Parker 02 - The Guilty (42 page)

the ravings of a murderer as he discussed why he was going

to kill her, her eyes growing wider. The fear in her eyes made

me want to forget the gun pointed at my head, run over and

throw my arms around her. But I knew I couldn't. I was the

reason Amanda was here right now. I mouthed
I'm sorry.

Amanda didn't react.

"So here's what's going to happen," Roberts said. "Davies,

you're going to come with me. Parker, you're going to sit and

watch like a gentleman."

"What makes you think I'm going to do a damn thing?" I spat.

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357

Roberts took a step back, then drove the butt of the gun into my

stomach. I doubled over, gasping for air, bile surging upward.

While I was on the ground, he went over to Amanda,

grabbed her by her bound hands and lifted her up out of her

chair. She tried to struggle, but Roberts was strong.

He pushed her in front of him, the rifle pointed at her

head. He marched Amanda into the conference room. The

windows faced the street. It was a beautiful day. Ordinarily I

could sit at my desk and watch the sun reflect off the towers

in Rockefeller Center. Now I had to watch dozens of cops and

reporters crowd the sidewalk. Cameras recording every

second, waiting for something to headline their newscast or

make their page one.

I crawled into the room, my legs still too weak to carry me.

Roberts walked up to the window, then he took the rifle and

swung it at the glass, shattering it. Dozens of shards tumbled

outward and I heard them sprinkle against the pavement.

Suddenly he shoved Amanda's face toward the window. I

could hear her gasps, her sobs, still trying to get free. I struggled to find my footing. I knew that all those cameras were

focused on the face of William Henry Roberts as he held my

girlfriend, Amanda, hostage. And I knew, in that instant, he

was going to kill her for the cameras. He was going to give

them their page one.

"You sick fuck," I breathed, holding a table for balance.

"This isn't about her or me. It's about you. You and your sick

fucking family."

Roberts turned slightly, looked at me. "I wouldn't expect

you to understand, Henry. But after Amanda dies, you will."

I heard a click, knew that the Winchester was loaded and

ready to fire. Amanda struggled, but his other arm was

clamped around her neck, nearly cutting off her air supply.

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Jason Pinter

"Billy the Kid was a fraud," I said. "He was as much a hero

as a donkey's ass. He was a scrawny little prick who happened

to have good aim. His legacy is worth squat, just like yours.

Nobody will remember you tomorrow. You'll be dead, and

people will move on like you never existed." The anger

seethed through my voice, my veins felt like they were on fire.

I took another step closer, saw Roberts's finger tighten on the

trigger.

I heard a fluttering sound from outside, a
fwap fwap fwap

that could only have been a helicopter, homing in on us from

an unseen direction. Staring at the building across the street,

I could see windows opened, marksmen waiting for a clean

shot to take out Roberts. They couldn't do it with Amanda in

the way. They needed a clean shot. They needed separation.

Roberts was ignoring me, speaking to Amanda. "Miss

Davies, like so many others before you, you will accomplish

much more in death than in life. Henry, I trust you'll know

what to make of all this. I know you'll know how to properly

record my history."

I stepped forward again, spoke louder.

"Tell me," I said. "How did it feel to see your mother

getting fucked by that priest?"

Roberts's finger slipped off the trigger. I saw the gun waver

slightly. He didn't turn. Didn't look at me.

"Your mom, Meryl, I guess your father couldn't show her

God so she had to try someone a little closer to the almighty.

Bet Dad was proud, too. Bet he watched them. Bet you

listened in, you freak, watched Mark Rheingold leave your

house late at night, early in the morning. Bet your mom left

him something nice on the collection plate."

"Shut your fucking mouth," Roberts said.

"You claim all this is about bringing down Sodom and

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359

Gommorah, I say this is about some poor little kid who saw

his mommy getting drilled by the guy who passes around

communion wafers. You were pissed, so you killed him and

your whole family. How's that for the legacy of Billy the

Kid. His descendants were so messed up they couldn't

satisfy their wives. Think I'll take another trip down to Fort

Sumner, fix up that tombstone of his. Right now it says

'Pals.' I'm thinking it should say Billy the Kid: Always

Shooting Blanks."

For a split second, Roberts's face turned away from

Amanda and his eyes met mine. They burned in a way I

hadn't seen before. They were unfocused, angry, like he'd

begun to lose a bit of control. Though he was in fact a coldblooded murderer, in William's mind he was a savior.

"See," I said. "The way you're looking at me right now,

those aren't the eyes of a Regulator. They're the eyes of a guy

who kills for his own sick pleasure."

He swept his gaze back to Amanda, the rifle muzzle still

digging into the nape of her neck. Sobs were racking her body.

I had to separate them, get some distance. Just a little more...

"This whole show for the cameras? Might get page twelve

in tomorrow's paper, somewhere after the ninth episode of

Lost.
You'll be forgotten before restaurants get their morning

sushi deliveries. And all that'll be left is your dead granddaddy.

You saw today's
Dispatch,
right? You know nobody believes

the truth. Nobody thinks Brushy Bill actually was Billy the Kid.

You're a fucking failure, Will. Just like your whole family."

Suddenly Roberts swung the rifle my way, that muzzle

aiming to blast my heart out. I knew it was coming. Once I

saw the look in his eyes, I knew he would kill me if I pressed

further. So I was ready.

I managed to grab the rifle's barrel before it measured my

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Jason Pinter

chest, swatted it upward as a gunshot shattered the air, white

plaster raining down like ash. I had only seconds. One thing

I'd learned about Winchesters, they were quick to reload.

