by J. D. Barker
“I’ll be back, I promise.”
Standing, I turned toward the hill and made my way toward the mausoleums, toward the bench.
14
Preacher took the turn off Brownsville and brought the GTO to a stop in a small alley just off the main road.
He had a love/hate relationship with the rain.
He knew the weather would offer additional cover and help shield him from prying eyes, but at the same time, he hated being wet. Damp clothes slowed him down, made him drag, made him feel dirty. Of course, there was the sound, too. Preacher knew his hearing was keen, probably better than most, but this kind of weather created such a racket it drowned out nearly everything—great for what he was about to do, bad when listening for a threat creeping up on your backside.
He’d make due, though. He always did.
Reaching under the passenger seat, he retrieved his shotgun. A modified 14” pump action Mossberg with a Raptor grip. From the glove box, he took out one of the dozen boxes of ammunition and began filling the magazine with shells, pumping the last to ready it in the chamber.
From behind the boxes of ammunition, he retrieved three M67 grenades. Although small, each would produce an injury radius of fifteen meters and could throw fragments as far as two hundred and fifty meters.
Loud too.
Preacher liked loud.
He wore his Gordonstone army-issue trenchcoat, a favorite of his since finding it in a Goodwill store nearly fifteen years ago. He dropped the three grenades into the large front right pocket and systematically began to fill each of the remaining pockets with spare shells for the shotgun. He knew from past experience he could easily carry five boxes of ammunition. The shotgun shells added about thirteen pounds to the already heavy jacket—the jacket’s weight came from the kevlar plates he stitched inside, covering his arms and chest.
His lucky jacket.
His favorite shotgun.
Ready to go.
Few minutes to six.
He backed out of the alley.
15
The bench was empty.
Raindrops hit the seat and bounced back up. Water rolled off the surface and puddled beneath.
I shivered.
I should have brought a jacket.
I made my way from the edge of the mausoleums to the bench and took a seat, swept my wet hair back from my face and eyes, and stared down the narrow access road.
No sign of the SUVs.
I had the letter from Stella’s dad to mine in my front pocket, and I hoped to God the rain didn’t ruin it. I cursed myself for not wrapping the letter in plastic or something to keep it safe.
Although the sun wouldn’t set for another two hours or so, there was very little light. The angry storm clouds above blotted out what little tried to get past and the cemetery felt lost in some kind of pre-twilight. When the wind kicked up, I bent my head forward and shielded my eyes. At least ten more minutes passed before I spotted headlights slicing through the rain at the far end of the access road, weaving through the cemetery, disappearing behind the hills only to reappear a moment later a little closer.
When the vehicle stopped about a hundred feet from me, the rain was coming down so hard I couldn’t make out much of anything. Even the beams of the headlights seemed choked by the rain, struggling to see more than a few feet.
They sat there, the engine revving.
I stood and started toward it.
16
Preacher pulled to a stop, his foot riding the gas, feeding the engine. The GTO rumbled with delight.
He couldn’t see a damn thing.
He flicked his headlights from low to high and back again, the rain falling so hard now it was a solid wall of water, a curtain of white.
He rested his right hand on the Mossberg, ran his thumb over the smooth, oiled metal.
When someone tapped at his window, his fingers tightened on the grip.
With his free hand, Preacher reached for the door handle.
Go time.
17
The back door opened and I scrambled onto the seat, slamming the door behind me with water splashing all about.
Ms. Oliver stood beside me, a scowl covered her face. “I thought you might sit out there all night, soaking up the filthy coal-ridden acid rain of this god-awful town. Maybe we’ll all get lucky and you’ll come down with a nice bout of pneumonia. Too stupid to wear a proper coat or use an umbrella. Why am I not surprised?”
I glanced around the interior.
A man and woman sat in the front seats. Neither turned around. I could see the man in the rearview mirror. He looked to be in his mid-twenties with short-cropped blond hair, brown eyes, and a scar about an inch long above his right cheek. When he saw me looking at him, he smirked and faced front out the windshield at the onslaught of rain rolling over the glass.
“Where is she?”
Oliver sighed. “I warned you when you were a kid, I told you what would happen, and you didn’t listen. Instead, you obsess, you chase, you hang posters all over town, for god’s sake. Even now, I can hear your little heart going all pitter-patter. At what point do you realize you are beneath her and move on?”
“Take me to her.”
“You can’t touch her,” Oliver went on. “You’ve seen what her touch brings. You can’t hold her, not ever, and that is the least of the walls keeping you apart. I wanted you to see that, you needed to see.”
“Take me to her,” I said again.
“She has to do it, you know. The urge builds, this desire, this hunger, this void crying out for fill. She can hold it at bay for a little while, but it nags at her. She said the hunger starts like a little whisper from the corner of the room and eventually grows to a scream so loud she hears nothing else. It’s a sickness, an addiction, both mental and physical.” She turned to me and smiled. “You understand addiction, don’t you? I hear you’ve taken up the drink. That’s such marvelous news. That should speed your journey to the gutter for sure.”
