The Guilty - Jason Pinter [125]
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
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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.
59
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
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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