The Guilty Part 20

"I just want to be happy," Mya said. She wiped her eyes.

A piece of lint from her sweatshirt caught on her eyelash. I plucked it free. She laughed through her sobs. "You used to make me happy, Henry."

I didn't know how to respond. Mya's arms had freed themselves, and I felt them wrap around my waist. Mya hadn't been this close to me in a long time. Yet there were no sparks. I held her like I would hold a small child. For comfort. For protection.

I wanted to hate her. I wanted to ask why she said those things to Paulina, why she took our private life and made it public, why she threatened to ruin us both. But I also wanted to squeeze all the pain from her body. Because she didn't deserve any of it.

Before I could think, I felt Mya's breath on my face; harsh, sweet. She leaned in. I wanted to stop her but I couldn't.

Couldn't say no to her right now. I felt her breath, didn't want it like this. But I couldn't break this girl's heart one more time. Her breath touched my lips, I wasn't going to stop her, and then they pressed against mine, hot and needy.

"You've got to be f.u.c.king kidding me."

My body went rigid. I pried myself from Mya's grip. Her hands slid off me. She'd heard the voice, too. I was afraid to turn around, but I had to.

Amanda was standing on the corner. Watching us. A bag of groceries lay at her feet. Where she'd dropped them.

"No. No, no, no no no. no. You have got to be f.u.c.king You have got to be f.u.c.king joking," she said. She left the groceries and started toward us with a frightening urgency. I tried to open my mouth but nothing came out.

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"Amanda," I said. It's not what it looks like. I can It's not what it looks like. I can explain. Of course I would say those things. Isn't that what Of course I would say those things. Isn't that what every guy said?

"You G.o.dd.a.m.n wh.o.r.e, wh.o.r.e, " Amanda spat. "You drag him through " Amanda spat. "You drag him through your filth and then you come to our our house to spread it around? house to spread it around?

Get the f.u.c.k out of here, you disgusting tramp." Mya took a step toward Amanda, like she might do or say something, but then she turned and ran away. I turned back to Amanda.

"Wait," I said.

"So was she wearing perfume?" Amanda asked, her eyes wild, searching for some crazy answer. "Tell me she drugged you, that she had a gun, that she's the lunatic who's killing all those people and offered to sleep with you for the scoop.

Tell me something other than you were just standing here playing tonsil hockey with the girl who dragged your name through the mud. Tell me there's more to it."

"Her father was killed," I said. "I didn't know what to do."

"No, you knew what to do. You decided to be hero Henry f.u.c.king Parker and swoop in for the rescue. Is that your M.O.

now? You find these damaged girls and pretend to be their savior until the next basket case comes along? Is that what you did with me? You were tired of Mya so when I happened by you figured you'd take my broken a.s.s for a spin?"

"It's not like that and you know it. I love you, Amanda."

"Then why were you kissing another f.u.c.king girl? why were you kissing another f.u.c.king girl? " she " she shouted.

"I didn't...I...she held me," I said, realizing how lame it sounded as soon as the words came out of my mouth.

Amanda looked back at the groceries. "There's your dinner," she said. "Cook it yourself. Burn the apartment down.

I'm going to stay at the office tonight." She turned and started to walk away.

196.

"Amanda," I said, following her. My head was spinning, my heart felt like it was about to burst. This couldn't be happening.

"If you follow me I'll call the cops and tell them Mya's girlfriend-beating ex is coming after me." I stopped in my tracks, blinking rapidly. "Try me," she said. "I swear I'll do it."

Then her hand was in the air. A cab chugged up to the curb. I could feel the eyes of a dozen strangers watching the scene unfold. I watched as Amanda got into a cab, fleeing in a cloud of exhaust, leaving me alone on the street with a bagful of groceries.

30.

I stood on the street corner. My feet tapped involuntarily.

My brain was running on about four gallons of caffeine, half of which probably hadn't even entered my bloodstream and would cause my eyes to pop out of their sockets any minute now.

