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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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 déjà 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
diner until she saw me. Then she took an enormous deep
breath and came over. I leaned across the table and pushed
the seat out for her. I was nothing if not a gentleman.
“Henry,” she said, placing her bag on the floor, then
thinking better of it and hanging it over the chair back. “It’s
been a long time, we need to do this more often.”
“We need to do this once and only once,” I said. She
cocked her head like I was speaking ancient Sumerian.
“That’s not how I feel,” she said. A waiter came by and
handed her a menu. He began to walk away, but she snapped
her fingers and he turned around. “I’ll have a bagel and cream
cheese, with the bagel scooped out and light cream cheese. I
also want capers, but not too many. And a glass of pineapple
juice.” The waiter nodded and left.
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“So how’s the Dispatch treating you?” I asked, taking a
swig of coffee.
“Oh, you know. Always busy, always hustling.” She made
a running motion with her hands to denote that she did, literally, hustle. “Listen, Henry,” she said, leaning forward
slightly. She was wearing a tight black sweater with a V-neck
that exposed the top of her remarkably perky breasts. I
wondered if she had them done. Then I decided I’d done
enough thinking about her breasts for the rest of my life. “I
know things haven’t been great between us. But I’d like to
make amends.”
“I’m sure you lose tons of sleep over it,” I replied, “but everything I say today is off the record.”
“You can’t be serious.” I pulled a tape recorder out of my
bag, held it up for her to see. “Let me guess. You got that ‘off
the record’ bit on tape.”
“Just making sure my off the record is on the record.”
Paulina laughed. The waiter arrived with a glass of pineapple juice, pulpy and thick. Paulina took a small sip, then
pointed a long fingernail at me.
“You know
, I always thought Wallace was smart to bring
you onboard at the Gazette. That place is an old man’s club.
And old men don’t get younger—they die. And if nobody is
there to take over when they finally kick the bucket, the paper
will die, too. It was smart of him to inject some new blood.”
“You’ve spilled enough ink calling for my blood this year,
I didn’t think you cared so much.”
She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “This is business,
honey. You sell newspapers. Cute, young guy like you.
Remember that actor from The Sopranos, supposedly killed
a cop? Every day his mug was on the front page we couldn’t
print enough papers. Half the people that buy our rags don’t
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read them, sweetie, they look at the headlines and the pictures
and move on to pictures of Paris Hilton in a bikini. The least
we can do is give them something to hold their interest.”
“Like Mya and David Loverne.”
Paulina shrank back. I could tell I’d struck a nerve. It felt
good, but I couldn’t dig too deep. I was here for a reason.
“You know I never wanted to see either of them hurt.” She
meant it. “Mya is a lost soul. People like reading about lost
souls, and they like to have someone to blame for it. You and
Get-Around-Town Loverne were easy marks. But you’re not
so innocent yourself. I checked the hospital records. She was
admitted with those facial wounds. You really did hang up on
her when she called you. Your own girlfriend, lying beaten
on the street, and you turn the ringer off. Brave man.”
“Keep punching, if it makes you feel better. I’ve lived with
it for a year and a half and I’ll never forgive myself. But I
wasn’t the one who hit her. And I’ve learned to live with the
rest of it.”
“You say potato, I say poh-tahto. So here’s the deal,”
Paulina said, ignoring the waiter as he brought over her bagel.
“You don’t like me. That’s fine. I have a man who makes me
come twice a night so I don’t need more friends. But you
called me, Mr. Parker. So why am I here?”
“Because I’ve got a story for you,” I said.
Paulina eyed me while she smeared cream cheese into the
crater where the bagel had been dug out. “You’ve got a story
for me? I hope it doesn’t end with you squeezing sour grapes,
because that’s a boring story and you’re the only schmuck
who wants to read it.”
“It’s not sour grapes,” I said. “Those are there, don’t get
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