"Amanda, run!" I shouted. She tried to move, but Roberts's

hand snaked out and grabbed her by the hair. He tried to hold

the Winchester with his other hand, but the long, heavy rifle

seemed to be too much. He struggled to bring it around and

get off another shot. Instead he whipped the barrel around and

caught me in the face.

I went down, my legs giving way. Blood began to trickle

into my eyes. I wiped it away, got back to my feet, saw that

horrible black muzzle lining up with my forehead. Roberts

had a sick grin on his face.

Then another shot rang out, and the grin disappeared.

A swell of blood blossomed just over Roberts's left

shoulder. I heard another sharp crack, saw a spark of light

come from the building across the street. The cops had set up

snipers. And they finally got their separation.

The second shot blew out a portion of Roberts's jacket by

his midsection, a gout of blood splashing onto the floor. His

eyes began to roll back in his head. He tried to bring the Winchester back up, but I grabbed it from his trembling hands.

Then everything just seemed to
happen.
Roberts began to

topple backward, and in a moment of horror I saw his body

was destined for the open window he'd shattered. His left

hand was still clutching Amanda's hair. Her hands bound, her

mouth gagged, she didn't have the balance to resist.

"No!" I shouted, as Roberts stumbled backward, hitting the

back of his legs on the windowsill. He teetered for a moment,

grinning at me, his face and chest a mass of dark blood.

Through bloodstained teeth I heard him say, "Let's go,

angel," before he fell backward, taking Amanda with him.

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361

I rushed forward, still holding the gun, and thrust the upper

half of my body out the window. Amanda was teetering over

the ledge, holding on with her legs as Roberts now clung desperately to her outstretched arms. His hands were slipping.

Below them I could see dozens of people scattering about as

they looked above, saw the three of us perched nine stories

high.

And then he fell. Roberts's hand slipped off of Amanda's

wrists, and then he tumbled down, faster than I could have

imagined, that sick smile embedded in my eyes like it would

never leave, his body falling faster and faster until it thudded

on the pavement below.

And that's when Amanda's knees gave way, and she fell

over backward. Without thinking, I thrust the Winchester into

the loop between the bonds on her hands.

It held.

And there we were, hanging a hundred feet from the

ground, Amanda's bound hands caught on the barrel of a rifle

that had been used to kill four people.

Her mouth was still gagged. Her eyes fluttered, more gasps

escaping as she tried not to die.

"Amanda, baby, reach up with your hands and grab the

barrel," I said. Her hands managed to close around the rifle,

but the weight was too much for me to hold. I braced my legs

against the wall, tried to leverage the rifle upward and give

Amanda a place to find her footing.

Then I heard the sounds of bending metal. The rifle was

old, wasn't meant to carry any load, let alone a grown person.

Amanda was slipping.

"Hold on!" I yelled. I braced my feet ever harder, felt the

stitches in my hand pop as I yanked as hard as I could, feeling

the rifle barrel moving upward as I carried Amanda. Then the

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load lightened, and I saw Amanda had found her footing, just

barely, on an outside ledge.

"Amanda, baby, count to three and then lean forward.

Please, I promise you'll be fine." Tears streaked down her

cheeks but she nodded.

"One," I said, my voice leaving me. "Two."

I looked at my love, knew in this next second she would

either live or die.

"Three."

At once I dropped the Winchester and Amanda leaned

forward. I leapt forward, clasped my arms around her waist,

pulled her as hard as I could, and suddenly she came toppling

over the windowsill, landing on the ground next to me.

We both lay there for a minute, breathing heavy, until I saw

that Amanda was still bound. I grabbed the knife Roberts had

dropped and cut the ropes from her hands. Then I gently

pulled the handkerchief from her mouth and kissed her hard.

Her salty tears found their way into my mouth as I held

Amanda, knowing I could never hold her like this again.

59

You never know how much damage is done until you pull

back. Survey the scene from a distance. And even then it

needs a few days to metastasize.

What Largo Vance had started, Costas Paradis was about

to finish. The man had donated nearly half a million dollars

to perform an exhumation of Brushy Bill Roberts and

compare his DNA to William Henry, his alleged grandson,

and the sole surviving heir to Billy the Kid. And this time they

were going to do it right. Costas would make sure of that. Or

at least his money would.

In the meantime, as expected, residents of New Mexico

and Texas were apoplectic over the
Dispatch'
s revelations.

They were planning to fight the exhumation tooth and nail.

My old friend Justice Waverly was quoted in the
Dallas

Morning News
as saying, "They can come with shovels and

backhoes, but if they try to destroy the legacy of the Old West

we'll meet them with rifles and cannons."

In New York that kind of talk could get a politician impeached. In Texas it guaranteed Justice Waverly would be

reelected every term until he finally keeled over in his morning pastry.

I spoke to Curt Sheffield the day after Roberts died. The

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Jason Pinter

cops had found a receipt in his bag for several nights at a

seedy forty-dollar-a-night hotel room. I didn't even know

they ran that cheap in New York. The manager didn't remember seeing Roberts, mainly because the man was half

blind.

The cops found bloodstains on the floor that they were

running against Mya's type, to confirm Roberts had stayed

there. They also found a note on the nightstand next to the

bed where Roberts slept. It gave no further explanation for

the murders. It contained two brief sentences.

Up in heaven I'll see my friends.

Bury me next to my blood.

If the DNA tests confirmed what I assumed they would,

there was a question of whether William Henry Roberts would

be buried in Fort Sumner, New Mexico, next to the alleged