why no…may I ask your interest?”
“That’s okay, I appreciate the help.” I hung up.
I called ten more museums. Each one could currently
account for their Winchesters, and had seen none go missing
in recent memory.
Then I dialed the twelfth number on my contact sheet, the
Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen in Fort Sumner, New Mexico.
“MOL Museum, this is Rex speaking.”
“Hi, Rex, I’m calling because I read somewhere that you
have an authentic, working Winchester 1873 rifle in stock. Is
that true?”
“It ain’t in stock,” Rex said, “this is a museum, not a
sidewalk sale, son.”
“Sorry, but you do have one.”
“Why yes, sir, we do.”
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“Just one?”
There was a split second of silence before Rex answered,
and I picked up on it.
“Why, yes, one’s just about all we need.”
“Have any rifles come in or left the museum for any reason
over the last year?”
“Listen, you care to tell me what all these questions are
about?”
“I was just wondering…”
“Our gun is here, it’s in great shape and it looks a lot better
in person than it does over the phone.”
For a moment I assumed we’d been disconnected, but then
I heard the dial tone and knew Rex had hung up on me. My
heart began to beat faster. But I had to confirm it.
I dialed the number again. The same man picked up.
“Hi, I just called about your Winchester 1873 model
rifle, and—”
“Hey, either come to the museum like all normal folks or
stop calling.”
Once again I was greeted by a dial tone. I stared at the
phone for a moment. This museum clearly didn’t like my line
of questioning. Then I recalled that the museum was in New
Mexico. The heart of the Old West.
I picked up the receiver and dialed again. This time a different number. It picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, Henry,” Amanda said. “Missed me much?”
“I have to go to New Mexico,” I said. “And I need to
leave tonight.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Does that mean I shouldn’t wait for you for dinner?”
“If you don’t mind waiting until tomorrow to eat.”
“As if I don’t have enough trouble getting out of bed in
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the morning,” she said. “So you found something out there?
New Mexico?”
“Yeah, something to do with the murders. I know it.”
“Something about the gun?”
“Yeah, I think I have a lead at a museum.”
“Then go. Do whatever you can to find this guy,” she said.
“I’ll be here when you get back. Dinner might be a bit cold,
though. I’ll just rename it vichyssoise and call it a gourmet
meal.”
I laughed. “No way. When I get back you’re getting the
finest grilled cheese in North America.”
“I’ll keep a bowl of Kix nearby just in case.”
“Thanks, babe. I’ll call you when I leave.”
Then I hung up and checked departure times for flights to
New Mexico.
23
I cashed Jack’s check at a local Chase branch, then took a
cab home and threw a pile of clothes into a duffel bag, hoping
I’d buck the odds and end up with a matching outfit or two.
I took the Xeroxes from Agnes Trimble’s book, packed them
in a valise.
As I zipped up the duffel, I stared at the bed. Neither
Amanda nor I had bothered to make it that morning. I could
still make out the ruffled sheets where we’d lain the night
before. I could re-create it; where Amanda’s arm lay across
my chest, where her legs curled around mine. My hand gently
stroking her leg, the way she smiled and kissed my cheek.
I had to leave before I thought about it anymore, because
the more I did the more Jack’s words resonated.
I made sure my phone was charged and I had a clean
notebook and tape recorder. The bills made my wallet fat.
I thought about the last time I traveled across the country, several men wanting me dead and Amanda unaware of
the lie I’d fed her. And now she shared my bed. I still had
to prove myself to her, and to do so I had to put her life
before mine.
And yet for the first time since we started seeing each
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other, despite how much I loved her, I thought about my
conversation with Jack and wondered if Amanda deserved
better.
Another cab sped me to the Continental terminal at LaGuardia Airport. I ran to the reservations desk and made the
seven-thirty nonstop flight to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I
paid the five-hundred-and-sixty-dollar round-trip ticket with
a handful of cash, drawing a slightly raised eyebrow from the
woman at the ticket counter.
“How long is the flight?”
“Four hours and thirty-five minutes,” she replied, eyes
down as she counted out the numerous crisp twenties.
“And what’s the time difference in Albuquerque?”
“New Mexico is on Mountain Standard Time. Two hours
earlier than New York.”
“Is there an in-flight movie?”
“Let me check…that would be Shrek 2. ”
“Couldn’t get Shrek 3? ”
She did not find me funny.
