She knew I'd done enough digging so that this wasn't some half-baked concoction. She could tell from my eyes that the closest thing to a real demon this city had ever seen was currently walking the streets, had killed David Loverne and three others and tried to kill Mya. I told her all of it.

"I still don't understand," she said, her voice much softer, the confidence gone. "Mark Rheingold, why was he at that house? If William Roberts really did..." she paused before she said it "...kill his whole family, why kill Rheingold, too?"

I told her about the rumors of Rheingold's affairs with his congregants. I told her about the photo I'd unearthed.

"I think Rheingold was having an affair with Meryl Roberts, William's mother. I think William's father knew about it. That's why Roberts killed Rheingold. He was killing the man who brought disgrace to his family, Billy's family."

"Jesus," Paulina said. She looked like she'd aged ten years in the last ten minutes. "And you want me to print this?"

I reached under the table and unzipped my knapsack. I handed her dozens of pages of doc.u.ments. Copies of all the research I'd done, the photos I'd unearthed. Everything proving Brushy Bill Roberts was Billy the Kid, and that William considered himself heir to the throne.

"Between William and Billy they've killed almost thirty people." I looked at Paulina, her face grave. "You got into this business for the same reason I did. At least at first. You wanted to tell the truth. You wanted to find the stories that matter.

Well, here's one that will rewrite history, and with any luck save some lives. I don't want a byline or any credit. You can take that. But it needs to run tomorrow. tomorrow. And if anything I said And if anything I said 318.

gets on the record in my voice, I swear to G.o.d I will make you pay for the rest of your life. I've lost my girlfriend. I've lost Mya. There's nothing more dangerous than someone with nothing to lose. Right now all I have is my integrity. You take that, I will make your life a living h.e.l.l. I will sue you and Ted Allen and the Dispatch Dispatch for printing that s.h.i.t about Mya for printing that s.h.i.t about Mya and me. I will lie through my teeth and tell people I f.u.c.ked you and then dumped your a.s.s and that's why you're so spiteful."

"What happened to the truth?" Paulina said sarcastically.

"Just this once, I'll not only stoop to your level, I'll wave h.e.l.lo from six levels lower."

"I'll run it," she said, knowing I was serious. She tucked the file into her purse. It barely fit. I knew she'd take good care of it. "But if it's going to run I need to leave. I have a story to write."

I gave her a military salute.

"I'll pick up the check."

"Next time it's on me," Paulina said. She stood up, threw on her coat and purse.

I laughed, shook my head. "If I ever have a meal with you again, expect a healthy dose of a.r.s.enic in your pineapple juice. So you'd better hope there's no check to get."

"I like this side of you, Henry," she said. "You act all nice, like you're the cub reporter who can do no wrong, but you've got some ice in those veins. Keep 'em cold, tiger."

And she left.

I sat there sipping my coffee, having made either a brilliant calculation or a horrible mistake. I was pretty sure it was the former. I'd find out tomorrow.

52.

n.o.body really noticed him as he walked by. His suit was tailored and his shirt was neatly tucked in. His bright red tie practically screamed POWER! from the rooftops. His shoes were shined, hair combed back and soaked with gel. He looked like any one of a million investment bankers or traders on their way to becoming the twenty-first century master of the universe. He was one in a million.

A few did glance at the guitar strapped over his back, a.s.sumed after leaving the office he would play a gig at some dank bar with his other gel compadres, where drunken patrons would worship him for exactly forty-five minutes before going home to either puke or screw some desperate groupie.

The truth was, the guitar case was made out of a lightweight carbon, the whole thing weighing less than five pounds. The Winchester rifle housed inside made the whole contraption weigh just over ten. It was easy to run with, narrow enough to fit through subway doors and turnstiles, scamper down fire escapes and disappear into the city crowds.

And since he always dressed as either a young, rich broker or some near-homeless schlub looking for that one gig that would get him discovered, as far as New York was concerned 320.

he was faceless. Voiceless. Like a million more of his generation looked upon by their elders as those who sucked the life from the system and gave nothing back.

Unlike those faceless a.s.sholes, he would be remembered.

Like his great-grandfather was. Twenty-one when Billy allegedly died, yet that was enough time to carve a legacy that would live for generations.

William's legacy would be a new chapter. The Winchester was more than an heirloom, it was an artery through which their bloodline flowed.

When he woke up this morning, though, William knew there was a chance he might never use his beloved gun again.

It had served him better than any weapon he could imagine, but the gun was old, not meant to be fired so many times in such a short span. At least in a museum it wasn't exposed to the elements. But legends weren't meant to be kept on display.

One more shot. One more kill.

William was sure that Amanda Davies's death would deal Henry Parker that one grievous blow that would finally push him over the edge.

