by J. D. Barker
On our third or fourth visit, Dr. Pavia pulled me aside and told me considering how long she had smoked, getting her to quit might prove impossible. At this stage, quitting might actually do more harm than good. He said some patients demonstrated weight gain and heightened blood pressure when quitting. Weight gain would be a plus (she dropped nearly thirty pounds), but higher blood pressure would not. In many ways, the risks associated with quitting outweighed the benefits. He told me to continue trying, but not to fret if I couldn’t make it happen.
We had bigger problems.
The cancer had spread from her blood to her lymph nodes, spleen, liver, and began invading her central nervous system. The chemo and radiation slowed down the progress, but only a little.
Auntie Jo was losing this fight.
Then there was the pain.
“Did she take her pills?”
“Yeah, but they’re giving her tramadol. It’s working now, but barely. She’s already building up a tolerance. You need to let me get her something stronger.”
He didn’t come out and say it, but he meant heroin. Dunk brought it up a couple times before. He said when his uncle died from cancer, heroin and pot were far more effective than the oxycodone his doctor prescribed. Even better than the morphine they gave him toward the end.
“We can’t give her heroin.”
“Why not?”
“Because, it’s heroin.”
I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing—the fact that my best friend wanted to give my aunt illegal drugs or the fact that my best friend could so easily access and administer those illegal drugs. I knew he could, though. He probably had some on him right now. He’d never use these things himself, but selling them was another story, and he was good at it. He started with small stuff, pot mostly, but it hadn’t taken him long to realize how much money he could make simply by connecting the buyers and sellers. His dad had been out of work for over a year, with little interest in anything other than drinking. Dunk needed a way to pay the bills. Unfortunately, this was it. Two years ago, when he had gotten arrested for shoplifting, I hoped the scare would be enough to set him straight. Instead, the experience only made him more cautious.
“For a smart guy, you sure suck at coming up with a convincing argument. ‘Because’ is not gonna fly here,” Dunk said. “You want her to be comfortable, right?”
“Heroin is addicting.”
“So is oxy, morphine, tramadol, codeine, and all the other prescription crap they’re throwing at her.” He lowered his voice. “She might not have much time left, and if this plays out anything like my uncle, things are going to go south fast. Talk to her doctor. Tell him you can get some. See what he thinks.”
“I can’t ask her doctor about illegal drugs.”
“He can’t tell anyone if you do. It’s part of that doctor-patient thing. He’s bound by an oath.”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
“Ask him,” Dunk insisted. “I think you’ll be surprised by what he says.” He glanced up at the clock. “Christ, it’s four after six—you need to go!”
I frowned at the clock. “Shit. I wanted to change and clean up first.”
“No time for that, Romeo.”
“She probably won’t be there anyway.”
“Probably not,” Dunk replied. “But you gotta check, right? I get it.”
He reached behind his back and pulled out a snub-nosed .38, silver plated with a black handle, and handed it to me. He started carrying it about a year ago. His father’s old .38 was long gone. Dunk figured he pawned the gun like their stereo, but he couldn’t be sure. I never asked where he bought this one.
I shook my head. “Not this time.”
“You didn’t take one last time, and she didn’t show, either. It’s not the gun.”
“I couldn’t use it. If I pulled that thing, they’d see right through me. Stella would probably laugh it off.”
“Laugh off a .38 in the face? I really need to meet this chick.”
Auntie Jo groaned again in her sleep.
“Are you sure you’re okay watching her for a few more hours?”
Dunk glanced back at her. “Where else I gotta be? She’s not much trouble. We got ourselves a date to watch Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper in about an hour, ain’t that right, Auntie Jo?”
“No heroin.”
“No heroin, check. Not that kind of party. Pot’s cool, though, right? Mr. Cooper is funny and all, but he’s the shit with some Mary Jane.”
I rolled my eyes. “I can’t believe I trust you with her.”
Dunk slid the gun back into his waistband. Somehow, that worked for him. “I’m just playing, you know I’ve got this. Go, before you miss missing your girl when she blows you off yet again.”
“Open a window,” I said, heading back out the door.
“I’ll run that past the committee, see how the idea flies.”
I was already down the first flight of stairs and halfway down the next before I heard the door close above me.
It was twelve after six by the time I jumped the fence at the side of the cemetery and started up the hill. I glanced in the direction of my parents’ graves. I felt guilty for not stopping, but there wasn’t any time, not now, anyway.
By the time I reached the top of the hill, my legs ached and my lungs burned. I stopped at the mausoleums to catch my breath. I bent over, massaged my calves, and sucked in air. At my wrist, the hands of my watch ticked forward—6:14 p.m.
I stood and followed the path through the mausoleums. When the empty bench came into view, my heart sank. I really didn’t expect her to be there. I wanted her to be there, I hoped she’d be there, but deep down, I knew she wouldn’t be. Most likely, I’d never see her again.
Dunk said he understood why I had to come here, year after year. He said he understood why I had to see her again. He said he got it. I wanted to believe him, but I wasn’t sure I really did, because I didn’t really get it.
