pineapple juice. So you'd better hope there's no check to get.'
'I like this side of you, Henry,' she said. 'You act all nice, like you're the cub reporter who can do no wrong, but you've got some ice in those veins. Keep 'em cold, tiger.'
And she left.
I sat there sipping my coffee, having made either a brilliant calculation or a horrible mistake. I was pretty sure it was the former. I'd find out tomorrow.
52
Nobody really noticed him as he walked by. His suit was tailored and his shirt was neatly tucked in. His bright red tie practically screamed POWER! from the rooftops. His shoes were shined, hair combed back and soaked with gel. He looked like any one of a million investment bankers or traders on their way to becoming the twenty-first century master of the universe. He was one in a million.
A few did glance at the guitar strapped over his back, assumed after leaving the office he would play a gig at some dank bar with his other gel compadres, where drunken patrons would worship him for exactly forty-five minutes before going home to either puke or screw some desperate groupie.
The truth was, the guitar case was made out of a lightweight carbon, the whole thing weighing less than five pounds. The Winchester rifle housed inside made the whole contraption weigh just over ten. It was easy to run with, narrow enough to fit through subway doors and turnstiles, scamper down fire escapes and disappear into the city crowds.
And since he always dressed as either a young, rich broker or some near-homeless schlub looking for that one gig that would get him discovered, as far as New York was concerned
he was faceless. Voiceless. Like a million more of his generation looked upon by their elders as those who sucked the life from the system and gave nothing back.
Unlike those faceless assholes, he would be remembered.
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.
