The Guilty - Jason Pinter [111]
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.
A twinge of panic began to rise in William's gut. He
walked faster. Began to sweat. He didn't like this. Didn't like
people looking at him. So far he had survived by blending in,
looking like every other young punk in this city that people
were happy to dismiss. But now there was recognition, and
from random people on the goddamn street.
William passed a small bodega. He thought about stopping
for a pack of gum, just to calm his nerves. He went over.
Debated getting a pack of cigarettes, too. People avoided
smokers. He tried to remember how much money was in his
wallet. Then he looked at the newspapers.
They were neatly arranged under triangular metal paperweights. The headline of the New York Gazette read The Face
Of Sorrow. It ran beside a picture of Cindy Loverne crying
at her husband's funeral. A picture alongside it showed Mya
Loverne, taken the day before he'd thrown her from the roof.
She was smiling in the pic. The caption read Injured Daughter
Hanging On.
William smiled. Looked like the girl could make it. Wasn't
that from Rocky?
If she lives, she lives. If she dies...
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Jason Pinter
Then the smile faded. The pit in his stomach opened up,
and he felt a wave of nausea overcome him. Then the nausea
turned to anger, the anger turned to hate, and he ripped the
paper from the kiosk.
It was the New York Dispatch. The page one headline read:
The Face Of Evil?
There was a photo on the front page. He recognized it. He
hadn't seen the photo in years, but knew exactly when it was
taken. Clearly visible in the photo were three men and a woman.
One of the men was his father.
The other man was Pastor Mark Rheingold.
The woman was his mother, Meryl, and she was reaching
for the pastor, preparing for a deep embrace. William's father
looked on in joyous approval.
And in the background William recognized himself, just
four years ago, staring at his mother and her lover as they
mocked their family name.
William H. Bonney would never have stood for that.
And so neither would William Henry Roberts.
Despite the newsprint, the tiny pixels, William saw the
anger in his eyes. He remembered setting fire to the house,
the fire that claimed the lives of his father, sister, mother and
his mother's God-fearing lover.
They were the same eyes he was showing to the world right
now.
Millions seeing his face in black and white.
Millions recognizing him on the street.
His heart beating faster than it had since the night he sent
a bullet through Athena Paradis's head, William Henry
Roberts turned and sprinted down the street.
He couldn't waste any more time. He had to find her.
The Guilty
323
It was only a matter of time before somebody recognized him
and called the cops. Tried to end his crusade before he was
ready.
Amanda Davies had to die before that happened.
53
Louie Grasso picked up the phone. He gently placed the
receiver to his ear and wondered if there was anywhere near this
godforsaken building he could grab a shot of whiskey to throw
in his coffee. If the rest of the day went the way his first half an
hour did, he'd quit his job by noon. He'd been working the lines
at the Dispatch for nearly seven years and had weathered complaints and grievances from all walks of life. Never, though, had
he heard such anger due to a story. Goddamn Paulina Cole, at
some point she was going to get them all killed.
Louie took a breath, said, "New York Dispatch, how may
I direct your call?"
"You have two choices," said the man with the Southern
twang on the other end. "You can either put this shithead Ted
Allen on the phone or that sassy bitch Paulina Cole. Your
choice, either one will do, but I'm not hanging