I should hate her. She had been nothing but mean to me nearly every time I encountered her in the past. Her people, and I could think of no other way to describe them, had tried to kill me, or, at the very least, tried to scare me real good.
I should hate her.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
Help me
Her words.
Her words to me, all those years ago. A plea unanswered.
I plopped down onto the empty bench and rested my head in my hands, my eyes closed.
Five minutes later, I heard the rumble of an engine, the crunch of tires on pavement.
I looked up.
A single white SUV approached, the windows tinted nearly opaque, headlights on, even though it was still light out.
I sat up straight.
The SUV rolled to a stop about ten yards away, facing me—the vague outline of the driver visible through the dark glass.
I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands. They rested awkwardly in my lap. I wanted to appear confident, unafraid. I knew I looked like neither of those things. I moved them to my sides, gripped the bench, then I folded them at my chest and slid down slightly, hoping to at least look relaxed. I felt like a goof.
The back door opened, and Latrese Oliver stepped out in her long white coat.
She leaned into the SUV, said something to someone, then started toward me, her stride and poise representing all that I was not. Elite, superior, dominant.
When she stopped a few feet from me, she said not a word, only glared, glowered, her lips pursed tight.
The uncomfortable silence grew too unbearable. “Hello,” I finally said.
“She’s not here. If you want to see her, you need to come with us.”
I looked past her to the SUV. “Where?”
Ms. Oliver said nothing. Instead, she turned and started back toward the white vehicle.
There are times in life when we find ourselves at a crossroads. At sixteen, I didn’t quite under
stand this. Years would pass before I would even recognize such a thing. These crossroads become deciding factors, turning points.
Although completely out of my control, the death of my parents was one. Becoming friends with Dunk was another. I would soon find myself at a series of crossroads surrounding Auntie Jo. Life is a series of crossroads, and most of the time, they lead down one-way streets.
At that moment, I did not recognize this point as such a crossroad. I only saw it as a decision. I could stay here, I could remain on the bench, and most likely never see Stella Nettleton again. Or I could go with these people, who had shown me nothing but pain and ill will.
I stood.
I followed.
I went to the SUV.
Latrese Oliver held the back door open for me, and I climbed inside, sliding over to the seat behind the passenger. A man was in the driver’s seat, about thirty years old with short brown hair and dark aviator sunglasses. A woman sat in the front passenger seat. Her long blonde hair was braided, the end of which disappeared somewhere inside her white coat—a coat identical to the driver, both the same as Latrese Oliver.
Neither of these people acknowledged me as I got into the SUV (a Chevy Suburban, as Dunk had said four years earlier). Both only looked forward, their gazes fixed on some distant object.
Oliver got in beside me and pulled the door shut. “Do you have any weapons?”
“Do you?”
She smiled at this for a second, amused. Then, “Your friend’s gun. Is the weapon on you?”
So they did know about the gun.
“No.”
“And nothing else?”
“No.”
Oliver tugged a black hood from the storage pouch in the back of the driver’s seat, unfolded the thick material, and handed it to me. “Put this on.”
I considered arguing, knew it would do no good, and pulled the hood over my head.
The world went black then.
The Suburban lurched forward.
3
Preacher knocked at the apartment door.
It was the polite thing to do, and Preacher always did the polite thing. He didn’t expect anyone to answer. He kept close tabs on the Gargery woman and knew she was busy knocking on a door of her own, only her door belonged to Death.
He saw the boy run off toward the cemetery—waited for him, in fact, watching from across the street, before he came up here.
Nope, his bet was on alone.
She’d be passed out in her chair, just like the last few times.
When he heard the dead bolt unlatch, this took him a little by surprise. Not much, mind you. Nothing ever really surprised Preacher. He liked to think he was always ready for just about any situation. He just didn’t expect the woman to climb out of that chair.
The door opened, with a stocky teenager standing behind it. “Can I help you?”
Preacher cocked his head. “Huh, you’re new.”
“What?”
Preacher kicked at the bottom of the door and watched the wood frame slam into the boy’s forehead. The kid stumbled back a few steps, the door swung open, and Preacher kicked it again—the door bounced off the wall and slammed shut behind him.
Rushing toward the stunned boy, Preacher drew back his right fist and punched him square in the center of his nose. He felt the soft bone and cartilage beneath give way. The boy’s head snapped back with the impact, and he crumbled to the floor, unconscious.
The entire ordeal lasted about three seconds, but they were a noisy three seconds, so Preacher stood perfectly still then, his eyes closed, listening for the sound of a neighbor’s opening door or voices in the hallway. He heard nothing but a steady snore coming from the chair at the window and the wheezing breaths of the boy at his feet as air tried to find a way around his newly-remodeled nasal passages.
