I stared at the weak metal fence which contained three graves resting side-by-side, one of which belonged to the outlaw known as Billy the Kid. The fence was in the middle of a large patch of dirt, surrounded by piles of flowers, photographs and even bullets. Never had I seen such gestures for such a shoddy excuse for a tomb.
A headstone sat behind the graves, three names engraved on it. The stone looked fairly well-maintained, as opposed to the rest of the mausoleum.
"The headstone's been stolen three times since 1940," Rex said. "At some point they figured it cost more to guard the darn thing than it did to throw up a new headstone. That's why you see here a gate my eight-year-old niece could pry apart."
"Kind of like the security system in your museum," I said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. Inside the cage were three burial mounds, side by side. At the far end of the enclosure was one large headstone engraved with three epitaphs.
"That's Tom O'Folliard and Charlie Bowdre, on the ends,"
Rex said. "Friends of the Kid. Billy, he's in the middle grave."
A marker sat in front of the graves. It was carved in bronze, about two feet tall, with a triangular top. It read:
THE KID
Born Nov. 23, 1860
Killed July 14, 1881
BANDIT KING
HE DIED AS HE HAD LIVED
Quarters were sprinkled atop the earth. "Tributes," Rex said. On the headstone was chiseled one word, Pals. Above the headstone was a garish yellow sign that read Replica.
And according to dozens of signs, brochures and tourist bureaus, this was the grave site of Henry McCarty, also known as William Antrim, also known as William H. Bonney, also known as Billy the Kid.
"This grave site's pretty much the only thing keeping old
Fort Sumner alive," Rex said. "State legislature made us put that 'replica' sign up there, but once a year or so the cops come out here to arrest some hooligans looking to steal the damn thing. I swear, ain't nothin' sacred anymore, they could buy their own sign for a buck ninety-five."
"But it wouldn't have been inside Billy the Kid's grave,"
I said. "There's a mystique to him. Just like to a murderer, there's a mystique to using his gun."
Rex scratched at his neck. I could tell he'd long ago given in to the lore and myth of this town. I didn't know a whole lot about Billy the Kid, only what movies or books passed down through their own lenses. I knew Billy was a celebrity in the southwest during the late 1800s, had allegedly murdered over twenty people before his twenty-first birthday, and was eventually killed by Pat Garrett, a newly appointed deputy who used to ride with the Kid. I remembered reading somewhere that other than Count Dracula, no
other figure in popular culture had been immortalized so often on page or screen. He was a legend, plain and simple.
"If you used to have Billy the Kid's actual Winchester, the one he used to kill," I said, "why wouldn't you advertise the hell out of it? Why display it as a regular Winchester 1873 when it could be the highlight of your museum?"
"We did, for a while," Rex said. "Then it got stolen, and we didn't want to take the chance. Nobody knows who the hell John Chisum is, but everyone wants a piece of the Kid.
Besides, people visit old Fort Sumner to see this grave site.
They come to our museum for side trips, before they spend their money on souvenirs and lunch."
"And nobody cared that it suddenly was gone?"
"Anyone who asked, I told 'em some rich collector bought it."
I asked, "How long ago was it stolen?"
Rex stared at the ground.
"You know Billy built this town," he said, nodding at the grave site. "That man was a goddamn hero. Most don't look at it like that. But he fought for good."
"I bet the twenty-some-odd people he killed would disagree."
"Any war, man, you have to spill blood to do what's right."
"Said like a true patriot," I said, biting.
"You don't understand."
"Enlighten me."
"When he was young, Billy was hired by an Englishman named John Tunstall. Tunstall was a rancher, in a territorial feud with two men named Lawrence Murphy and James
Dolan. John Tunstall aimed to take Billy under his wing, turn a troubled youth into a good man. John Tunstall was murdered by Dolan and Murphy, who'd paid Sheriff William Brady to
carry out the crime. After that, Billy and his boys united to form a band called the Regulators. The Regulators killed
Brady, and because of that, the governor of New Mexico sccked the hounds of hell on Billy and his gang. But somewhere along the line, the Regulators traded places with the devil. The Regulators wanted to kill those who'd done wrong, folks who were contaminating everything that was good."
