Parker 02 - The Guilty (23 page)

no force behind the blows. Then I took her arms and held

them.

"I'm going to help you," I said. "I'm going to help you get

your life back together. You've always been one of the strongest people I've ever known, Mya. And you can come back.

You can do great things."

"I have nobody," Mya cried softly. "I lost you. I lost my

father."

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Jason Pinter

"You didn't lose me," I said gently. "You didn't want me.

We weren't right together. You don't want me. You haven't

for a long time. But I can help you. I
will
help you."

"I just want to be happy," Mya said. She wiped her eyes.

A piece of lint from her sweatshirt caught on her eyelash. I

plucked it free. She laughed through her sobs. "You used to

make me happy, Henry."

I didn't know how to respond. Mya's arms had freed themselves, and I felt them wrap around my waist. Mya hadn't been

this close to me in a long time. Yet there were no sparks. I held

her like I would hold a small child. For comfort. For protection.

I wanted to hate her. I wanted to ask why she said those

things to Paulina, why she took our private life and made it

public, why she threatened to ruin us both. But I also wanted

to squeeze all the pain from her body. Because she didn't

deserve any of it.

Before I could think, I felt Mya's breath on my face; harsh,

sweet. She leaned in. I wanted to stop her but I couldn't.

Couldn't say no to her right now. I felt her breath, didn't

want it like this. But I couldn't break this girl's heart one more

time. Her breath touched my lips, I wasn't going to stop her,

and then they pressed against mine, hot and needy.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

My body went rigid. I pried myself from Mya's grip. Her

hands slid off me. She'd heard the voice, too. I was afraid to

turn around, but I had to.

Amanda was standing on the corner. Watching us. A bag

of groceries lay at her feet. Where she'd dropped them.

"No. No, no, no no
no.
You have got to be fucking

joking," she said. She left the groceries and started toward

us with a frightening urgency. I tried to open my mouth but

nothing came out.

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195

"Amanda," I said.
It's not what it looks like. I can

explain.
Of course I would say those things. Isn't that what

every guy said?

"You goddamn
whore,
" Amanda spat. "You drag him through

your filth and then you come to
our
house to spread it around?

Get the fuck out of here, you disgusting tramp." Mya took a step

toward Amanda, like she might do or say something, but then

she turned and ran away. I turned back to Amanda.

"Wait," I said.

"So was she wearing perfume?" Amanda asked, her eyes

wild, searching for some crazy answer. "Tell me she drugged

you, that she had a gun, that she's the lunatic who's killing

all those people and offered to sleep with you for the scoop.

Tell me something other than you were just standing here

playing tonsil hockey with the girl who dragged your name

through the mud. Tell me there's more to it."

"Her father was killed," I said. "I didn't know what to do."

"No, you knew what to do. You decided to be hero Henry

fucking Parker and swoop in for the rescue. Is that your M.O.

now? You find these damaged girls and pretend to be their

savior until the next basket case comes along? Is that what

you did with me? You were tired of Mya so when I happened

by you figured you'd take my broken ass for a spin?"

"It's not like that and you know it. I love you, Amanda."

"Then
why were you kissing another fucking girl?
" she

shouted.

"I didn't...I...she held me," I said, realizing how lame it

sounded as soon as the words came out of my mouth.

Amanda looked back at the groceries. "There's your

dinner," she said. "Cook it yourself. Burn the apartment down.

I'm going to stay at the office tonight." She turned and started

to walk away.

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Jason Pinter

"Amanda," I said, following her. My head was spinning, my

heart felt like it was about to burst. This couldn't be happening.

"If you follow me I'll call the cops and tell them Mya's

girlfriend-beating ex is coming after me." I stopped in my

tracks, blinking rapidly. "Try me," she said. "I swear I'll do

it."

Then her hand was in the air. A cab chugged up to the

curb. I could feel the eyes of a dozen strangers watching the

scene unfold. I watched as Amanda got into a cab, fleeing

in a cloud of exhaust, leaving me alone on the street with a

bagful of groceries.

30

I stood on the street corner. My feet tapped involuntarily.

My brain was running on about four gallons of caffeine,

half of which probably hadn't even entered my bloodstream

and would cause my eyes to pop out of their sockets any

minute now.

I didn't sleep last night. I watched Amanda's cab drive off,

picked up the discarded groceries, put them away neatly. I

called Amanda. She told me not to call again. I didn't. Instead

I took a cab to her office, saw the light on, and stood outside

all night just to make sure she was safe. She didn't need to

know I was there. But I did.

The next morning I decided to visit Agnes Trimble.

It was 8:45 a.m. I'd already plowed through the
Gazette

and the
Dispatch.
A reporter had written an article about the

growing public sentiment that the killer might have done a

public service by killing four people. Tomorrow more ghouls

would come out of the woodwork and celebrate this murderer,

and soon it would cross over from print to radio to television.

Four lives were being trivialized, and a killer was being glorified. Undoubtedly reporters would eat each other to get the

first scoop, pay loads of money to interview this beast.

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Jason Pinter

Pretend to be appalled by the killer's deeds while cashing the

checks he helped rake in.

I waited outside the department building for Agnes. She

got off the bus, then dropped her keys when she saw me. I

guess if I saw a guy with messy hair, dark circles under his

eyes and a heroin addict's jitters waiting in front of my office

I'd be a little unnerved, too.

"Professor Trimble," I said, trying to slow down my convulsions. "Do you have a minute?"

"Mr. Parker," she said, picking up her keys and smoothing

out her clothes. "My taking your appointment with Amanda

did
not
give you a free invitation to show up uninvited before

I've had my morning scone."

"I understand that and I apologize for my abruptness and

for interrupting your, uh, scone eating. But I need your help."

She sighed. "I should charge you a convenience fee." Then

noticed I'd come alone. "Miss Davies isn't with you today?"

"No, just me," I said, eager to avoid any more discussions

of Amanda. Agnes didn't need to know that the only way I

could stop myself from thinking about Amanda was following this story.

Agnes entered the building, led me to her office. She

unlocked the door and flipped the light switch, the lava lamp

glowing a festive red and green and casting a Christmas-y

glow over her replica firearms. "Did you have any luck with

the information on the Winchester?" she asked.

"You have no idea," I said. I told her about New Mexico,

about the stolen Winchester, and the connection to Billy the Kid.

When I finished Agnes sat back and twiddled her lip with her

thumbs.

"William H. Bonney," she said, "is one of the most mis-
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199

understood figures not only to come from the lawlessness of

the Old West, but in all of history."

"How so?"

"For the most part, Billy the Kid has been portrayed as one

of the most brutal men to ever raise a rifle. It's true Bonney killed

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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Jason Pinter

"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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201

"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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Jason Pinter

Agnes took it reluctantly. "Thanks for your help. Hopefully

this will all lead to something."