I didn't sleep last night. I watched Amanda's cab drive off, picked up the discarded groceries, put them away neatly. I called Amanda. She told me not to call again. I didn't. Instead I took a cab to her office, saw the light on, and stood outside all night just to make sure she was safe. She didn't need to know I was there. But I did.

The next morning I decided to visit Agnes Trimble.

It was 8:45 a.m. I'd already plowed through the Gazette Gazette and the Dispatch. Dispatch. A reporter had written an article about the A reporter had written an article about the growing public sentiment that the killer might have done a public service by killing four people. Tomorrow more ghouls would come out of the woodwork and celebrate this murderer, and soon it would cross over from print to radio to television.

Four lives were being trivialized, and a killer was being glorified. Undoubtedly reporters would eat each other to get the first scoop, pay loads of money to interview this beast.

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Pretend to be appalled by the killer's deeds while cashing the checks he helped rake in.

I waited outside the department building for Agnes. She got off the bus, then dropped her keys when she saw me. I guess if I saw a guy with messy hair, dark circles under his eyes and a heroin addict's jitters waiting in front of my office I'd be a little unnerved, too.

"Professor Trimble," I said, trying to slow down my convulsions. "Do you have a minute?"

"Mr. Parker," she said, picking up her keys and smoothing out her clothes. "My taking your appointment with Amanda did not not give you a free invitation to show up uninvited before give you a free invitation to show up uninvited before I've had my morning scone."

"I understand that and I apologize for my abruptness and for interrupting your, uh, scone eating. But I need your help."

She sighed. "I should charge you a convenience fee." Then noticed I'd come alone. "Miss Davies isn't with you today?"

"No, just me," I said, eager to avoid any more discussions of Amanda. Agnes didn't need to know that the only way I could stop myself from thinking about Amanda was following this story.

Agnes entered the building, led me to her office. She unlocked the door and flipped the light switch, the lava lamp glowing a festive red and green and casting a Christmas-y glow over her replica firearms. "Did you have any luck with the information on the Winchester?" she asked.

"You have no idea," I said. I told her about New Mexico, about the stolen Winchester, and the connection to Billy the Kid.

When I finished Agnes sat back and twiddled her lip with her thumbs.

"William H. Bonney," she said, "is one of the most mis- The Guilty 199.

understood figures not only to come from the lawlessness of the Old West, but in all of history."

"How so?"

"For the most part, Billy the Kid has been portrayed as one of the most brutal men to ever raise a rifle. It's true Bonney killed over twenty men and almost single-handedly changed this country to the United States of Anarchy. But..." She trailed off.

"But what?"

"But as you may not know, Bonney wasn't always evil. He was a petty thief who actually wanted to do good."

"The Regulators," I said.

"That's right. See, Billy was the very first inspiration for tabloid journalism."

"Yellow journalism," I said, remembering my conversation with Jack.

"That's right. And let me tell you, some of the crock those papers churned out would put the Weekly World News Weekly World News to shame. to shame.

Every inch Billy took, they credited him with a yard. It's true that he was one of the most deadly men to ever hold a Winchester, but it wasn't until his his killer, Pat Garrett, published a killer, Pat Garrett, published a book about the whole ordeal that the legend took off. Fact is, Bonney was only confirmed to have killed nine men. The others were killed in larger gunfights. Most were likely killed by other members of the Regulators, but guess who got credit.

Most of his closest friends thought the Kid was pretty easygoing, even funny, but dime store novelists knew funny didn't sell a villain. Dangerous, cold-blooded and hair-triggered did.

"You look at the legend of Billy the Kid now," she continued, "almost a hundred and thirty years after his death, and the man has become a folk hero."

"Does the name Brushy Bill mean anything to you?"

Agnes eyed me suspiciously. "Where did you hear that?"

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"In Fort Sumner. A museum curator mentioned it."

"Never mind Brushy Bill Roberts. That's one myth grown from diseased roots."

