by Jason Pinter
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.
“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 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 cold-blooded 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 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.
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 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.
CHAPTER 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 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 grave site of Billy the Kid. Even though it wasn’t where the true Kid was buried, it was where his legacy lived. And that legacy, that myth, I’d learned, was far more important than the truth.
Most argued a murderer didn’t deserve such a burial. Those in power argued what was good enough for one killer was good enough for another, that evil should be contained.
After running the hostage crisis on page one the next day, the next day Dispatch relegated the Roberts story to page seven, where it was given quarter-page treatment in deference to a color picture of a senator’s wife who had an allergic reaction to her Botox injection. After that, William Henry Roberts wasn’t mentioned again.
Paulina Cole was suspended for three weeks. But I knew that her suspension was merely window dressing. Ted Allen was forcing her to fly under the radar until everything quieted down. Besides, with Costas Paradis looking to dig up Brushy Bill Roberts, the Kid’s defenders had bigger fish to fry than a newspaper reporter.
On page three of the Dispatch was a small item about the custody fight for the Winchester rifle Roberts had used on his rampage. Rex Sheehan claimed it was still the legal property of the museum in Fort Sumner. Costas Paradis wanted to buy the gun to smelt the metal and burn the wood. Despite my desire for Costas to get some sort of closure and to see the rifle destroyed, part of me felt the gun was a relic of American history and should be treated as such. Provided, this time, Rex got a security system worth a damn.
When I finished reading the day’s papers, I put them in a neat pile underneath the chair. It was only then when I noticed the steady beeping, the humming. It came from Mya’s bedside.
Staring at her small, frail body, a far cry from the strong, vibrant girl I once knew, something inside me had burst. I couldn’t leave. Didn’t want to. I told Wallace and Jack I needed a few days off, that the trauma from the week’s events combined with the new sutures in my hand made it difficult to write, difficult to work. This was all bullshit, but it sounded better than the truth. A lot of things were sounding better than the truth.
Mya came and went. Her eyes fluttering open and shut. The doctors said she would make it. She would recover. Physically. Mentally, it would take time. It would be hard. And I would be there for her. Like I hadn’t been before.
I called you, Henry.
And I wasn’t there.
No more.
Cindy Loverne entered, holding a cup of coffee. She sat down, blew some steam off the top and crossed her legs.
“How are you, Henry?”
I felt guilty even answering such a question.
“Feeling a bit better,” I said.
“That’s good. Listen, I want to thank you for being so good to Mya. I don’t know what she’s done to deserve such a good friend, but—”
“Please,” I said. “Don’t finish that sentence. She deserves much better than anything I’ve given her. And I want you to know, I know she can’t hear me right now, but I’ll be there for her and your family. It’s the least I can do after everything.”
Cindy smiled warmly. Then her eyes moved to the bed. She looked back at me.
“I think somebody can hear you.”
I looked over. Mya’s eyes were open. They were filmy, groggy, squinting to regain focus.
I nearly leapt off the chair, went over and knelt down by her bedside.
“Hey you,” I said.
“Henry,” Mya said, her voice still weak.
“I’m here,” I said. I took her hand in mine, gently stroked her dry skin. “I’m here.”
* * *
I waited outside the hospital. The sun had dipped below the buildings, the sky turning a harsh gray. The air felt cold and I cinched up my jacket. I’d asked Amanda to meet me here, unsure why I chose this particular location, but in the back of my mind I knew the reason full well.
I watched her as she walked toward me. Her eyes were streaked with red, and I didn’t have to ask why. She came up to me. Her hands were in her pockets. She moved her toe back and forth across the pavement, afraid or unwilling to make eye contact.
“Hey, Amanda,” I said.
“Hey” came the flat reply.
“Were you able to find—”
“Yes,” she said, cutting me off. “A friend said I could sublet her studio for a few months. Rent’s not too bad. Commute is kind of a killer. Guess you take what you can get.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Guess so.”
She looked at me, the pain and hurt and confusion in her eyes nearly tearing me apart, letting loose everything I wanted to say but knew I couldn’t.
“So what happens now?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I do want to see you again.”
Amanda shook her head, and it was just then that I saw she’d begun to cry.
“Nope,” she said. “If we end this…I want to end it. I don’t want to have to think about this every time I see you. I just want to pull it off. Like you said.”
“Amanda.” I never wondered, in all my life, what it would feel like to tell the girl I loved, who loved me back, that I couldn’t be with her. Part of being in love, part of being a man was putting your loved ones above yourself.
I didn’t love Mya anymore. Not like that. But she’d paid a price for my failures. I had a debt to pay her back.
To keep Amanda safe, to keep her alive, I had to leave. I knew pulling away from her would tear open a wound that would probably never heal. But at least at some point the bleeding would stop; it would scar over.
I noticed her hand had left its pocket and was fidding with her jeans absently.
“What’s that?” I asked. She seemed surprised.
“Nothing,” she said. “Just, you know…guess old habits die hard.”
“Show me,” I said, but had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I knew what it was. She stared at me as she brought it out. A small spiral notebook. Just like the kind she wrote in back when we met. Back when she had nobody, and every person she met was cataloged in one of those note-books. For a girl who’d grown up with no real family, no real identity, those notebooks helped her hold on.
I hadn’t seen her write in them
in the year we’d been a couple. And now that we were coming apart, she needed them again.
It’s for the best, I told myself. She’s smart. She’s beautiful. She has the world waiting to open itself for her. If you stay with her, you selfish bastard, you could steal it all from her.
And so I knew I had to end it.
“If you ever need anything,” I said. “Someone to talk to…”
“I won’t,” she said. “But I appreciate the gesture.”
“Right,” I repeated blindly. “Gesture.”
She wiped her nose, sniffed once.
“Well then, goodbye, Henry.” She turned to leave.
“Amanda,” I said. She turned back. The tears were flowing from her eyes, and all I wanted to do was gather her in my arms, kiss her and tell her everything would be all right. But to do that would allow events like the other day to happen. Jack was right. He’d been right all along. And Amanda nearly paid for my ignorance with her life.
“If you want to say something, Henry, say it.” My mouth opened but nothing came out. So she said, “Goodbye, Henry.”
Amanda walked away without saying another word. I watched as her hand went to her pocket again, then wiped at her eyes, and before I knew it she’d turned the corner and disappeared.
I stared at the empty street for several minutes, half hoping something would happen, the rest of me praying it wouldn’t.
And when I was sure it wouldn’t, I turned around and went back inside.
* * * * *
“Ellison clearly belongs in the top echelon of thriller writers.”
—Booklist, starred review, on What Lies Behind
When all of Nashville is on edge with a serial killer on the loose, an all-star cast of New York Times bestselling author J.T. Ellison’s most famous creations come together to put an end to the spree: the haunted Lieutenant Taylor Jackson; exceptional medical examiner Dr. Samantha Owens; and troubled FBI profiler Dr. John Baldwin.
Dark, thrilling and utterly compelling, join the crew’s race against the clock in: