with my good hand, pressed my palm against her bare skin,
ran it up toward her bra, then underneath, cupping her warm
breasts in my hand. Amanda sighed, reached behind and
unhooked the clasp, letting the clothing fall free.
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She stood up, giving me a moment to gaze at her body. A
moment later my pants and her skirt were undone and she
managed to slip off my boxers. Amanda eased on top of me
again until I was inside of her. We both groaned and began to
move back and forth, up and down.
“I want to be so close to you.” She sighed, her movements
growing faster and faster. “I love you, Henry.”
“I love you, too,” I managed to gasp, as we rocked violently for another minute before collapsing onto the couch,
Amanda’s sweat-glistened body rising and falling against
mine. Our lips found each other one more time, and then we
fell asleep intertwined, as all the pain faded away.
34
Jack O’Donnell sat at his keyboard, fingers flying as he
typed away on the only story that currently mattered to him.
When he told Wallace he was going to write it for the
Gazette— they had to cover it, after all, as the crime was committed by a man who’d already killed four people—there was
no argument, only a solemn nod and an assumption that the
most accurate and unbiased story would be written. Wallace
did point out that the Gazette would have an exclusive—the
only paper in town to interview the victim, Henry Parker. All
the other news organizations would simply have to credit
Jack’s piece when they quoted from it.
Jack had arrived at the hospital less than ten minutes after
the ambulance arrived with Henry. He’d watched them unload
the stretcher. He saw Amanda leap out, doing her best to hold
back tears. Jack offered a terse hello, then asked how Henry
was doing. She said they didn’t know, that he needed a CAT
scan and that his hand was hurt something bad. Amanda
looked at Jack in a way that made his stomach feel hollow,
like somehow he’d been responsible for the attack.
He waited as they made sure there was no cranial bleeding,
no fractures. When the tests confirmed a grade one concus- The Guilty
221
sion Jack sighed in relief, said goodbye to Amanda, and left.
He went straight back to the office, locked himself in a conference room, pulled a flask of whiskey from his pocket and
drank until his eyes were ruddy and the tears of frustration
were sufficiently dammed up.
A year ago, when Henry had recovered after being shot,
Jack had viewed him merely as a young reporter with potential. It was a professional relationship, nothing more, one that
could be severed at any time for a multitude of reasons. Over
the past twelve months, however, Henry had become more.
For a man in his sixties who hadn’t spoken to his own offspring in more than a decade, Henry Parker was the closest
thing to a son Jack O’Donnell had ever known.
Jack was a legend. He knew this, but did not brandish his
legacy like some vulgar bayonet. Instead he cloaked himself in
it, remembered it every time he began a story, every time he
followed a lead. Jack had torn through three marriages because
he simply could not perform the duties most women expected
of a husband. He would not come home when they pleased. He
would not offer comfort or solace with any regularity. He stayed
out late, drank often, was surly and emotionless depending on
how a story was evolving. Every relationship was a bell curve.
Passion and romance rose to a peak, then fell into a trough until
they flatlined. And when that happened, it was time to move on.
But it made him a great reporter. He devoted himself to
the craft, and in doing so became something more than just
a newsman. Within Henry, Jack could see the same potential. He would have to make sacrifices. Sacrifices ordinary
men could never make. Family, friends, even some happiness. But by doing so Henry would become what Jack
believed he could be: someone who made a difference.
Someone whose work lived on.
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Amanda seemed like a nice enough girl, yet every loose
thread a man had was one that could be pulled. One that
could be leveraged. If a man had nothing, he risked nothing,
and would stop at nothing. A woman could hold him back.
Love could make him soft. Jack was unsure if he’d ever truly
been in love, though if he had he would have retired ages ago,
spent his elder years in some pastel retirement community,
flitting about in golf carts and wearing pants with shameful
plaid designs. Eating lunch at “the club” with the other
retirees before they went out and shot a hundred and fifty on
the back nine. That was no life for him. That was no life at
all.
He gulped down another hot sip of coffee, laced with just
enough Baileys to give it a little kick, keep his blood pumping.
He typed in his byline and got ready to send it off. It would
be in tomorrow’s national edition. He knew many people
thought this killer was some sort of twisted hero, knocking
off people whose deaths would somehow benefit the common
good. They didn’t think about the monster beneath, just what
it took to pull a trigger and end someone’s life. The families
shattered. The soullessness of it all.
Jack was too old to go chasing villains. That was a job for
a younger man, one ready to claim the mantle for his own.
And Jack knew that if Henry kept his head on straight,
snipped off any loose threads, the story would be fully told.
And he could only hope it was told before the next victim fell.
