She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be

by J. D. Barker

  Preacher returned to the car, climbed in, and frowned as water splashed on the leather seats. He’d give her a good detailing tomorrow. He’d buff the mess of this place right out and bring back the shine.

  The phone in the gatehouse began to ring as the GTO inched through the gate.

  19

  There was a nasty cold in Detective Joy Fogel’s future, she was certain of that.

  She crouched down behind the mausoleums, practically hugging the stone walls in an attempt to escape the rain, but it did little good. Her clothing was soaked straight through, and she was fairly certain her skin was bloated and wrinkled, as if she had soaked in a tub for the past hour rather than hunkered down in a cemetery tailing a kid.

  Thatch paused at his parents’ graves. Both she and Detective Faustino Brier had visited them a few times in the past. He had a folder on the graves. Ironically, they possessed more information on the graves themselves than they did on the boy’s parents. They knew who manufactured each stone, when they were placed, obtained copies of the work orders. They had no idea who paid for them—the names on the work orders proved to be bogus. The folder on the parents was thin. Fogel brushed her flat, dripping hair from her eyes for the umpteenth time and made a mental note to try and correct that. They pulled their names and DOBs from the grave markers but had been unable to locate birth records, DMV, or property. They were fairly certain the names Edward and Kaitlyn Thatch were aliases. If not aliases, they lived completely off the grid. Not too easy to do today, but easy enough in the fifties, sixties, and even the seventies.

  The boy stopped at his parents’ graves for a few minutes, then continued up the hill to the bench. Fogel followed him at a safe distance and took up position at the mausoleums when he sat.

  She spotted the approaching vehicle before he did, watched it wind up the narrow access road and park, facing him.

  She watched Thatch go to the vehicle and climb inside—a white Chevy Suburban with dark, tinted windows.

  Fogel assumed the SUV belonged to Crocket (or now, Duncan Bellino) and this was some kind of structured meet away from suspected monitored locations. If they left, she had no way to give chase.

  Thatch didn’t leave with the SUV, though. Instead, he burst from the vehicle and ran back through the cemetery. Fogel was momentarily divided—stay with the SUV or continue with the boy.

  She decided to do both.

  She ran from the mausoleums toward the white Suburban, remaining low and hoping the rain would offer her cover from whoever sat inside. She got close enough to note the plate number, then went back after the kid, cursing herself for not wearing waterproof shoes today.

  Thatch, with Fogel behind him, was halfway down the hill when the SUV left the cemetery, wiper blades slashing at the rain.

  20

  With the gate open, Preacher dropped the GTO into first and followed the cobblestone driveway through the established oaks and elms toward the house. Steering with his left hand, he took the opportunity to reload the shotgun with his right. The driveway was surprisingly long and far too quiet.

  The first bullet struck the left headlight.

  The second bullet smacked the windshield a little off-center. The bullet whizzed past Preacher’s right ear and buried itself in the fabric of his seat.

  Three more bullets followed those in quick succession before Preacher spotted the shooter—he stepped out of the trees about thirty feet in front of the car, his white coat flapping, gun bouncing in his hand. This was the one Preacher named ‘Doc.’

  Preacher hoped to get to the front of the house before the gunplay began, but since that was clearly not in the cards, he dropped the GTO into neutral, yanked up the emergency break, and pushed out the door into the rain. This really set Doc off. He began firing wildly at the sight of him—stupid at this distance, particularly in the rain. Preacher disappeared among the trees and came around Doc’s flank while the kid was reloading.

  Clipped to his belt, Preacher carried a dozen Smith & Wesson SWTK10CP throwing blades. Made of carbon steel with a nice weight of about seven ounces, he preferred them over guns in many situations, this being one of them. The knife was off his belt, silently airborne, and buried in Doc’s neck in less time than it took for the kid to swap his empty clip for a fresh one. Doc dropped his Sig, dropped the clip, then fell to the ground. His last mistake was pulling the knife from his neck.

  Preacher stuck to the trees.

  Two more guards appeared in the driveway. One bent over Doc, the other scanned the trees. Neither saw him. They eyed the still-running GTO. Preacher followed the tree line until the house came into view, then waited at the edge, the shotgun slung over his shoulder and knives in each hand.

  The two men ran right past him, back toward the house.

  As the second one raced by, Preacher struck the man in the heel, slicing his achilles. The man dropped, then slid. The first man turned at the sound and caught Preacher’s second blade in the throat. He went down, too.

  Grumpy and Happy, Preacher supposed. The guards were all out of position now. It was difficult to tell them apart.

  The guard with the sliced heel attempted to pull himself toward the trees, sliding slowly across the driveway. Preacher stabbed him in the back of the neck, took his Sig Sauer, then turned his gaze back toward the front of the house. There were two more guards out here somewhere. That just wouldn’t do.

  Floodlights kicked on, turning the rain white.

