"What do you mean?"

"Well, the area between the Hudson and East River isn't exactly known for their hunting grounds." She paused.

"Unless this man is making them."

"I think he may be," I said.

"Listen, Mr. Parker..."

"Call me Henry."

"Right, Parker, I appreciate you coming down here, it flatters me to no end that a former student thinks so highly of me to believe I might be of some a.s.sistance on a murder case.

But I'm a college professor. Nothing more, maybe a little less."

I looked around her office. "Mrs. Trimble, it's clear you have a pa.s.sion for these weapons. Now regardless of what that says about you, I'd sure as h.e.l.l trust someone who has a pa.s.sion for something over someone who gets paid to do it.

I think Amanda's right. But I'm not a cop, I'm not asking you to help catch a murderer. But I think there's more to this than simple killings. I think this guy has a motive, and I think his gun is a clue to that."

Agnes took the candy cane from her mouth, tossed it in the garbage. Looked me over. "You know my father took me to the range when I was a little girl. Had one set up in our backyard.

Picket fence with empty paint cans on it. Only seven-year-old in my town who could shoot paint cans from twenty yards out with a 9 mm with eighty-seven-percent accuracy. I know guns.

I don't like what they can do, but I'm in awe of them."

117.

"I can see that," I said. "And that could be the difference here."

"Do they know what kind of gun it was fired from?"

"Not specifically," I said. "But there are clues. A witness to Jeffrey Lourdes's murder said she got a good look at the weapon. She said it looked old, like she'd seen it in a movie.

It might have had a wood stock. That's as much as I know."

"Mr. Parker, hundreds of guns fit that description. If that's all you have..."

"Does the phrase 'gun that won the West' mean anything to you?"

Agnes's eyes opened wide. She brought a hand to her mouth, chewed on a fingernail. Suddenly she stood up, started running her finger along the spines of various books on her shelf. She stopped at one. Took it out and laid it on her desk.

She flipped it open. It was text heavy, filled with old photographs and ill.u.s.trations. She turned to the index, flipped some more, scanned down, then stopped when she found what she was looking for.

"You say you think this rifle bears a significance to the case?" she asked. All the playfulness had left Agnes Trimble's voice. She was working now, the switch I a.s.sumed made her so good at her job was now turned on.

"I don't know about the case, but it does to the man committing these crimes. I just need to prove it. I need to know why this gun is so special to him."

She turned the book around so it faced me.

"Could this be the gun?"

On the page was a photograph of a rifle. It had a wooden stock, like Lourdes's a.s.sistant said. Other than that, I didn't know.

"Look here," Agnes said. "Rather than a traditional trigger 118.

guard, it has a reloading mechanism with only one side attached to the frame. Makes for easy and fast reloading.

These kind of rifles are as common as sequin jumpsuits. You asked about the gun that won the West? Well, here it is."

The caption beneath the rifle read, Winchester 1873, First Winchester 1873, First Model Rifle, S/N 27.

It was a beautiful piece of firepower. I examined it.

"At the time, this gun was given the highest production run of any rifle in history," she said. "As much as the Winchester won the West, it nearly drowned it in blood as well."

"Does the Winchester 1873 take .44-40 magnum rounds?"

Agnes nodded, her fingernail underlining a pa.s.sage in the text.

The Winchester 1873 lever action rifle was originally chambered for the .44-40--a bottlenecked cartridge that has acquired legendary status and is often referred to as 'The car- tridge that won the West.'

I read the line, wondered if this was the gun the killer was using. The rifle obviously had history, a literal one at that.

But why would somebody in the twenty-first century use a nearly hundred-and-forty-year-old gun?

"So the gun was accurate," I said to Agnes. "And fast. But it surely can't match some of the weapons around today.

h.e.l.l...Uzis, semiautomatics, Sat.u.r.day night specials."

"Yeah, I've seen movies, too. And yes, there are many guns currently on the market that obliterate the necessity of the Winchester. But if this is is the gun, and I'm a.s.suming at this the gun, and I'm a.s.suming at this point that's a big if, this man is not using it for efficiency or posterity."

"So why use it?" Amanda said. She was into this, a little too much.

"The Winchester 1873," Agnes said, her voice taking on a 119.

reverential tone, "until the Uzi 9 mm came along, was the most famous and most recognizable gun in the world. Over half a million were produced and in circulation before the turn of the century. Between lawmen, outlaws and other savory and unsavory types, just about anyone who needed to kill someone was doing it with a Winchester model 1873."

"What made it so popular?"

Agnes breathed out, whistled. "Oh, well, take your pick.

The construction was far more rugged than the previous models. That beast could take a pounding. It had a leveraction mechanism, and what that does is allow the shooter to fire several cartridges without having to reload. The 1873 model was lighter and faster than its grandfather, the 1866.

The 1873 had a steel frame, which allowed Winchester to use a centerfire instead of a rimfire for the first time."

Amanda said, "You know if I knew you knew all this, I might not have registered for your cla.s.s."

"If I didn't know all this, I wouldn't have a dozen unregistered students every semester taking my cla.s.s for no credit."

"So what's the difference between centerfire and rimfire?"

Agnes seemed to get that I knew a little less about weaponry than your average twenty-five-year-old. She spoke with no condescension, and I could tell her interest was more than academic.

"The centerfire was one of the most important technological advancements in the history of advanced weaponry. See, with a centerfire, a gunman could use more than one cartridge at a time."

"Or gunwoman," Amanda added. "Hey, I know about Annie Oakley."

Agnes continued. "The older model Winchesters used a rimfire, which fired at a lower velocity and smaller caliber since the firing mechanism would often be damaged when 120.

using higher power ammunition. The steel frame made it the first rifle which could be used in just about any weather condition. It truly was an all-purpose killing machine."