35
I tossed and turned the whole night, every position bringing
a new bolt of pain. Whether it was my hand, my head, or
Amanda accidentally kneeing me in the groin, I would have
had a better night sleep covered in honey and stuck in an ant
farm. Amanda didn’t wake once. I tried to be jealous, but
watching her sleep soundly, all I could do was smile.
After making love we fell asleep for an hour. When we
woke, I threw on a pair of boxers, Amanda slipping into
cotton underwear and one of my T-shirts that came down to
her knees. We fell into bed and wrapped our bodies around
each other, my head on two pillows and numbed by two
aspirin, my hand stretched above my head to prevent undue
pressure from ripping the stitches.
When the sun came up, I blinked the crust from my eyes
and went to the bathroom. After peeing for what felt like an
hour, I turned the water on for a shower.
“You’re not supposed to shower for forty-eight hours,”
Amanda mumbled from the bed.
“Crap, I forgot. Good thing I’m all sweaty from last night,
I’ve always wanted to smell like a hobo at work.” Though
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Jason Pinter
Amanda’s face was mushed into a pillow, I saw the edge of
a small smile.
I got dressed, and pulled out the note Agnes Trimble had
written me yesterday. My stomach clenched as I wondered if
the killer was watching me from the window. Watching
Agnes. Watching Amanda.
I took out my cell phone and called Curt Sheffield.
“Hey, Henry, how’s the noggin feeling?”
“Feels like I went twelve rounds with Mike Tyson circa
1989.”
“Damn, that’s bad. Don’t worry, give it a few years and you’ll
be biting off ears and threatening to eat people’s children.”
“Those are some nasty side effects.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Listen, Curt, I was wondering if you could get someone
to watch Amanda. Just while I’m gone during the day.”
“Bro,” Curt said, laughing. “Look out your window.”
Confused, I pulled open the window with my good hand
and poked my head out. Below me I could see the sidewalk
and the building’s entrance. Parked right in front was a blueand-white squad car. I could see two officers inside. And I
swear I could make out the outline of a donut.
“They’ll be on your ass every morning and night for the
next week. You got a private escort to and from work, as does
your ladyfriend. You decide to shop for groceries, go to the
Chinese laundry mat during the day, that’s all you.”
“Thanks, Curt, I appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me. Orders came down from Chief Carruthers’s office. Guess there are people who want you to
stay alive.”
“I’ll be sure to send Carruthers a fruitcake.”
“No fruitcake. His in-laws send one every Christmas and
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225
he chucks it. Later, Henry, give me a ring if you need
anything.” I hung up, then dialed the number Agnes Trimble
had given me for Largo Vance. Hopefully Vance was an early
riser. The phone picked up on the very first ring.
“Yes, who is this?” a high-pitched voice croaked out.
“Hello, is this Professor Largo Vance?”
“If this is Jehovah’s Witness, then no. If it’s anyone else,
depends who’s calling.”
“Mr. Vance, my name is Henry Parker. I’m a reporter with
the New York Gazette and I was given your name by Professor Agnes Trimble—”
“Agnes! I haven’t seen that minx in years.” There was a
moment of silence as I tried to think of what to say. “Oh, come
now, Mr. Parker, don’t be offended. I mean that with the
highest compliments. Agnes is a randy little minx, she and I
go way back.”
“That’s, um, wonderful. Anyway, Mr. Vance, if you have
a few moments today, I’d like to talk to you about Brushy
Bill Roberts.”
This time the silence came from Largo Vance’s end. His
response came sputtering out. “How fast can you be here?”
“Um, I don’t know where you live, Mr. Vance…”
“3724 Bleecker. Be here in half an hour.” He hung up.
“Who was that?” Amanda asked. She was sitting up in bed,
clutching a pillow in her arms.
“A potential source Professor Trimble gave me yesterday,”
I said. “An old professor. I think he has some more information on the Billy the Kid lead.”
“Henry,” she said, “please…be careful. Just yesterday you
were in the emergency room and…”
“I know that.” I went to the bed and sat down next to her.
I took her hand in my good one, raised it to my lips and
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kissed her fingers. “I promise I’ll be careful. There are policemen downstairs who are going to watch you, just to make
sure this lunatic doesn’t come after us again. If you go
anywhere other than work, you know Curt’s number. Call
him.”
“This lunatic killed four people,” she said. “If he wants to
kill, he’s going to get them.” I let that sink in, knew she was
probably right.
“Call in sick today. Just this once. I have to go talk to this
guy Vance. I have to.”
“Then go,” Amanda said. “The sooner you go, the
sooner you get back, the less time I have to spend worrying
about you.”