William had paid his last night at the hotel, and the nearly blind old man who ran the place said he was sorry to see him go. William couldn't help but laugh, wondered if he should correct the man. Sorry to Sorry to hear hear you go. you go.

Yesterday's newspapers had been the most heartening yet. One editorial admitted that William had become some sort of folk hero, that each of his victims had some penance to pay and the devil had come to collect. Just like his greatgrandfather had.

The gun was a means to an end. And once Henry Parker felt what he felt, experienced the same loss he had, knew what what it was like to cut the disease away, the fuse would be lit. Henry the fuse would be lit. Henry 321.

would mythologize William Roberts, and the legend would be made. Billy the Kid wasn't made a legend until Pat Garrett created the myth. Like Garrett, Henry Parker had the power of the written word. The power to create a legend.

It was fate that William chose to use Henry's quote when he killed Athena. And so a hundred and thirty years after his great-grandfather changed this country, so would William.

Yet as he walked down the street, William felt a cold stir in the pit of his stomach. Every so often, another stranger would glance his way. Eyes scanning his face, like they had recognized him from somewhere. Like they knew him somehow.

A twinge of panic began to rise in William's gut. He walked faster. Began to sweat. He didn't like this. Didn't like people looking at him. So far he had survived by blending in, looking like every other young punk in this city that people were happy to dismiss. But now there was recognition, and from random people on the G.o.dd.a.m.n street. street.

William pa.s.sed a small bodega. He thought about stopping for a pack of gum, just to calm his nerves. He went over.

Debated getting a pack of cigarettes, too. People avoided smokers. He tried to remember how much money was in his wallet. Then he looked at the newspapers.

They were neatly arranged under triangular metal paperweights. The headline of the New York Gazette New York Gazette read The Face read The Face Of Sorrow. It ran beside a picture of Cindy Loverne crying at her husband's funeral. A picture alongside it showed Mya Loverne, taken the day before he'd thrown her from the roof.

She was smiling in the pic. The caption read Injured Daughter Hanging On.

William smiled. Looked like the girl could make it. Wasn't that from Rocky?

If she lives, she lives. If she dies...

322.

Then the smile faded. The pit in his stomach opened up, and he felt a wave of nausea overcome him. Then the nausea turned to anger, the anger turned to hate, and he ripped the paper from the kiosk.

It was the New York Dispatch. New York Dispatch. The page one headline read: The page one headline read: The Face Of Evil?

There was a photo on the front page. He recognized it. He hadn't seen the photo in years, but knew exactly when it was taken. Clearly visible in the photo were three men and a woman.

One of the men was his father.

The other man was Pastor Mark Rheingold.

The woman was his mother, Meryl, and she was reaching for the pastor, preparing for a deep embrace. William's father looked on in joyous approval.

And in the background William recognized himself, just four years ago, staring at his mother and her lover as they mocked their family name.

William H. Bonney would never have stood for that.

And so neither would William Henry Roberts.

Despite the newsprint, the tiny pixels, William saw the anger in his eyes. He remembered setting fire to the house, the fire that claimed the lives of his father, sister, mother and his mother's G.o.d-fearing lover.

They were the same eyes he was showing to the world right now.

Millions seeing his face in black and white.

Millions recognizing him on the street.

His heart beating faster than it had since the night he sent a bullet through Athena Paradis's head, William Henry Roberts turned and sprinted down the street.

He couldn't waste any more time. He had to find her.

323.

It was only a matter of time before somebody recognized him and called the cops. Tried to end his crusade before he was ready.

Amanda Davies had to die before that happened.

53.

Louie Gra.s.so picked up the phone. He gently placed the receiver to his ear and wondered if there was anywhere near this G.o.dforsaken building he could grab a shot of whiskey to throw in his coffee. If the rest of the day went the way his first half an hour did, he'd quit his job by noon. He'd been working the lines at the Dispatch Dispatch for nearly seven years and had weathered complaints and grievances from all walks of life. Never, though, had for nearly seven years and had weathered complaints and grievances from all walks of life. Never, though, had he heard such anger due to a story. G.o.dd.a.m.n Paulina Cole, at some point she was going to get them all killed.

Louie took a breath, said, "New York Dispatch, how may how may I direct your call?"

"You have two choices," said the man with the Southern tw.a.n.g on the other end. "You can either put this s.h.i.thead Ted Allen on the phone or that sa.s.sy b.i.t.c.h Paulina Cole. Your choice, either one will do, but I'm not hanging up until one of those worthless dung heaps is on the line."

Louie recited what his boss had told him to after the first barrage of calls came in.

