by Jason Pinter
“Take care, Mrs. Loverne.”
“You, too, Henry. Such a handsome boy. I’m so glad my baby dated a boy with such ambition.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Loverne.”
I left the hospital and met Curt outside. Then I caught a cab to Rockefeller Plaza.
Roberts had to have left a trail somewhere. Pastor Mark Rheingold. Something about him wasn’t right. And where better to find a trail to heaven than to start with a man of God?
CHAPTER 47
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Amanda spun around. Darcy Lapore was standing by her desk, arms folded as though expecting an easy yes. Darcy was married, in her early thirties, made less than thirty grand a year, yet never came to work wearing an outfit that cost less than the net worth of the average Colombian drug czar. Her husband—a sweet man named Greg who just happened to work at a hedge fund—lavished expensive jewels and Caribbean vacations on her like the Gulf of Mexico might dry up at any moment. Despite this, Darcy still gave out her phone number to any suitor who asked. Always off by one number, though, and thankfully men were pretty stupid.
Amanda had never been to the Bahamas. Or Mexico. She’d never been outside the continental United States. It wasn’t that Lawrence and Harriet never tried to take her on family vacation, but they would always be that: Lawrence and Harriet. They would never be her parents—her family. She never had any desire to go away with them. It was like going away with a roommate you didn’t particularly get along with. Children found themselves at odds with their parents all the time, but there was always an inherent love, a binding that surpassed most animosity. She never had that bond. So the animosity lingered.
It wasn’t hate, they were good people after all, but there was never any desire to spend more time with them than she had to. Brief chats at the dinner table, superficial discussions about homework, friends, occasionally boys and the future. Amanda loved to talk about the future.
Darcy was constantly stuck in the present. The “what now.” Which is why Amanda liked her.
Today Darcy was wearing a stylish Versace pantsuit and a maroon tank top underneath. Her buoyant cleavage was visible above the lapels. Appropriate attire for a not-for-profit organization. A thin string of pearls danced around her neck, and the diamonds in her ears could have choked a horse.
“Baby, you want to talk?” she repeated.
“You know, I appreciate the gesture,” Amanda said, “but I’m okay. Thanks anyway.”
“You don’t look okay, honey darling,” Darcy said. That was another Darcy trademark—taking two NutraSweet words and sticking them together like syrup on top of fried sugar. “What’s the matter?”
“Really,” Amanda said, self-consciously pulling her V-neck sweater up a little higher. “It’s okay.”
Darcy rolled a chair over, nearly knocking over a potted plant in the process. “Is it boy trouble?” she asked with a mischievous smile, clearly hoping it would be. Though Darcy’s idea of boy trouble likely consisted of “he doesn’t pay attention to me” and not the “he just witnessed his ex-girlfriend being thrown off a roof” variety.
“Things could be better in that department,” Amanda said. She began typing on her keyboard, nothing but gibberish, but hoping Darcy would get the hint.
“Oh, do tell! My Greg, any time he’s not performing up to snuff I tell him. I say ‘listen, honey babe, you know I love you, but we need to get a few things straight because my chi isn’t being harnessed.’”
“Your chi?”
“Hell yes, babycakes, my chi. If my chi isn’t being harnessed I need to let my man know about it. It’s like a tree root. It can go a few weeks without being watered, but unless you want it to dry up permanently you gotta feed it some water. Nourish that sucker.”
“I think that’s about all I need to know about your chi.”
“Suit yourself. So what is it? Man trouble? Something else? Come on, babypie, tell me.”
Amanda stopped typing. She didn’t want to talk to Darcy but…
The truth was she had nobody else. For over twenty years, Amanda had grown up a stranger to everyone, even those supposed to take care of her. She was always introverted, never talking unless being talked to. It was great for developing sardonic comebacks, but meaningful conversations occurred as often as meaningful relationships. And that’s where the notepads came in.
She hadn’t written on them in months. Since she and Henry had gotten serious. Since she found someone who made her feel like she wasn’t a stranger anymore. Someone who felt like he would be in her life longer than a leaf fluttering. Someone who felt like he would stay with her forever.
And yet here she was, sitting at work at seven o’clock at night, having finished up her daily tasks, biding the time until everyone left and she could fall asleep on her boss’s couch.
