The Guilty hp-2 Read online

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 from 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 facade 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 thirtyseven 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 ha
ppened 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.

  24

  I was dressed and ready to go by eight. Into 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.

  "Places like that keep this town going," she added. "Heck, there wouldn't be any need for this hotel without them.

  Anyway, enjoy your trip, don't worry 'bout what I said.

  There's enough real history in that place to send you home happier'n a pig in slop."

  I thanked Marjorie, grabbed my recorder and notebook and headed out. The museum was on East Sumner Avenue, less than half a mile from the motel. It was just past eight-thirty.

  All the houses and shops looked like they'd been pulled from old Western movies. Low-hanging awnings, typeface with old-style lettering, bright yellows and reds slapped on warped wooden signs. It was like the town was bending over backward to retain its precious nostalgia.

  The Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen was a one-story building that occupied most of one block. Sitting outside were two pitch-black cannons aimed at each other across the entryway, as though daring visitors to step past. Beside them stood a carriage-style wheel, painted bright yellow. The signage showed an image of a man leaning on a rifle. A rifle which, upon closer inspection, looked pretty darn like a Winchester 1873.

  There were no lights on and the windows were barricaded.

  Not boarded, but barricaded as though the museum was defending itself from an impending attack. And if Marjorie was telling the truth, maybe it needed that line of defense.

  I wiggled the front door, which was locked, but nothing that would have prevented anyone with amateur lock-picking skills and ten free minutes from circumventing. I stuck my hands in my pockets and waited.

  At ten to nine, a thirty-something man with shoulderlength sandy blond hair, tattered jeans and cowboy boots, walked past the cannons. He nodded at me, took a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the front door.

  He turned to me and said, "You here for the museum?"

  "Yessir," I said.

  "You a college boy?"

  I smiled. "No, sir, a few years out. Just came to visit." He nodded, as though that was a suitable answer.

  "Just give me ten minutes to open up." He went inside and I waited.

  Twelve minutes later he propped the front door open and waved me inside.

  The museum was astonishing. It only consisted of four or five large rooms, but each room was packed to the gills with antique guns, bullets, cannons, actual carriages, bows and arrows, belts, rifles and every and any other weapon that looked like it might have been used by, or against, John

  Wayne. The walls were covered with glassed-in documents that were remarkably well-preserved, along with photos of the writers and/or recipients of the correspondence. The air had a musty smell, the floor speckled with sawdust.

  The manager took a seat behind a counter, put his feet up and opened a newspaper.

  "You need anything," he said to me, "just holler."

  Behind the counter hung several replica guns that were available for purchase. Several boxes of dead ammunition lined the shelves. A small sign read 10 Shells For $5.

  I paid the ten-dollar entrance fee. A few other visitors ambled in after me, also happy to pay and gaze at the history of violence.

  I took a slow lap around, surveying the dozens of guns, even running my fingers along the cannons that guarded the entryway into each new room. One room was decorated to resemble an Old West blacksmith's shop, complete with anvil and tools, bent metals and horseshoes. Along the walls were rifle parts in various stages of development, like a before-andafter of gun manufacturing.

  After sating my curiosity, I made my way around the museum until I found the exhibit featuring the military cavalry sword of John Chisum which Marjorie claimed was a fake.

  The sword was mounted in a glass case nearly four feet long. The blade was slightly curved. I examined the security glass, wondered if the sword had actually been stolen. And if so, why it had never been reported.

  Behind the sword was a black-and-white photograph featuring a caravan of horses, and a portrait of a man who was presumably John Chisum. A black placard above the sword explained that Chisum was a cattle driver, and one of the first to send a herd into New Mexico. Chisum was a tangential part of the infamous Lincoln County Wars, a feud between businessmen Alexander McSween and John

  Tunstall and their rivals Lawrence Murphy and James

  Dolan. During these wars, Chisum had been accosted by a band of outlaws known as the Regulators. The Regulators

  were notorious cattle thieves, who pilfered from Chisum and other herders, but were deputized after Tunstall's murder. They hunted down the men who killed Tunstall, killing four including a corrupt sheriff named William Brady.

  According to a placard on the wall, the Regulators consisted of men named Dick Brewer, Jim French, Frank McNab, John

  Middleton, Fred Waite, Henry Brown and Henry McCarty.

  Next to the name of Henry McCarty, it read: aka William

  H. Bonney, aka Billy the Kid.

  In the very
last room of the museum I found what I'd come across the country for: an exhibit featuring the Winchester

  Behind a crystal-clear glass case was mounted a pristine Winchester, along with various posters and propaganda leaflets.

  I took out the Winchester Xeroxes, compared them. The weapon in front of me looked identical to the one on the page.

  Inside the case on a poster, written in big bold letters beneath two opposing firing pistols, were the words: Winches ter 1873 edition: The Gun That Won the West.

  There were several bullets mounted to the display below the weapon. A placard identified them as authentic. 44-40 magnum ammunition, the very kind used by that edition Winchester.

  I compared the gun and the Xerox until I was reasonably certain they were one and the same. Then I waited until the museum had quieted and the manager was free of troublesome tourists. He was reading a copy of the Albuquerque

  Journal, looked bored to death, but he set it on the counter when he saw me approach.

  "Help you?" he said.

  I pointed at the relics lining the walls.

  "This is some pretty amazing stuff," I said, opening a window for him.

  "Man, you don't have to tell me that. I get a buzz just sitting behind this desk." The Albuquerque Journal was still splayed open on the counter.

  "No doubt," I said absently. I nodded at the display containing Chisum's military sword. "How'd you come upon that beauty?"

  "John Chisum," he said without thinking. "One of the most influential cattle drivers in U.S. history. Blazed the Chisum trail from Paris, Texas, all the way to the Pecos Valley. You know John Wayne himself played John Chisum in a movie?"

  "No messing? Which one?"

  "Was called Chisum. "

  "Guess that makes sense."

  "Anyway, when Mr. Chisum passed on, died in Eureka

  Springs, his great granddaughter endowed this museum with the sword. D'you know Chisum's only children were born to him by a slave girl he owned?"

  "I didn't know that."

  "'At's a true fact."

  "Sword like that," I said, "probably worth, what, few grand?" I saw the man's eyes twitch, and he looked down for a split second.

  "Try a few hundred grand. The country's swarming with collectors of old Western antiques. 'Course most of 'em call it memorabilia, like a freaking baseball card. Most of 'em wouldn't know a Winchester from Worcestershire sauce, and