that Roberts and Dalton were two con artists looking to make
a buck and gain notoriety. What made no sense is why the two
men would wait until their deathbeds to claim this “notoriety.”
Both Roberts and Dalton died within a few years of their confessions, and neither made any sort of profit from their claims.
According to another report, a man named Homer Overton
claimed that Pat Garrett’s widow told him that the Kid’s death
was a sham, a ruse concocted by Garrett and the Kid to allow
the outlaw safe passage into Mexico. Overton’s testimony
was entered into the record during Vance’s attempt to convince
lawmakers to exhume the body of Catherine Antrim. Lincoln
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County sheriffs made a point of noting that Pat Garrett’s
likeness is featured on the logo of the Lincoln County Sheriff’s
Department. The man was an icon. If it were proven that
Garrett did not, in fact, kill William H. Bonney, it would throw
the entire county into upheaval.
I allowed this information to digest. For years Brushy Bill
Roberts’s story had been considered fraudulent. The ramblings of an old, broke man. Even an attempt to put the case
to rest by comparing Billy the Kid’s DNA to that of his mother
never came to fruition. Likewise, J. Frank Dalton’s DNA was
never compared to that of Jesse James’s family.
Two legends with cracks in their façade. Two legends protected either by governmental incompetence, or institutions
with reasons to hide the truth. Without the prosperity of those
legends to harvest from, several towns in the Southwest would
shrivel up and die. And a large part of this country’s history
would be rent to pieces. If Oliver P. Roberts truly was Billy
the Kid, there were many people who had clear motivations
to keep that secret locked away.
I could see the connections between the legend of Billy the
Kid and the man responsible for murdering Athena Paradis,
Joe Mauser, Jeffrey Lourdes and David Loverne.
William H. Bonney was a Regulator, sworn to bring to
justice those who had wronged him, wronged society and
threatened to disrupt the very fabric of the land he was trying
to protect. Using some twisted logic, the psychopath who went
Mario Batali on my hand felt he was also bringing justice to
the guilty.
I brought up the photo of J. Frank Dalton on his deathbed.
Thought about the alleged report of Jesse James and William
H. Bonney meeting near Las Vegas in 1879. Ten days after
the birth of James’s daughter.
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Daughter. That word stuck in my throat. Mary Susan
James. Born just three years before her father was allegedly
killed.
On a whim, I checked to see if there were any records of
Billy the Kid having children, a wife, any trace of a bloodline. According to the records, Bonney never married and it
was unclear whether he had any children.
I looked up the family tree of Brushy Bill Roberts. Roberts
had apparently married a woman named Melinda. Records
showed that Roberts had one son, Jesse William Roberts,
who was born in Hamilton, Texas, in 1897.
Jesse William Roberts. I looked at the photos featuring
Brushy Bill and Frank Dalton together. Added that to the
alleged meeting between the outlaws in 1879. It would be
a mighty big coincidence—or a case of damn good foresight—for the man who’d later claim to be Billy the Kid to
name his only son after Jesse James. Either that, or Jesse
James and Billy the Kid were better acquaintances than
people thought.
My fingers flew as I typed more searches into the machine,
my mind ignoring the pain from my stitched-up hand. I
couldn’t stop. The spool was unraveling and I couldn’t slow
down. I knew I had stumbled upon something, a story that
drove to the very heart of a century-old legend.
I looked for lineage records pertaining to Jesse William
Roberts, son of Brushy Bill Roberts. Jesse had married a
woman named Lucy Barnett. Lucy gave birth to two of Jesse’s
children: James and Catherine.
Catherine Roberts. Brushy Bill’s granddaughter. Who shared
the same name as Billy the Kid’s mother, Catherine Antrim.
Catherine Roberts died of tuberculosis in 1927 at just three
years of age. James Roberts, Brushy’s grandson, eventually
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moved to New Mexico, where he married Lucinda Walther.
In 1957 she gave birth to a son named John Henry Roberts.
John Henry Roberts married a woman named Meryl Higgins,
and in 1987 Meryl gave birth to twins: Martha James Roberts,
and William Henry Roberts.
William Henry Roberts. Currently aged twenty-one. The
same age Billy the Kid was when allegedly killed by Pat
Garrett.
The theories were true. William H. Bonney, known by
millions as Billy the Kid, known by few as Brushy Bill
Roberts, had fathered a son.
I knew why this killer was using the Winchester rifle. Why
he had chosen the weapon and bullets he did. Why he had
stolen that gun from the museum in Fort Sumner. Why he had
waited twenty-one years to reclaim his heritage. To continue
the destiny set forth by his ancestor.
