something beautiful.
Once the guilty had hanged, the innocent had nothing to fear. It was human nature to fear the executioner. Most never realized their job was to cleanse the earth of the guilty, the evil, those who poisoned society.
Despite the truths Henry Parker had unearthed, William felt no anger toward him. Being attacked and brutalized hadn't stopped Parker's pursuit of the truth.
Parker, of course, only knew what William wanted him to know. Because he was the Regulator. He was the last of the great bloodline. And even if the line died with him, it would have died claiming a destiny so abruptly halted many years ago.
Just as William had uncovered his history despite those who had wished to keep it a secret, so would Henry Parker discover it, as well. Two sides of a coin-one clean, one dirty-both needed to create the whole. The same way Billy the Kid had his chronicler in Pat Garrett, so would William in Henry Parker.
William heard a groan. She was waking up.
He nudged the prone body on the floor, gave her a little kick. She shifted, uttered a muffled cry through the rag soaked through with saliva.
William knelt down to her, gently shook her until those eyelids-crusty with eyeliner and mascara-fluttered open.
The pupils took a moment to register, but as soon as they did fear came racing back to those pretty hazel eyes. The very eyes that had once gazed upon Henry Parker with an intense love that she still felt for him. Mya had made that clear in Paulina Cole's article. Surely Henry still felt something for her, too. Perhaps he could still feel her pain. They'd find out soon enough.
The Boy smiled. He gently stroked Mya's cheek with the back of his hand. Her face trembled, lips quivering, blubbering.
'Don't be scared, Mya.' William's fingers traced soothing circles over her forehead until her trembling lips began to calm. 'You have no idea how important you are.'
41
Jack sat perched on the corner of my desk, swaying slightly, like a column debating whether or not to tip over. It was barely ten in the morning. After catching one whiff of his butane-flavored breath, it was clear that Jack was either coming off a night of wicked drinking, or that his wicked night of drinking hadn't yet ended.
'What you need to do now,' Jack said, 'to follow up on today's article, is start full court press into this Willian Henry
Roberts's background. What did his parents do? Are any of his childhood friends willing to say he was 'the quiet type' or pulled the wings off of insects? You need to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that this psychopath is in fact the greatgrandson of Billy the Kid. You planted the seeds, Henry, now you gotta water that sucker.'
I leaned back in my chair, looked out across Rockefeller
Plaza. Tried to let my mind wander, because when it did it usually ended up in the right place. The police had finally pulled their surveillance off of myself and Amanda, convinced my injury was just a warning and the officers would be better suited hunting than guarding a guy who sat at his desk typing while his eyesight got progressively worse.
And it was just as well. I needed to look into Roberts's birth certificate, family history, anything that could prove who he was and who he knew. He had parents-they would know if their son showed early signs of violence. Or if he had a preoccupation with family history. Perhaps a predilection toward antique weaponry. Or maybe he just spent a few too many hours with his Nintendo playing Duck Hunt.
I knew who William Henry Roberts was. Knew where he was from. When he had committed his atrocities in this city.
What kind of monster he was.
'I need anything you can possibly help me with, Jack. I want to talk to anyone who's ever been in contact with William Henry Roberts. Schoolteachers, classmates-'
'Neighbors, pets, yada yada, I know the drill.' For a moment Jack teetered on the edge of my desk before planting an unsteady hand on my keyboard to steady himself. He looked at me, a quick splash of embarrassment appearing and then vanishing. Like it never happened.
'Jack?' I said.
'Yeah, kid?'
'Are you okay?'
Jack looked at me incredulously. 'If by that statement you're asking whether I am in perfect health for a man of my age, with the virility of a tiger and countenance of a Viking- then, yes, I am very much okay.'
'No,' I said, my voice pressing a little harder. 'Are you really okay?'
This time Jack didn't answer so quickly. The veined hand left my tabletop and mounted itself on my shoulder. Jack gave a warm smile as though flattered that I cared so much about his mental and physical state.
'I'm fine, Henry. People are full of bull. So don't believe everything you hear.'
I blinked when he said this. Everything you hear?
My concern for Jack was based solely on what I could see right in front of me. His too-sweet breath. His slightly offkilter equilibrium. His refusal to acknowledge any problems whatsoever. Nobody had said a word to me otherwise, and I had no clue if it was being discussed on the news floor. Obviously others were aware of the problem, as was Jack. Not that he cared one way or another.
We both stood up. Jack began to walk back to his desk.
'So,' I said, 'did you go out last night?'
Jack barked a laugh. 'Go out? Kid, when you're my age going out means ordering in Chinese food and hoping they remembered the sesame chicken.'
'So you stayed inside.'
'Same as I do every night.'
'Any company?'
Jack's eyes closed as he tried to understand what I was asking. 'What's all this about?'
'I just want to know if anyone is there to, you know… just in case.'
'Just in case what? '
'In case you need any help…anyone to talk to. If anything, you know, happened.'
'Help?' Jack said. 'What I hear, you need help more than I do. Don't think I didn't hear about Frank Rourke and his infamous crap-in-a-sack. You'd better work on your interpersonal relationships with the other reporters before you start asking if I'm okay. Otherwise that won't be the last bag you get.
Help yourself, kid. There are only so many hours in the day.'
As he left, I tried to think of something to say. Jack clearly had a problem, and if it were anyone else they would be confronted, put on leave, made to do something to right the ship.
But Jack O'Donnell was a living institution. You didn't take the Michelangelo in for a cleaning until the marble was covered with so much grime you couldn't tell its ass from its elbow. Jack was still Jack, pumping out quality stories, but it was only a matter of time. And from the look of things, this wasn't an issue about to go away on its own.
I needed to focus. I still had a job to do, and there was still a killer out there. Maybe if I could uncover more information about William Henry Roberts, I could save more lives than just Jack's.
I logged into LexisNexis and performed a search for
William's parents, John and Meryl Roberts. I found records of them owning two homes-one in Hico, Texas, and another in Pecos Valley, New Mexico. Pecos Valley, if I remembered, was where John Chisum ended his famous cattle drive which began in Paris, Texas, and where Billy the Kid wreaked havoc during the Lincoln County Wars. Hico was where Brushy Bill
Roberts had died.
I searched for all newspaper articles in the state of Texas containing references to either John or Meryl Roberts. Aside from previous known addresses, there were half a dozen other clippings. I clicked on the first