Amanda had feared early on about what would happen if she and Henry split up, grew distant. After their first few months, she never imagined they could grow apart. She never feared tomorrow would bring an empty bed. Today, Amanda wondered if that tomorrow had arrived.
Amanda looked into Darcy’s eyes. They were coated with makeup, brought out by jewels, but they were also honest. Darcy seemed genuinely interested, genuinely concerned. Whether it was a fleeting concern Amanda couldn’t tell, but if she didn’t let out some steam she would either explode or cry.
She smiled at Darcy. Opened up the web browser on her computer. Went to the home page of the NewYork Dispatch. Clicked on the headline banner, opening up their top story of the day.
The headline read: Murdered Politician’s Daughter Critically Injured After Being Thrown From Rooftop.
“The same person who killed Athena Paradis,” Amanda said, as Darcy scanned the article. “He threw Mya Loverne off a roof.”
“That guy scares the shit out of me,” Darcy said, seemingly oblivious. “I mean, I’m not the biggest Athena Paradis fan, but I can’t say the girl deserved to die. To think there’s someone like that walking around out there…God, just gives me the creeps.”
Then Darcy’s eyes stopped scanning. She was reading a line three-quarters of the way down the page. She underlined a sentence with her fingernail.
“Is that…”
The line read: Loverne is also reported to have been romantically involved with Henry Parker, a junior reporter at the New York Gazette who himself was the focus of a murder investigation just last year.
Amanda felt a terrible lump rise in her throat.
“That…that’s your boy trouble?”
Amanda laughed softly, didn’t know why, then nodded, heard a patter as the first droplet hit her keyboard. Darcy’s face was a mix of sympathy and confusion. That’s your man?
Amanda leapt from her seat without turning the screen off, threw on her coat and fled the office, running into the New York night where the lonely streets awaited her.
CHAPTER 48
I walked to my desk without stopping for any hellos, any questions, queries or anything. I ignored everybody. I sat down at my desk knowing eyes were watching me, waiting to see what would happen, debating whether to offer support, taking mental wagers on who would be the first to break the seal and open conversation. I turned on my computer and immediately ran a search for the words Quien es and Billy the Kid.
I found several matches. And that vague Spanish line took on a whole new meaning.
When Pat Garrett allegedly killed Billy the Kid, the Kid’s last words were Quien es. They were supposedly uttered in the dark, before Garrett put a bullet through Billy’s heart. Words spoken from Billy to Pat Garrett, and now William Henry Roberts to me.
I was his Pat Garrett. The man who would make Roberts famous.
Quien es.
Who was this killer?
I opened up my files on William Henry Roberts.
From the corner of my eye I could see someone approaching. Turning, I expected to see Jack, but was surprised to see Frank Rourke standing in front of me.
“Hey,” Frank said. He had a day’s beard growth, red eyes. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about your girl.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“And I’m sorry about the dog shit, too. That was pretty low.”
“Don’t be. It was funny.”
“Right,” Frank said. “Funny. Listen, if you need anything—”
“Gotcha,” I said, then turned away.
Frank took the hint and left.
Mark Rheingold. The famous pastor. I didn’t buy that he was at the Roberts ranch simply for evening tea.
As I scanned the articles, I looked at the framed picture at the right of my desk. Amanda and I had taken it last fall after a concert at Jones Beach. Her hair was wet; the skies had opened during the encore, rain and thunder making the music seem that much more powerful, one of those nights you wished would never end. We were glistening wet, arms wrapped around each other, smiles big and bright. That night we went home and made love for hours. When the photo was developed Amanda pinched my butt, told me we needed more of those nights, especially if they all ended like that.
I turned the frame facedown. I couldn’t have Amanda watching me. I couldn’t think about her. I had to lose myself in the work. Finally, I had to listen to Jack. Which was apt, because Jack was heading toward my desk.
I stopped typing, turned around. Jack was wearing a suit that looked recently dry-cleaned, and breath that smelled recently minted. There was no red in his eyes or his cheeks, so the previous night was likely spent solely in the caffeinated company of his friend Juan Valdez.
He took up his familiar perch on the side of my desk. My face was blank. I didn’t want him to be there; didn’t want him to leave. I was ambivalent about his entire existence at that moment.
“How you holding up, kid?”
