The manager took a seat behind a counter, put his feet up and opened a newspaper.

158.

"You need anything," he said to me, "just holler."

Behind the counter hung several replica guns that were available for purchase. Several boxes of dead ammunition lined the shelves. A small sign read 10 Sh.e.l.ls For $5.

I paid the ten-dollar entrance fee. A few other visitors ambled in after me, also happy to pay and gaze at the history of violence.

I took a slow lap around, surveying the dozens of guns, even running my fingers along the cannons that guarded the entryway into each new room. One room was decorated to resemble an Old West blacksmith's shop, complete with anvil and tools, bent metals and horseshoes. Along the walls were rifle parts in various stages of development, like a before-andafter of gun manufacturing.

After sating my curiosity, I made my way around the museum until I found the exhibit featuring the military cavalry sword of John Chisum which Marjorie claimed was a fake.

The sword was mounted in a gla.s.s case nearly four feet long. The blade was slightly curved. I examined the security gla.s.s, wondered if the sword had actually been stolen. And if so, why it had never been reported.

Behind the sword was a black-and-white photograph featuring a caravan of horses, and a portrait of a man who was presumably John Chisum. A black placard above the sword explained that Chisum was a cattle driver, and one of the first to send a herd into New Mexico. Chisum was a tangential part of the infamous Lincoln County Wars, a feud between businessmen Alexander McSween and John Tunstall and their rivals Lawrence Murphy and James Dolan. During these wars, Chisum had been accosted by a band of outlaws known as the Regulators. The Regulators 159.

were notorious cattle thieves, who pilfered from Chisum and other herders, but were deputized after Tunstall's murder. They hunted down the men who killed Tunstall, killing four including a corrupt sheriff named William Brady.

According to a placard on the wall, the Regulators consisted of men named d.i.c.k Brewer, Jim French, Frank McNab, John Middleton, Fred Waite, Henry Brown and Henry McCarty.

Next to the name of Henry McCarty, it read: aka William H. Bonney, aka Billy the Kid.

In the very last room of the museum I found what I'd come across the country for: an exhibit featuring the Winchester 1873.

Behind a crystal-clear gla.s.s case was mounted a pristine Winchester, along with various posters and propaganda leaflets.

I took out the Winchester Xeroxes, compared them. The weapon in front of me looked identical to the one on the page.

Inside the case on a poster, written in big bold letters beneath two opposing firing pistols, were the words: Winches- Winches- ter 1873 edition: The Gun That Won the West.

There were several bullets mounted to the display below the weapon. A placard identified them as authentic .44-40 magnum ammunition, the very kind used by that edition Winchester.

I compared the gun and the Xerox until I was reasonably certain they were one and the same. Then I waited until the museum had quieted and the manager was free of troublesome tourists. He was reading a copy of the Albuquerque Albuquerque Journal, looked bored to death, but he set it on the counter looked bored to death, but he set it on the counter when he saw me approach.

"Help you?" he said.

I pointed at the relics lining the walls.

"This is some pretty amazing stuff," I said, opening a window for him.

160.

"Man, you don't have to tell me that. I get a buzz just sitting behind this desk." The Albuquerque Journal Albuquerque Journal was still splayed was still splayed open on the counter.

"No doubt," I said absently. I nodded at the display containing Chisum's military sword. "How'd you come upon that beauty?"

"John Chisum," he said without thinking. "One of the most influential cattle drivers in U.S. history. Blazed the Chisum trail from Paris, Texas, all the way to the Pecos Valley. You know John Wayne himself played John Chisum in a movie?"

"No messing? Which one?"

"Was called Chisum. Chisum. " "

"Guess that makes sense."

"Anyway, when Mr. Chisum pa.s.sed on, died in Eureka Springs, his great granddaughter endowed this museum with the sword. D'you know Chisum's only children were born to him by a slave girl he owned?"

"I didn't know that."

"'At's a true fact."

"Sword like that," I said, "probably worth, what, few grand?" I saw the man's eyes twitch, and he looked down for a split second.

"Try a few hundred grand. The country's swarming with collectors of old Western antiques. 'Course most of 'em call it memorabilia, memorabilia, like a freaking baseball card. Most of 'em like a freaking baseball card. Most of 'em wouldn't know a Winchester from Worcestershire sauce, and I never heard of a baseball card used in a gunfight."

"Speaking of antiques," I said. "Is that a real Winchester '73 on the wall?"

The man's chest puffed out with pride.

"You're darn right it is. Gun that won the West, gun that made this country what it is today. Winchester made over 161.

seven hundred thousand thousand of those darlin's back in the day. of those darlin's back in the day.

Nowadays, a '73 in working condition goes for upward of six figures on the open market."

"Bet it goes for even more on the closed market," I said.

The man winked at me, smirked.

"You'd probably be right there."

"Can't imagine the security you must have in place to keep valuables like that. I mean, there must be a few million dollars' worth of memorabilia memorabilia here." The man bristled. here." The man bristled.

"We take the proper precautions," he said.

"Have you ever had a break-in? A robbery?"

The man took a split second too long to say, "Never."

"That Winchester," I said. "How long have you kept that particular rifle in this museum?"

He took several seconds to say, "I reckon upward of ten years."

"And you've never been robbed."

Finally he took a step back, eyed me suspiciously. "Mind if I ask what you're asking all these questions fer?"

