her body.
I had to separate them, get some distance. Just a little more…
'This whole show for the cameras? Might get page twelve in tomorrow's paper, somewhere after the ninth episode of
Lost. You'll be forgotten before restaurants get their morning sushi deliveries. And all that'll be left is your dead granddaddy.
You saw today's Dispatch, right? You know nobody believes the truth. Nobody thinks Brushy Bill actually was Billy the Kid.
You're a fucking failure, Will. Just like your whole family.'
Suddenly Roberts swung the rifle my way, that muzzle aiming to blast my heart out. I knew it was coming. Once I saw the look in his eyes, I knew he would kill me if I pressed further. So I was ready.
I managed to grab the rifle's barrel before it measured my chest, swatted it upward as a gunshot shattered the air, white plaster raining down like ash. I had only seconds. One thing
I'd learned about Winchesters, they were quick to reload.
'Amanda, run!' I shouted. She tried to move, but Roberts's hand snaked out and grabbed her by the hair. He tried to hold the Winchester with his other hand, but the long, heavy rifle seemed to be too much. He struggled to bring it around and get off another shot. Instead he whipped the barrel around and caught me in the face.
I went down, my legs giving way. Blood began to trickle into my eyes. I wiped it away, got back to my feet, saw that horrible black muzzle lining up with my forehead. Roberts had a sick grin on his face.
Then another shot rang out, and the grin disappeared.
A swell of blood blossomed just over Roberts's left shoulder. I heard another sharp crack, saw a spark of light come from the building across the street. The cops had set up snipers. And they finally got their separation.
The second shot blew out a portion of Roberts's jacket by his midsection, a gout of blood splashing onto the floor. His eyes began to roll back in his head. He tried to bring the Winchester back up, but I grabbed it from his trembling hands.
Then everything just seemed to happen. Roberts began to topple backward, and in a moment of horror I saw his body was destined for the open window he'd shattered. His left hand was still clutching Amanda's hair. Her hands bound, her mouth gagged, she didn't have the balance to resist.
'No!' I shouted, as Roberts stumbled backward, hitting the back of his legs on the windowsill. He teetered for a moment, grinning at me, his face and chest a mass of dark blood.
Through bloodstained teeth I heard him say, 'Let's go, angel,' before he fell backward, taking Amanda with him.
I rushed forward, still holding the gun, and thrust the upper half of my body out the window. Amanda was teetering over the ledge, holding on with her legs as Roberts now clung desperately to her outstretched arms. His hands were slipping.
Below them I could see dozens of people scattering about as they looked above, saw the three of us perched nine stories high.
And then he fell. Roberts's hand slipped off of Amanda's wrists, and then he tumbled down, faster than I could have imagined, that sick smile embedded in my eyes like it would never leave, his body falling faster and faster until it thudded on the pavement below.
And that's when Amanda's knees gave way, and she fell over backward. Without thinking, I thrust the Winchester into the loop between the bonds on her hands.
It held.
And there we were, hanging a hundred feet from the ground, Amanda's bound hands caught on the barrel of a rifle that had been used to kill four people.
Her mouth was still gagged. Her eyes fluttered, more gasps escaping as she tried not to die.
'Amanda, baby, reach up with your hands and grab the barrel,' I said. Her hands managed to close around the rifle, but the weight was too much for me to hold. I braced my legs against the wall, tried to leverage the rifle upward and give
Amanda a place to find her footing.
Then I heard the sounds of bending metal. The rifle was old, wasn't meant to carry any load, let alone a grown person.
Amanda was slipping.
'Hold on!' I yelled. I braced my feet ever harder, felt the stitches in my hand pop as I yanked as hard as I could, feeling the rifle barrel moving upward as I carried Amanda. Then the
load lightened, and I saw Amanda had found her footing, just barely, on an outside ledge.
'Amanda, baby, count to three and then lean forward.
Please, I promise you'll be fine.' Tears streaked down her cheeks but she nodded.
'One,' I said, my voice leaving me. 'Two.'
I looked at my love, knew in this next second she would either live or die.
'Three.'
At once I dropped the Winchester and Amanda leaned forward. I leapt forward, clasped my arms around her waist, pulled her as hard as I could, and suddenly she came toppling over the windowsill, landing on the ground next to me.
We both lay there for a minute, breathing heavy, until I saw that Amanda was still bound. I grabbed the knife Roberts had dropped and cut the ropes from her hands. Then I gently pulled the handkerchief from her mouth and kissed her hard.
Her salty tears found their way into my mouth as I held
Amanda, knowing I could never hold her like this again.
You never know how much damage is done until you pull back. Survey the scene from a distance. And even then it needs a few days to metastasize.
What Largo Vance had started, Costas Paradis was about to finish. The man had donated nearly half a million dollars to perform an exhumation of Brushy Bill Roberts and compare his DNA to William Henry, his alleged grandson, and the sole surviving heir to Billy the Kid. And this time they were going to do it right. Costas would make sure of that. Or at least his money would.
In the meantime, as expected, residents of New Mexico and Texas were apoplectic over the Dispatch' s revelations.
They were planning to fight the exhumation tooth and nail.
My old friend Justice Waverly was quoted in the Dallas
Morning News as saying, 'They can come with shovels and backhoes, but if they try to destroy the legacy of the Old West we'll meet them with rifles and cannons.'
In New York that kind of talk could get a politician impeached. In Texas it guaranteed Justice Waverly would be reelected every term until he finally keeled over in his morning pastry.
I spoke to Curt Sheffield the day after Roberts died. The cops had found a receipt in his bag for several nights at a seedy forty-dollar-a-night hotel room. I didn't even know they ran that cheap in New York. The manager didn't remember seeing Roberts, mainly because the man was half blind.
The cops found bloodstains on the floor that they were running against Mya's type, to confirm Roberts had stayed there. They also found a note on the nightstand next to the bed where Roberts slept. It gave no further explanation for the murders. It contained two brief sentences.
Up in heaven I'll see my friends.
Bury me next to my blood.
If the DNA tests confirmed what I assumed they would, there was a question of whether William Henry Roberts would be buried in Fort Sumner, New Mexico, next to the alleged grave site of Billy the Kid. Even though it wasn't where the true
Kid was buried, it was where his legacy lived. And that legacy, that myth, I'd learned, was far more important than the truth.
Most argued a murderer didn't deserve such a burial. Those in power argued what was good enough for one killer was good enough for another, that evil should be contained.
After running the hostage crisis on page one the next day, the next day Dispatch relegated the Roberts story
