Jason Pinter - The Guilty

Ramona, and I remember she told me that if she saved just one life doing her job, if she prevented one family from going through what she went through, then their deaths wouldn't sting so much."

Jack coughed into his hand.

"A week after the article came out, I got a letter from a man in Idaho, Robert something, his name escapes me. Robert had lost his wife and daughter and had been dying of loneliness for a decade. Robert told me the moment he finished reading my story he went out and became a volunteer firefighter. He said thanks to Patti he knew his life could still have a purpose.

You see what I'm saying, Henry? You don't need a whole city to remember you. If you make your mark on just one person, change one life for the better, that's the noblest thing you can ever do. It's easy to be a celebrity. It's harder to actually mean something."

He clapped me on the shoulder and left without saying another word. I watched him turn the corner and disappear.

And then I was alone.

Sitting at my desk, my mind was blank. I didn't know what to write about. I stared down at the paper Jack had left on my desk. My phone was silent. E-mail inbox empty. I had a sudden and terrible feeling of deja vu, remembering walking the streets of Manhattan after Mya had been attacked a year ago. Getting drunk and hoping the needle in a haystack would cross my path. I remembered the anger and sadness, a dangerously potent mixture. I felt that way now.

It was easier when there was a story. Something to focus on, something to prevent my mind from wandering. But right now all I could focus on was that emptiness. And hope it didn't consume me.

And suddenly everything changed.

I saw Wallace running from his office down the hall.

Evelyn followed from Metro, her short legs having trouble keeping up. Then two more got up and ran after them. Frank

Rourke ran past my desk. I grabbed his shirtsleeve.

"What's going on? Where's everybody running to?"

"Anonymous tip just came in, there's a hostage situation going down. Some maniac took a girl."

"Where?" I asked.

"Downtown," he said. "199 Water Street." Then he ran off.

I couldn't breathe. 199 Water Street. That building housed the New York Legal Aid Society. Where Amanda worked.

But the stringers…there was no police activity. Yet everyone at the news desk knew about it. What the hell was happening?

My heart racing, I picked up the phone and dialed Curt

Sheffield's cell phone. He picked up, said, "This is Sheffield."

"Curt, it's Henry. Have you heard anything about a hostage situation down on Water Street?"

"That's a negative, nothing's come over the radio, and I'm downtown right now so I would've heard something. Why, what's going on?"

"I don't know," I said. "Somebody called in an anonymous tip about a hostage in the building where Amanda works. But if it hasn't been reported to the cops yet… I'll call you back."

I hung up, dialed Amanda's number at the office. We hadn't spoken in days. I didn't know how she'd sound, what to expect, but I needed to know what was happening, that she was all right.

I regained my breath when the line picked up and I heard

Amanda's voice say, "New York Legal Aid Society, this is

Amanda."

"Amanda, it's me."

"Henry…hi…"

"Listen, is everything okay over there?"

"Of course it is, what do you mean?"

"Are you in trouble? Have you seen or heard anything strange?"

"Other than your calling me just now, I was having a pretty uneventful day."

"Thank God."

"Thank God I was having an uneventful day?"

"No, not that at all, I…well, yeah…I'm just glad you're safe."

"Safe? Why wouldn't I be? If there's something I should know-"

And that's when I heard a woman scream over the phone, followed by a gunshot so loud it rattled my teeth. I recognized that sound. I'd heard it this week. It was the sound of a Winchester rifle. William Henry Roberts was in Amanda's office.

"Amanda? Amanda! What's happening? "

"Oh God, Henry, there's someone here- help us! "

The line went dead.

I leapt up, heart hammering. I had to get down there.

Everyone was piling out the door, going to the scene of the crime.

And then it hit me, just what he'd done.

He called us. William Roberts.

You write about history. I am history.

At first Amanda thought that the sound of shattering glass came from outside. A construction crew had been tearing up the building across the street for what seemed like a decade, and anything more than a dropped pen in their office was cause for excitement. But then she recognized

Darcy's high-pitched voice as she screamed for help, and

Amanda knew that whatever was happening was happening terrifyingly close.

Then she heard the gunshot, a blast so loud it seemed to shatter the air, and for a moment she heard nothing but ringing in her ears. When her hearing returned, Amanda heard Henry on the line.

"Amanda? Amanda, what's happening? "

She didn't know what she said next, or if she said anything at all, but suddenly Amanda was scrambling away from her desk, trying to bide her time while figuring out what the hell was going on.

She crouched down, surveyed the office.

Their suite housed three shared offices and one large conference room, as well as a smaller waiting room by the elevator.

The waiting room door was made of glass. The others were metal. She immediately knew that the breaking glass was the sound of somebody crashing through the waiting room door.

She wondered how he'd gotten past the security guard downstairs-waited until he'd gone on break? Or something more horrible?

Oh God…

She heard another scream, someone yelled, "Get away from me!" and then Amanda heard a loud thud like something heavy had hit the floor.

She saw Phil the intern run past her muttering, "Sweet

Jesus, sweet Jesus," over and over again. Amanda still couldn't see what was happening, but if praying to Jesus or any other deity meant she'd make it out of the building alive she'd happily renew her faith in the Lord.

Crawling on all fours, Amanda moved past her desk until she was next to the door to the conference room. She peered up, looked through the small window pane. She gasped when she saw what was happening inside.

Violet Lawrence was lying on the floor, facedown.

Amanda recognized the purple sports jacket she'd complimented her on just that morning. She couldn't see anything else, couldn't see Violet's face. But she heard a small moan, and that meant at least she was alive.

Nobody else was running. The office had grown deathly silent. The watercooler gurgled. Then she saw the man walk into the room, and Amanda froze.

He was tall, maybe six one or two, lean with short blond hair. He was wearing a suit, the sleeves rolled up, sweat beading through the fabric. His face was tan, eyes wild yet focused.

He was holding a gun. No, not a gun, a cannon. And immediately she remembered their meeting with Agnes Trimble, the image her professor showed them. The one Henry was captivated by.

The Winchester rifle.

That's what he was holding. The man in their office had killed four people. Killed his family, all in cold blood. What the hell was he doing here?

Another woman ran past, screaming. The boy-William, the papers had called him-grabbed her by the ponytail. She let out a shriek. He spun her toward him. Amanda could see the veins and muscles in his forearms. The woman was crying, blubbering, tears streaking her mascara. Then he suddenly let her go, pushed her toward the doorway. She disappeared and

Amanda heard the familiar chime of the elevator call button.

He let her go.

The man was standing in the middle of the room. He was holding the rifle by his side. She could see no other movement. William scanned the room, quickly crouched down to see if anyone was hiding under a desk, then stood back up.