The Guilty - Jason Pinter [59]
Well, readers, if this is the kind of human being they
have reporting the news, the kind of human being Harvey Hillerman and Wallace Langston claim is qualified
to enter your lives every morning, I must say this is a dark
day in the history of journalism, and for humanity itself.
The question is, fellow citizens, will you stand for
men like David Loverne and Henry Parker occupying
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prestigious roles in our society? If you're like me, the
answer is obvious. Rise up, and demand more from our
newsmen and our leaders. Demand they be held accountable for their actions. Demand that they not be allowed to harm one more innocent life.
I put the paper down. Noticed the newsprint smudged on
my fingers. Didn't bother to wipe it off. My hand trembled
as I laid it down. In an article about the infidelity of David
Loverne, Paulina had stooped to a level lower than I imagined
possible.
Mya.
The article had clearly been written and submitted before
her father's murder.
I called you, Henry.
And I didn't answer. And now the whole world knows it.
And the whole world sees me as a demon. But I'm not. And
they won't believe me.
Oh God, Mya, how could you?
I stared out the window, alone in an airport in a strange city,
thinking of the girl whose heart I'd broken, the girl whose
destiny I had changed for the worse, the girl whose life would
never be the same. I sat there and stared at the newspaper and
thought of Mya, and thought of Amanda, and wondered if
Paulina Cole was right.
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The flight touched down just before five o'clock. I turned
on my cell phone while people were still prying their oversize luggage from the overhead bins. There were eleven
messages waiting for me. And I didn't have that many friends.
I speed-walked through the terminal listening to the messages. The first was from Amanda. Wanting to know if I'd
seen the Dispatch today. Wanting to know if I'd heard from
Mya. Wanting to know if I was okay. Her voice was a combination of sorrow because I'd known David Loverne, and
anger because of what Mya had done. Ordinarily I'd be
thrilled to know a girl was willing to fight for me, but all I
could think about was Mya. She didn't ask for this. And now
her father was dead.
The second message was from Jack O'Donnell, telling me
to expect hellfire and brimstone but not to say a goddamn
word to the press until everyone at the Gazette had a chance
to sort through the wreckage. He told me to call him as soon
as I got the message.
The next two were from Wallace Langston. Asking me to
call him as soon as I got his message. Telling me it was urgent
beyond belief.
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The third was from a reporter from the New York Times.
The fourth was from a reporter for the Associated Press. The
fifth through tenth messages were also from reporters asking
for a quote on today's story in the Dispatch as well as my
thoughts on the death of David Loverne. I knew nothing yet
about the circumstances surrounding Loverne's death.
The last message was a hang up, but I heard a soft whisper
say "Henry" before the line went dead. I didn't need to check
the call log to know who it was from.
I checked the newsstand as I ran through the airport,
hoping to see something about Loverne's murder, but there
was nothing. It happened too late to make the papers. The
only ink about the Lovernes at all, in fact, was Paulina's story.
As I waited in the taxi line, I couldn't help but think it was
an awful coincidence that Mya's father was killed the day
Paulina's story ran. That his dalliances seemed to have flown
under the radar for so long, what were the chances of his
being murdered on the very day they were made public, put
under harsh light? The odds were too long to be a coincidence. Clearly Loverne was killed for a reason. I didn't have
to ask anyone. I knew Loverne had been killed by the same
sick son of a bitch who'd killed Athena Paradis, Joe Mauser
and Jeffrey Lourdes. Another public figure. Another public
execution.
I called Amanda first.
"Jesus, Henry," she said, picking