The Guilty - Jason Pinter [126]
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.
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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
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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."
Cindy smiled warmly. Then her eyes moved to the bed. She
looked back at me.
"I think somebody can hear you."
I looked over. Mya's eyes were open. They were filmy,
groggy, squinting to regain focus.
I nearly leapt off the chair, went over and knelt down by
her bedside.
"Hey you," I said.
"Henry," Mya said, her voice still weak.
"I'm here," I said. I took her hand in mine, gently stroked
her dry skin. "I'm here."
I waited outside the hospital. The sun had dipped below
the buildings, the sky turning a harsh gray. The air felt cold
and I cinched up my jacket. I'd asked Amanda to meet me
here, unsure why I chose this particular location, but in the
back of my mind I knew the reason full well.
I watched her as she walked toward me. Her eyes were
streaked with red, and I didn't have