I've had my morning scone.'
'I understand that and I apologize for my abruptness and for interrupting your, uh, scone eating. But I need your help.'
She sighed. 'I should charge you a convenience fee.' Then noticed I'd come alone. 'Miss Davies isn't with you today?'
'No, just me,' I said, eager to avoid any more discussions of Amanda. Agnes didn't need to know that the only way I could stop myself from thinking about Amanda was following this story.
Agnes entered the building, led me to her office. She unlocked the door and flipped the light switch, the lava lamp glowing a festive red and green and casting a Christmas-y glow over her replica firearms. 'Did you have any luck with the information on the Winchester?' she asked.
'You have no idea,' I said. I told her about New Mexico, about the stolen Winchester, and the connection to Billy the Kid.
When I finished Agnes sat back and twiddled her lip with her thumbs.
'William H. Bonney,' she said, 'is one of the most misunderstood figures not only to come from the lawlessness of the Old West, but in all of history.'
'How so?'
'For the most part, Billy the Kid has been portrayed as one of the most brutal men to ever raise a rifle. It's true Bonney killed over twenty men and almost single-handedly changed this country to the United States of Anarchy. But…' She trailed off.
'But what?'
'But as you may not know, Bonney wasn't always evil. He was a petty thief who actually wanted to do good.'
'The Regulators,' I said.
'That's right. See, Billy was the very first inspiration for tabloid journalism.'
'Yellow journalism,' I said, remembering my conversation with Jack.
'That's right. And let me tell you, some of the crock those papers churned out would put the Weekly World News to shame.
Every inch Billy took, they credited him with a yard. It's true that he was one of the most deadly men to ever hold a Winchester, but it wasn't until his killer, Pat Garrett, published a book about the whole ordeal that the legend took off. Fact is,
Bonney was only confirmed to have killed nine men. The others were killed in larger gunfights. Most were likely killed by other members of the Regulators, but guess who got credit.
Most of his closest friends thought the Kid was pretty easygoing, even funny, but dime store novelists knew funny didn't sell a villain. Dangerous, cold-blooded and hair-triggered did.
'You look at the legend of Billy the Kid now,' she continued, 'almost a hundred and thirty years after his death, and the man has become a folk hero.'
'Does the name Brushy Bill mean anything to you?'
Agnes eyed me suspiciously. 'Where did you hear that?'
'In Fort Sumner. A museum curator mentioned it.'
'Never mind Brushy Bill Roberts. That's one myth grown from diseased roots.'
'If it's all the same, Professor Trimble, I'd like the opportunity to check every tree and then decide if I'm barking up the wrong one.'
She sighed. 'It really is just a waste of time.'
'Tell that to the four dead people.'
Agnes sighed. 'If you insist. Brushy Bill Roberts,' she continued, 'was a charlatan in the 1950s who claimed to be
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.
