The Guilty (2008)
Page 30
me wrong, but that’s not why I called you. I have another story.
A better story. A story that will help you beat the Gazette
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tomorrow if you have time to make it into the national
edition.”
“I’m sorry, did Ted Allen put you on the payroll without
telling me?” Paulina asked. She took a bite of her bagel,
washed it down with pineapple juice. That combination
couldn’t taste good.
“I have a once-in-a-lifetime lead. But Wallace won’t let me
run with it. He said it’d stir up a ton of controversy and he
doesn’t need more of that from me right now. He wants me
to lay low.”
Paulina’s eyes lit up at the word controversy.
“So why come to me?” she said. “Why not take it to a
magazine?”
“It needs to run as soon as possible. There’s a maniac out
there and I think this could smoke him out. And if Wallace is
too scared to run it, it’s my duty to make sure it runs somewhere. I’m a journalist. My duty is to the truth first, my paycheck second.”
“It has to do with this Billy the Kid angle,” Paulina said.
“That’s right.”
“Do tell.”
“Does the name Mark Rheingold ring a bell?”
She thought for a moment, tapping her nails against the
tabletop. “Religious guy, right? Had some big church down
South.”
“Close enough. Do a little digging and you’ll find out just
how big this guy was.”
“So what’s your point?”
I told Paulina what I’d discovered. Every word of it. I told
her how the Roberts family had died in that fire, along with
Pastor Rheingold. I told her how William Henry Roberts’s
body was never found, and the county covered it up. How
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Roberts had been presumed dead for four years, and was continuing the bloody legacy of his ancestor, Billy the Kid.
Paulina listened transfixed. Yet there was fear in her eyes.
She knew I’d done enough digging so that this wasn’t some
half-baked concoction. She could tell from my eyes that the
closest thing to a real demon this city had ever seen was currently walking the streets, had killed David Loverne and three
others and tried to kill Mya. I told her all of it.
“I still don’t understand,” she said, her voice much softer,
the confidence gone. “Mark Rheingold, why was he at that
house? If William Roberts really did…” she paused before
she said it “…kill his whole family, why kill Rheingold, too?”
I told her about the rumors of Rheingold’s affairs with his
congregants. I told her about the photo I’d unearthed.
“I think Rheingold was having an affair with Meryl
Roberts, William’s mother. I think William’s father knew
about it. That’s why Roberts killed Rheingold. He was killing
the man who brought disgrace to his family, Billy’s family.”
“Jesus,” Paulina said. She looked like she’d aged ten years
in the last ten minutes. “And you want me to print this?”
I reached under the table and unzipped my knapsack. I
handed her dozens of pages of documents. Copies of all the
research I’d done, the photos I’d unearthed. Everything
proving Brushy Bill Roberts was Billy the Kid, and that
William considered himself heir to the throne.
“Between William and Billy they’ve killed almost thirty
people.” I looked at Paulina, her face grave. “You got into this
business for the same reason I did. At least at first. You wanted
to tell the truth. You wanted to find the stories that matter.
Well, here’s one that will rewrite history, and with any luck
save some lives. I don’t want a byline or any credit. You can
take that. But it needs to run tomorrow. And if anything I said
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gets on the record in my voice, I swear to God I will make
you pay for the rest of your life. I’ve lost my girlfriend. I’ve
lost Mya. There’s nothing more dangerous than someone
with nothing to lose. Right now all I have is my integrity. You
take that, I will make your life a living hell. I will sue you and
Ted Allen and the Dispatch for printing that shit about Mya
and me. I will lie through my teeth and tell people I fucked
you and then dumped your ass and that’s why you’re so
spiteful.”
“What happened to the truth?” Paulina said sarcastically.
“Just this once, I’ll not only stoop to your level, I’ll wave
hello from six levels lower.”
“I’ll run it,” she said, knowing I was serious. She tucked
the file into her purse. It barely fit. I knew she’d take good
care of it. “But if it’s going to run I need to leave. I have a
story to write.”
I gave her a military salute.
“I’ll pick up the check.”
“Next time it’s on me,” Paulina said. She stood up, threw
on her coat and purse.
I laughed, shook my head. “If I ever have a meal with you
again, expect a healthy dose of arsenic in your pineapple
juice. So you’d better hope there’s no check to get.”
“I like this side of you, Henry,” she said. “You act all nice,
like you’re the cub reporter who can do no wrong, but you’ve
got some ice in those veins. Keep ’em cold, tiger.”
And she left.
I sat there sipping my coffee, having made either a brilliant calculation or a horrible mistake. I was pretty sure it was
the former. I’d find out tomorrow.
52
Nobody really noticed him as he walked by. His suit was
tailored and his shirt was neatly tucked in. His bright red tie
practically screamed POWER! from the rooftops. His shoes
were shined, hair combed back and soaked with gel. He
looked like any one of a million investment bankers or traders
on their way to becoming the twenty-first century master of
the universe. He was one in a million.
A few did glance at the guitar strapped over his back,
assumed after leaving the office he would play a gig at some
dank bar with his other gel compadres, where drunken patrons
would worship him for exactly forty-five minutes before
going home to either puke or screw some desperate groupie.
The truth was, the guitar case was made out of a lightweight carbon, the whole thing weighing less than five
pounds. The Winchester rifle housed inside made the whole
contraption weigh just over ten. It was easy to run with,
narrow enough to fit through subway doors and turnstiles,
scamper down fire escapes and disappear into the city crowds.
And since he always dressed as either a young, rich broker
or some near-homeless schlub looking for that one gig that
would get him discovered, as far as New York was concerned
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he was faceless. Voiceless. Like a million more of his generation looked upon by their elders as those who sucked the
life from the system and gave nothing back.
Unlike those faceless assholes, he would be remembered.
Like his g
reat-grandfather was. Twenty-one when Billy allegedly died, yet that was enough time to carve a legacy that
would live for generations.
William’s legacy would be a new chapter. The Winchester was more than an heirloom, it was an artery through which
their bloodline flowed.
When he woke up this morning, though, William knew
there was a chance he might never use his beloved gun again.
It had served him better than any weapon he could imagine,
but the gun was old, not meant to be fired so many times in
such a short span. At least in a museum it wasn’t exposed to
the elements. But legends weren’t meant to be kept on display.
One more shot. One more kill.
William was sure that Amanda Davies’s death would deal
Henry Parker that one grievous blow that would finally push
him over the edge.
William had paid his last night at the hotel, and the nearly
blind old man who ran the place said he was sorry to see him
go. William couldn’t help but laugh, wondered if he should
correct the man. Sorry to hear you go.
Yesterday’s newspapers had been the most heartening
yet. One editorial admitted that William had become some
sort of folk hero, that each of his victims had some penance
to pay and the devil had come to collect. Just like his greatgrandfather had.
The gun was a means to an end. And once Henry Parker
felt what he felt, experienced the same loss he had, knew what
it was like to cut the disease away, the fuse would be lit. Henry
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would mythologize William Roberts, and the legend would
be made. Billy the Kid wasn’t made a legend until Pat Garrett
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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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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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
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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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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