The Guilty (2008)
Page 19
over twenty men and almost single-handedly changed this
country to the United States of Anarchy. But…” She trailed off.
“But what?”
“But as you may not know, Bonney wasn’t always evil. He
was a petty thief who actually wanted to do good.”
“The Regulators,” I said.
“That’s right. See, Billy was the very first inspiration for
tabloid journalism.”
“Yellow journalism,” I said, remembering my conversation with Jack.
“That’s right. And let me tell you, some of the crock those
papers churned out would put the Weekly World News to shame.
Every inch Billy took, they credited him with a yard. It’s true
that he was one of the most deadly men to ever hold a Winchester, but it wasn’t until his killer, Pat Garrett, published a
book about the whole ordeal that the legend took off. Fact is,
Bonney was only confirmed to have killed nine men. The
others were killed in larger gunfights. Most were likely killed
by other members of the Regulators, but guess who got credit.
Most of his closest friends thought the Kid was pretty easygoing, even funny, but dime store novelists knew funny didn’t
sell a villain. Dangerous, cold-blooded and hair-triggered did.
“You look at the legend of Billy the Kid now,” she continued, “almost a hundred and thirty years after his death, and
the man has become a folk hero.”
“Does the name Brushy Bill mean anything to you?”
Agnes eyed me suspiciously. “Where did you hear that?”
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“In Fort Sumner. A museum curator mentioned it.”
“Never mind Brushy Bill Roberts. That’s one myth grown
from diseased roots.”
“If it’s all the same, Professor Trimble, I’d like the opportunity to check every tree and then decide if I’m barking up
the wrong one.”
She sighed. “It really is just a waste of time.”
“Tell that to the four dead people.”
Agnes sighed. “If you insist. Brushy Bill Roberts,” she
continued, “was a charlatan in the 1950s who claimed to be
Billy the Kid.”
“Wasn’t the Kid shot and killed in 1881?”
“Yes,” Agnes said. “But like Elvis, Tupac Shakur and the
Loch Ness monster, some people simply love conspiracy
theories and won’t give them a rest despite all the evidence
proving their insane delusions are complete bunk.”
“I love bunk,” I said. “Explain the bunk.”
“In 1949, a probate officer investigated the claim of a man
named Joe Hines. While interviewing him, the officer learned
that Hines had been involved in the Lincoln County wars.
Hines claimed to have known Billy the Kid. He said Pat
Garrett never shot the Kid, and that Bonney was actually
alive and well and living in Hamilton, Texas, under the name
of Ollie P. ‘Brushy Bill’ Roberts. Out of curiosity, the officer
went down to Hamilton and found Roberts. After being confronted with the witness, Roberts confessed to being the Kid.
Roberts then fought to reclaim his ‘lost’ identity, saying he
wished to die with the pardon Texas Governor Lew Wallace
had reneged on over eighty years ago.”
Agnes stopped.
“And?” I said.
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“And Brushy Bill Roberts was quickly discredited and
died the next year. End of story.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s a pretty abrupt ending.”
“I don’t deal in charlatans, Mr. Parker. They’re not a legitimate part of history and aren’t worth wasting my time or
yours with. Brushy Bill is worth no more consideration than
the boogeyman or Freddy Krueger. Now will there be anything
else, Mr. Parker? I haven’t even touched my scone yet.”
I leaned forward, put on my most soothing voice. Which,
considering my girlfriend had just left me on the side of the
street, was probably as soothing as sandpaper on dry skin.
“Let’s just say,” I said, “that I wanted to know more about
Brushy Bill for entertainment’s sake. You know, so I could
win my next game of Trivial Pursuit.”
She let out an audible sigh. Her eyes showed tremendous
skepticism. Then they softened. She reached into her desk and
pulled out a battered leather address book. She flipped
through it, paused at a name, then scribbled something on a
Post-it note which she then handed to me. Written on the note
was the name Professor Largo Vance, retired. A phone
number with a 212 area code was written next to it.
“Professor Vance lives in the city,” Agnes said. “He was
previously professor emeritus at Columbia, but was expelled
due to scandal.”
“What kind of scandal?” I asked.
“Of the grave-robbing kind.”
“Oh. That kind of scandal.”
“If you want to chase ghosts and waste time, do yourself
a favor and speak to Vance, he’s a master of both. And I hope
for your sake you’re not allergic to cats.”
“Not that I know of,” I said, standing up. I offered my hand.
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Agnes took it reluctantly. “Thanks for your help. Hopefully
this will all lead to something.”
“Piece of advice, Henry. If you go chasing false light,
you’ll end up in darkness. Don’t bother.”
I gave a courteous nod and left her office.
