The Guilty Page 12

  The waitress came back with a refill of Jack’s drink. She noticed that neither of us were speaking. “Getcha another?” she said, nodding at my half-finished beer.

  “No, thanks.” She clicked her gum and walked away.

  “I don’t think I could ever give her up,” I said. Jack sighed, looked down.

  “Then you’ll make a fine beat journalist. Live with exposed brick and take the subway because you can’t afford taxis.”

  “That’s not why I do this job.”

  “Of course it’s not,” Jack said. “But in any industry, the money level rises as the talent itself does. The better you are, the more you’re needed. And when the money comes, so does love. It might not be the forever kind of love people with shitty mortgages have, it might not last until you die, but it’s good enough to make you smile every once in a while. And that’s what life is about, in the end. When you stare into the abyss, you want a smile to come back at you. Even if it’s just sometimes.”

  “I have that,” I said. I felt a pressure on my chest. I took a sip of beer and swallowed it down.

  “You try to make everyone happy, you wind up making nobody happy. Anyway,” Jack said, raising his glass, “here’s to the story. Let’s find out more about this asshole, and hopefully put an end to it. Keep digging, Henry. Just don’t stand too close to the hole.”

  CHAPTER 22

  I needed to find out who might have gotten hold of an authentic 1873 Winchester, and how. Thankfully Jack had managed to pull together a file of many major gun collectors and museums. It was a haystack, to be sure, but one of these haystacks either sold their needle, or had it stolen. Jack had given me another thread, and now I needed to pull.

  I went to the office, turned on my computer and ran a search for “Winchester 1873” and “stolen.”

  Only 149 hits came back. I searched through every entry, looking for anything that could be a piece of thread. Most of the articles were police and newspaper reports of replica Winchesters stolen from gun shows. No help there. I wasn’t looking for a replica. Whoever was using that gun was using the real deal. None of the 149 hits went anywhere that looked promising.

  I ran a new search, this time for “Winchester 1873” and “museum.” Over four hundred responses came back. I refined my search by adding the words “authentic” and “working.” Now we were down to thirty-two hits.

  I sifted through each entry, arriving at the estimation of fifteen museums in the United States that listed authentic Winchester 1873 rifles among their collections, along with some sort of reference to the gun being in working condition.

  My first call was to the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum, located in Waco. I got an automated system, pressed zero for the operator. A nice woman with a wonderful Southern drawl picked up the phone.

  “Ranger Museum, how may I help ya?”

  “Hi, do you still have an exhibit featuring the Winchester 1873 rifle?”

  “Gun that won the West, we surely do. It’s open from nine ayem to six pee-yem. Day passes are a dollar fifty, year-round pass is twelve dollars. That’s the better deal, y’ask me.”

  “How long have you had that rifle?”

  “Oh, heck, I’ve been here three years and it’s been here long as I have, I’d have to ask for sure though.”

  “And you’ve had no other rifles come and go since then?”

  “Why no…may I ask your interest?”

  “That’s okay, I appreciate the help.” I hung up.

  I called ten more museums. Each one could currently account for their Winchesters, and had seen none go missing in recent memory.

  Then I dialed the twelfth number on my contact sheet, the Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen in Fort Sumner, New Mexico.

  “MOL Museum, this is Rex speaking.”

  “Hi, Rex, I’m calling because I read somewhere that you have an authentic, working Winchester 1873 rifle in stock. Is that true?”

  “It ain’t in stock,” Rex said, “this is a museum, not a sidewalk sale, son.”

  “Sorry, but you do have one.”

  “Why yes, sir, we do.”

  “Just one?”

  There was a split second of silence before Rex answered, and I picked up on it.

  “Why, yes, one’s just about all we need.”

  “Have any rifles come in or left the museum for any reason over the last year?”

  “Listen, you care to tell me what all these questions are about?”

  “I was just wondering…”

  “Our gun is here, it’s in great shape and it looks a lot better in person than it does over the phone.”

  For a moment I assumed we’d been disconnected, but then I heard the dial tone and knew Rex had hung up on me. My heart began to beat faster. But I had to confirm it.

  I dialed the number again. The same man picked up.

  “Hi, I just called about your Winchester 1873 model rifle, and—”

  “Hey, either come to the museum like all normal folks or stop calling.”

  Once again I was greeted by a dial tone. I stared at the phone for a moment. This museum clearly didn’t like my line of questioning. Then I recalled that the museum was in New Mexico. The heart of the Old West.

  I picked up the receiver and dialed again. This time a different number. It picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey, Henry,” Amanda said. “Missed me much?”

  “I have to go to New Mexico,” I said. “And I need to leave tonight.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Does that mean I shouldn’t wait for you for dinner?”

  “If you don’t mind waiting until tomorrow to eat.”

  “As if I don’t have enough trouble getting out of bed in the morning,” she said. “So you found something out there? New Mexico?”

  “Yeah, something to do with the murders. I know it.”

  “Something about the gun?”

  “Yeah, I think I have a lead at a museum.”

  “Then go. Do whatever you can to find this guy,” she said. “I’ll be here when you get back. Dinner might be a bit cold, though. I’ll just rename it vichyssoise and call it a gourmet meal.”