My flight was scheduled to land at midnight, or ten New
Mexico time. On arrival, I still had to rent a car and drive
down to Fort Sumner, which was about a hundred and sixty
miles southeast of Albuquerque. Barring any major driving
mishaps or being kidnapped by a herd of mountain lions, I’d
make the drive in two, two and a half hours, putting me in Fort
Sumner at about twelve-thirty. The museum would be long
closed, so I’d have to find a friendly bed-and-breakfast. All
of this, of course, while having no clue about local customs
or directions. You had to love seat-of-your-pants journalism.
I grabbed my boarding pass, bought copies of the Gazette and
the Dispatch and headed toward the gate. There I sucked down
a cup of coffee and a cheese Danish, and waited. There were
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barely twenty people waiting for the flight, reading newspapers
and paperbacks and counting the minutes until departure.
The plane boarded a mere twenty minutes later, and I was
lucky enough to get a whole row to myself. I took the window
seat, raised the armrests and spread my legs. I put the newspapers on the seat next to me and yawned, my head resting
gently against the window, the fading light making my eyes
heavy. The next thing I knew I woke up as the plane was
landing.
I ambled drearily off the plane, then pissed off a dozen
grumpy passengers when I had to double back and grab my
carry-on bag. After a pit stop at a Coffee Beanery, I followed
signs to the car
rental area and filled out the paperwork for a
beige 2001 Chevy Impala. I paid in cash, hemmed and hawed
about insurance and finally caved in. With any luck Jack
would get reimbursed. I took half a dozen maps of every conceivable location and asked the clerk to highlight the best
routes for me to drive to Fort Sumner.
“Lot of history there,” he said. “You going for business
or pleasure?”
“Little of both.”
“Well, don’t spend so much time on business you don’t
enjoy yourself. If you’re an Old West buff, you can’t do any
better than old Fort Sumner.”
“That right?”
“Damn right. Buy me a few replicas down there every
year, give ’em to the nephews to play cowboys and Indians.
Three littlest ones always fight to see who gets to be Jesse
James. Funny, everyone always wants to be the bad guy.”
“Guess being a good guy isn’t as much fun.”
“Guess not,” he said.
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“Is it hard to find a motel down there? Somewhere for a
bite?”
“Shoot, not at all. Second most popular attraction Fort
Sumner has after old guns is vacancy signs.”
I thanked him and took the keys to my Impala. He told me
to wait outside for a company shuttle, grabbed it for a silent
seven-minute ride to the lot.
I stepped outside, remembering to reset my watch. Then I
took a deep breath. The Albuquerque airport resembled a
mesa as designed by Frank Lloyd Wright—the façade a dark
brown, with square geometric shapes and light blue cornering. The skies were clear, the air thick and humid, so I took
off my jacket and wrapped it around my waist. Fashion be
damned.
Unsurprisingly my Impala was one of several dozen available. I climbed in, put my coffee in the cup holder, adjusted
my seat and began the drive.
I took the I-25 North exit and headed toward downtown
Santa Fe. Once I was reasonably sure I wasn’t about to drive
into a telephone pole or have a pack of wolves chase me, I
took out my cell phone headset and called Amanda. Nobody
picked up and it went right to voice mail.
“Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to let you know I landed safe.
I’m driving a seven-year-old Chevy Impala with thirtyseven thousand miles on it. There’s barely anyone else on
the road. Actually, I think I might be the only person driving
in New Mexico right now. Anyway, I love you, call me
when you get this.”
The drive was much easier than I expected, the coffee
keeping my blood percolating, but the breathtaking scenery
was what really kept my eyes open. Despite the set sun, there
was just enough light to make out the stunning mesas and
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even snow-capped peaks miles and miles away. It was a far
cry from the city, where I’d become accustomed to metal
towers and gridlock. I listened to the absolute silence, just
stared into the black horizon and tried to take in a part of the
country most people back east barely believed existed.
When I finally arrived in Fort Sumner, I stopped at a
Super 8, parked the Impala and stepped inside.
The lobby was filled with framed documents that looked
a hundred years old, and a kiosk held a handful of county
maps and brochures for various tourist attractions. The night
manager wore an actual cowboy hat, and booked my room
with a sleepy smile. I studied the documents as I passed, and
could immediately tell that not only did Fort Sumner house
a great deal of history, it was damn proud of it. I grabbed a
handful of brochures, including a pamphlet for the Museum
of Outlaws and Lawmen. It opened at 9:00 a.m. I wanted to
be the first one there.
The rooms were like any typical hotel—brown drapes,
floral comforters, paintings of old men fishing and settled
lakes reflecting moonlight. My cell phone log had three
missed calls: two from the Gazette, one from Amanda.
I set my alarm for 7:30 a.m., remembering the time difference. Figured that would give me enough time to shower and
grab a quick bite.