He located the boy’s wallet in his back pocket and plucked the kid’s ID from the plastic slot—Duncan Bellino of apartment 207 in this same building. He put Bellino’s ID in his own pocket and dropped the wallet on the kid’s chest. He had no reason to hurt the boy further. He had simply gotten in the way, it happens. Preacher was good at what he did, though, and he learned a long time ago a simple gesture like taking someone’s identification went a long way. That person tended to paint a nasty mental picture of what was to come, usually far nastier than was necessary, and those images proved to be a better deterrent than threats and actual violence when trying to keep someone in line. Preacher wasn’t quite sure how the Bellino kid fit into all this, but he wanted to keep his options open. He might need him down the road, or he might not. No need to kill him today, though.
He stepped over the unconscious body into the apartment.
It was muggy, stifling even. Hardly the environment for someone in Gargery’s condition. He opened both windows in the living room before heading into the boy’s bedroom.
Although their single meeting had been rather one-sided, he felt like he knew this Jack Thatch pretty well now. He had watched the boy grow up. He witnessed the superhero posters in his room disappear over the years, replaced with bands. The growing stacks of books had nearly become a hazard, piled over nearly every inch of space. How the kid maneuvered the room in the dark was beyond him. He no longer hid the sketchbooks, either. Dozens cluttered the top of his dresser and nightstand. Some of the drawings were even tacked up on the walls. The kid was exceptionally talented. He perfectly captured his little love interest. Her eyes seemed to follow him around the room, that sidelong grin of hers.
Preacher didn’t like that.
He didn’t like that one bit.
He was never fond of being watched, being seen, and that’s exactly what it felt like.
He pulled the envelope of cash from his jacket pocket and dropped it in the center of Jack’s bed.
He took out the carton of Marlboro 100s from his other jacket pocket and began hiding the cigarette packs around the apartment, all the usual places—Ms. Jo Gargery was in no condition for a complicated Easter-egg hunt. When the last pack was safely tucked away, he went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He was famished.
4
We drove for about thirty minutes.
In Pittsburgh, this didn’t mean much. Whether your destination was a half mile away or ten miles, everything always seemed to take thirty minutes or more. Roads were always in a constant need of repair. Lanes were closed for no reason whatsoever. Sidewalks were cracked away and replaced in a day’s time, with traffic routed around the construction as if the city wanted everyone to move slow.
I tried to determine where we were. After the black hood went over my head and we started forward, I followed the narrow road out of the cemetery in my mind, picturing the left turn they made four years ago onto Brownsville Road, then then another left on Nobles.
After the turn on Nobles, I counted two right turns, then a left, then another right. After that, things got sketchy. I was lost. Eventually, the vehicle jolted to a stop. I heard a train roll past. Then we started moving again..
About twenty more minutes passed before the SUV came to a final stop and the engine shut off. I heard the two front doors open, then close.
Ms. Oliver opened her door. “Wait here.”
Then her door closed, and I was alone.
I considered removing the hood, just for a second, then thought better of it. Somehow, she would know. She might be standing right outside my window, waiting for me to do just that, give her an excuse.
My door opened.
A hand gripped my arm at the shoulder and tugged. “Get out.”
A male voice.
I slid toward the open door, then cautiously placed a foot outside. When I found the ground, my other foot followed and I stepped out of the vehicle. The arm tightened, squeezed, then the hood came off.
The sun faded in the distance. The thick clouds above were painted strange oranges and reds.
We were parked in a circular paved driveway. There were three more white SUVs
in front of us, and four others parked in a small lot on the right. A winding driveway disappeared into the trees behind me.
A house, larger than any I had ever seen, lay in front of me. Bigger than our apartment building, maybe bigger than two. Three looming stories sheathed in stone. Some kind of tower capped the right end of the house, and a glass atrium occupied the far left. The windows, at least a dozen just in the front, were all covered with black wrought iron bars.
The house, and surrounding front yard, ended at a wall of at least ten feet made of the same stone as the house and capped with black metal spikes. The front lawn was at least two acres in size and expertly manicured. A fountain chortled at the center of the round drive, white foamy water spraying from the top.
I looked around for Ms. Oliver and finally found her standing at the front door, speaking to someone inside. This went on for a few minutes. Then the door closed, and she returned to the SUV. “Stella will see you shortly. You can wait in the foyer.”
She turned and started back toward the house.
The man released my shoulder.
I glanced at him, and he nodded at Oliver. I chased after her.
A woman in a white coat identical to the others opened the right side of the large, double oak doors as we approached. Her eyes met mine, but she said nothing.
I followed Oliver into the house.
The ceiling of the round foyer soared two stories with an enormous crystal chandelier at the center. My ratty tennis shoes squeaked against the marble floor as I took in the rich dark oak wainscoting on the outer walls. A table sat at the center of the room, with a single white lily in a vase at the middle.
I glanced down at my watch and realized it stopped at 6:42 p.m. I had no idea how long ago that was. Oh hell, my shirt smelled. Diner stink wafted up at me and assaulted my nose—a lingering combination of food and dishwater. A grease stain covered the middle of my chest, probably from working the grill during the dinner rush. I had another mystery stain on my jeans: red and crusty, maybe ketchup or strawberry jam. I picked at it with my fingernail, bits flaked off and fell to the marble around me.