Like his great-grandfather was. Twenty-one when Billy allegedly died, yet that was enough time to carve a legacy that would live for generations.
William's legacy would be a new chapter. The Winchester was more than an heirloom, it was an artery through which their bloodline flowed.
When he woke up this morning, though, William knew there was a chance he might never use his beloved gun again.
It had served him better than any weapon he could imagine, but the gun was old, not meant to be fired so many times in such a short span. At least in a museum it wasn't exposed to the elements. But legends weren't meant to be kept on display.
One more shot. One more kill.
William was sure that Amanda Davies's death would deal
Henry Parker that one grievous blow that would finally push him over the edge.
William had paid his last night at the hotel, and the nearly blind old man who ran the place said he was sorry to see him go. William couldn't help but laugh, wondered if he should correct the man. Sorry to hear you go.
Yesterday's newspapers had been the most heartening yet. One editorial admitted that William had become some sort of folk hero, that each of his victims had some penance to pay and the devil had come to collect. Just like his greatgrandfather had.
The gun was a means to an end. And once Henry Parker felt what he felt, experienced the same loss he had, knew what it was like to cut the disease away, the fuse would be lit. Henry
would mythologize William Roberts, and the legend would be made. Billy the Kid wasn't made a legend until Pat Garrett created the myth. Like Garrett, Henry Parker had the power of the written word. The power to create a legend.
It was fate that William chose to use Henry's quote when he killed Athena. And so a hundred and thirty years after his great-grandfather changed this country, so would William.
Yet as he walked down the street, William felt a cold stir in the pit of his stomach. Every so often, another stranger would glance his way. Eyes scanning his face, like they had recognized him from somewhere. Like they knew him somehow.
A twinge of panic began to rise in William's gut. He walked faster. Began to sweat. He didn't like this. Didn't like people looking at him. So far he had survived by blending in, looking like every other young punk in this city that people were happy to dismiss. But now there was recognition, and from random people on the goddamn street.
William passed a small bodega. He thought about stopping for a pack of gum, just to calm his nerves. He went over.
Debated getting a pack of cigarettes, too. People avoided smokers. He tried to remember how much money was in his wallet. Then he looked at the newspapers.
They were neatly arranged under triangular metal paperweights. The headline of the New York Gazette read The Face
Of Sorrow. It ran beside a picture of Cindy Loverne crying at her husband's funeral. A picture alongside it showed Mya
Loverne, taken the day before he'd thrown her from the roof.
She was smiling in the pic. The caption read Injured Daughter
Hanging On.
William smiled. Looked like the girl could make it. Wasn't that from Rocky?
If she lives, she lives. If she dies…
Then the smile faded. The pit in his stomach opened up, and he felt a wave of nausea overcome him. Then the nausea turned to anger, the anger turned to hate, and he ripped the paper from the kiosk.
It was the New York Dispatch. The page one headline read:
The Face Of Evil?
There was a photo on the front page. He recognized it. He hadn't seen the photo in years, but knew exactly when it was taken. Clearly visible in the photo were three men and a woman.
One of the men was his father.
The other man was Pastor Mark Rheingold.
The woman was his mother, Meryl, and she was reaching for the pastor, preparing for a deep embrace. William's father looked on in joyous approval.
And in the background William recognized himself, just four years ago, staring at his mother and her lover as they mocked their family name.
William H. Bonney would never have stood for that.
And so neither would William Henry Roberts.
Despite the newsprint, the tiny pixels, William saw the anger in his eyes. He remembered setting fire to the house, the fire that claimed the lives of his father, sister, mother and his mother's God-fearing lover.
They were the same eyes he was showing to the world right now.
Millions seeing his face in black and white.
Millions recognizing him on the street.
His heart beating faster than it had since the night he sent a bullet through Athena Paradis's head, William Henry
Roberts turned and sprinted down the street.
He couldn't waste any more time. He had to find her.
It was only a matter of time before somebody recognized him and called the cops. Tried to end his crusade before he was ready.
Amanda Davies had to die before that happened.
53
Louie Grasso picked up the phone. He gently placed the receiver to his ear and wondered if there was anywhere near this godforsaken building he could grab a shot of whiskey to throw in his coffee. If the rest of the day went the way his first half an hour did, he'd quit his job by noon. He'd been working the lines at the Dispatch for nearly seven years and had weathered complaints and grievances from all walks of life. Never, though, had he heard such anger due to a story. Goddamn Paulina Cole, at some point she was going to get them all killed.
Louie took a breath, said, " New York Dispatch, how may
I direct your call?"
"You have two choices," said the man with the Southern twang on the other end. "You can either put this shithead Ted
Allen on the phone or that sassy bitch Paulina Cole. Your choice, either one will do, but I'm not hanging up until one of those worthless dung heaps is on the line."
Louie recited what his boss had told him to after the first barrage of calls came in.
"Any complaints you have regarding Ms. Cole's article in today's edition should be addressed in the form of a typewritten letter or e-mail directed to the New York Gazette public relations department. Your concerns are duly noted. They will be responded to either individually or as a whole."
"Listen, I got my whole extended family just waiting to call in as soon as I hang up, and my grandma Doris is ready to hop on the plane and whack Allen upside the head. So I'll fill out your stupid forms, but I hope you're ready to repeat those directions another few thousand times this morning. So 'duly note' my ass."
Louie sighed as the line went dead. He drained his coffee and picked up another one of the dozen lines that hadn't stopped flashing in hours.
" New York Dispatch, how may I direct your call?"
Paulina had just hung up the phone when James Keach appeared in the doorway. Sweat was streaking down his face, and his work shirt looked several different shades of blue.
"This is not the time, James."
"I need to know what to do. People are calling me asking for a statement. Some guy from the Associated Press, another one from the Times. I don't know how they got my number."
"Our company directory isn't a secret. What are you telling the people who call?"
"I've been hanging up on them."
"Good," she said. "You say one word to anyone who doesn't work inside this building I'll roast your nads in my
Foreman Grill. Now get."
Keach disappeared.
Paulina turned back to her computer. Her inbox had three hundred new messages, and another ten were appearing every minute. They all bore colorful subject headings like you're wrong and eat shite and die and does your mother know you lie for a living?
Never in her career had Paulina witnessed such an onslaught of offended readers, and that was counting the time they ran a still photo from Pamela Anderson's sex tape with her nipples blocked out. Hundreds of angry readers were calling in, demanding her head, and every new message was directed at the story she'd written for today's Dispatch. The story Henry Parker had dropped on her lap. That sneaky shit knew it would provoke this response. He wanted that story to run, but didn't want the Gazette to go through exactly what the Dispatch was right now. She'd have to remember to send him a cyanide fruitcake for Christmas.