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' identity, saying he wished to die with the pardon Texas Governor Lew Wallace had reneged on over eighty years ago."
Agnes stopped.
"And?" I said.
"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.
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.
I tossed my bag down and went into the kitchen. My stomach growled for food. I poured a drink of cranberry juice and seltzer, set the glass down on the counter and reached into my pocket for Largo Vance's phone number. And that's when
I felt a massive blow to the side of my head and everything went black.
31
Amanda Davies sat in the high-back leather chair and stared out the window. She wanted to call Henry, desperately wanted to hear his voice if only for a moment. Several times over the last few hours she'd reached for the phone, felt the plastic beneath her fingers, only to retract like she'd touched a poisonous plant.
The office was empty, dark except for a desk lamp and her computer screen. The minutes seemed to stretch into hours.
She watched the phone. He'd called once. She waited to see if he would call again. He didn't.
She'd told Henry she was coming here to sleep. She knew sleep wouldn't come easy. Not last night and not tonight. Not after what she saw.
Since joining the Legal Aid Society, Amanda had witnessed some horrible things. Mothers and fathers who beat their children within an inch of their life, starved them. Made seven-year-olds wear diapers for days and weeks on end.
Boys and girls who were found caked in their own excrement while their parents were out drinking, stealing or fornicating.
And no matter how hard they worked, how many children they rescued, it was like putting a Band-Aid on a busted dam.
There wasn't enough manpower, not enough funding. As long as society remained this screwed up, as long as there were hedonistic parents who put themselves over their child, there would always be children without homes. Just like her. Until she met Henry.
She thought about Mya Loverne. Hated the fact that she felt even a whisper of sympathy for the girl. But she did. It was tearing her apart, because she could still see Mya's arms wrapped around Henry's waist, their lips touching, Henry seeming to give in.
He should have ended it months ago. He should have severed all ties with Mya Loverne. But he hadn't, and last night showed why. He wasn't ready to give her up. Amanda lost the one person she could turn to, the one who showed her that there were relationships beyond her diaries.
She couldn't take it anymore. She grabbed the phone, nearly spilling a cup of water all over the desk, and dialed
Henry's cell phone. She waited as it rang, hoping that any second he would pick up and she would hear his voice, hoping there was more to the story. Henry was not a bad guy, like so many of the douche bags and deadbeats desperate women seemed to flock to. Guys who smelled like skunk residue and wore enough hair gel to paste King Kong to the
Empire State Building. Henry wasn't like them. She couldn't picture him cheating on her. Being with another woman.
Pressing his lips
(stop it)
Henry's voice mail picked up.
"This is Henry. Leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."
She bit her lip, then spoke.
"Henry, it's me. We need to talk. Call me when you get this."
For a moment, fear gripped Amanda. What if he was with
Mya? Couldn't be. He wasn't like that. He wasn't…
She hung up. Looked out the window again as the sun began to dip below the clouds, casting a golden hue over New York
City. In a city of millions, Amanda had never felt so alone.
32
Wake up, Parker.
I heard a voice in the distance, like a dream beginning to fade into the reality of morning. There was a beeping noise, like an alarm clock. Then just as abruptly it stopped. A gush of water hit me in the face, and the dream was shattered. I spit it out, coughed it out of my nose. My eyes opened. When I realized where I was, I wished I was still dreaming.