The Guilty - Jason Pinter [106]
was his sensational storytelling that cemented Billy's legend.
And for Henry to be able to tell the story with the passion necessary, he needed to feel anger. He needed to feel hate. He
needed to feel loss. Only then would his words have the
desired effect. Once Henry Parker saw the world the way
William did, that thin line separating life and death, innocent
and guilty, their two sides would amount to a perfect whole.
William remembered back to the night he learned the truth
about his family. The first was the truth about his legacy.
Though his parents had fought their hardest to distance themselves from it, William knew his grandfather Oliver well.
And when he learned the full extent of his legacy, there was
no way he could let that mantle simply fall to the floor. He
had to pick it up, shepherd it into a new millennium. And New
York, more than New Mexico or Texas, needed it.
The second truth was about his mother and that smiling
bastard. His parents told him they loved him, would never lie
to him, that they would always put William and his sister
above everything.
They forgot to leave out the "almost" before the everything.
William's mission had been clear. When a patient's limbs
become gangrenous, you had to cut them off before they
killed the whole. Sometimes you had to lose limbs vital to
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who you were. Limbs you never believed you could live
without.
But he did.
William picked up the Winchester, ran his fingers along the
cold steel, tried to envision all the lives shattered, worlds
changed by this weapon. He squeezed it tight, believed he felt
his ancestor, the great Billy the Kid, transferring his strength.
William felt it, felt ready. He knew where he had to go. He
knew who had to die next. Mya Loverne was a stopgap, a
bonus, but to get to Henry he had to strike closer. Because for
Henry Parker to truly be the other side of William, he would
have to learn to deal with the death of his loved ones, as well.
50
When I first moved to New York, I would often find myself
wandering the streets at night. Walking for blocks and blocks
for no real reason other than to soak in the city, bask in the
dimming sun and reflections off the towers. I dreamed of
being part of this town, and like a lover I wanted to caress and
explore every inch of it.
I would walk down to the South Street Seaport, breath in
the salty air, stroll along the historic district with ports that
looked like a relic from a Melville novel, made you forget it
was a city with 3.2 coffee shops per square block.
I would walk all the way west to the Hudson, then down
to Chelsea Piers, watching young teenagers skateboarding
and couples bowling while a mammoth cruise ship took
young lovers around the Hudson, down past where the World
Trade Center once stood, around the East River where they
could see the majestic arches of the Brooklyn Bridge, the
grace of the Statue of Liberty.
Most of these sojourns took place while my relationship
with Mya was deteriorating. In prior months we would have
spent every moment of every evening together, cuddled up on
a couch, watching a movie. Mya would wear one of my
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sweatshirts, purposefully drop popcorn all over my lap. Eventually we'd fool around and pass out, start the next day fresh.
Then our relationship dimmed, and we began to avoid
each other at all costs. Then after I met Amanda, after I nearly
died, Mya and I lost touch completely.
I didn't mind. I loved Amanda. It may have been cruel to
leave Mya hurting, but it would have been worse to lead her on.
Ordinarily walking the streets alone at night wouldn't have
been such a big deal. I wouldn't have thought twice about it.
But tonight I was walking alone, knowing Amanda was somewhere else. Not because my relationship with her was similar
to my relationship with Mya--a Band-Aid slowly being
peeled off--but because it had been painfully ripped away.
Suddenly I looked up and I was standing at the apartment
building of Linda Fredrickson. I hadn't planned it, at