I said, "Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser were killed by .44-40 magnum rounds. I'm willing to bet Jeffrey Lourdes was the same. My friend on the force told me the .44-40 rounds are pretty uncommon calibers to be used in an urban setting."

"They are, mainly because they're impractical as h.e.l.l,"

Agnes said. "But in the 1880s, you didn't have Uzis. A good rifle, accurate, powerful and easily reloaded, could win a war, wreak havoc everywhere, or keep the law."

"So basically this was a bad-a.s.s rifle of the first degree."

"I believe that's how pretty much any historian would put it."

I sat back and tried to digest all of this. According to all the facts we had so far, a young man could be running around New York with a rifle made famous in the nineteenth century.

A rifle that would be described as a "killing machine." So far he had targeted three people who had seemingly no connection to each other aside from their propensity for front-page coverage. Popular gun, popular targets. I knew there was more to this story. That there was a very specific reason, if this was was the right gun, that this monster was using it. the right gun, that this monster was using it.

Agnes continued, confirming my thoughts. "n.o.body would be using this weapon today without a purpose."

"I know that," I said. "But we don't know what that purpose is. Where could someone find this gun?" I asked.

"Oh, h.e.l.l, I don't know. Someone who wants it bad, that's for sure."

"Look, Agnes," I said. "Three people are dead. Who knows how many more are targeted, or if the cops can catch this guy 121.

before he crosses anyone else off his list? Right now all I want to do is find out if this is the gun being used, and if so, why.

I know in my heart if I can answer that question, we'll find out who this man is."

Agnes looked at me, looked at Amanda.

"You love her?" she asked.

Amanda's mouth opened. The question knocked me a bit, but I looked her in the eye and said, "Yes I do." I felt Amanda's hand on mine.

"Then promise this girl right here that if you feel yourself getting too close, you'll back off. The kind of man who would go out of his way to use a weapon with such a b.l.o.o.d.y history won't think twice about collateral damage. Reporters are no good dead."

"I know that," I said.

"Museums," she said. "Museums with Old West exhibitions. Collectors, but antique and current. Start your search with everything below the Mason-Dixon line. Anyone who goes out of their way to possess a working Winchester 1873 knows its history well. And appreciates it."

"This killer surely does both," I said. "Hey, would you mind if I make a copy of this?"

"Not at all, Xerox machine is down the hall, second left, next to the Wet Paint sign."

I gently took the book, brought it to the machine, laid it flat and made three copies of the page featuring the Winchester. I put the copies in my backpack, then brought the book back to Agnes.

"Thanks," I said.

"Don't mention it. Now, what you do know," she said, "is that someone is looking to make a statement. The Winchester 1873 wasn't just any gun. This was the gun that won the 122.

West, back when our country was going through its bloodiest and most dangerous time."

"And now somebody's brought that gun back east," Agnes continued. "And you better pray to G.o.d they're not looking for this gun to do what it does best, and pick up where it left off. Because these dead people? They'll just be the beginning."

19.

She shivered in the morning air. She wore a tan polo shirt and skirt, the wind whipping through her uncombed hair. The weather report said today would be chilly and she could have easily worn a coat, but found herself caring less whether she was comfortable and more about getting out of the house.

Last night had been a disaster. She remembered dancing on tables. She remembered pouring alcohol down her throat seemingly by the gallon. She remembered going home alone, and her bloodshot eyes reminded her that she'd cried herself to sleep. She remembered making a phone call around three in the morning, but it went right to his voice mail. She woke up with mascara stains on her pillow, throwing it into the laundry in a fit of rage. It was then that she remembered her meeting this morning.

There were three messages on her cell phone. She didn't even remember it ringing. One was from her friend Shayla calling to make sure she got home all right. The second was from her friend Bobby, one of the bazillion gorgeous gay men of New York City who spent more money on clothing than the U.N. spent on military aid and seemed to have swept all the decent straight guys under some giant heteros.e.xual carpet.

124.

Bobby had been positively shattered by Athena Paradis's murder. He owned an autographed copy of her book, had preordered her CD, and her image wallpapered his Mac.

Bobby was also checking up on her. She'd gone to the bar with Bobby and her "friend" Victoria, though neither he nor Victoria seemed concerned enough to actually leave the bar to check on her. At least that's the sense she got, considering there was house music blaring in the background on their message.

The third was from her mother asking to meet up for dinner. Her mother sounded sad, even a little scared. She deleted the message and erased the call from her memory.

She wore dark sungla.s.ses. Not that anybody would recognize her. Recently her jaw had been hurting. She'd seen a doctor a few weeks ago who said she might need another operation, that the first one might have damaged a nerve. She drank so much vodka to numb the pain that more than once she feared having to get her stomach pumped.

She was in no shape for this meeting, but when she remembered the woman's voice, the urgency, the it's about it's about your father, I just want your side of the story, she knew she she knew she had to keep it.

The diner was just a few blocks from her apartment. She went there almost every morning, and it had been her suggestion to meet there. On weekdays she ordered a cappuccino to go, and the owner was always kind. On weekends she would treat herself to chocolate chip pancakes, then go straight to the gym to work off the calories.

They wouldn't miss her at the office today. She'd called in sick. They didn't much care whether she came in or not, as long as her last name was still Loverne.

Mya walked up to the diner and opened the door. She 125.

welcomed the smell of frying bacon, sugary syrup and fresh eggs, felt like ordering all of them to get rid of the awful taste in her mouth. A bottomless cup of coffee would go a long way. She had a vague idea of who she was looking for. Then she saw a woman in the corner waving her hand. The woman mouthed Mya? Mya?

Mya nodded, walked over and slid into the booth. The woman extended a hand with perfectly manicured nails, and said, "Mya Loverne?"