The Guilty hp-2 Page 18

  And he could only hope it was told before the next victim fell.

  35

  I tossed and turned the whole night, every position bringing a new bolt of pain. Whether it was my hand, my head, or

  Amanda accidentally kneeing me in the groin, I would have had a better night sleep covered in honey and stuck in an ant farm. Amanda didn't wake once. I tried to be jealous, but watching her sleep soundly, all I could do was smile.

  After making love we fell asleep for an hour. When we woke, I threw on a pair of boxers, Amanda slipping into cotton underwear and one of my T-shirts that came down to her knees. We fell into bed and wrapped our bodies around each other, my head on two pillows and numbed by two aspirin, my hand stretched above my head to prevent undue pressure from ripping the stitches.

  When the sun came up, I blinked the crust from my eyes and went to the bathroom. After peeing for what felt like an hour, I turned the water on for a shower.

  "You're not supposed to shower for forty-eight hours,"

  Amanda mumbled from the bed.

  "Crap, I forgot. Good thing I'm all sweaty from last night,

  I've always wanted to smell like a hobo at work." Though Amanda's face was mushed into a pillow, I saw the edge of a small smile.

  I got dressed, and pulled out the note Agnes Trimble had written me yesterday. My stomach clenched as I wondered if the killer was watching me from the window. Watching

  Agnes. Watching Amanda.

  I took out my cell phone and called Curt Sheffield.

  "Hey, Henry, how's the noggin feeling?"

  "Feels like I went twelve rounds with Mike Tyson circa 1989."

  "Damn, that's bad. Don't worry, give it a few years and you'll be biting off ears and threatening to eat people's children."

  "Those are some nasty side effects."

  "You're telling me."

  "Listen, Curt, I was wondering if you could get someone to watch Amanda. Just while I'm gone during the day."

  "Bro," Curt said, laughing. "Look out your window."

  Confused, I pulled open the window with my good hand and poked my head out. Below me I could see the sidewalk and the building's entrance. Parked right in front was a blueand-white squad car. I could see two officers inside. And I swear I could make out the outline of a donut.

  "They'll be on your ass every morning and night for the next week. You got a private escort to and from work, as does your ladyfriend. You decide to shop for groceries, go to the

  Chinese laundry mat during the day, that's all you."

  "Thanks, Curt, I appreciate it."

  "Don't thank me. Orders came down from Chief Carruthers's office. Guess there are people who want you to stay alive."

  "I'll be sure to send Carruthers a fruitcake."

  "No fruitcake. His in-laws send one every Christmas and he chucks it. Later, Henry, give me a ring if you need anything." I hung up, then dialed the number Agnes Trimble had given me for Largo Vance. Hopefully Vance was an early riser. The phone picked up on the very first ring.

  "Yes, who is this?" a high-pitched voice croaked out.

  "Hello, is this Professor Largo Vance?"

  "If this is Jehovah's Witness, then no. If it's anyone else, depends who's calling."

  "Mr. Vance, my name is Henry Parker. I'm a reporter with the New York Gazette and I was given your name by Professor Agnes Trimble-"

  "Agnes! I haven't seen that minx in years." There was a moment of silence as I tried to think of what to say. "Oh, come now, Mr. Parker, don't be offended. I mean that with the highest compliments. Agnes is a randy little minx, she and I go way back."

  "That's, um, wonderful. Anyway, Mr. Vance, if you have a few moments today, I'd like to talk to you about Brushy

  Bill Roberts."

  This time the silence came from Largo Vance's end. His response came sputtering out. "How fast can you be here?"

  "Um, I don't know where you live, Mr. Vance…"

  "3724 Bleecker. Be here in half an hour." He hung up.

  "Who was that?" Amanda asked. She was sitting up in bed, clutching a pillow in her arms.

  "A potential source Professor Trimble gave me yesterday,"

  I said. "An old professor. I think he has some more information on the Billy the Kid lead."

  "Henry," she said, "please…be careful. Just yesterday you were in the emergency room and…"

  "I know that." I went to the bed and sat down next to her.

