The Guilty Part 29

I heard a gasp behind me. Mya's mouth was opening and closing. Another bubble of blood burst, coating her chin. I knelt back down and wiped it off. Not again. Not Mya. Not Amanda...

"Henry, please..."

"Get the f.u.c.k away from me!" I screamed, bolting up. My body felt ready to explode, and in my mind's eye I saw everything I touched, everything I loved, broken in pieces. I couldn't see Amanda. Not like this. Not like Mya. I'd already failed one woman. I couldn't do it again.

"Henry, please talk to me."

"Get the f.u.c.k out of here! f.u.c.k out of here! " I yelled again, this time stepping " I yelled again, this time stepping toward Amanda, a fire in my eyes that I could see reflected via fear in hers. She stepped back. I stepped forward.

"Get out of here," I said, panting. "Don't ever come back.

Leave now."

"No," Amanda said, tears flowing from her eyes. "Don't do this. I'm not Mya, I'm not..."

"Get away from me, and never come back." She didn't move. "I said get the f.u.c.k away from me! get the f.u.c.k away from me! " "

Amanda looked at me, crying, unable to say a word. Then she turned and ran into the night. And I turned back to Mya, took her hand. "Baby, don't leave me...it's Henry...please don't leave me...I'm here..."

45.

Paulina Cole sat at her desk rifling through the transcription of an interview with a Republican senator she had just spoken to that afternoon. She didn't particularly like the man-- primarily because she knew a great deal more about his predilection toward Guatemalan housemaids than did the voters--but he was a shoo-in for reelection and Ted Allen's instructions were to paint him in the most positive light. That Ted had contributed close to six figures toward his reelection campaign was not to be mentioned. Paulina had already picked out six good sound bites, thankfully all taken within some sort of context, and was in the midst of outlining tomorrow's front-page story.

She was writing longhand when a sweaty, haggard James Keach appeared in her doorway. Keach staggered in, dropped into a seat across from her desk, his breathing hard, eyes frightened. It was the first time James had taken a seat without her express permission. Usually he stood by the doorway taking instructions. He didn't even think twice about plopping down, and it unnerved Paulina.

"Jesus, James, what happened to you?" she said, allowing a hint of concern to creep into her voice.

285.

James looked up, as though startled to realize he was sitting in Paulina's office. He looked around, then locked eyes with her and leaned forward. James looked like he'd just witnessed something unspeakable, and would give anything to take it all back.

"I was trailing Henry Parker," James said. "And...oh G.o.d..."

"Spit it out."

James Keach's body began to convulse with sobs. She felt panic well up, but the flavor of excitement, as well. Wherever there was fear was also a great story.

"Mya Loverne," James said. "I was following Henry and..."

For the next five minutes, James told her what he'd seen that night. The man atop the building. Mya's body hitting the ground. Henry Parker screaming, crying. The ambulances, the broken girl being sped away to the hospital.

The killer on the rooftop, grinning like the devil himself.

When James was finished, Paulina sat in silence. She recalled her conversation with Mya at the diner; the small, frail girl looking like she was one tap away from shattering.

Mya Loverne. Was it possible...

Paulina cleared her throat, blew her nose into a handkerchief. She picked up the phone and dialed the Metro desk.

"Fred, Paulina Cole here. Call Ted Allen. Tell him Senator Brisbane is being pushed back to page seven. We have a new page-one story tomorrow."

She hung up. Looked at James.

"Did they say Mya is going to make it?" she asked. James shook his head.

"I couldn't get into the hospital, and n.o.body would speak on her condition. But it looked pretty bad."

Paulina closed her eyes, dismissed James with a wave of 286.

her hand. When he left, she sat back, folded her hands behind her head. Then with a snap she sat forward, pushing the sympathy from her mind. Then she turned on her computer, and began to type.

46.

There is no place whose atmosphere gives off such a potent mixture of calm and anxiety as a hospital room. The beeps come at such even intervals that if you forget their purpose for a moment, they could easily lull you to sleep. Then you remember what they represent and that knot swells up in your stomach, you look at the p.r.o.ne figure being monitored by machines, and you feel like you might never sleep again.

Watching Mya breathe through a tube, that's how I felt.

Chairs in hospital rooms weren't any better. They were all metal and odd contours. As if the hospital didn't want you relaxing on the job.

I was alone in the room with Mya. Her mother, Cindy Loverne, was asked to leave by hospital staff. She arrived shortly after Mya and broke down immediately. Screaming.

Crying. Asking how G.o.d could allow her husband and daughter to possibly be taken in the same week. She asked if G.o.d was testing her strength as a woman, as a person. It wasn't G.o.d who had done this to her family.