"Any complaints you have regarding Ms. Cole's article in today's edition should be addressed in the form of a typewritten letter or e-mail directed to the New York Gazette New York Gazette public public 325.

relations department. Your concerns are duly noted. They will be responded to either individually or as a whole."

"Listen, I got my whole extended family just waiting to call in as soon as I hang up, and my grandma Doris is ready to hop on the plane and whack Allen upside the head. So I'll fill out your stupid forms, but I hope you're ready to repeat those directions another few thousand times this morning. So 'duly note' my a.s.s."

Louie sighed as the line went dead. He drained his coffee and picked up another one of the dozen lines that hadn't stopped flashing in hours.

"New York Dispatch, how may I direct your call?" how may I direct your call?"

Paulina had just hung up the phone when James Keach appeared in the doorway. Sweat was streaking down his face, and his work shirt looked several different shades of blue.

"This is not the time, James."

"I need to know what to do. People are calling me asking for a statement. Some guy from the a.s.sociated Press, a.s.sociated Press, another another one from the Times. Times. I don't know how they got my number." I don't know how they got my number."

"Our company directory isn't a secret. What are you telling the people who call?"

"I've been hanging up on them."

"Good," she said. "You say one word to anyone who doesn't work inside this building I'll roast your nads in my Foreman Grill. Now get."

Keach disappeared.

Paulina turned back to her computer. Her inbox had three hundred new messages, and another ten were appearing every minute. They all bore colorful subject headings like you're wrong and eat s.h.i.te and die and does your mother know you lie for a living?

326.

Never in her career had Paulina witnessed such an onslaught of offended readers, and that was counting the time they ran a still photo from Pamela Anderson's s.e.x tape with her nipples blocked out. Hundreds of angry readers were calling in, demanding her head, and every new message was directed at the story she'd written for today's Dispatch. Dispatch. The The story Henry Parker had dropped on her lap. That sneaky s.h.i.t knew it would provoke this response. He wanted that story to run, but didn't want the Gazette Gazette to go through exactly what to go through exactly what the Dispatch Dispatch was right now. She'd have to remember to send was right now. She'd have to remember to send him a cyanide fruitcake for Christmas.

Once the brushstrokes are painted, the picture becomes clear as a Midwestern day. One hundred and twenty-seven years ago, a lie was told, and that lie has been perpetuated for generations by deluded, smallminded townfolk whose entire lives and economies live and die on the wings of a myth. Once you know the truth of Brushy Bill Roberts's ident.i.ty as Billy the Kid, once you know how William Henry Roberts burned his house down with his family inside, once you know that William's mother had an affair with a millionaire man of G.o.d (with his father's blessing, no less), you know that a hundred years too late, the truth has come to collect its revenge.

Soon the facts will prove that William H. Bonney did not die in 1881 in Fort Sumner, New Mexico. He and his bloodline lived on. This country has been living in denial for years. And it is because of this veil of ignorance that nine people are dead, with another young woman fighting for her life.

If there is any justice in the world, if the truth is 327.

regulated at all, then the entire citizenry of New Mexico, Texas and all those who convinced themselves that the nightmare was over will wake up to the violent reality and confront a demon who manifested himself right here, today.

Never had Paulina seen such an outraged reaction from a "concerned" group of citizens. But to her surprise, many of the protesters were from far outside the delusions of Texas and New Mexico, and the sandblasted states who perpetrated the myth. She'd only received about twenty messages from Fort Sumner, ten or so from Hico and Lincoln County, but the vast majority were from New Yorkers, Californians. She had even received harsh rebukes from several members of Congress, writing to say that at best her article was in poor taste, and at worst a selfish attempt to discredit one of the most enduring legends in history.

She didn't bother to respond to the irony of calling a ma.s.s murderer an "enduring legend," but therein, she supposed, was the point.

William H. Bonney, despite his violent history, was now considered a hero, a vigilante, a romantic icon. And having read the dozens of articles about William Henry Roberts's deadly spree, she knew that more than a fair share of "concerned citizens" considered him the same way. Roberts was a bandit, an outlaw. And like Bonney's Regulators years ago, he was purging the landscape of those who poisoned the well.

Yet unlike other articles she'd written that had stirred up controversy, there was no joy at the Dispatch Dispatch at the prospect at the prospect of increased circulation. There were no high fives in the hall or talk about holiday bonuses. n.o.body from senior management had stopped by Paulina's office to congratulate her on 328.

a terrific story. In fact, n.o.body had come by at all. And if there was one thing that frightened Paulina more than anything, it was silence.

Ordinarily she might respond to one or more complainants, just for kicks. But today she merely forwarded all the messages to their PR department. They'd be earning their paychecks this week. Then one e-mail popped up in her in-box that made her forget all the others.