Once the brushstrokes are painted, the picture becomes clear as a Midwestern day. One hundred and twenty-seven years ago, a lie was told, and that lie has been perpetuated for generations by deluded, smallminded townfolk whose entire lives and economies live and die on the wings of a myth. Once you know the truth of Brushy Bill Roberts's identity as Billy the Kid, once you know how William Henry Roberts burned his house down with his family inside, once you know that
William's mother had an affair with a millionaire man of God (with his father's blessing, no less), you know that a hundred years too late, the truth has come to collect its revenge.
Soon the facts will prove that William H. Bonney did not die in 1881 in Fort Sumner, New Mexico. He and his bloodline lived on. This country has been living in denial for years. And it is because of this veil of ignorance that nine people are dead, with another young woman fighting for her life.
If there is any justice in the world, if the truth is regulated at all, then the entire citizenry of New Mexico, Texas and all those who convinced themselves that the nightmare was over will wake up to the violent reality and confront a demon who manifested himself right here, today.
Never had Paulina seen such an outraged reaction from a
"concerned" group of citizens. But to her surprise, many of the protesters were from far outside the delusions of Texas and New Mexico, and the sandblasted states who perpetrated the myth. She'd only received about twenty messages from
Fort Sumner, ten or so from Hico and Lincoln County, but the vast majority were from New Yorkers, Californians. She had even received harsh rebukes from several members of
Congress, writing to say that at best her article was in poor taste, and at worst a selfish attempt to discredit one of the most enduring legends in history.
She didn't bother to respond to the irony of calling a mass murderer an "enduring legend," but therein, she supposed, was the point.
William H. Bonney, despite his violent history, was now considered a hero, a vigilante, a romantic icon. And having read the dozens of articles about William Henry Roberts's deadly spree, she knew that more than a fair share of "concerned citizens" considered him the same way. Roberts was a bandit, an outlaw. And like Bonney's Regulators years ago, he was purging the landscape of those who poisoned the well.
Yet unlike other articles she'd written that had stirred up controversy, there was no joy at the Dispatch at the prospect of increased circulation. There were no high fives in the hall or talk about holiday bonuses. Nobody from senior management had stopped by Paulina's office to congratulate her on a terrific story. In fact, nobody had come by at all. And if there was one thing that frightened Paulina more than anything, it was silence.
Ordinarily she might respond to one or more complainants, just for kicks. But today she merely forwarded all the messages to their PR department. They'd be earning their paychecks this week. Then one e-mail popped up in her in-box that made her forget all the others.
The sender was Ted Allen. The subject heading read We need to talk.
She took a deep breath before opening the message.
…hurts the credibility of our newspaper…
…true or not the Dispatch had been placed under a mag nifying glass…
…witch hunt…
…my mother grew up in Texas…this is akin to pissing on the Pope's grave…
He requested her presence in his office in fifteen minutes.
The Dispatch' s legal team and PR department would be on hand. She had no doubt her job would be safe, but this fire had to be handled with extreme caution.
Henry had gotten away clean. She couldn't mention his name. If the public found out she'd received information from a reporter at a rival paper, the Dispatch would lose its credibility faster than Jack O'Donnell downed a shot of whiskey.
Take credit for your successes, take credit for your mistakes, hope the former outweighed the latter.
Paulina picked up her phone, dialed James Keach's extension.
"Ms. Cole?"
"Where is Henry Parker right now?"
"I…I don't know. Work, I assume?"
"Find him. Then call me. You have half an hour."
She hung up, stood up, smoothed out her skirt and headed for Ted Allen's office.
54
There was no stopping it; the juggernaut had begun lurching forward. Reports stated that the Dispatch was receiving more complaints and hate mail than at any point in the last ten years. The most since they ran a story about a presidential candidate paying off a cocktail waitress with whom he'd had an affair. The complaints weren't about the story, of course, but of a photo on page one in which readers claimed they could see more than fifty-one percent of her left butt cheek.
Nobody ever said people didn't have their priorities straight.
The gossip websites and blogs claimed that Ted Allen was considering canning Paulina Cole. They paid her to piss people off, under the maxim that controversy created cash, but now it looked like she'd pissed off too many people who spent the cash. Challenging an American legend, as well as asserting that a beloved (and deceased) clergyman had an extramarital affair, was too much to handle.
The story on William Henry Roberts was out. It was public.
And despite the protests and pitchfork-waving townsfolk, there would be inquiries. There would be investigations. This kind of scandal could not be covered up.
When I got to my desk my voice-mail light was blinking.
I checked it; it was from Largo Vance.
"Hey, Henry, I don't know how she got it or why, but I have a feeling I have you to thank for Paulina's story, you little devil you. With any luck those pussies in D.C. will have no choice but to exhume the proper body this time. If they screw this one up they'll have more important people than yours truly to answer to. Anyway, the wool's been pulled down long enough. Now catch that Roberts prick and then give me a call. I have an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue with your name on it."
Before I could hang up the phone I saw a shadow hovering over my desk.
"Hey, Jack," I said.
"Hey yourself. So, read any good stories today?"
"I just got in a minute ago. Why, is something breaking?"
"Something already broke," Jack said. He opened up a leather valise and pulled out a copy of today's Dispatch. I'd passed it on the way to work but didn't bother to buy a copy. I knew what would be on the front page, and ignoring some basic sentence structure I was pretty sure I knew exactly how the article would read. Jack opened it, spread the paper across my desk.
Looking back at me in a salacious full two-page spread were the glistening veneers of Mark Rheingold, a faded family portrait of John Henry and Meryl Roberts with their two young children, and a photo of Ollie P. "Brushy Bill"
Roberts at the deathbed of the man claiming to be Jesse
James.
The headline read: Sex, Murder, And The Gun That Won
The West.
Not Paulina's finest hour as far as headlines went, but she more than made up for it with the story. I scanned it quickly while Jack stood there. She covered all the important bases: Mark Rheingold's affair with Meryl Roberts, the fact that John Henry likely knew about it and approved.
And their son William's disgust at the shaming of Billy the