  I took her hand in my good one, raised it to my lips and kissed her fingers. "I promise I'll be careful. There are policemen downstairs who are going to watch you, just to make sure this lunatic doesn't come after us again. If you go anywhere other than work, you know Curt's number. Call him."

  "This lunatic killed four people," she said. "If he wants to kill, he's going to get them." I let that sink in, knew she was probably right.

  "Call in sick today. Just this once. I have to go talk to this guy Vance. I have to."

  "Then go," Amanda said. "The sooner you go, the sooner you get back, the less time I have to spend worrying about you."

  "Listen, that guy wouldn't have attacked me if he didn't have something to hide. He has an entire city police force looking to draw and quarter him. A newspaper reporter doesn't pose that much of a threat, comparatively."

  "If he was willing to break into our apartment and do what he did, it must be something awful he wants to keep a secret."

  "That just means I'm going to find it," I said. "I'll call a locksmith, have him change the locks and get a security system installed."

  "This apartment?" Amanda said. "That's like getting rims on a 1987 Yugo."

  "Now that sounds like one crunked-up car. Don't worry about me," I said. I was having trouble pulling a shirt over my head, so Amanda came over to help. "I'm Mr. Incredible."

  "Well, please ask Mr. Incredible why he needs help getting dressed. In the meantime Lois Lane would like it very much if he looks both ways before he crosses the street."

  "Surely will. Besides, you'd make a sexy-ass Lois. My phone will be on if you need anything."

  "Just remember not to open it with that claw of a hand."

  "I won't."

  "And Henry?" Amanda said. I turned to her, smiled, but the smile quickly faded when I saw the look on her face. "Be careful. I can't say it enough."

  "I will," I said. "Love you."

  "Love you, too."

  I left on that sentiment. I nodded to the cops parked outside. They gave half nods back but otherwise did not acknowledge me. As I walked, I saw one plainclothes follow about ten yards behind me while the other followed in a squad car. When I entered the subway, plainclothes followed, staying at the other end of the car, pretending to read a copy of one of those free newspapers that people toss onto the tracks and end up clogging the drainage systems.

  I got off at Bleecker Street, picking up and swallowing a cup of lukewarm coffee and two more aspirin on the way. I buzzed an L. Vance at the given address, an elegant brown brick town house with a rusted front gate.

  The buzzer granted my entrance, and I took a recently painted elevator to the third floor. When the elevator door opened, a man that had to be Largo Vance stood in the doorway. He'd been waiting for me.

  "Henry Parker," he said. "Largo Vance. Get inside. Now. "

  Vance had a long gray beard, gray hair swept back in a lessthan-neat ponytail. His overalls were covered with dried paint.

  What looked like a pound or two of cat hair had dried in the paint. I could smell fresh-and some not so fresh-kitty litter emanating from inside.

  He ushered me inside, peeked around the hall (presumably to make sure no black helicopters had followed) and closed the door. A brown-and-gray striped cat snaked between my legs, rubbed itself against my jeans. Soon he was joined by another cat, and one more to complete the whole set.

  "Don't mind them," Largo said. "That's Tabby, Yorba Linda and Grace. Say hello, babies."

  The cats did not say hello.

 
I followed Largo through a hallway to a small living room, where nearly every square inch was covered in either cat paraphernalia or large well-worn books, history and a few paperback novels whose spines had given out long ago. Largo sat in an overstuffed La-Z-Boy and beckoned me to a leather couch across from him.

  I took a seat and minded the stench. Two more cats appeared. I couldn't tell if they were the same ones, new ones, or the first three had simply spawned in the last minute.

  "So what brings you here about Billy Bonney?" Largo said. A cat leapt onto his lap and Largo began to scratch its chin absently.

  "Not Billy Bonney," I said. "Brushy Bill Roberts."

  "Same difference," Vance said. "Now go on."

  "I, uh…have you heard about the recent murders? Athena

  Paradis? Several others who were killed by a man using an old Winchester rifle?"

  Largo shook his head. "I don't read the newspaper." This was going to be harder than I thought.

