Parker 02 - The Guilty (36 page)

Square Garden. The Staples Center. The freaking Rose Bowl.

The piece ran concurrent to a photograph of Rheingold

being swarmed by a crowd of fans and supporters as he

walked down main street in Hico.

In the photo, dozens of hands were reaching for him, but his

eyes and embrace were focused on one woman in particular.

Her hair was wavy and recently permed, her eyes sparkling,

the cut of her dress just an inch or two lower than the other

women. Pastor Rheingold was frozen in time, right about to

wrap his suited arms around her. A big smile played on his face.

The caption read: An exhausted yet emboldened Pastor

Mark Rheingold greets worshippers during his return to Texas.

The woman in the photo was Meryl Roberts.

That look in her eyes was not of an adoring fan, or heavenobsessed parishioner. It was the same look I saw at the airport,

when husbands returned to their wives. When lovers reunited.

When dormant embers were rekindled.

John Roberts was standing next to his wife in the photo.

A smile was on his face. A smile that knew more than he was

willing to tell.

And in the background, over both of their shoulders, was

the face of the man who had killed four people, cut up my

hand and thrown my former lover off a rooftop. It was the face

of William Henry Roberts.

He was staring at Mark Rheingold. I recognized the

burning in his eyes as the same expression he had right before

pushing Mya off a building. That he'd enjoy the violence

about to take place.

49

William Henry Roberts lay in bed, naked excerpt for a pair

of loose-fitting shorts. The window was open, his skin dry

from the cool summer air. He could hear sirens like crazed

bees flying down the New York streets, looking to quench

fires that could only be put out briefly before igniting again.

They were looking for the source of these flames, and so far

they'd come up empty.

William read the papers. He knew they were looking for

a ghost. He could be anybody. Someone's friend. Someone's

brother. Someone's son.

In one life he had been all of these.

He could sense the panic in the streets as men and women

tried to figure out who might be next. They promised to keep

their children locked up, to come home early from work. That

made him laugh. He wasn't targeting normal moms and pops.

All of his victims shared the same bond, and once he'd taken

out as many as possible, in the end they would all thank him.

Some called him heartless.

Cold.

Evil.

A demon.

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The devil himself.

Others called him a warrior.

A prophet.

An apostle.

One said that God worked in mysterious ways.

One referred to his beloved Winchester as the weapon

with which God was raining brimstone down upon the city

of sin. That only through darkness and devastation could light

eventually emerge.

William Henry Roberts read all of these, and knew that

with the right fire the whole city could burn. Just like the fire

that had lit up the Texas sky years ago.

It took a fire to clean William and awaken him. It would

take a fire for this city to see the light.

Just like his great-grandfather had done all those years

ago, riding with fearless men who tried to right the wrongs

of so many evils only to find backs turned, his very motives

questioned, an army amassing against his fellow Regulators.

He was forced into hiding to save his life. He had to live

a lie, denying his heritage until he was nearly on his deathbed.

Bonney was a great name. Billy the Kid was the mythological name bestowed upon him. William's parents had tried

to hide that legacy from him. Better for them to die than to

bury the legend, stem the blood.

The heiress and the mogul were all targeted from the beginning. The cop was a mistake, but a fortunate one. David

Loverne was a split-second decision. After reading Mya's

interview in the
Dispatch,
it was an easy choice.

Mya, though, was another story.

She had to go because of Henry.

William Roberts was a Regulator. Some thought him a

villain, others a savior. Whichever side of the coin he was on,

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307

Henry Parker was on the other, the one chosen by fate to

chronicle William's myth. Parker was a young man, just a few

years older than Roberts's twenty-one. Henry himself had

been hunted, narrowly escaping death.

We're the same.

Even if Henry didn't understand what William was trying

to accomplish, he would be the one to spread the gospel.

Patrick Floyd Garrett didn't agree with Billy the Kid, but it

was his sensational storytelling that cemented Billy's legend.

And for Henry to be able to tell the story with the passion necessary, he needed to feel anger. He needed to feel hate. He

needed to feel loss. Only then would his words have the

desired effect. Once Henry Parker saw the world the way

William did, that thin line separating life and death, innocent

and guilty, their two sides would amount to a perfect whole.

William remembered back to the night he learned the truth

about his family. The first was the truth about his legacy.

Though his parents had fought their hardest to distance themselves from it, William knew his grandfather Oliver well.

And when he learned the full extent of his legacy, there was

no way he could let that mantle simply fall to the floor. He

had to pick it up, shepherd it into a new millennium. And New

York, more than New Mexico or Texas, needed it.

The second truth was about his mother and that smiling

bastard. His parents told him they loved him, would never lie

to him, that they would always put William and his sister

above everything.

They forgot to leave out the "almost" before the everything.

William's mission had been clear. When a patient's limbs

become gangrenous, you had to cut them off before they

killed the whole. Sometimes you had to lose limbs vital to

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who you were. Limbs you never believed you could live

without.

But he did.

William picked up the Winchester, ran his fingers along the

cold steel, tried to envision all the lives shattered, worlds

changed by this weapon. He squeezed it tight, believed he felt

his ancestor, the great Billy the Kid, transferring his strength.

