Jason Pinter - The Guilty

Paulina's eyes lit up at the word controversy.

"So why come to me?" she said. "Why not take it to a magazine?"

"It needs to run as soon as possible. There's a maniac out there and I think this could smoke him out. And if Wallace is too scared to run it, it's my duty to make sure it runs somewhere. I'm a journalist. My duty is to the truth first, my paycheck second."

"It has to do with this Billy the Kid angle," Paulina said.

"That's right."

"Do tell."

"Does the name Mark Rheingold ring a bell?"

She thought for a moment, tapping her nails against the tabletop. "Religious guy, right? Had some big church down

South."

"Close enough. Do a little digging and you'll find out just how big this guy was."

"So what's your point?"

I told Paulina what I'd discovered. Every word of it. I told her how the Roberts family had died in that fire, along with

Pastor Rheingold. I told her how William Henry Roberts's body was never found, and the county covered it up. How

Roberts had been presumed dead for four years, and was continuing the bloody legacy of his ancestor, Billy the Kid.

Paulina listened transfixed. Yet there was fear in her eyes.

She knew I'd done enough digging so that this wasn't some half-baked concoction. She could tell from my eyes that the closest thing to a real demon this city had ever seen was currently walking the streets, had killed David Loverne and three others and tried to kill Mya. I told her all of it.

"I still don't understand," she said, her voice much softer, the confidence gone. "Mark Rheingold, why was he at that house? If William Roberts really did…" she paused before she said it "…kill his whole family, why kill Rheingold, too?"

I told her about the rumors of Rheingold's affairs with his congregants. I told her about the photo I'd unearthed.

"I think Rheingold was having an affair with Meryl

Roberts, William's mother. I think William's father knew about it. That's why Roberts killed Rheingold. He was killing the man who brought disgrace to his family, Billy's family."

"Jesus," Paulina said. She looked like she'd aged ten years in the last ten minutes. "And you want me to print this?"

I reached under the table and unzipped my knapsack. I handed her dozens of pages of documents. Copies of all the research I'd done, the photos I'd unearthed. Everything proving Brushy Bill Roberts was Billy the Kid, and that

William considered himself heir to the throne.

"Between William and Billy they've killed almost thirty people." I looked at Paulina, her face grave. "You got into this business for the same reason I did. At least at first. You wanted to tell the truth. You wanted to find the stories that matter.

Well, here's one that will rewrite history, and with any luck save some lives. I don't want a byline or any credit. You can take that. But it needs to run tomorrow. And if anything I said gets on the record in my voice, I swear to God I will make you pay for the rest of your life. I've lost my girlfriend. I've lost Mya. There's nothing more dangerous than someone with nothing to lose. Right now all I have is my integrity. You take that, I will make your life a living hell. I will sue you and

Ted Allen and the Dispatch for printing that shit about Mya and me. I will lie through my teeth and tell people I fucked you and then dumped your ass and that's why you're so spiteful."

"What happened to the truth?" Paulina said sarcastically.

"Just this once, I'll not only stoop to your level, I'll wave hello from six levels lower."

"I'll run it," she said, knowing I was serious. She tucked the file into her purse. It barely fit. I knew she'd take good care of it. "But if it's going to run I need to leave. I have a story to write."

I gave her a military salute.

"I'll pick up the check."

"Next time it's on me," Paulina said. She stood up, threw on her coat and purse.

I laughed, shook my head. "If I ever have a meal with you again, expect a healthy dose of arsenic in your 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.

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.