"If it's all the same, Professor Trimble, I'd like the opportunity to check every tree and then decide if I'm barking up the wrong one."

She sighed. "It really is just a waste of time."

"Tell that to the four dead people."

Agnes sighed. "If you insist. Brushy Bill Roberts," she continued, "was a charlatan in the 1950s who claimed to be be Billy the Kid."

"Wasn't the Kid shot and killed in 1881?"

"Yes," Agnes said. "But like Elvis, Tupac Shakur and the Loch Ness monster, some people simply love conspiracy theories and won't give them a rest despite all the evidence proving their insane delusions are complete bunk."

"I love bunk," I said. "Explain the bunk."

"In 1949, a probate officer investigated the claim of a man named Joe Hines. While interviewing him, the officer learned that Hines had been involved in the Lincoln County wars.

Hines claimed to have known Billy the Kid. He said Pat Garrett never shot the Kid, and that Bonney was actually alive and well and living in Hamilton, Texas, under the name of Ollie P. 'Brushy Bill' Roberts. Out of curiosity, the officer went down to Hamilton and found Roberts. After being confronted with the witness, Roberts confessed to being the Kid.

Roberts then fought to reclaim his 'lost' ident.i.ty, saying he wished to die with the pardon Texas Governor Lew Wallace had reneged on over eighty years ago."

Agnes stopped.

"And?" I said.

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"And Brushy Bill Roberts was quickly discredited and died the next year. End of story."

"Wow," I said. "That's a pretty abrupt ending."

"I don't deal in charlatans, Mr. Parker. They're not a legitimate part of history and aren't worth wasting my time or yours with. Brushy Bill is worth no more consideration than the boogeyman or Freddy Krueger. Now will there be anything else, Mr. Parker? I haven't even touched my scone yet."

I leaned forward, put on my most soothing voice. Which, considering my girlfriend had just left me on the side of the street, was probably as soothing as sandpaper on dry skin.

"Let's just say," I said, "that I wanted to know more about Brushy Bill for entertainment's sake. You know, so I could win my next game of Trivial Pursuit."

She let out an audible sigh. Her eyes showed tremendous skepticism. Then they softened. She reached into her desk and pulled out a battered leather address book. She flipped through it, paused at a name, then scribbled something on a Post-it note which she then handed to me. Written on the note was the name Professor Largo Vance, retired. A phone number with a 212 area code was written next to it.

"Professor Vance lives in the city," Agnes said. "He was previously professor emeritus at Columbia, but was expelled due to scandal."

"What kind of scandal?" I asked.

"Of the grave-robbing kind."

"Oh. That kind of scandal."

"If you want to chase ghosts and waste time, do yourself a favor and speak to Vance, he's a master of both. And I hope for your sake you're not allergic to cats."

"Not that I know of," I said, standing up. I offered my hand.

202.

Agnes took it reluctantly. "Thanks for your help. Hopefully this will all lead to something."

"Piece of advice, Henry. If you go chasing false light, you'll end up in darkness. Don't bother."

I gave a courteous nod and left her office.

I wanted to stop at home and change, then call Professor Vance and meet with him as soon as possible. If there was any more to this story, I wanted to alert Wallace and Jack and hopefully make tomorrow's national edition.

I hailed a cab and headed home, plunging my head into the leather seat rest. I took a deep breath and could feel my body swimming away. The more I pulled on this thread the more spool there seemed to be. There had to be a core, some place where the full story was revealed. There was an emptiness. I was so used to calling Amanda, to actively ignore her was torture. I thought about what Jack said in the bar that day. For one terrifying moment, I wondered if what happened yesterday was fated to happen at some point. If people like Jack and I were meant to be alone. If loneliness would inevitably hunt us down.

I was still thinking about this when I paid the cabdriver and trudged upstairs. I unlocked the door, flicked on the light switch, half hoping (and possibly expecting) to see Amanda waiting for me. I checked my phone again just in case. I hadn't missed anything. The emptiness was overwhelming.