“I only drank—”
“You only drank to cope, to numb the pain, to escape.” She waved a hand in the air. “I’ve heard it all before. I really don’t care why you’re doing it. I can only hope you escalate. Perhaps you’ll move on to pills or heroin or meth or crack—anything that removes you from my life sooner rather than later would be simply wonderful. I hear you can afford it now, too.” The smile left her face. She leaned in closer. “Don’t you think for a second a little coin jingling in your pocket somehow raises you to her stature. Don’t you believe that for a second. Finer clothes can’t change who you really are. All they do is help cover up the stench simmering beneath. Like a tarp over a pile of shit left out in the sun.” She placed her hand on her lap. “All those years ago, when I first met you, you had such a fire in your eyes. That determined ‘nothing can stop me’ bullshit every child possesses. It’s nice to see that fire dimming with life’s challenges, and dim it has over the years. You’ll soon see even tossing the occasional glass of accelerant on the flames can’t rekindle the exuberance of youth. The only real question left is how long before your fire goes out completely. How long before you’re another mindless wretch wandering the streets with nothing left to your name but the cardboard sign in your hand and the stink of booze on your breath?”
My hand had balled into a fist, and I was sure my face was red. “Take. Me. To. Her.” The man in the front seat looked back at me in the mirror.
“No,” Ms. Oliver said. “This ends today.”
“You’re keeping her there, in that house, against her will. You’re forcing her to do those things, to hurt people.”
This brought a smile back to Oliver’s face, a soft chuckle. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a folded letter. She handed it to me. It smelled of vanilla. The letter smelled of Stella.
At first, I didn’t unfold it. I only stared at the old woman. I had never hated anyone as much as I hated her. This evil, vile woman. When I finally did unfold it, all
three of them were watching me. I reached up and turned on the overhead light.
Oliver’s hand shot up and flicked the switch. “Leave the light off. I prefer the dark.”
I unfolded the letter and, Stella’s scent filled the SUV.
My dearest little Pip,
I’m afraid our time together has come to an end. You have been such fun. A splendid time, to be sure. Upon our first meeting, I told my beloved Ms. Oliver that you would be mine within a year, less even, should I put a little effort behind it. I told her I could wrap you around my finger and lead you around like a puppy with little more than the bat of an eye. And you have proven me right. From curiosity came wonder and from wonder came desire and from desire came lust, and somewhere within all of that, came love. I know you love me. While I could never love the likes of you, I know you love me. I’m curious—when Ms. Oliver told you that you could never have me, did that make you want me more? She said it would. It would be helpful to know.
In the pool, I know you wanted me. The lust and need upon your face was so blatantly obvious, I nearly called out to Ms. Oliver and the others simply to say, “Look! Like the strings of a puppet! Watch as I move him here, watch as I move him there… Dance, my little Pip, dance!”
Oh, it was wonderful, our years together.
My little plaything.
My little Pip.
But, end it must.
You must forget me.
How are you to fill your days without thinking about me?
Even I don’t know. Perhaps you will always think about me.
Live all your days with me on your mind, then.
Perhaps you won’t, but I think you will.
My Pip.
Every day, always. My Pip.
Stella
My first thought upon finishing the letter was that she didn’t write it. Someone else wrote it and signed her name. I didn’t know her handwriting, had never seen it. I did know her signature, though. She had signed all the paintings in the house, and I remembered each of those images with complete clarity. The brushstrokes vividly etched in my mind. The signature on the letter matched the signature on those paintings.
Stella
The style of the signature matched the text above—the penmanship, the ink, the curve of each letter, the cross of a t or the swirl of an e. I didn’t want to believe they were written by the same hand, by her hand, but the closer I looked, the more certain of this I became, and by my sixth pass, I could no longer read the letter through the tears filling my eyes.
Oliver said, “Seven years ago, you and I sat upon that bench and I told you, ‘you will never have her. As much as you may one day desire her, she will never be yours.’ Do you remember?”
I said nothing.
My tears fell on the letter. A drop fell on the word forget. I watched the ink as it pooled, spread, the word going blurry. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. Inhaled the snot ready to drip from my nose.
“You were, and always have been, a game to her. A game that has finally reached its end. Not soon enough for my tastes, but finally, nonetheless.” She looked over at me and smiled. “I’ll tell her you cried. She’ll like that. Perhaps you’ll go home and slit your wrists. I would like that. Do you need a knife? I’m sure we can find one for you.”
The man in the driver’s seat was watching me again, a grin on his lips in the mirror. The woman beside him looked like she might burst out with laughter, her head hung low, her lips pursed tight, holding back.
I reached for the door handle. Before Oliver said another word, Stella’s letter was in my pocket and I was out the car—I ran off into the rain, into the night.
18
“Please stay in your vehicle, sir.”
Preacher heard the words a moment before he made out the shape of the man who uttered them, standing beside his car in a long, white trench coat, a hood pulled over his head. One hand on the butt of a gun in a holster at his waist, the other hand on Preacher’s car door, heavy rain falling all around.
