"Doesn't matter if I tell you," Curt said. "Guy's as vague as my little sister when I ask her how a date went."
"He didn't leave a note with Jeffrey Lourdes. Now he changes his tune and leaves one with David Loverne. This is my ex's father, man, cough it up."
"Again," Curt said, "you use this before it's made public,
I'll string you up to a lamppost. The note was just one line.
It read, 'Because I had the power.' That's it."
"'Because I had the power'? That's pretty vague. What's it mean?"
"You're the reporter," Curt replied. "You ask me, this guy's been watching too much David Lynch."
As soon as I hung up with Curt, I did a search for that quote, only adding "William H. Bonney" to the search field.
What came back was most certainly not vague.
In 1878, corrupt sheriff William Brady arrested Billy the
Kid under the auspices of helping the Kid arrest John
Tunstall's killers. When a reporter asked the lawman why he would arrest Bonney, a seemingly innocent man, Brady replied simply, "Because I had the power."
The connection was no longer a secret. This killer wanted us to know he had a foot in the past. The notes and public executions were garnering more media attention than anything I'd seen since coming to the city. Only not exactly in the way I expected.
The country was captivated by these murders, and the obsession had grown with every shot. Internet sites receiving millions of hits a day were all but praising the murderer.
Paradis, many said, was single-handedly responsible for the downfall of popular culture, and, many said, morals and ethics, as well. David Loverne had long claimed to uphold traditional family values, only in reality he had more sexual partners than the average Mormon. Mayor Perez-the intended target-another empty suit full of insincere promises. Jeffrey Lourdes, once a respected visionary, had been reduced to common gossip and smut peddler.
I couldn't believe these attitudes were so prevalent, that murder was being looked at by some as a reasonable means to an end. But they were. Somehow the man destroying lives was actually endearing himself to the public, by eliminating those deemed to be making our society ill. When I read those articles, shook my head at the stories, I knew what the link was. Why the man was killing who he did.
He was an avenger. A Regulator. Killing those who needed to be killed for the greater good.
Could there really be such a large portion of the population convinced that these murders were a good thing? Was it just cynical ghouls who would never know what it was like to lose a daughter, a father, a husband? That the person committing these crimes was not someone to erect a statue for, but rather a gallows?
I thought about Rex. Something was still troubling me about our conversation, but in my rush to return to New York
I hadn't been able to follow up. Before I left, he mentioned a name. Brushy Bill. It sounded familiar for some reason, and
I made a mental note to follow up with Rex later on. I had a full night ahead of me. I wondered when Amanda would be home. I missed talking to her, and hoped to God that everything Jack told me the other day could be chalked up to the ramblings of an old, lonely man. That just because he was going to die alone didn't mean I would. Amanda had saved my life; was my life. And I wouldn't give that up without one hell of a fight.
But then I rounded the corner to my apartment and saw the one thing I never expected to see. I stopped on a dime. Couldn't move. I didn't know what to do or what to say. Whether to go forward and confront it, or to turn and run. The anger inside me rose up, threatened to consume everything, but her tears, the misery etched on her face, they drowned it all out.
So when I saw Mya Loverne standing alone in front of my building, wearing an old sweatshirt, her eyes bleary and red from crying, I didn't know whether to scream at her, or to gather her in my arms and tell her everything would be all right. Like I should have done the night she got hurt. Like I hadn't done for her since.
"Henry," she sobbed, taking a tentative step toward me. I couldn't move. All I could do was stare at the woman who'd shared my bed so many nights, whose hand I'd held and caressed, who just the other day had thrown me under a bus driven by Paulina Cole. A girl who had just lost her father to a heartless monster. I didn't know what to say to this girl. But then I found myself taking a step forward.
"Henry," she said again, the sobs now racking her small body. Mya looked like she'd lost at least twenty pounds since
I'd last seen her, and she was a slim girl to begin with. She looked malnourished, pale, like she had given up on herself.
"Henry, I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to say all those things, they just happened. Henry, I'm so sorry. Please, my father, I don't know what to do."
My heart broke as I watched this, this shell of my former love. I took another step toward her, and she did the same.
"My dad," she cried, her voice interrupted by staccato sobs,
"my dad was killed. Oh God, Henry, please say something."
I took another step. I could feel her breath, caught the faint whiff of perfume sprayed on long ago and never washed off.
Her hair was a ragged mess, her eyes streaked and bloodshot.
"Mya, I'm so sorry for your father…I…he was a good person."
"I know he was good," she shouted. "So why did he have to die?" She came toward me, didn't hesitate, and suddenly Mya was leaning against my chest. Not in an embrace, but for support.
There was no strength in her. If I moved she would collapse.
But I didn't move. I couldn't.
"Mya, I'm going to find this guy. I promise. I'm sorry for everything I've done, everything I did."
She looked up at me. Her eyes blinked twice. She sniffed.
"You told me you would always be there for me," she said.
My stomach burned as I drew in a breath. Then her eyes opened, I saw a fire in them, as she pounded her fists against my chest and screamed, "Where were you, Henry? Where were you when I lost everything? When my fucking father died? Where have you been? "
She brought her fists down on my chest, punching me with no force behind the blows. Then I took her arms and held them.
"I'm going to help you," I said. "I'm going to help you get your life back together. You've always been one of the strongest people I've ever known, Mya. And you can come back.
You can do great things."
"I have nobody," Mya cried softly. "I lost you. I lost my father."
"You didn't lose me," I said gently. "You didn't want me.
We weren't right together. You don't want me. You haven't for a long time. But I can help you. I will help you."
"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.