Cindy had hugged me. I hadn't seen her in almost a year and a half, the last time being in a different hospital room.

Again, watching Mya breathe. It was hard not to apologize 288.

to Cindy Loverne; meeting me was the worst thing that ever happened to Mya.

The last time Mya was in the hospital she left with a barely visible scar. But I always knew it was there, might as well have been a bloodred tattoo.

If Mya survived this--the doctors had given her a thirty percent chance of doing so--she wouldn't be so lucky this time.

Mya had suffered multiple skull fractures and a shattered hip. It took three hours of surgery to reduce the swelling in her brain, to fuse her bones back together. And that was the good news. The doctors said thankfully she'd landed on her side. That might have saved her life. If she'd landed on her back or head, she would either be paralyzed or dead. At least now she had a fighting chance. And I knew Mya was a fighter. I knew knew it. it.

"Hey. Henry."

I turned around. Curt Sheffield was standing in the doorway. He was dressed in full uniform. The blue clashed against the white walls. I noticed the gun on his belt, holstered, safe.

For a moment I thought about grabbing it, marching into the street and stalking around the city until that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Roberts showed his face. And then I would show him the same mercy he showed everyone else. None.

Curt gestured for me to join him outside. I nodded, stood up. Watched Mya's chest rise and fall.

I went into the hallway, followed Curt toward a small waiting area. We both took seats.

"How is she?" he asked.

"She's got a battle ahead of her."

"She looks like the kind of girl who's fought a lot of battles recently." I nodded, knew many of them were my fault.

"She's tough," I said. "Her hip will be fine. It's her head 289.

they're concerned about. They won't know how much damage there is until the swelling comes down."

"Jesus," Curt said, shaking his head. "Thing like this, kind of makes you want to become an atheist."

"Actually I've never prayed more in my life. But I'm pretty sure G.o.d is considering revoking my baptism right now."

"You know this isn't your fault, right?" Curt watched me, waited for a response. I didn't answer him. I couldn't.

Because it wouldn't be the answer he was hoping for. "Henry, you know that, right?"

"Amanda," I said. "Have you..."

"She's staying with a co-worker tonight. You know she's worried sick about you, man," Curt said. "Amanda's a h.e.l.l of a catch. It hurt her to see Mya like that. She just doesn't want it to break you."

"It won't break me," I said. "But it might have broken us."

"Do you love her?" he asked. I said nothing. "I said do you love her?"

"Yes," I said. "I do."

"Then don't do this. You're a selfish p.r.i.c.k you don't at least call. You think you're the only one hurting?"

"I can't see Amanda ending up like that," I said, pointing toward Mya's room. "That girl is in there because of me.

Because of who I am and what I do. I can't control anything, man. I can't help myself from taking these punches, but I'll be d.a.m.ned if Amanda needs to feel them, too."

"You don't think she's feeling it right now?"

"Not the same way Mya is. Emotional pain hurts, yeah. But physical pain can kill. I'd rather her be devastated than dead."

I looked up at Curt. "Have you come any closer to catching this guy? Please tell me they've found the son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Curt took a deep breath. I saw a twitch as his hand went 290.

to his holster. I knew what he was wishing, because I felt the same way.

"No," he said. "NYPD is tripping over themselves to get at this guy, but the mayor's made everyone scared. Too many young guys in this city, too many potential suspects. One person gets an itchy trigger finger, Roberts is forgotten about and we have a crisis on our hands."

"So what then, we wait until he kills someone else, falls asleep at the scene?"

"First off," Curt said, "there's no 'we.' You're not a cop.

You do your job, keep digging up leads, write s.h.i.t people care about. We'll do ours and eventually we'll catch this guy."

"Bang-up job so far," I said.

"You know what, Henry? Go f.u.c.k yourself. You're not the only one hurting. Four people are dead and your ex is banged up bad. You want to vent? Go ahead. But don't c.r.a.p on the only people left who give a d.a.m.n about you."

"I don't need this," I said. "I have work to do. I have to find this guy."

"Yeah, right."

"You gonna stop me?"

"Stop you?" Curt said, laughing. "Why would I do that?

h.e.l.l, I'll even walk you out. But listen, man, Carruthers is going to make another statement tonight." He took a breath.

"They found another quote. Where he pushed Mya."

"Jesus."

"Thought you'd be better off hearing it from me instead of the tube."

"Thanks for small favors. What did it say?"

"Was addressed to you," Curt said.

"To me?"

Curt nodded. "Said, 'Henry: Quien es? Quien es? '" '"

291.

"Quien es?"

"It's Spanish," Curt said.

"I figured that," I said. "What's it mean?"

"Means 'who is it?'"

"He asked me 'who is it?'"