"I'm sorry," I said. I reached into my bag, pulled out the tape recorder and notepad first, and then my press identification. "Henry Parker. Pleasure to meet you. I'm a reporter with the New York Gazette. New York Gazette. And I don't think that Winchester in your case is authentic. In fact, I'm willing to bet the gun And I don't think that Winchester in your case is authentic. In fact, I'm willing to bet the gun that's supposed to be in that case is the same one used in three recent murders in New York this past week."

The blood drained from the man's face, and his jaw dropped just a bit. "Murders, you're sayin'? I read something in the papers, that pretty blond girl..."

"Athena Paradis," I said.

"She was killed by a--" he nodded his head toward the Winchester case "--model '73?"

162.

I said nothing, turned on the tape recorder. "That's a replica Winchester in your case, isn't it? Where's the original?"

"I'd like you to leave right now."

"If your Winchester was stolen, I need to know now. now. We We need to alert the authorities in New York. More lives are in danger. Someone is using your gun and--"

"I don't know anything about that," he said, and picked up the phone. I had seconds before he called the cops and I was done. I looked at the nameplate. It read Rex Sheehan.

"Rex," I said. His eyes met mine. "Even if you call the cops, at the very least they'll want to run tests on the gun. If you tell me now, at least we can try to keep some people alive." Rex put down the phone. He bowed his head and crossed himself.

"I wanted to tell someone," he said solemnly. "But we don't have the money for security. We're not a governmentfunded museum like that fancy one down at New Mexico State. We get by on donations. And if you look around, I don't need to tell you we're not exactly the Met here."

"So somebody broke in and stole the gun," I said. "Did they steal anything else?"

He shook his head. His lip trembled. I felt sorry for him.

"Please don't tell anyone this," he said. "If people find out we're displaying a fake they'll just stop coming altogether.

Besides, it doesn't really matter, does it? If people think it's real, who gets hurt?"

"There are three dead people in New York who can answer that better than me."

Rex bowed his head.

"But it still doesn't add up," I said. "1873 Winchesters are a rare model, but not extinct, right?"

"No, there's a few still out there. Collectors, mostly."

163.

"So why come all the way out to Fort Sumner, New Mexico? Why would someone rob a museum when there had to be easier ways?"

Again Rex said nothing.

"Tell me about the gun," I said. "It's not just a model 1873, is it? There's something else." The man nodded.

"The gun that was stolen," he sobbed, "the one you're saying was used in those murders, well it belonged to William H. Bonney. Most people know him as Billy the Kid."

25.

Paulina Cole wrote long into the night.

She wrote until the other offices at the Dispatch Dispatch were dark, were dark, until her colleagues had long ago gone home and surrendered to the comfort of a gla.s.s of wine and their inviting beds.

She sewed together the interview like a trained surgeon, connecting arteries, nerves and capillaries together to create one body of work that would pump blood and live just the way she wanted it to. Read the way she wanted it to.

She could picture Mya Loverne's face, that poor, destroyed face, the sh.e.l.l of a girl whose life's flame had been snuffed out long before its time. So many factors had driven Mya to the brink. Thanks to her father's chummy relationship with most gossip columnists, the majority of his philandering never made it to the printed page. That didn't mean it didn't ruin many a dinner conversation, estrange a daughter in the midst of the most difficult time of her life. Now it was time to collect on that debt. Mya had suffered terribly. But through pain she would regain her life. She was the victim. And the culprit was not only her lech of a father, but Henry Parker, as well.

Henry had fractured Mya, literally and figuratively. All her 165.

troubles since the dissolution of their relationship had applied leverage to that emotional fracture, spreading it until she cracked open fully.

Paulina had dozens of pages scattered about her desk, three empty cups of coffee strewn about. She picked up the pages, plucked a sentence from different ones, felt her collar begin to burn when she read over all the stories about Henry she'd written last year. Henry, who came to New York as Jack O'Donnell and Wallace Langston's golden boy. Who was accused of murder and embarra.s.sed the profession she'd devoted her life to. If payback was a b.i.t.c.h, Paulina was its mother.

And just like Henry struck the flint that burned Mya, this story was the spark that would burn down the New York New York Gazette. The kindling was there, David Loverne a juicy log, The kindling was there, David Loverne a juicy log, and she was going to blast that place apart.

f.u.c.k Wallace.

f.u.c.k Harvey Hillerman.

f.u.c.k Jack O'Donnell.

f.u.c.k Henry Parker and everything he was.

But for now, she had to keep working. Soon the paper would be printed. Soon enough, she would burn their whole house to the ground.

Just several blocks away, at a desk cracked and worn with age, an old man sat typing. The desk was covered in coffee stains and pencil markings, its owner never bothering to clean them, believing they added personality. The corkboard above his computer was adorned with pictures, awards, plaques, books with his name printed on the spine, and a life dedicated to his craft. It was here that Jack O'Donnell put the finishing touches on his story for the next day's Gazette. Gazette.

When the story was done, after he'd saved it on his word 166.

processor, made sure he'd written enough inches, and combed through to minimize any errors that would drive his editors crazy, Jack O'Donnell sat back in his chair. He pulled a flask of Jack Daniel's from his leather briefcase and took a sip. It was a good story, one that dropped a potential bombsh.e.l.l on the Paradis investigation. No other paper had this. It was a Gazette exclusive. exclusive.

After fifty years in news, his body still tingled at the thrill of a good story.

Before sending it off, Jack put the final touch on the article.

Underneath the byline Jack added: With additional reporting With additional reporting by Henry Parker.

And come morning, the sparks would fly.

26.