"There's a man in New York," I said, "using Billy's gun to kill people. There's no doubt in my mind he stole that gun from your museum. A witness said the killer looked young, in his early to midtwenties."
"Just like the Kid," Rex said. Then he cocked his head.
"How old are you, Henry?" I looked at him. And didn't answer.
"Someone is looking to carry on Billy's legacy," I said.
"You say Billy meant to create order. He wanted to kill those who'd done wrong."
"That's right." Rex thought for a moment. "You reckon this killer of yours is some screwed-up kid, wants to play cowboys and Indians?"
"I doubt it. This isn't just some kid who wasn't loved enough by his mommy and daddy," I said. "This guy has a motive. He thinks he's doing good."
We stood there in silence, staring at the grave site of one of the most legendary murderers in history. A man who died at the age of twenty-one, having ended one life for each of his years. And yet over the years the Kid had become immortalized as a hero. An icon worthy of legend. How could a murderer incite such passion? How could a man seemingly deputized by the devil himself be remembered as an angel?
A beeping sound broke the silence. I plucked my cell phone from my pocket, opened it. It was a text message from Jack.
It was two sentences. When I read them, my blood ran cold.
There's been another murder. It's David Loverne.
I couldn't speak. Mya's father.
The last time I saw him was at his daughter's side at the hospital, where…
I called you, Henry. I remembered Mya's voice on that terrible day.
"I have to go," I said to Rex, shutting the phone. "I need to get home right away. I appreciate the help."
"You gonna be, you know, telling the police about this?"
"Yes, I am."
"Figures. Anyway, you'll want to look at Brushy Bill.
Dollars to dineros if it's Billy's legacy you're investigating, it's something to do with ol' Brushy."
I nodded at Rex, then half-walked, dazed, back to the hotel. I threw everything in my duffel, jumped in the rental car and headed toward Albuquerque.
The drive seemed to last for days. Visions in my mind reminded me of that night, seeing Mya's father there, holding her hand. Me not being able to apologize because words were useless. Knowing Mya had been hurt, and that I hadn't been there for her.
Athena Paradis, Joe Mauser, Jeffrey Lourdes and now
David Loverne. Somehow Mya's father fit in the killer's demented pattern. But how?
I'd heard rumblings about David Loverne's misdeeds. That his marriage wasn't as rock-solid as the facade he put on in public. Many felt that at some point scandal would hit, and hit hard. It was only a matter of time. I thought of Mya, how she was so damaged, how she'd been reaching out to me and
I'd been slapping her hand away. If she ever needed a friend, someone who used to know her better than anyone, now was the time for me to be there for her.
I tried Mya's cell phone. It went right to voice mail. I couldn't leave a message. I had to see her. Then I remembered her text message.
I'm sorry. Forgive me.
I was numb when I arrived at the airport. They charged a hundred bucks to change my flight. I paid it in cash.
I called Amanda and left her a message. Then I called Jack and told him I would get to the office that night. He told me to read the Gazette and the Dispatch before I saw anybody in
New York. His voice had both an urgency and sadness to it.
My stomach turned over.
On my way to the terminal, I stopped by a news kiosk. I grabbed a bottle of orange juice and went to the newspaper rack. Thankfully they carried both the Dispatch and the
Gazette. I paid for the drink and papers and took them to the gate. Sitting down, I took a long gulp of juice and then laid the papers out on my lap.
The Gazette' s headline read:
Ballistics Sheds New Light On Murders
Killer possibly using "Gun that won the West" by Jack O'Donnell with additional reporting by Henry Parker
Then I looked at the Dispatch. There were two stories competing for dominance. The first headline read:
Athena Paradis's Greek Boy Toy Speaks Out
Tells why murdered heiress was second to none in the bedroom
Then I read the second headline. I didn't hear the juice bottle hit the ground when I dropped it. Or the announcement that my plane was boarding. All I could see was that headline:
"He Left Me Bleeding On The Street"
Mya Loverne, David's daughter, comes clean about the relationship that nearly ended her life by Paulina Cole