  21

  Detective Faustino Brier had followed the GTO down Willock, past the cemetery, and nearly lost it when he entered a fairly exclusive neighborhood known as Burlington Hills. Unwilling to get too close and risk being spotted, he allowed the GTO to pull ahead and disappear among the curvy roads. Faustino hadn’t found the car again, but he did find the small guardhouse with two bodies lying in front of it, the large wrought iron gate standing open, and a phone ringing inside.

  Both men were clearly dead, their long, white coats muddled in pinks and reds and rain.

  When a series of shots rang out from somewhere ahead, Faustino radioed for backup from his car, drew his gun, then started down the long driveway on foot, his eyes carefully scanning the trees.

  He’d be dead in less than three minutes.

  22

  Preacher found Sleepy crouching behind the fountain at the center of the driveway, waiting for him.

  As Preacher came out of the trees, a bullet caught him in the left shoulder, another in the center of his chest. The force sent Preacher spinning to the ground. Although the kevlar stopped both, they still hurt like hell. He brought the gun he had taken from Happy up and around, pointed it at the fountain, and when Sleepy leaned over to take another shot, a bullet hit him just above his right temple.

  Preacher scrambled to his feet and ran for the stone entryway of the house.

  Bashful was still outside somewhere. He’d worry about him later.

  He tried the door.

  Locked.

  Leveling the shotgun at the dead bolt, he turned his head and pulled the trigger. The wood frame exploded, leaving a six-inch hole behind and a ringing in his ears.

  Preacher kicked the door in and entered the house at a low crouch, ducking behind a round wooden table in the foyer. The shotgun followed his head as he quickly took in his surroundings—a sitting room on his right and a library on his left, both empty.

  A vase on the table above him shattered, following the report of another gunshot.

  Preacher broke from the table, ran down the central corridor, then rounded the corner for the hallway on the left, which would lead him to the central basement access. He encountered two more guards in white and dispatched both with the shotgun. The second managed to get a shot off from his .45, but it missed Preacher and landed at the center of a painting hanging in the hallway. At the end of this corridor, Preacher made another quick left and came upon the stairs leading to the basement. Three more guards were on their way up. Four quick shots from the Sig sent t
hem scrambling back down for cover.

  Reaching into his coat pocket, Preacher pulled one of the grenades, released the spoon, and tossed it down the stairs.

  The explosion rumbled deep in the belly of the house, a loud whop! vibrating up the stone foundation, shaking the floor and walls.

  Without taking the time to aim, he fired the shotgun toward the top of the staircase, then raced up the steps behind the blast, unloading the remaining bullets from the Sig in the general direction the shots had originated. The wall above chipped and splintered. Chunks of drywall and wood wainscoting blew out to the side. When the gun was empty, he dropped it, raised the shotgun as he reached the top and rounded the corner, and fired two quick blasts, the bright muzzle flash illuminating the hallway. The first left a large hole in the wall, the second left a large hole in the man who had been standing there.

  At the top of the stairs, Preacher froze. He closed his eyes. He listened.

  From the blueprints, he knew seven bedrooms and five bathrooms occupied the second floor. There was an attic space above running the full length of the house.

  Eyes still closed, he reloaded the shotgun.

  He needed the third bedroom on the left.

  He opened his eyes and started down the hallway, shotgun at the ready.

  He expected at least three other guards on this level, but none appeared.

  He expected the bedroom door to be locked.

  The door wasn’t locked.

  Preacher stepped into the room.

  He leveled the shotgun at the bedroom’s only occupant.

  The girl, grown up now, sat calmly in a chair at the window looking out over the expansive backyard. Without turning to him, she simply said, “There are more coming. You’ll never get out of here.”

  He watched as she stripped off her long, black gloves, carefully folding the elegant material and setting them aside on a table.

  Smoke drifted up from downstairs.

  He heard shouting.

  More coming.

  23

  “What the fuck, Thatch!” Willy shouted as I pushed past him through the door.

  Water pooled on the floor behind me, puddled on the worn hardwood. I went to the window, turned, paced back toward the door, turned, back toward the window.

  “Jack! Stop!” Willy tried to grab me as I passed him for the third time, but I shrugged his hand off my shoulder.

  I barely heard him over the drumming in my ears, the blood swooshing through my veins.

  “What the hell happened?”

  I tried to talk.

  I tried to tell him.

  Instead, I just tugged Stella’s letter from my pocket, dropped it on the table, then went to my room, slamming the door behind me.

  If he hadn’t taken the bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum from my dresser, I surely would have drunk it all.

  I hated him for finding that bottle.

  Log 08/09/1993—

  Subject “D” within expected parameters.

  Audio/video recording.

  “What are all those folders?” Carl said.

  “Folders?”

  “On the kid’s table.”

  Warren shrugged. “Dunno. The doc has been bringing them in all day. She’s probably prepping him for another phone call.”

  “They’ve never given him intel before.”

  “Times change.”

  “Has anyone from corporate been here today?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “If they’re prepping him for another call, someone from corporate would be overseeing it.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “They always do.”

  “Times change.”

  “You seem awfully relaxed,” Carl pointed out.

