Kid's legacy.
"You have any idea where Paulina got these leads?" Jack asked. "Seemed to me you were on top of this story a week ago, and all of a sudden Jackie Collins is scooping you."
I held up my hand, still sutured together. "In case you forgot,
I had a bit of an altercation a few days ago. Oh yeah, my ex is in intensive care. Oh yeah, and I broke it off with Amanda. So pardon me if I've been off my game for a few days."
"Come on, kid, I don't buy that for a second. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying you haven't had, you know, stuff on your mind, but the day you get scooped on your own story is the day I start drinking wine coolers and dating British women."
"What do you want me to say?"
Jack looked me in the eyes. I held his gaze, unsure how to respond. Then he stepped back.
"You don't need to say anything. I know what you did."
"Really? What's that?"
"Doesn't matter. I understand why you did it. But if you ever fucking do it again, I don't care if you're Bob Woodward the second or spawn of Jimmy Breslin and Ann Coulter, I'll stuff your body down the trash compactor and make sure you never work at this newspaper again. Understand me?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course not. Glad to see you understand. If Wallace asks-which he will-tell him exactly what you told me."
"I will."
"And Henry," Jack said, his eyes growing soft. I'd never seen the man show a tender side, and it unnerved me. "I want you to know I'm sorry about Amanda and Mya. I know I said some things a while back, I don't know how much you actually listened to and how much you passed off as the loony ramblings of an old idiot, but everyone lives their life differently. I never found the same kind of happiness a lot of others have, but that doesn't mean what I did is the right way to live."
"Right or wrong, you made a career to be proud of."
A small choking sound came from Jack's chest.
He said, "You know what I consider the best story I ever wrote, Henry?"
"It wasn't Michael DiForio?"
Jack laughed. "No offense to the guy who tried to rub you out, but not even close. No, it was February third, 1987. Not just because that's the day Liberace died-not a lot of people paying attention to human interest stories that day-but I wrote a piece about a woman in Nebraska who'd lost her husband to cancer and her son to a carjacking. Childless and widowed at forty-one. She'd never worked a day in her life, and suddenly decided to join the police force, and became a cadet on her forty-second birthday. Her name was Patti
Ramona, and I remember she told me that if she saved just one life doing her job, if she prevented one family from going through what she went through, then their deaths wouldn't sting so much."
Jack coughed into his hand.
"A week after the article came out, I got a letter from a man in Idaho, Robert something, his name escapes me. Robert had lost his wife and daughter and had been dying of loneliness for a decade. Robert told me the moment he finished reading my story he went out and became a volunteer firefighter. He said thanks to Patti he knew his life could still have a purpose.
You see what I'm saying, Henry? You don't need a whole city to remember you. If you make your mark on just one person, change one life for the better, that's the noblest thing you can ever do. It's easy to be a celebrity. It's harder to actually mean something."
He clapped me on the shoulder and left without saying another word. I watched him turn the corner and disappear.
And then I was alone.
Sitting at my desk, my mind was blank. I didn't know what to write about. I stared down at the paper Jack had left on my desk. My phone was silent. E-mail inbox empty. I had a sudden and terrible feeling of deja vu, remembering walking the streets of Manhattan after Mya had been attacked a year ago. Getting drunk and hoping the needle in a haystack would cross my path. I remembered the anger and sadness, a dangerously potent mixture. I felt that way now.
It was easier when there was a story. Something to focus on, something to prevent my mind from wandering. But right now all I could focus on was that emptiness. And hope it didn't consume me.
And suddenly everything changed.
I saw Wallace running from his office down the hall.
Evelyn followed from Metro, her short legs having trouble keeping up. Then two more got up and ran after them. Frank
Rourke ran past my desk. I grabbed his shirtsleeve.
"What's going on? Where's everybody running to?"
"Anonymous tip just came in, there's a hostage situation going down. Some maniac took a girl."
"Where?" I asked.
"Downtown," he said. "199 Water Street." Then he ran off.
I couldn't breathe. 199 Water Street. That building housed the New York Legal Aid Society. Where Amanda worked.
But the stringers…there was no police activity. Yet everyone at the news desk knew about it. What the hell was happening?
My heart racing, I picked up the phone and dialed Curt
Sheffield's cell phone. He picked up, said, "This is Sheffield."
"Curt, it's Henry. Have you heard anything about a hostage situation down on Water Street?"
"That's a negative, nothing's come over the radio, and I'm downtown right now so I would've heard something. Why, what's going on?"
"I don't know," I said. "Somebody called in an anonymous tip about a hostage in the building where Amanda works. But if it hasn't been reported to the cops yet… I'll call you back."
I hung up, dialed Amanda's number at the office. We hadn't spoken in days. I didn't know how she'd sound, what to expect, but I needed to know what was happening, that she was all right.
I regained my breath when the line picked up and I heard
Amanda's voice say, "New York Legal Aid Society, this is
Amanda."
"Amanda, it's me."
"Henry…hi…"
"Listen, is everything okay over there?"
"Of course it is, what do you mean?"
"Are you in trouble? Have you seen or heard anything strange?"
"Other than your calling me just now, I was having a pretty uneventful day."
"Thank God."
"Thank God I was having an uneventful day?"
"No, not that at all, I…well, yeah…I'm just glad you're safe."
"Safe? Why wouldn't I be? If there's something I should know-"
And that's when I heard a woman scream over the phone, followed by a gunshot so loud it rattled my teeth. I recognized that sound. I'd heard it this week. It was the sound of a Winchester rifle. William Henry Roberts was in Amanda's office.
"Amanda? Amanda! What's happening? "
"Oh God, Henry, there's someone here- help us! "
The line went dead.
I leapt up, heart hammering. I had to get down there.
Everyone was piling out the door, going to the scene of the crime.
And then it hit me, just what he'd done.
He called us. William Roberts.
You write about history. I am history.
55
At first Amanda thought that the sound of shattering glass came from outside. A construction crew had been tearing up the building across the street for what seemed like a decade, and anything more than a dropped pen in their office was cause for excitement. But then she recognized
Darcy's high-pitched voice as she screamed for help, and
Amanda knew that whatever was happening was happening terrifyingly close.
Then she heard the gunshot, a blast so loud it seemed to shatter the air, and for a moment she heard nothing but ringing in her ears. When her hearing returned, Amanda heard Henry on the line.
"Amanda? Amanda, what's happening? "
She didn't know what she said next, or if she said anything at all, but suddenly Amanda was scrambling away from her desk, trying to bide her time while figuring out what the hell was going on.