Jason Pinter - The Guilty

"No!" I shouted, as Roberts stumbled backward, hitting the back of his legs on the windowsill. He teetered for a moment, grinning at me, his face and chest a mass of dark blood.

Through bloodstained teeth I heard him say, "Let's go, angel," before he fell backward, taking Amanda with him.

I rushed forward, still holding the gun, and thrust the upper half of my body out the window. Amanda was teetering over the ledge, holding on with her legs as Roberts now clung desperately to her outstretched arms. His hands were slipping.

Below them I could see dozens of people scattering about as they looked above, saw the three of us perched nine stories high.

And then he fell. Roberts's hand slipped off of Amanda's wrists, and then he tumbled down, faster than I could have imagined, that sick smile embedded in my eyes like it would never leave, his body falling faster and faster until it thudded on the pavement below.

And that's when Amanda's knees gave way, and she fell over backward. Without thinking, I thrust the Winchester into the loop between the bonds on her hands.

It held.

And there we were, hanging a hundred feet from the ground, Amanda's bound hands caught on the barrel of a rifle that had been used to kill four people.

Her mouth was still gagged. Her eyes fluttered, more gasps escaping as she tried not to die.

"Amanda, baby, reach up with your hands and grab the barrel," I said. Her hands managed to close around the rifle, but the weight was too much for me to hold. I braced my legs against the wall, tried to leverage the rifle upward and give

Amanda a place to find her footing.

Then I heard the sounds of bending metal. The rifle was old, wasn't meant to carry any load, let alone a grown person.

Amanda was slipping.

"Hold on!" I yelled. I braced my feet ever harder, felt the stitches in my hand pop as I yanked as hard as I could, feeling the rifle barrel moving upward as I carried Amanda. Then the

load lightened, and I saw Amanda had found her footing, just barely, on an outside ledge.

"Amanda, baby, count to three and then lean forward.

Please, I promise you'll be fine." Tears streaked down her cheeks but she nodded.

"One," I said, my voice leaving me. "Two."

I looked at my love, knew in this next second she would either live or die.

"Three."

At once I dropped the Winchester and Amanda leaned forward. I leapt forward, clasped my arms around her waist, pulled her as hard as I could, and suddenly she came toppling over the windowsill, landing on the ground next to me.

We both lay there for a minute, breathing heavy, until I saw that Amanda was still bound. I grabbed the knife Roberts had dropped and cut the ropes from her hands. Then I gently pulled the handkerchief from her mouth and kissed her hard.

Her salty tears found their way into my mouth as I held

Amanda, knowing I could never hold her like this again.

You never know how much damage is done until you pull back. Survey the scene from a distance. And even then it needs a few days to metastasize.

What Largo Vance had started, Costas Paradis was about to finish. The man had donated nearly half a million dollars to perform an exhumation of Brushy Bill Roberts and compare his DNA to William Henry, his alleged grandson, and the sole surviving heir to Billy the Kid. And this time they were going to do it right. Costas would make sure of that. Or at least his money would.

In the meantime, as expected, residents of New Mexico and Texas were apoplectic over the Dispatch' s revelations.

They were planning to fight the exhumation tooth and nail.

My old friend Justice Waverly was quoted in the Dallas

Morning News as saying, "They can come with shovels and backhoes, but if they try to destroy the legacy of the Old West we'll meet them with rifles and cannons."

In New York that kind of talk could get a politician impeached. In Texas it guaranteed Justice Waverly would be reelected every term until he finally keeled over in his morning pastry.

I spoke to Curt Sheffield the day after Roberts died. The cops had found a receipt in his bag for several nights at a seedy forty-dollar-a-night hotel room. I didn't even know they ran that cheap in New York. The manager didn't remember seeing Roberts, mainly because the man was half blind.

The cops found bloodstains on the floor that they were running against Mya's type, to confirm Roberts had stayed there. They also found a note on the nightstand next to the bed where Roberts slept. It gave no further explanation for the murders. It contained two brief sentences.

Up in heaven I'll see my friends.

Bury me next to my blood.

If the DNA tests confirmed what I assumed they would, there was a question of whether William Henry Roberts would be buried in Fort Sumner, New Mexico, next to the alleged grave site of Billy the Kid. Even though it wasn't where the true

Kid was buried, it was where his legacy lived. And that legacy, that myth, I'd learned, was far more important than the truth.

Most argued a murderer didn't deserve such a burial. Those in power argued what was good enough for one killer was good enough for another, that evil should be contained.

After running the hostage crisis on page one the next day, the next day Dispatch relegated the Roberts story to page seven, where it was given quarter-page treatment in deference to a color picture of a senator's wife who had an allergic reaction to her Botox injection. After that, William Henry

Roberts wasn't mentioned again.

Paulina Cole was suspended for three weeks. But I knew that her suspension was merely window dressing. Ted Allen was forcing her to fly under the radar until everything quieted down. Besides, with Costas Paradis looking to dig up Brushy

Bill Roberts, the Kid's defenders had bigger fish to fry than a newspaper reporter.

On page three of the Dispatch was a small item about the custody fight for the Winchester rifle Roberts had used on his rampage. Rex Sheehan claimed it was still the legal property of the museum in Fort Sumner. Costas Paradis wanted to buy the gun to smelt the metal and burn the wood. Despite my desire for Costas to get some sort of closure and to see the rifle destroyed, part of me felt the gun was a relic of American history and should be treated as such. Provided, this time, Rex got a security system worth a damn.

When I finished reading the day's papers, I put them in a neat pile underneath the chair. It was only then when I noticed the steady beeping, the humming. It came from Mya's bedside.

Staring at her small, frail body, a far cry from the strong, vibrant girl I once knew, something inside me had burst. I couldn't leave. Didn't want to. I told Wallace and Jack I needed a few days off, that the trauma from the week's events combined with the new sutures in my hand made it difficult to write, difficult to work. This was all bullshit, but it sounded better than the truth. A lot of things were sounding better than the truth.

Mya came and went. Her eyes fluttering open and shut.

The doctors said she would make it. She would recover.

Physically. Mentally, it would take time. It would be hard.

And I would be there for her. Like I hadn't been before.

I called you, Henry.

And I wasn't there.

No more.

Cindy Loverne entered, holding a cup of coffee. She sat down, blew some steam off the top and crossed her legs.

"How are you, Henry?"

I felt guilty even answering such a question.

"Feeling a bit better," I said.

"That's good. Listen, I want to thank you for being so Jason Pinter good to Mya. I don't know what she's done to deserve such a good friend, but-"

"Please," I said. "Don't finish that sentence. She deserves much better than anything I've given her. And I want you to know, I know she can't hear me right now, but I'll be there for her and your family. It's the least I can do after everything."