She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be

by J. D. Barker

  Tracking someone with no bank accounts, no credit history, no utilities in today’s modern world proved to be another animal altogether. Some would say it was an impossibility. If a man learned to live completely off the grid, he left no trail, no fingerprints, he became a ghost. And that was completely true. Dewey Hobson eluded them, eluded him because of this. That was until a few months ago, when David had a realization—rather than focus their search on where Dewey Hobson might have gone and done, focus the search on where he might go, what he might do, once he got there. While this was a large country filled with vast amounts of wilderness, there were only so many places where someone could live off the grid but still be relatively close to civilization to purchase supplies.

  In college at Penn State, Dewey Hobson had been an avid reader. David suspected this was partly why Hobson chose to live off the grid. If he could pass his time with nothing more than a good book for company, and be happy, he could live in a hole in the ground with a thatch roof and be perfectly comfortable. Much like the man who ate tuna sandwiches, though, Hobson’s reading patterns off grid would be the same as his reading patterns on grid, and that was where David told Charter to focus their efforts when he took it upon himself to find the last few original test subjects and put them down like the expired lab rats they were. Most believed libraries didn’t track the books checked out by their patrons due to privacy concerns. That was only partially true. Libraries did track this information, but they kept the data private, safely tucked away in computer databases accessible only to employees and the most skilled of hackers. Charter employed its share of skilled hackers, and these databases were, well, an open book.

  As a kid, a teenager, and later an adult, Dewey Hobson had been an avid reader of Agatha Christie, Robert Ludlum, and Philip K. Dick. He also read every Western by Louis L’Amour. Hobson wasn’t alone in his love for these particular authors. They wrote some of the most popular books in existence. However, this odd combination of suspense, science fiction, and Westerns was different. Most people stuck to one genre, maybe two. Few read this broadly.

  When Charter began monitoring for individuals checking out library books by all four of these authors, they found Dewey Hobson the first time, hiding in Carte Del Playa, New Mexico. He moved on by the time David arrived there in 1996, but they soon found that same pattern at a library outside Waitsburn, Vermont. They nearly got him there. Waitsburn was so close. David probably missed him by a week, maybe two at most. That was a little over a year ago.

  In May of this year, the pattern appeared yet again at the Eureka Public Library, just outside of Trego, Montana. Although a tiny library, they installed security cameras two years prior, and it took little effort for Charter to hack the feed and begin surveillance. Twenty years passed since the last known photograph of Dewey Hobson, but there was no mistaking him on the library camera feed. It was the large forehead. Hobson’s forehead was freakishly big. Even with the trapper’s hat, long hair, and beard, they spotted him rather easily. David dispatched a team shortly after that. They documented his movements, got pictures of his gray Ford Bronco, and learned where he lived. Each time he came to town from his small cabin on Marl Lake, they learned a little more.

  Dewey Hobson would elude him no more.

  David told Oliver and the others to wait back at the cars. He didn’t need them. Frankly, the last thing he needed was half a dozen people traipsing through the woods behind him, creating some kind of ungodly racket. Hobson’s cabin was nearly a mile hike from the closest logging road. As expected, they found Hobson’s Bronco hidden under camouflage netting within a cluster of trees just off that logging road. David told everyone to stay put and he’d go in alone. When he found the first tripwire, he was glad he did. One of his subordinates would have certainly triggered the trap. He found three more before he spotted the cabin.

  At the center of a small clearing, the log cabin sat back about fifty feet from the lake shore. At best, the hand-built structure was only about four hundred square feet, but this actually made it larger than the one they found in Waitsburn. Firewood was stacked high on the side of the cabin, smoke trailed up from the stone chimney, and a rocking chair sat on the porch looking out over the water.

  The rocking chair swayed slowly from back to front.

  There was no wind.

  The water was still.

  Someone had just been sitting there.

  David heard the cler-chunk! of someone chambering a shotgun round a few feet to his left.

  “Hi, Dewey.” David said the name, careful not to sound threatening, then realizing it was virtually impossible to sound threatening while saying a name like Dewey. “This is a lovely place. So peaceful, all the way out here. I can see why you’re drawn to it.”

  Dewey Hobson stepped out of the woods, keeping a safe distance. He most likely figured if he got too close, David would try to grab the barrel of the shotgun, maybe wrestle the weapon away from him. Of course, David had no need for such physical theatrics. He’d humor the man, though. There was no reason to upset him.

  “I’m David Pickford.”

  “Keith Pickford’s kid?”

  David nodded.

