The Guilty - Jason Pinter [110]
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.
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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
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Jason Pinter
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
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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