I wanted to stop at home and change, then call Professor
Vance and meet with him as soon as possible. If there was any
more to this story, I wanted to alert Wallace and Jack and
hopefully make tomorrow’s national edition.
I hailed a cab and headed home, plunging my head into the
leather seat rest. I took a deep breath and could feel my body
swimming away. The more I pulled on this thread the more
spool there seemed to be. There had to be a core, some place
where the full story was revealed. There was an emptiness. I
was so used to calling Amanda, to actively ignore her was
torture. I thought about what Jack said in the bar that day. For
one terrifying moment, I wondered if what happened yesterday was fated to happen at some point. If people like Jack and
I were meant to be alone. If loneliness would inevitably hunt
us down.
I was still thinking about this when I paid the cabdriver and
trudged upstairs. I unlocked the door, flicked on the light
switch, half hoping (and possibly expecting) to see Amanda
waiting for me. I checked my phone again just in case. I
hadn’t missed anything. The emptiness was overwhelming.
I tossed my bag down and went into the kitchen. My
stomach growled for food. I poured a drink of cranberry juice
and seltzer, set the glass down on the counter and reached into
my pocket for Largo Vance’s phone number. And that’s when
I felt a massive blow to the side of my head and everything
went black.
31
Amanda Davies sat in the high-back leather chair and stared
out the window. She wanted to call Henry, desperately wanted
to hear his voice if only for a moment. Several times over the
l
ast few hours she’d reached for the phone, felt the plastic
beneath her fingers, only to retract like she’d touched a poisonous plant.
The office was empty, dark except for a desk lamp and her
computer screen. The minutes seemed to stretch into hours.
She watched the phone. He’d called once. She waited to see
if he would call again. He didn’t.
She’d told Henry she was coming here to sleep. She knew
sleep wouldn’t come easy. Not last night and not tonight. Not
after what she saw.
Since joining the Legal Aid Society, Amanda had witnessed some horrible things. Mothers and fathers who beat
their children within an inch of their life, starved them. Made
seven-year-olds wear diapers for days and weeks on end.
Boys and girls who were found caked in their own excrement
while their parents were out drinking, stealing or fornicating.
And no matter how hard they worked, how many children
they rescued, it was like putting a Band-Aid on a busted dam.
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There wasn’t enough manpower, not enough funding. As long
as society remained this screwed up, as long as there were
hedonistic parents who put themselves over their child, there
would always be children without homes. Just like her. Until
she met Henry.
She thought about Mya Loverne. Hated the fact that she
felt even a whisper of sympathy for the girl. But she did. It
was tearing her apart, because she could still see Mya’s arms
wrapped around Henry’s waist, their lips touching, Henry
seeming to give in.
He should have ended it months ago. He should have
severed all ties with Mya Loverne. But he hadn’t, and last
night showed why. He wasn’t ready to give her up. Amanda
lost the one person she could turn to, the one who showed her
that there were relationships beyond her diaries.
She couldn’t take it anymore. She grabbed the phone,
nearly spilling a cup of water all over the desk, and dialed
Henry’s cell phone. She waited as it rang, hoping that any
second he would pick up and she would hear his voice,
hoping there was more to the story. Henry was not a bad guy,
like so many of the douche bags and deadbeats desperate
women seemed to flock to. Guys who smelled like skunk
residue and wore enough hair gel to paste King Kong to the
Empire State Building. Henry wasn’t like them. She couldn’t
picture him cheating on her. Being with another woman.
Pressing his lips
(stop it)
Henry’s voice mail picked up.
“This is Henry. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you
as soon as possible.”
She bit her lip, then spoke.
“Henry, it’s me. We need to talk. Call me when you get this.”
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For a moment, fear gripped Amanda. What if he was with
Mya? Couldn’t be. He wasn’t like that. He wasn’t…
She hung up. Looked out the window again as the sun began
to dip below the clouds, casting a golden hue over New York
City. In a city of millions, Amanda had never felt so alone.
32
Wake up, Parker.
I heard a voice in the distance, like a dream beginning to
fade into the reality of morning. There was a beeping noise,
like an alarm clock. Then just as abruptly it stopped. A gush
of water hit me in the face, and the dream was shattered. I spit
it out, coughed it out of my nose. My eyes opened. When I
realized where I was, I wished I was still dreaming.
I was on the floor. Sitting up against the radiator. My hands
were strapped behind my back. I couldn’t see what was
holding them together. My head throbbed and my neck felt
sticky. My legs were numb, the tingling sensation of poor circulation. I had no idea how long I’d been here, but every
muscle in my body felt some measure of pain.