  I laughed. “No way. When I get back you’re getting the finest grilled cheese in North America.”

  “I’ll keep a bowl of Kix nearby just in case.”

  “Thanks, babe. I’ll call you when I leave.”

  Then I hung up and checked departure times for flights to New Mexico.

  CHAPTER 23

  I cashed Jack’s check at a local Chase branch, then took a cab home and threw a pile of clothes into a duffel bag, hoping I’d buck the odds and end up with a matching outfit or two. I took the Xeroxes from Agnes Trimble’s book, packed them in a valise.

  As I zipped up the duffel, I stared at the bed. Neither Amanda nor I had bothered to make it that morning. I could still make out the ruffled sheets where we’d lain the night before. I could re-create it; where Amanda’s arm lay across my chest, where her legs curled around mine. My hand gently stroking her leg, the way she smiled and kissed my cheek.

  I had to leave before I thought about it anymore, because the more I did the more Jack’s words resonated.

  I made sure my phone was charged and I had a clean notebook and tape recorder. The bills made my wallet fat.

  I thought about the last time I traveled across the country, several men wanting me dead and Amanda unaware of the lie I’d fed her. And now she shared my bed. I still had to prove myself to her, and to do so I had to put her life before mine.

  And yet for the first time since we started seeing each other, despite how much I loved her, I thought about my conversation with Jack and wondered if Amanda deserved better.

  Another cab sped me to the Continental terminal at LaGuardia Airport. I ran to the reservations desk and made the seven-thirty nonstop flight to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I paid the five-hundred-and-sixty-dollar round-trip ticket with a handful of cash, drawing a slightly raised eyebrow f
rom the woman at the ticket counter.

  “How long is the flight?”

  “Four hours and thirty-five minutes,” she replied, eyes down as she counted out the numerous crisp twenties.

  “And what’s the time difference in Albuquerque?”

  “New Mexico is on Mountain Standard Time. Two hours earlier than New York.”

  “Is there an in-flight movie?”

  “Let me check…that would be Shrek 2.”

  “Couldn’t get Shrek 3?”

  She did not find me funny.

  My flight was scheduled to land at midnight, or ten New Mexico time. On arrival, I still had to rent a car and drive down to Fort Sumner, which was about a hundred and sixty miles southeast of Albuquerque. Barring any major driving mishaps or being kidnapped by a herd of mountain lions, I’d make the drive in two, two and a half hours, putting me in Fort Sumner at about twelve-thirty. The museum would be long closed, so I’d have to find a friendly bed-and-breakfast. All of this, of course, while having no clue about local customs or directions. You had to love seat-of-your-pants journalism.

  I grabbed my boarding pass, bought copies of the Gazette and the Dispatch and headed toward the gate. There I sucked down a cup of coffee and a cheese Danish, and waited. There were barely twenty people waiting for the flight, reading newspapers and paperbacks and counting the minutes until departure.

  The plane boarded a mere twenty minutes later, and I was lucky enough to get a whole row to myself. I took the window seat, raised the armrests and spread my legs. I put the newspapers on the seat next to me and yawned, my head resting gently against the window, the fading light making my eyes heavy. The next thing I knew I woke up as the plane was landing.

  * * *

  I ambled drearily off the plane, then pissed off a dozen grumpy passengers when I had to double back and grab my carry-on bag. After a pit stop at a Coffee Beanery, I followed signs to the car rental area and filled out the paperwork for a beige 2001 Chevy Impala. I paid in cash, hemmed and hawed about insurance and finally caved in. With any luck Jack would get reimbursed. I took half a dozen maps of every conceivable location and asked the clerk to highlight the best routes for me to drive to Fort Sumner.

  “Lot of history there,” he said. “You going for business or pleasure?”

  “Little of both.”

  “Well, don’t spend so much time on business you don’t enjoy yourself. If you’re an Old West buff, you can’t do any better than old Fort Sumner.”

  “That right?”

  “Damn right. Buy me a few replicas down there every year, give ’em to the nephews to play cowboys and Indians. Three littlest ones always fight to see who gets to be Jesse James. Funny, everyone always wants to be the bad guy.”

  “Guess being a good guy isn’t as much fun.”

  “Guess not,” he said.

  “Is it hard to find a motel down there? Somewhere for a bite?”

  “Shoot, not at all. Second most popular attraction Fort Sumner has after old guns is vacancy signs.”

  I thanked him and took the keys to my Impala. He told me to wait outside for a company shuttle, grabbed it for a silent seven-minute ride to the lot.

  I stepped outside, remembering to reset my watch. Then I took a deep breath. The Albuquerque airport resembled a mesa as designed by Frank Lloyd Wright—the façade a dark brown, with square geometric shapes and light blue cornering. The skies were clear, the air thick and humid, so I took off my jacket and wrapped it around my waist. Fashion be damned.

  Unsurprisingly my Impala was one of several dozen available. I climbed in, put my coffee in the cup holder, adjusted my seat and began the drive.