William felt it, felt ready. He knew where he had to go. He

knew who had to die next. Mya Loverne was a stopgap, a

bonus, but to get to Henry he had to strike closer. Because for

Henry Parker to truly be the other side of William, he would

have to learn to deal with the death of his loved ones, as well.

50

When I first moved to New York, I would often find myself

wandering the streets at night. Walking for blocks and blocks

for no real reason other than to soak in the city, bask in the

dimming sun and reflections off the towers. I dreamed of

being part of this town, and like a lover I wanted to caress and

explore every inch of it.

I would walk down to the South Street Seaport, breath in

the salty air, stroll along the historic district with ports that

looked like a relic from a Melville novel, made you forget it

was a city with 3.2 coffee shops per square block.

I would walk all the way west to the Hudson, then down

to Chelsea Piers, watching young teenagers skateboarding

and couples bowling while a mammoth cruise ship took

young lovers around the Hudson, down past where the World

Trade Center once stood, around the East River where they

could see the majestic arches of the Brooklyn Bridge, the

grace of the Statue of Liberty.

Most of these sojourns took place while my relationship

with Mya was deteriorating. In prior months we would have

spent every moment of every evening together, cuddled up on

a couch, watching a movie. Mya would wear one of my

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sweatshirts, purposefully drop popcorn all over my lap. Eventually we'd fool around and pass out, start the next day fresh.

Then our relationship dimmed, and we began to avoid

each other at all costs. Then after I met Amanda, after I nearly

died, Mya and I lost touch completely.

I didn't mind. I loved Amanda. It may have been cruel to

leave Mya hurting, but it would have been worse to lead her on.

Ordinarily walking the streets alone at night wouldn't have

been such a big deal. I wouldn't have thought twice about it.

But tonight I was walking alone, knowing Amanda was somewhere else. Not because my relationship with her was similar

to my relationship with Mya--a Band-Aid slowly being

peeled off--but because it had been painfully ripped away.

Suddenly I looked up and I was standing at the apartment

building of Linda Fredrickson. I hadn't planned it, at least not

consciously.

Linda Fredrickson was Joe Mauser's sister. Her husband,

John, had died from a gunshot wound after I confronted him.

If John had never met me, Linda would still have a husband.

After it was revealed that John Fredrickson was a dirty cop

and I was exonerated of the murder charges, I attempted to

contact Linda. At that point I wasn't really thinking about

whether or not she would forgive me. It just seemed like the

right thing to do.

A year ago I had come to this very apartment building,

gone upstairs and knocked on her door. She opened it and

stared at me with a befuddled look, the kind you might give

a Jehovah's Witness who simply won't stop soliciting you. I

told her I was sorry. She slapped me hard across the face. She

slammed the door and I left.

For uncertain reasons, tonight I felt I had to speak to Linda.

If anyone could understand what was happening, she could.

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Mya was in the hospital. I had to cut Amanda from my life

before she got hurt. I had nobody to turn to.

But this wasn't about me. Linda had her own life. She was

still grieving over the loss of her brother.

I stood in front of the awning, debating whether to call on

Linda Fredrickson. The doorman sighed and walked over to

me. He knew I didn't live there. His eyes were raised as if to

say
either come in, or get the hell out of here.

"May I ask who you're here to visit?" He wore a red

uniform and a square hat with gold tassles. I could see several

newspapers littering his tiny counter; the flicker on the glass

told me he kept a small television set to pass the time.

"Nobody," I said. "Just walking around the neighborhood."

"All right then," he said, with a suspicious tone. He left

me and went back inside, immediately picking up the newspaper. He raised the cover and for a moment I had a terrible

sense of deja vu. On the cover was a police sketch of William

Henry Roberts. It looked both exactly like him and nothing

like him. He was a young man. Like thousands of others in

this city. Like me.

I wondered if the doorman had been paranoid, thought I

could be the killer.

I hurried away.

The entire city was being combed for William Henry

Roberts. Yet as the noose tightened, the picture was becoming

clearer. I knew Roberts thought he was the great-grandson of

Billy the Kid. I knew he'd killed his entire family. The

problem was I had no proof. The proof had been reduced to

ashes four years ago.

I begged Wallace to let me run the story, knowing full well

my claims couldn't be fully supported by facts. They were unsubstantiated, and I offered to provide full disclaimers and

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editorialize much more than usual. In the end Wallace nixed

it. And rightly so. But that didn't mean I couldn't try to print

it elsewhere. Or let someone else print it.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the one number I

swore I would never call again.

The phone rang and the operator picked up.

"This is the
New York Dispatch,
how may I direct your call?"

"I'd like Paulina Cole's desk."

"One moment."

I held my breath, waited for the call to go through. Paulina

screened her calls. One of the benefits of having worked

beside her for a few months. Unsurprisingly it went to voice

mail.

"This is Cole. Leave a message."

"Paulina, this is Henry Parker. Meet me at Ollie's diner in

an hour. I have a story for you. No tricks, just business."

I hung up and began walking toward the diner.

51

I was in the middle of chewing a ham-and-cheese sandwich

when Paulina burst through the door. I'd been inside just

ten minutes, but decided to order without waiting. This

wasn't a date.

Paulina's hair was disheveled, her makeup ready to

cascade down her face at any moment, and her purse clung

to her shoulder by one overworked strap. She perused the