  "Well, in the last week and a half, somebody has been-"

  "I'm playing with you, kid. I may not know how to do the

  Google but I don't live under a rock."

  "So you know that Billy the Kid's Winchester rifle was stolen from a museum in Fort Sumner."

  Largo paused. "That, I did not know."

  "But you know of Fort Sumner and the legacy of the Kid."

  "I'm very well aware of the history of that town, and of

  Mr. Bonney. I've visited many times. I haven't set foot in that museum in years, though. But I do recall having a fine conversation with the proprietor-Rex is his name, I believe. Unfortunately the last time I visited was over ten years ago, and

  I left under less than pleasant circumstances."

  Suddenly the cat bared its teeth and jumped off his couch, leaving several red claw marks on Largo's hand. He rubbed it, then noticed the tape covering my hand.

  "What happened to you there?"

  I held up the hand for him to see. "The man I'm coming to talk to you about, he came to see me yesterday."

  "I take it he also left under less than pleasant circumstances."

  "You could say that."

  "So, Mr. Parker. It's been several years since a journalist has taken any interest in what I've had to say. And even then they didn't really take much interest in what I had to say."

  "Wait," I said, "back up. What do you mean 'the last time'?"

  "Back when I was trying to get something done about that infernal and misplaced Bonney grave, and they dismissed me like some… loon. It's not quite so easy to secure federal funding when you threaten to reveal national history as nothing more than bunk."

  "I must have missed something," I said. "What exactly happened?"

  Largo sat back, as a pair of cats circled his legs. He steepled his fingers and smiled. Despite the superficial idiosyncrasies of this man, I could sense tremendous intelligence. He looked like a man who still held himself with great honor and respect, but had turned his back on the very institution he sought to help.

  "Ten years ago," Largo said, "I attempted to dig up the grave of William H. Bonney, also known as Billy the Kid. For years I fought to do this, and fought to have the story covered in the press. I wanted to inform the public of the travesty and secrets that had been kept hidden for over a century. But when you threaten the very sanctity of a legend-a legend that goes right to the heart of an entire culture-you're not going to make many friends."

  I looked around, wondered if Tabby and Yorba Linda had replaced all those friends he'd lost.

  "Who tried to stop you?"

  "The name Bill Richardson ring a bell?"

  "As in governor of New Mexico Bill Richardson?"

  "As in presidential candidate Bill Richardson. You think he'd have a snowball's chance in Albuquerque without the support of his fellow Southerners? You think anyone below the Mason-Dixon line would be happy to have one of their biggest legends-not to mention juiciest cash cows-proven bogus?"

  "I don't imagine that would make a whole lot of people down there happy. But why did you want to exhume the body of Billy the Kid? What would that have proved?"

  Largo wet his upper lip with his tongue, slicked it back and forth, bristling the gray hairs. He looked at me as if debating whether to speak. "How much do you know about William H.

  Bonney? And by that I mean the methods in which he died."

  "I know he was shot in the back by Pat Garrett, and that

  Garrett was a former riding mate of Bonney's. He was not a member of the Regulators."

  "No, Garrett was not a Regulator," Largo said. "Garrett was a saloon keeper and small-time cattle rustler. To call him a former 'mate' of Bonney's is patently false, another story cooked up to give the legend bigger tits."

  "I also know Garrett became a minor celebrity after killing the Kid, and published a book about the chase and capture," I said.

  At this moment Largo let out a deep belly laugh. The cats circling his legs scattered. "A minor celebrity, you say? Certainly nowhere near as much of a celebrity as this Athena

  Paradis, or David Loverne. Actually Patrick Garrett was one of this country's very first victims of celebrity overexposure, as both his tawdry book and sketchy methods in which he dispatched Mr. Bonney left him disgraced and broke."

  "What do you mean, sketchy?" I asked.

  "By sketchy, I mean that only a fool would believe that

  Patrick Floyd Garrett killed William H. Bonney on July 14,

  1881. The real Billy the Kid lived for many years after his alleged death in Fort Sumner."

  "Brushy Bill Roberts," I said.