Preacher put his shoulder down and opened the door of the GTO with such force, it nailed the man in his midsection and sent him sprawling on his back.
He followed the door as it opened, brought the gun up, braced the stock against his hip, then forced the barrel down into the man’s chest.
The man in the white trench coat looked like a turtle stuck on his back, all flailing arms and legs attempting to right himself. A slew of pleading words flowed from his pale face.
Preacher pulled the trigger.
With the barrel pressed tight against the man’s chest, his body acted like a makeshift silencer. He bounced as the explosion entered his chest cavity and expanded, no doubt turning his organs into mush. The blast escaped from the man’s back with enough force to spray water and the remnants of a few petals out in all directions.
In a single, fluid motion, Preacher raised the shotgun, jerked his arm hard enough to eject the spent shell and load a new one, and sighted the weapon on a second man in a white trench coat stepping out of the guardhouse next to the gate. This man also had a Sig Sauer P220. He managed to get it about halfway out of his holster before Preacher’s shotgun erupted in a second blast. A bright red bloom opened up in the man’s chest and ruined his nice white coat. The man looked down at the spot. Confusion filled his eyes as it grew. Then he collapsed in a puddle, partially obscured by the Pontiac’s left front fender.
Because that shot didn’t utilize a human silencer, or any silencer for that matter, it was much louder than the first. No doubt loud enough for at least one or two neighbors to hear. Whether or not they called the police was a different matter. In a storm like this, most would probably attribute such a sound to the weather. Shotgun blasts in this part of town were not common, and while most people would like to believe they could identify the sound of gunfire, very few actually could, and even fewer were willing to act on that sound when they did hear it. Easier to tell themselves they didn’t hear it, easier to pretend they heard something else.
Three steps to the guardhouse. Preacher was inside in an instant, the shotgun reloaded and ready. As he expected, it was empty.
The guardhouse had four windows, one facing in each direction. Beneath the window, facing the house, was a small desk. The desk housed three small television monitors tied to the closed-circuit video system. The first monitor displayed a nice close-up of his Pontiac GTO, and he couldn’t help but admire the car. It was a beautiful piece of Detroit’s finest workmanship. The rain brought out the best of the car’s lines, glimmering under the floodlight pointed at the hood. The second monitor showed a wide view—the tail end of the GTO was visible as was a substantial length of the driveway, nearly to the main road. The third monitor cycled through all the other cameras positioned around the large property.
Immediately following the Gargery funeral, Preacher trailed the small motorcade of white vehicles back to this place. No easy task. There had been three of them, and each took a different route in an effort to thwart a tail, one of them taking more than an hour to get back even though the house wasn’t more than a couple miles from the cemetery. Preacher knew which car contained the Oliver woman, and that was the one he focused on, carefully tailing at a respectable distance with several cars between whenever possible. Not his first rodeo. Oliver’s car had also taken a longer route back to the house, one that took nearly thirty minutes rather than the five or so a direct route would take. That didn’t matter. What did matter was Preacher knew where the house was after that, knew where they were.
He knew where to find the girl.
That afternoon, he obtained copies of the building plans from the county courthouse. He obtained plat maps of the terrain. He pulled all the tax records for the property. It was an old estate, built back in 1893. Records from Building and Zoning gave him details on all the improvements and additions made over the years—upgrades to the electrical and plumbing, reinforcements to the rooms and walls. Building permits listed vendors on-site
whenever an inspector came by. Using the vendor names, Preacher located the company that installed the security system and the custom dead bolts securing all outer doors. Obtaining their records only took a few days.
Within a week, he knew every inch of the place. He could rattle off the type of nail the contractor used in each room down to the copper manufacturer of the original pipes and the PVC that replaced them about a decade ago.
He began surveillance shortly after that.
Most installations—and that was exactly what he considered this place to be, not a house but an installation—most installations that employed full-time security typically ran a tight ship. That meant schedules, rotations, defined routes and patterns. Some stuck to a daily rotation schedule, others went with a rotation of five, ten, or sometimes even twenty different schedules, the more complicated, the more difficult they were to monitor, to map. This place rotated between seven different schedules, and it took Preacher nearly two weeks to figure it all out. He had, though, he always did. By the end of that two weeks, he identified all thirty-seven guards who worked here, knew their assignments, schedule, and rotation. He didn’t go so far as to pull payroll information and determine their real names. Instead, he named each of them himself. The one he killed at his car was Dopey. The second man had been Sneezy.
At any given time, two men were assigned to the guardhouse. Five more patrolled the grounds. Seven in total on the outside.
Beside the three security system monitors was a telephone. He stood there and stared at the phone for about a minute on the off chance the shots had been heard and someone placed a call to the guardhouse.
The phone did not ring.
Beside the phone was a large yellow button. Preacher pressed it.
The wrought iron gate in front of his GTO began the slow swing inward, opening up over the driveway.