“How’s what holding up?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Come on, Henry, you know what I mean. How’s Mya?”
“She’s in the hospital with a hole in her head and pins in her hip.”
“Heaven help us,” he whispered, running his hand over his beard. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just peachy.”
“You don’t sound peachy.”
“Trust me, I’m peachy.”
My face must have conveyed emotions that were definitely not peachy.
“Look, Henry, about that talk we had a while back—about Amanda…”
“She’s out of my life. You did your job. You were right.”
“That’s not my point, I know you kids had a good thing going…”
“I’m not your kid, Jack. I’m not your boy, sport, tiger, son or anything. I work with you. If you want to give me advice on how to do the job better, I’m all ears. If you want to tell me how to live my life, save it. I’ve heard it. It’s done. Now unless you want to help me figure out what the hell Mark Rheingold was doing at the Roberts residence the night it burned to the ground, I have nothing to say to you.”
“Mark Rheingold,” Jack said. His eyes had strayed from me, rolled back into his head, combing his memory. I stopped talking. Jack knew something, heard something. Now I wanted him to stay. “Rheingold…Pastor, right? Had that big-ass congregation down in Texas?”
“Houston,” I said. “That’s right.”
“What house are you talking about? Is this Roberts related to William Henry?”
“A ranch belonging to his parents,” I said, “caught fire about four years ago. The mother, father and sister were all killed, along with Mark Rheingold. The sheriff claims William Roberts also died, but I just spoke to the justice of the peace in Hamilton and after some prodding he admitted William’s remains were never found. They buried a coffin with no body. So what I’m trying to figure out is why Rheingold was there in the first place.”
“Rheingold,” Jack said, “guy was making boatloads of cash, gave about ninety percent of it to the church and various charities. Wife was a hottie, too, but that’s beside the point. Big rumor was that Rheingold was taking kickbacks from his parishioners.”
“Why would he take kickbacks if he was making so much money?”
“Henry,” Jack said, shaking his head. “Kickbacks aren’t always about money. Sometimes you can get back things that have no monetary value.”
I thought for a moment. “You’re saying he was sleeping with members of his congregation.”
“I’m saying a lot of people thought he was, but there was never any proof to back it up. The women would never tell because they were ‘laying closer to God’ or some bull, and their husbands kept their mouths shut because either they felt the same way, or didn’t want the world to know their wives were better satisfied by a man who’s a servant of the Lord.”
“So you think Rheingold might have been doing the humpty Jesus dance with Meryl Roberts?”
“I don’t keep a list in my pocket of all the church honeys Rheingold might have bedded, but you put two and two together chances are it’s gonna add up to four.”
“Unless one of those variables doesn’t equal two.”
“I was never very good at physics.”
“That’s math.”
“I was an English major,” Jack said.
“Me, too.”
Jack laughed. “No wonder you work here.” His smile died with the conversation. “Give Mya’s family my best. I hope she pulls through.”
I nodded thanks, and Jack walked away.
As soon as he left, I pulled up a LexisNexis search for “Mark Rheingold” and “Meryl Roberts.” It came back with four hits.
The first was an article in the Hico News about the second annual Texas Steak Cookoff, sponsored by the Hico High football team, featuring a special appearance by none other than Pastor Mark Rheingold. Meryl Roberts, whose daughter Martha was captain of the Hico girls’ soccer team, was quoted as saying, “Hico is proud to welcome Pastor Rheingold. We know his presence will foster faith and support for our wonderful community, and lead these boys to the state championship.”
The second and third articles celebrated the $7,000 raised by the event to help defray the cost of new football uniforms for the Hico Marauders. Leftover donations went toward purchasing new textbooks, as the school hadn’t bought new ones in nearly a decade. The article ran next to a photo of Hico quarterback John Runyan. He wasn’t holding a textbook, but his uniform looked spiffy.
The fourth article was about Pastor Rheingold’s return to Hico after a six-month absence, in which he’d been touring around the country, speaking in auditoriums holding as many as ninety thousand worshippers. A church spokesman called it Rheingold’s “God-appalooza” tour. He spoke at Madison 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 heaven-obsessed 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 r
ight before pushing Mya off a building. That he’d enjoy the violence about to take place.
CHAPTER 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.
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.