  Largo nodded. "The town of Fort Sumner would shrivel up and die without the legend of Billy the Kid to wet its whistle.

  As would most of the Southwest, considering how much of its prosperity is built upon the house of cards that is the legend of its outlaws. Billy the Kid is perhaps the single most important card in that house. Pull it out, and the entire edifice crumbles."

  "And you tried to pull it out."

  "Yes, and you can imagine the good folks of New Mexico did not take kindly to having their stock in trade jeopardized.

  Yes, I did try. And rightfully so. But those god damn yellow bureaucrats in Washington and down South stopped me.

  Cowards are more afraid of the truth than they are of facing the fact that they've been lying for over a hundred and twentyfive years."

  "You want to dig up the body of Billy the Kid," I said, "and do what with it?"

  "Take a sample of the DNA contained in the so-called grave of Billy the Kid and compare it to DNA obtained from his birth mother, Catherine Antrim, who is buried in Silver City."

  "And if you're able to prove that the DNA from that grave site doesn't match Catherine Antrim…"

  "Then we'll know for sure that Billy the Kid was never buried in Fort Sumner, and Brushy Bill wasn't the charlatan folks would like to have you believe."

  "So why didn't you go through with it?" I asked.

  "Oh Lord, where to begin," Largo said, kicking away a cat who'd begun scratching at the couch. "First off, Billy

  Bonney's alleged grave site has been robbed so many times that nobody knows for sure just who's buried under that tombstone. Plus the man who bought Catherine Antrim's cemetery plot in Silver City claims he moved the headstone years ago and isn't a hundred-percent sure just where Antrim's body is actually buried. He said he'd die and come back as Christ himself before we marched in there and accidentally dug up somebody's poor dead grandmother.

  "It didn't matter, though," Vance continued. "The fact is if the government wanted to conduct the tests, they would have bent over backward to do so. When it comes to proving a live man's guilt or innocence, there's no limit to what our government will do. But when it comes to proving the life and death of one of the biggest legends in human history, and in the process possibly destroying one of the most enduring American myths of all time, well, they'd rather discredit an honest old man, call him a loon, get his te
nure revoked and make him live out his days miles from where he might crack their wall of lies.

  "The truth is Pat Garrett did not kill Billy the Kid. William

  H. Bonney died under the assumed name of Oliver P. Roberts, in Hamilton, Texas."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "Let me give you an example of the idiocy-or just plain ignorance-of those wishing to protect the legacy. As I was trying to have the bodies exhumed, both the mayor of Fort

  Sumner and the governor of Texas claimed that Brushy Bill and William H. Bonney could not be one and the same person, for the following reason. When Ollie Roberts died, it was a well-known fact that he was right-handed. The most famous photo of Billy the Kid depicts him holding his beloved Winchester 1873 model in his right hand, with his single action

  Colt revolver in a holster by his left hip. By this photo you would deduce that Bonney was, in fact, left-handed."

  "So they claimed that Bonney was left-handed but Brushy

  Bill was right-handed."

  "That was their claim." Largo stood up and pulled a book off his shelf. He flipped to a page on which there were two photographs. Both depicted the famous photo of Billy the

  Kid, standing slightly awkwardly, holding his Winchester rifle, a mischievous grin on his face.

  "If you look at this picture, the Colt is by his left hip."

  "Okay," I said.

  "But what the blue bloods in their marble castles failed to realize is that this photograph is actually a ferrotype. In other words, a mirror image of the actual subject."

  "So in real life, Billy the Kid had the Colt by his right hip.

  Meaning he was right-handed."

  "Just like our friend Brushy Bill."

  "Would you be willing to go on record?" I asked.

  Largo seemed taken aback. Another cat jumped onto his lap. He was too distracted to scratch it, so it simply nuzzled against his chest and closed its eyes.

  "On record? You mean like in the newspaper? Would I be willing? Boy, I've been waiting for years for somebody to ask me that."

  "Is that a yes?"

  "Let me put it this way. If I'm not on the record enough,

  I'm coming down to that paper of yours and shoving a cat up your keester."