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.
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.
"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 discussed on the news floor. Obviously others were aware of the problem, as was Jack. Not that he cared one way or another.
We both stood up. Jack began to walk back to his desk.
"So," I said, "did you go out last night?"
Jack barked a laugh. "Go out? Kid, when you're my age going out means ordering in Chinese food and hoping they remembered the sesame chicken."
"So you stayed inside."
"Same as I do every night."
"Any company?"
Jack's eyes closed as he tried to understand what I was asking. "What's all this about?"
"I just want to know if anyone is there to, you know… just in case."
"Just in case what? "
"In case you need any help…anyone to talk to. If anything, you know, happened."
"Help?" Jack said. "What I hear, you need help more than I do. Don't think I didn't hear about Frank Rourke and his infamous crap-in-a-sack. You'd better work on your interpersonal relationships with the other reporters before you start asking if I'm okay. Otherwise that won't be the last bag you get.
Help yourself, kid. There are only so many hours in the day."
As he left, I tried to think of something to say. Jack clearly had a problem, and if it were anyone else they would be confronted, put on leave, made to do something to right the ship.
But Jack O'Donnell was a living institution. You didn't take the Michelangelo in for a cleaning until the marble was covered with so much grime you couldn't tell its ass from its elbow. Jack was still Jack, pumping out quality stories, but it was only a matter of time. And from the look of things, this wasn't an issue about to go away on its own.
I needed to focus. I still had a job to do, and there was still a killer out there. Maybe if I could uncover more information about William Henry Roberts, I could save more lives than just Jack's.
I logged into LexisNexis and performed a search for
William's parents, John and Meryl Roberts. I found records of them owning two homes-one in Hico, Texas, and another in Pecos Valley, New Mexico. Pecos Valley, if I remembered, was where John Chisum ended his famous cattle drive which began in Paris, Texas, and where Billy the Kid wreaked havoc during the Lincoln County Wars. Hico was where Brushy Bill
Roberts had died.
I searched for all newspaper articles in the state of Texas containing references to either John or Meryl Roberts. Aside from previous known addresses, there were half a dozen other clippings. I clicked on the first piece.
It was from the Pecos Valley News, a local paper from a town sleepy enough that high-school football was front-page material. The article had run in the Church Briefs section of the paper, and was about the baptism of the Roberts's newborn son, William Henry. A photo accompanied the article, a robed priest holding an infant, nestled in between folds of cloth. I could just make out William Henry's eyes, which were peaceful, closed.
It was hard to imagine that this child, renouncing evil, would eventually become a servant of the devil.
The second article was also from the Pecos Valley News, and it was written in 1995. The article was titled "Roberts Family
Sells Home, Wish Them Luck in Texas!" An accompanying photo showed John and Meryl with their young children standing in front of a For Sale sign in their yard. The parents looked young, vibrant, like they were about to start a new chapter of their lives. An eight-year-old William stood to the side with an expression on his face that showed neither happiness nor sorrow. It was a blank slate, as though he was simply going along because there was nothing he could do to stop it.
I clicked on the third article. It was from the Hamilton
Herald-News out of Hamilton County, Texas. It was dated
August 23, 2004. The headline read Five Dead in Deadly Hico
Blaze: Family Of Four Trapped Inside Their Home, Die
Along With Beloved Chaplain.
The accompanying photo showed the charred embers where a house once stood. There were police cars, ambulances and fire trucks spread out with abandon. Men and women in white jackets with filters over their mouths combed through the wreckage.
I could see at least one body draped with cloth and another, uncovered, lying among the timber.
My stomach clenched. I read further, my pulse quickening as I read the awful details.
Late last night John Roberts, his wife Meryl, their two children William and Martha, and beloved Pastor
Mark C. Rheingold died in a four-alarm fire at the Roberts ranch in Hico, Texas.
…bodies were burned beyond recognition…
…unknown how the fire began…
…Rheingold had just returned from a thirty-city tour for his latest book and was set to break ground on a new
15,000-seat church in Houston…
…the Roberts family had just moved to Hico three years ago…
…joined John Henry Roberts's father, Oliver…
…William Henry and Martha James had recently graduated from Hamilton High…
…police have not ruled out arson…
I read the rest of the article, stunned. It was impossible.
Either I'd made a huge mistake, or something was terribly wrong. Because according to the newspapers, William Henry
Roberts had died in Hico, Texas, nearly four years ago.