The room was dark, a faint amber glow dying on the
carpet. The sun was going down. How long had I been out?
My heart beat fast, fear and adrenaline spreading quickly, my
pulse racing as panic began to set in. Water dripped down my
face. It got into my eyes and I tried to blink it away.
Then I heard a sucking sound, looked over and saw a man
I’d never seen before sitting at the living room table, smoking
a cigarette like he didn’t have a care in the world. He was
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flicking ashes into a neat little pile on the floor. There was an
empty glass in front of him, water beading down its sides. I
recognized it as a piece Amanda bought from a mail order
catalog a few months back. She’d said my glassware looked
so worn it was ready to turn back into sand.
The stranger cocked his head and smiled at me, like he’d
just noticed I was there.
“You’re a heavy sleeper, Parker. I thought I’d have to bring
a marching band in here to get those eyes open.”
I blinked the spots from my eyes. The man in my living
room was young. Mid-twenties. His face had no lines from age,
but looked slightly weather-beaten, like he’d grown up in the
sun and hadn’t yet learned the dangers of UV rays. He was
wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. A blue bandanna was
wrapped around his head. His eyebrows and sideburns were
dirty blond, but the bandanna hid his hair’s length and style.
He wasn’t from the city. Nobody got natural tans living here.
Immediately I knew this man, like me, had come to New York
from far away. He’d come for a reason. He’d killed four people
without mercy or remorse. And now he was in my home.
The skin around his face was taut but smooth, like an older
man squeezed into a younger man’s body. His hands were
veiny and strong, his expression one of both deep thought and
intense malice, like he’d take a long hard thought before slitting
your throat. This was the man who had ended four lives.
Mixed with fear, I felt a strange dose of excitement. The
man sitting in my living room presented a fascinating story,
one that I’d been dying to uncover. A spool that unraveled
here—leaving me beaten and vulnerable, at a murderer’s
mercy.
He peered at me through a smoky haze as he took another
drag and exhaled. I couldn’t see any weapons on him, didn’t
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know what he’d hit me with, only that it was heavy and
knocked me out with one blow. I had a burning urge to write
a very strongly worded letter to the landlord about the shitty
security in this apartment building, but there were more
pressing issues.
“How did you…” I said. My mouth felt like it was filled
with cotton, my words slurred and slow.
“Please,” he said. “Your building is easier to get into than
my jeans. And it costs a whole lot less, too.”
He stood up. Moved closer until he was hovering over me.
My heart was pounding. I tried futilely to struggle with my
bonds. I could smell the stink of sweat. He was breathing hard,
&
nbsp; but not enough to keep a sick smile from spreading over his
face.
“Part of me just wants to kill you right now,” he said.
“Lord knows you deserve it.”
“Like Athena deserved it,” I spat. “And Joe Mauser, and
Jeffrey Lourdes and David Loverne.”
“Damn straight,” he said. “Fact is, you belong right in
with the whole lot of ’em. I could fucking kill you right now
and nobody would know until some shitty two-line statement
in your newspaper told ’em.”
I had nothing to say. I tugged against my bonds, felt pain
in my shoulder. It was useless. My legs were asleep, and I had
no leverage. The boy watched me with odd fascination, like
watching a fly struggle to free itself from a web.
Finally I stopped struggling.
“If you wanted to kill me—” I started to say.
“I would have done it right after I knocked your ass out,”
he finished. “No, I don’t aim to kill you just yet, Henry.
You’ve been useful so far. I’m sure you were flattered I left
one of your writings behind.”
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“You’re demented.”
He eyed me with disappointment. “Killing you is still a
possibility, you don’t get a lot smarter.”
“Smarter?” I said, rather stupidly.
“I’ve read your paper,” he said. “I’ve read all those stories
about the guns and the bullets and the blah blah blah. Fact
is your stories don’t mean anything. What are you doing,
son, other than just repeating shit that’s already happened?
You’re a goddamn stenographer with a fancy business card,
my friend, and just because you happened to look under a
log nobody else wanted to get dirty enough to look under
doesn’t make you any less of a maggot than the dirt you find
underneath.”
“Like you,” I said. “The maggot I found underneath.”
“Maggot, whatever. All depends on your perspective,” he
said, dropping his cigarette onto the floor where he stubbed
it out with the toe of his sneaker. “Funny thing about maggots
is, people hate ’em, but the whole world would go to hell
without ’em. Maggots strip dead flesh from bone, make sure
the smell doesn’t bother your pretty nostrils.”
“Billy the Kid,” I said, tasting my own blood. “What do
you…”
“Shut the fuck up,” the boy said. Without warning, he
stomped on my leg hard with his foot. I let out a cry of pain.