My jeans felt like they were glued to my legs, so I peeled
them off, tossed them on top of my shirt. I checked myself out
in the mirror, patted my stomach. New York food had been
good to me.
I did fifty pushups and thirty crunches and then fell into
bed after my right triceps cramped up. I turned off the light
and closed my eyes, and then my phone rang. It read Amanda
Cell. I answered it.
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“Hey.”
“Hey yourself. How’s the great outdoors?”
“I’m staying in a Super 8. And it does have a roof.”
“Okay, how’s the great Super 8?”
“Better than a Motel 6.”
“Ooh, don’t let Motel 6 hear that. So how was the flight?”
“Not too bad, actually left almost on time, which I don’t
think has ever happened to me before. I have to be up early
tomorrow to get to the museum.”
“Early bird gets the homicidal maniac’s rifle, huh?”
“I think Socrates said that.”
“So, you think there’s a lead there?”
“Yeah, I do. You don’t hang up on a question unless you’ve
got something to hide.”
“Guess they won’t be able to hide much when you show
up.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Well, I’ll let you get to sleep, Henry.” I waited a moment
to hear if she would say anything else. I wanted to ask it, but
almost felt like by doing so I was ringing a bell that couldn’t
be silenced. But I had to.
“Amanda? Are we okay?”
“Yeah…” she said, hesitantly. “Why would you even ask
that?” My stomach clenched.
“Just making sure. G’night, babe.”
“Sleep well. Go get ’em tomorrow.”
“I will. Night.”
She hung up. I placed the phone on the nightstand and
closed my eyes. It was barely five minutes later when the
phone beeped again. Just once. I had a text message.
I opened the phone, clicked Text Messages. The message
was from Mya. It read: Im Sorry. ForGIve Me.
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I stared at the phone for a moment, wondered what she
meant by it. Then it hit me, and I smiled.
As my eyes closed, I was glad to know Mya was finally
moving on with her life, offering the closure I’d needed for
so long.
24
I was dressed and ready to go by eight. Into my bag went a
tape recorder, pen and notepad, and the copies of the Winchester 1873 Xerox from Agnes Trimble. I bought a muffin
and slammed down a cup of coffee in the small motel dining
room. My worry about standing out was assuaged, seems
jeans and a T-shirt are common just about everywhere. The
manager, a short, cherry-cheeked woman named Marjorie,
inquired as to the purpose of my visit.
“I’m a history buff,” I said.
“Ooh!” she squealed, nearly spilli
ng the pot of coffee.
“Then you’ve definitely come to the right place. Are you
going to the Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen?”
“That’s actually my first stop.”
“Oh goodness, if you love history, you won’t be able to get
enough of that place. My husband and I make a trip once a
month, and as soon as the kids are old enough we’re buying
family passes. Jesse James, Annie Oakley, Pat Garrett, John
Tunstall, Billy the Kid, gosh, it’s just enough to get a person
excited.” She gave me a mischievous grin and leaned closer.
“Just don’t be stealin’ nothin’.”
I eyed her, confused. “What do you mean?”
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“Oh, let’s just say things have a way of disappearing
around this town. Collectors and vagabonds are absolutely
shameless. It’s a real pity, how little respect some folks have.
If you take a look at John Chisum’s military sword in the
museum,” she said, leaning closer, “it ain’t the real thing. Real
sword was stolen ten ought years ago. They just tell people
it’s the real thing to keep up appearances, save money on insurance.”
I took out the brochure, looked at the dozens of guns,
swords and artifacts in the pictures. “Is that so,” I said, not so
much a question.
“Places like that keep this town going,” she added. “Heck,
there wouldn’t be any need for this hotel without them.
Anyway, enjoy your trip, don’t worry ’bout what I said.
There’s enough real history in that place to send you home
happier’n a pig in slop.”
I thanked Marjorie, grabbed my recorder and notebook and
headed out. The museum was on East Sumner Avenue, less
than half a mile from the motel. It was just past eight-thirty.
All the houses and shops looked like they’d been pulled from
old Western movies. Low-hanging awnings, typeface with
old-style lettering, bright yellows and reds slapped on warped
wooden signs. It was like the town was bending over
backward to retain its precious nostalgia.
The Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen was a one-story
building that occupied most of one block. Sitting outside
were two pitch-black cannons aimed at each other across the
entryway, as though daring visitors to step past. Beside them
stood a carriage-style wheel, painted bright yellow. The signage showed an image of a man leaning on a rifle. A rifle
which, upon closer inspection, looked pretty darn like a Winchester 1873.
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