The Guilty Part 31

From the corner of my eye I could see someone approach - 300.

ing. 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 s.h.i.t, 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 b.u.t.t, 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.

301.

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 not peachy. 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 h.e.l.l 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 302.

wanted him to stay. "Rheingold...Pastor, right? Had that biga.s.s 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 G.o.d' 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."

303.

"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 Hico News about the second 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 304.

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 "G.o.d-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.o.bsessed 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 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.

306.

The devil himself.

Others called him a warrior.

A prophet.

An apostle.

One said that G.o.d worked in mysterious ways.

One referred to his beloved Winchester as the weapon with which G.o.d 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 ama.s.sing 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, Dispatch, it was an easy choice. 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, 307.

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 pa.s.sion 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.