The bloodline had survived. And one hundred and thirty
years after his supposed murder, Billy the Kid’s greatgrandson, William Henry Roberts, had brought the lawlessness and bloodshed of the Old West here to New York City.
39
The vodka tasted cold and bitter as it slid down her throat,
but the tonic dulled the taste and made it easy to swallow. She
knocked the glass on the counter and signaled the bartender,
a bohemian named Gregory who wore a ponytail pulled back
so tight she feared it might tear his scalp off, and told him to
refresh the drink.
“What, you going in for surgery and need a cheap anesthetic?” Gregory said with a laugh. He took a bottle from the
well, gave her an inch and a half and topped the rest with
tonic. “Hey, Mya, you okay?”
Mya Loverne looked up at Gregory and managed a weak
smile. She’d come to the Suave bar four times in the past week
alone, drank herself into oblivion each time, and this was the
first time Gregory had noticed her.
Drinking was all she could do since Henry abandoned her.
Since Amanda had run her off. Since Mya had nothing left,
nobody to lean on except the awkward embraces from sweaty
drunks who weren’t quite repulsive enough to turn down. The
physical pleasure dulled the pain. Not for long, but long enough
to gain a modicum of relief from the anguish inside her.
Mya took a small sip and saw Gregory watching her from
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the other end of the bar. As soon as he noticed her looking,
he turned away, hiding a look of embarrassment, and pretended to clean a glass. She wondered what time he got off.
If he had an apartment nearby.
Mya felt her cell phone vibrate through her purse. She took
it out, sa
w it was her mother, and pressed Ignore. Mya had
only spoken to her mother once since her father’s murder. She
made no effort to hide the fact that she believed her mother’s
ignorance led to his death. That if her mother wasn’t such a
goddamn passive bitch, wasn’t such a pushover, had every
now and then stood up for herself, her father would still be
alive and not in a pine box in some cemetery surrounded by
dimming memories of loved ones.
Mya could feel her blood warming as the alcohol swam
through her veins. The door opened, and she felt a gust of cool
air. Mya closed her eyes, knocked back the rest of the drink.
Then she heard a creaking sound, opened her eyes and saw
a man pull out the stool next to her and sit down. He was
young, early twenties, very tan with sandy blond hair and a
sweet smile. His eyes flashed a striking blue, and Mya felt
her cheeks grow warm. The guy raised his hand to order a
drink. Mya noticed how cracked and calloused his palms
were. He took off his coat, was wearing a blue T-shirt underneath. His forearms were tanned and toned. He looked like
no other guy she’d seen at this bar. He was naturally lean, not
possessing the kind of strength born in a gym, but born out
of honest blue-collar work.
Gregory acknowledged him and came over. He placed a
coaster in front of the stranger and said, “What’ll it be?”
“Gin and tonic,” the guy said. His voice sounded slightly
older than Mya would have expected. “Light on the tonic.”
Gregory held out his hand, palm up. “Lemme see some ID.”
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He looked moderately embarrassed, and offered Mya a
sheepish smile before opening his wallet and handing the
plastic over. Gregory looked the man over, looked at the
picture, made sure the faces matched.
“William…Roberts?” Gregory said.
“That’d be me.” Gregory, seemingly satisfied, handed the
card back and poured the drink. He went heavy on the gin,
surely in apology for the embarrassing age verification.
When Gregory left, the boy took a sip of his drink and said,
“You think that’d never get old, but sometimes all you want
is a drink.” He said it softly without turning his head.
“I know what you mean. I still get carded half the places
I go to.”
The boy swiveled his stool toward her. He had a nice smile,
dimples. “You’re what, twenty-two, twenty-three?”
“Twenty-six,” Mya said, failing to hide her pleasure in his
guess.
“BS.”
“You’re right, I lie to pretend I’m older. ”
They shared a laugh. Mya took another sip of her drink,
found she was sucking on ice. Her body felt warm. She was
unsure if it was the alcohol or this stranger. Either way, she
didn’t want it to stop. “So let me guess. You walk into bars
and try to flatter all the girls.” Immediately she regretted
uttering such a line, but what was the worst that could
happen?
The boy laughed. “You’re right,” he said, a hint of
sarcasm in his voice. “I have nothing better to do than
wander around until I finally meet someone who needs
flattery. Please. I talk to who I want, when I want. And right
now I want to talk to you.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls, too,” Mya said.
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“Actually, I do. You got me there.”
“So here you are. I guess I should be flattered you’re
talking to me.”
“Actually, I’m the one who should be flattered.”
The boy smiled, his face a strange but alluring combination of youthfulness and maturity, like he’d seen more and
done more than anyone his age had experienced. He wasn’t
in a hurry like most guys she met, hadn’t overplayed his hand
within the first ten seconds of their meeting. He looked confident enough that if she rebuffed any possible advances, he
could pick up, move on, quickly find someone who wouldn’t.