  I took the I-25 North exit and headed toward downtown Santa Fe. Once I was reasonably sure I wasn’t about to drive into a telephone pole or have a pack of wolves chase me, I took out my cell phone headset and called Amanda. Nobody picked up and it went right to voice mail.

  “Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to let you know I landed safe. I’m driving a seven-year-old Chevy Impala with thirty-seven thousand miles on it. There’s barely anyone else on the road. Actually, I think I might be the only person driving in New Mexico right now. Anyway, I love you, call me when you get this.”

  The drive was much easier than I expected, the coffee keeping my blood percolating, but the breathtaking scenery was what really kept my eyes open. Despite the set sun, there was just enough light to make out the stunning mesas and even snow-capped peaks miles and miles away. It was a far cry from the city, where I’d become accustomed to metal towers and gridlock. I listened to the absolute silence, just stared into the black horizon and tried to take in a part of the country most people back east barely believed existed.

  When I finally arrived in Fort Sumner, I stopped at a Super 8, parked the Impala and stepped inside.

  The lobby was filled with framed documents that looked a hundred years old, and a kiosk held a handful of county maps and brochures for various tourist attractions. The night manager wore an actual cowboy hat, and booked my room with a sleepy smile. I studied the documents as I passed, and could immediately tell that not only did Fort Sumner house a great deal of history, it was damn proud of it. I grabbed a handful of brochures, including a pamphlet for the Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen. It opened at 9:00 a.m. I wanted to be the first one there.

  The rooms were like any typical hotel—brown drapes, floral comforters, paintings of old men fishing and settled lakes reflecting moonlight. My cell phone log had three missed calls: two from the Gazette, one from Amanda.

  I set my alarm for 7:30 a.m., remembering the time difference. Figured that would give me enough time to shower and grab a quick bite.

  My jeans felt like they were glued to my legs, so I peeled them off, tossed them on top of my shirt. I checked myself out in the mirror, patted my stomach. New York food had been good to me.

  I did fifty pushups and thirty crunches and then fell into bed after my right triceps cramped up. I turned off the light and closed my eyes, and then my phone rang. It read Amanda Cell. I answered it.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself. How’s the great outdoors?”

  “I’m staying in a Super 8. And it does have a roof.”

  “Okay, how’s the great Super 8?”

  “Better than a Motel 6.”

  “Ooh, don’t let Motel 6 hear that. So how was the flight?”

  “Not too bad, actually left almost on time, which I don’t think has ever happened to me before. I have to be up early tomorrow to get to the museum.”

  “Early bird gets the homicidal maniac’s rifle, huh?”

  “I think Socrates said that.”

  “So, you think there’s a lead there?”

  “Yeah, I do. You don’t hang up on a question unless you’ve got something to hide.”

  “Guess they won’t be able to hide much when you show up.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Well, I’ll let you get to sleep, Henry.” I waited a moment to hear if she would say anything else. I wanted to ask it, but almost felt like by doing so I was ringing a bell that couldn’t be silenced. But I had to.

  “Amanda? Are we okay?”

  “Yeah…” she said, hesitantly. “Why would you even ask that?” My stomach clenched.

  “Just making sure. G’night, babe.”

  “Sleep well. Go get ’em tomorrow.”

  “I will. Night.”

  She hung up. I placed the phone on the nightstand and closed my eyes. It was barely five minutes later when the phone beeped again. Just once. I had a text message.

  I opened the phone, clicked Text Messages. The message was from Mya. It read: Im Sorry. ForGIve Me.

  I stared at the phone for a moment, wondered what she meant by it. Then it hit me, and I smiled.

  As my eyes closed, I was glad to know Mya was finally moving on with her life, offering the closure I’d needed for so long.

  CHAPTER 24

  I was dressed and ready to go by eight. I
nto my bag went a tape recorder, pen and notepad, and the copies of the Winchester 1873 Xerox from Agnes Trimble. I bought a muffin and slammed down a cup of coffee in the small motel dining room. My worry about standing out was assuaged, seems jeans and a T-shirt are common just about everywhere. The manager, a short, cherry-cheeked woman named Marjorie, inquired as to the purpose of my visit.

  “I’m a history buff,” I said.

  “Ooh!” she squealed, nearly spilling the pot of coffee. “Then you’ve definitely come to the right place. Are you going to the Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen?”

  “That’s actually my first stop.”

  “Oh goodness, if you love history, you won’t be able to get enough of that place. My husband and I make a trip once a month, and as soon as the kids are old enough we’re buying family passes. Jesse James, Annie Oakley, Pat Garrett, John Tunstall, Billy the Kid, gosh, it’s just enough to get a person excited.” She gave me a mischievous grin and leaned closer. “Just don’t be stealin’ nothin’.”

  I eyed her, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, let’s just say things have a way of disappearing around this town. Collectors and vagabonds are absolutely shameless. It’s a real pity, how little respect some folks have. If you take a look at John Chisum’s military sword in the museum,” she said, leaning closer, “it ain’t the real thing. Real sword was stolen ten ought years ago. They just tell people it’s the real thing to keep up appearances, save money on insurance.”

  I took out the brochure, looked at the dozens of guns, swords and artifacts in the pictures. “Is that so,” I said, not so much a question.