  “You seem awfully stressed.”

  “I don’t like change.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Maybe we should call somebody.”

  “I’m not calling anyone,” Warren replied.

  Carl reached over and pressed the microphone button. “Hey, Shitface, what are you reading?”

  At his words, Subject “D” looked up from the other side of the observation window. His lips moved. Thirty seconds later, the image of Subject “D” looked up on the video monitor, and his reply came through the speakers. “Come on in and find out, Carl. It’s fascinating stuff. A history of sorts. I’d love to discuss it with you. You certainly have a right to hear about it, since your name appears more than once. Not in the most flattering light, I’m afraid. This one particular incident, where you groped the unfortunate Sandy Newman in the cafeteria three years ago, in front of three other coworkers without any regard for the consequences, that says a lot about you as a person, your character. Nothing I didn’t already know, but enlightening nonetheless. I should be shocked they only suspended you for a week, but considering some of the other things I’ve read, I’m not surprised at all.”

  Carl turned to Warren. “Are those employee files?”

  “That’s crazy. Why would someone give him employee files? The kid’s just messing with you.”

  “Then how would he know about Sandy Newman?”

  “Everybody knows about Sandy Newman.”

  “Nobody would have told him.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  On the monitor, Subject “D” returned to the file spread out on his table.

  Warren’s eyes dropped back to the copy of Along Came a Spider by James Patterson in his hands.

  - Observer’s Note: Throughout the duration of this conversation, as well as the proceeding forty-eight minutes, Warren Beeson did not turn the page.

  —Charter Observation Team – 309

  24

  The dream didn’t come.

  There was no dream. There was nothing but blackness, emptiness, a dark hole that ate everything else.

  For the third time in as many months, I woke to a heavy knock at my door.

  “Jack? Get up. You’ll want to see this.”

  Willy.

  The rain had stopped.

  Hazy, early morning light filled my window.

  At some point, I kicked off my sneakers, but I still wore the same jeans and sweatshirt I had last night, still soaked, as was my bedspread, the sheets, and probably my mattress.

  “What is it?” I muttered.

  “On TV. You need to see it.”

  I glanced at the digital clock beside my bed.

  6:05.

  I crawled out of the bed and made my way to the living room. The television provided the only light, the volume low.

  The news.

  A helicopter shot of a house.

  Stella’s house.

  The pool in back. The fountain. I knew immediately.

  “Is that—” Willy said.

  “Yeah.”

  I sat down on the edge of the couch, nodded at the television. “What’s going on?”

  “Something really bad. Eighteen dead so far, and they’re still pulling out bodies. I just turned it on, but I heard something about guns and explosions, fire.”

  “Eighteen?”

  Stella.

  Willy nodded. “Sounds like one of them might be a cop.”

  Smoke rose from the west side of the house, thick black cords trailing out the windows and doors, a hole in the roof.

  The camera cut from the aerial back to a reporter. “We’ve been told by Pittsburgh Police that we need to relocate. They are expanding the perimeter to include not only the house and surrounding property but the cul-de-sac, too. From what we can gather, this is to make room for additional emergency vehicles. I can see at least two firetrucks attempting to get through now, and between the narrow streets, press, and spectators, they’re having a tough time of it. If you are just joining us, this is Pete Lemire with KRWT CBS, and we’re standing outside a private residence located at 62 Milburn Court where at least eighteen people are known to be dead, including at least one police officer. Pittsburgh PD has not released any names at this
time and said they will not until next of kin can be notified. Two of the dead appear to be security guards at the gatehouse behind me, victims of apparent gunshot wounds.”

  Lemire looked off to his right, nodding at someone. “Again, we are being asked to relocate. I’ll hand it back to Christie in the newsroom. Christie?”

  The camera switched back to the aerial. No voiceover.

  “Milburn Court is only about a mile from where you got hit on your bike. A few blocks off Nobles in Burlington Hills. Really nice area. Old money,” Willy said.

  Stella’s letter sat on the coffee table, unfolded, staring up at me, the word forget smudged but dry now.

  Willy caught me looking at it. “That’s rough, bro.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The hidden message was clever. That girl loves to screw with you.”

  I looked up at him. “What hidden message?”

  “You didn’t see it?” he rolled his eyes. “You’re so damn lovesick. Of course you didn’t.” He ran his finger down the text. “Look at the last seven lines, the first letter of each line. It jumped right out at me, but I do a lot of word puzzles. Maybe that’s…”

  He droned on, but I wasn’t listening. My eyes locked on those last seven lines in Stella’s careful script—

  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

  HELP ME

  On the television, the reporter returned, repeating the same information. “I need to get over there.”

  “That sounds like a really bad idea.”

  “Don’t care.”

  Before he could reply, I was back in my room, changing out of my damp clothes.

  Neither of us owned a car. Everything we needed was within walking distance, and parking was scarce. Matteo had offered to buy me one with funds from the trust, but I turned him down. It would just sit and rot, I told him. Vandals in the neighborhood didn’t need another target, particularly a shiny new one.