Not that she wanted him to move on. But there was the deliciously dangerous possibility of it all.
“William Roberts,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.” He
offered his hand.
“Mya Loverne.” She took it, shook it. “So, William
Roberts. Do you have a middle name?”
“You want to know my middle name? I don’t know, that’s
a pretty big step. Once I’ve given that out, we’re linked until
one of us leaves this bar. Are you prepared for that kind of
commitment?”
“Is it really that big a commitment?” Mya asked.
“Of course it is,” he said. “See, a boy and a girl can sit in
a bar talking for hours. They can share the most intimate
secrets of their life, loves and hates, lovers and ex-lovers, pet
peeves and fetishes, but there’s always a layer of protection
between them, this subtle, unspoken boundary where they
both know the biggest intimacy has yet to be allowed.” She
felt the boy move closer, inching his stool toward hers. She
pretended she hadn’t noticed.
“See, once you cross that line, once you allow that
intimacy, you can never go back. See, knowing my middle
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name isn’t such a big deal on the surface, it’s what it represents. So if I tell it to you, be sure there’s no going back. Are
you ready for that?”
“Mine’s Helen,” she blurted out. Everything seemed to
stop for a moment, the boy seeming to soak it in. Now the
night was open to all sorts of possibilities.
“Henry,” he said. “William Henry Roberts. It’s a pleasure
to meet you, Mya.”
Henry.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, William Henry.”
William smiled. “Hey, barkeep,” he shouted. Gregory
turned around. “Another round down here, if you please.”
40
William put down the copy of the Gazette. His fingertips
had become black with ink. He licked his thumb, rubbed his
fingers until the smudge had congealed, then wiped his hand
on a napkin which he then tossed in the garbage by the bed.
The article was smartly written, insightful, and one
hundred percent true. Parker had done a surprisingly good job.
In a short amount of time, too. He wasn’t quite sure how
Henry had pulled all the facts together, and part of him was
rather impressed. Still, William knew there were many unanswered questions to which Parker—and the rest of the city—
would beg the answers. This was the beauty of the whole
thing. William felt a great surge inside. Pride and ambition.
Those four deaths were just the beginning. Athena Paradis,
the other three martyrs, they were stepping-stones to a greater
good.
Two pages after Parker’s story was an article about the
turmoil at Franklin-Rees publications following Jeffrey
Lourdes’s murder, as the empire ran around like a headless
chicken hoping to find some stability. William knew, as soon
everyone else would, that regardless of how many Frankenstein-esque heads they
tried to bolt on, the animal itself was
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dying. Everything would crumble from the top down. And out
of that rubble would come something beautiful.
Once the guilty had hanged, the innocent had nothing to
fear. It was human nature to fear the executioner. Most never
realized their job was to cleanse the earth of the guilty, the
evil, those who poisoned society.
Despite the truths Henry Parker had unearthed, William
felt no anger toward him. Being attacked and brutalized
hadn’t stopped Parker’s pursuit of the truth.
Parker, of course, only knew what William wanted him to
know. Because he was the Regulator. He was the last of the
great bloodline. And even if the line died with him, it would
have died claiming a destiny so abruptly halted many years
ago.
Just as William had uncovered his history despite those
who had wished to keep it a secret, so would Henry Parker
discover it, as well. Two sides of a coin—one clean, one
dirty—both needed to create the whole. The same way Billy
the Kid had his chronicler in Pat Garrett, so would William
in Henry Parker.
William heard a groan. She was waking up.
He nudged the prone body on the floor, gave her a little
kick. She shifted, uttered a muffled cry through the rag soaked
through with saliva.
William knelt down to her, gently shook her until those
eyelids—crusty with eyeliner and mascara—fluttered open.
The pupils took a moment to register, but as soon as they did
fear came racing back to those pretty hazel eyes. The very eyes
that had once gazed upon Henry Parker with an intense love that
she still felt for him. Mya had made that clear in Paulina Cole’s
article. Surely Henry still felt something for her, too. Perhaps
he could still feel her pain. They’d find out soon enough.
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The Boy smiled. He gently stroked Mya’s cheek with the
back of his hand. Her face trembled, lips quivering, blubbering.
“Don’t be scared, Mya.” William’s fingers traced soothing
circles over her forehead until her trembling lips began to
calm. “You have no idea how important you are.”
41
Jack sat perched on the corner of my desk, swaying slightly,
like a column debating whether or not to tip over. It was
barely ten in the morning. After catching one whiff of his
butane-flavored breath, it was clear that Jack was either
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