The Guilty - Jason Pinter [90]
kick. She shifted, uttered a muffled cry through the rag soaked
through with saliva.
William knelt down to her, gently shook her until those
eyelids--crusty with eyeliner and mascara--fluttered open.
The pupils took a moment to register, but as soon as they did
fear came racing back to those pretty hazel eyes. The very eyes
that had once gazed upon Henry Parker with an intense love that
she still felt for him. Mya had made that clear in Paulina Cole's
article. Surely Henry still felt something for her, too. Perhaps
he could still feel her pain. They'd find out soon enough.
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Jason Pinter
The Boy smiled. He gently stroked Mya's cheek with the
back of his hand. Her face trembled, lips quivering, blubbering.
"Don't be scared, Mya." William's fingers traced soothing
circles over her forehead until her trembling lips began to
calm. "You have no idea how important you are."
41
Jack sat perched on the corner of my desk, swaying slightly,
like a column debating whether or not to tip over. It was
barely ten in the morning. After catching one whiff of his
butane-flavored breath, it was clear that Jack was either
coming off a night of wicked drinking, or that his wicked
night of drinking hadn't yet ended.
"What you need to do now," Jack said, "to follow up on
today's article, is start full court press into this Willian Henry
Roberts's background. What did his parents do? Are any of
his childhood friends willing to say he was 'the quiet type'
or pulled the wings off of insects? You need to prove beyond
a reasonable doubt that this psychopath is in fact the greatgrandson of Billy the Kid. You planted the seeds, Henry, now
you gotta water that sucker."
I leaned back in my chair, looked out across Rockefeller
Plaza. Tried to let my mind wander, because when it did it
usually ended up in the right place. The police had finally
pulled their surveillance off of myself and Amanda, convinced my injury was just a warning and the officers would
be better suited hunting than guarding a guy who sat at his
desk typing while his eyesight got progressively worse.
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Jason Pinter
And it was just as well. I needed to look into Roberts's
birth certificate, family history, anything that could prove
who he was and who he knew. He had parents--they would
know if their son showed early signs of violence. Or if he had
a preoccupation with family history. Perhaps a predilection
toward antique weaponry. Or maybe he just spent a few too
many hours with his Nintendo playing Duck Hunt.
I knew who William Henry Roberts was. Knew where he
was from. When he had committed his atrocities in this city.
What kind of monster he was.
"I need anything you can possibly help me with, Jack. I
want to talk to anyone who's ever been in contact with William Henry Roberts. Schoolteachers, classmates--"
"Neighbors, pets, yada yada, I know the drill." For a
moment Jack teetered on the edge of my desk before planting
an unsteady hand on my keyboard to steady himself. He
looked at me, a quick splash of embarrassment appearing
and then vanishing. Like it never happened.
"Jack?" I said.
"Yeah, kid?"
"Are you okay?"
Jack looked at me incredulously. "If by that statement
you're asking whether I am in perfect health for a man of my
age, with the virility of a tiger and countenance of a Viking--
then, yes, I am very much okay."
"No," I said, my voice pressing a little harder. "Are you
really okay?"
This time Jack didn't answer so quickly. The veined hand
left my tabletop and mounted itself on my shoulder. Jack
gave a warm smile as though flattered that I cared so much
about his mental and physical state.
The Guilty
263
"I'm fine, Henry. People are full of bull. So don't believe
everything you hear."
I blinked when he said this. Everything you hear?
My concern for Jack was based solely on what I could see
right in front of me. His too-sweet breath. His slightly offkilter equilibrium. His refusal to acknowledge any problems
whatsoever. Nobody had said a word to me otherwise, and I
had no clue if it was being