“Listen, that guy wouldn’t have attacked me if he didn’t
have something to hide. He has an entire city police force
looking to draw and quarter him. A newspaper reporter
doesn’t pose that much of a threat, comparatively.”
“If he was willing to break into our apartment and do what
he did, it must be something awful he wants to keep a secret.”
“That just means I’m going to find it,” I said. “I’ll call a
locksmith, have him change the locks and get a security
system installed.”
“This apartment?” Amanda said. “That’s like getting rims
on a 1987 Yugo.”
“Now that sounds like one crunked-up car. Don’t worry
about me,” I said. I was having trouble pulling a shirt over
my head, so Amanda came over to help. “I’m Mr. Incredible.”
“Well, please ask Mr. Incredible why he needs help getting
dressed. In the meantime Lois Lane would like it very much
if he looks both ways before he crosses the street.”
“Surely will. Besides, you’d make a sexy-ass Lois. My
phone will be on if you need anything.”
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227
“Just remember not to open it with that claw of a hand.”
“I won’t.”
“And Henry?” Amanda said. I turned to her, smiled, but
the smile quickly faded when I saw the look on her face. “Be
careful. I can’t say it enough.”
“I will,” I said. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I left on that sentiment. I nodded to the cops parked
outside. They gave half nods back but otherwise did not acknowledge me. As I walked, I saw one plainclothes follow
about ten yards behind me while the other followed in a squad
car. When I entered the subway, plainclothes followed,
staying at the other end of the car, pretending to read a copy
of one of those free newspapers that people toss onto the
tracks and end up clogging the drainage systems.
I got off at Bleecker Street, picking up and swallowing a
cup of lukewarm coffee and two more aspirin on the way. I
buzzed an L. Vance at the given address, an elegant brown
brick town house with a rusted front gate.
The buzzer granted my entrance, and I took a recently
painted elevator to the third floor. When the elevator door
opened, a man that had to be Largo Vance stood in the
doorway. He’d been waiting for me.
“Henry Parker,” he said. “Largo Vance. Get inside. Now. ”
Vance had a long gray beard, gray hair swept back in a lessthan-neat ponytail. His overalls were covered with dried paint.
What looked like a pound or two of cat hair had dried in the
paint. I could smell fresh—and some not so fresh—kitty litter
emanating from inside.
He ushered me inside, peeked around the hall (presumably
to make sure no black helicopters had followed) and closed
the door. A brown-and-gray striped cat snaked between my
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legs, rubbed itself aga
inst my jeans. Soon he was joined by
another cat, and one more to complete the whole set.
“Don’t mind them,” Largo said. “That’s Tabby, Yorba Linda
and Grace. Say hello, babies.”
The cats did not say hello.
I followed Largo through a hallway to a small living room,
where nearly every square inch was covered in either cat
paraphernalia or large well-worn books, history and a few paperback novels whose spines had given out long ago. Largo
sat in an overstuffed La-Z-Boy and beckoned me to a leather
couch across from him.
I took a seat and minded the stench. Two more cats
appeared. I couldn’t tell if they were the same ones, new
ones, or the first three had simply spawned in the last minute.
“So what brings you here about Billy Bonney?” Largo
said. A cat leapt onto his lap and Largo began to scratch its
chin absently.
“Not Billy Bonney,” I said. “Brushy Bill Roberts.”
“Same difference,” Vance said. “Now go on.”
“I, uh…have you heard about the recent murders? Athena
Paradis? Several others who were killed by a man using an
old Winchester rifle?”
Largo shook his head. “I don’t read the newspaper.” This
was going to be harder than I thought.
“Well, in the last week and a half, somebody has been—”
“I’m playing with you, kid. I may not know how to do the
Google but I don’t live under a rock.”
“So you know that Billy the Kid’s Winchester rifle was
stolen from a museum in Fort Sumner.”
Largo paused. “That, I did not know.”
“But you know of Fort Sumner and the legacy of the Kid.”
“I’m very well aware of the history of that town, and of
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Mr. Bonney. I’ve visited many times. I haven’t set foot in that
museum in years, though. But I do recall having a fine conversation with the proprietor—Rex is his name, I believe. Unfortunately the last time I visited was over ten years ago, and
I left under less than pleasant circumstances.”
Suddenly the cat bared its teeth and jumped off his couch,
leaving several red claw marks on Largo’s hand. He rubbed
it, then noticed the tape covering my hand.
“What happened to you there?”
I held up the hand for him to see. “The man I’m coming
to talk to you about, he came to see me yesterday.”
“I take it he also left under less than pleasant circumstances.”
“You could say that.”
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