  “That supposed to comfort me somehow?”

  It clearly hadn’t. Hobson took a step back. “I know all about your parents. Heard about it back when it happened. Get on your knees.”

  “You’re a difficult man to find.”

  “You got no business looking.”

  David smiled at him. “You’re making me nervous, Dewey. How about you point that shotgun at the ground?”

  “Okay.” Hobson lowered the barrel.

  Hobson’s forehead puckered, and he raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure why he lowered the gun, he only understood that he had. When he tried to raise the shotgun again, his hand, his arm, both disobeyed. The gun remained limp at his side.

  “Why don’t we go inside? We’ve got some catching up to do.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bring the shotgun.”

  “Okay.”

  The cabin was sparsely furnished but pleasant. No television or radio. Oil lamps rather than electric lights. A makeshift kitchen occupied the westernmost wall with a wood-burning stove in the corner. Hobson must have recently stoked the logs because several burned bright orange, filling the room with warmth. There was a round table next to the stove surrounded by three chairs, the top piled high with books, magazines, and assorted junk. The surface in front of one of the chairs was clear. David imagined Dewey Hobson took his meals there, with no one for company but the voices shouting in his head. The opposite wall housed a bed and a small writing desk. The door to the bathroom stood open. David noted the tiny space only contained a toilet and a sink.

  “Where do you shower, Dewey?”

  “I wash in the lake.”

  “That must be nice.”

  “It’s cold, most of the time.”

  Although Hobson’s clothing was old and in dire need of a good seamstress, he didn’t appear filthy. His beard was thick but well maintained. He could use a haircut, but the mop on his head wasn’t to the point of unruly. His heavy boots were sturdy and looked nearly new.

  David gestured to the chair at the clear spot of the table. “Take a seat, Dewey.”

  Hobson lowered himself into the chair, cradling the shotgun in his lap.

  David pulled out the chair next to him and sat down too, eyeing the books. “Do you have a favorite?”

  Hobson didn’t hesitate. “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie. Terrific ending, and probably one of the best twists ever written.”

  “I haven’t read that one.”

  “You should.”

  “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “I imagine you plan to kill me.”

  Hobson said the words so casually, his hands remaining folded loosely over the gun.

  “You should have died a long time ago.”

  “I suppose.”

  “After you took the sho
t.”

  Hobson said nothing to this, only looked down at the shotgun.

  David sighed. “I always thought it was strange they gave the shot to you. Your file says you had no special skills, no precursors, nothing to really warrant your inclusion in the experiment at all, yet there you were, right along with the others. Did you have any kind of reaction, Dewey? After they gave it to you?”

  Dewey Hobson began to sweat. His mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

  “It’s rude to ignore your guests, Dewey. Did you have a reaction?”

  Hobson didn’t want to answer. David saw the pain and confusion in his eyes when the words came out anyway.

  “Before the shot, I could hear electricity. This constant humming everywhere. It got much worse after.”

  David leaned back in his chair and folded his fingers together. “That’s remarkable. Is that why you have no electronics here?”

  Hobson nodded. “Too fucking loud. It hurts sometimes. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Hard to think, harder to sleep. Quiet here.”

  “Sounds like a lonely life.”

  “Not much choice in the matter.”

  David tapped the end of the shotgun. “Tell me, Dewey. If you put that barrel in your mouth, are you able to reach the trigger or is the gun too long?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Why don’t you try?”

  “Okay.”

  Hobson picked up the long weapon, turned it so the barrel pointed at his face, then wrapped his lips around the end. His hands slipped down the barrel to the stock, then found the trigger guard. It was a stretch, but he could reach.

  “That’s good, Dewey. You can take it out. I have a few more questions for you.”

  Hobson removed the gun, set the weapon back on his lap, then wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve.

  “Did you ever have any children, Dewey?”

  Hobson shook his head.

  “Are you sure? A player like you?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they wanted the children. I couldn’t.”

  “Couldn’t what?”

  “Give them my children.”

  “The children you never had.”

  Hobson said nothing.

  “Because if you did have children, and somehow didn’t tell me, didn’t tell us, that would be bad.”

  The sweat at his brown began to trickle down. “I don’t have children.”

  “I believe you, Dewey,” David said, although not quite convinced it was really true. “There’s something else I need you to tell me, something really important. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I need you to tell me where I can find the others.”

  “You killed the others.”

  “Not all of them. The last few have been slippery, like you.” David leaned forward. “Where are they, Dewey?”

  Hobson began to shake, his face turning red. He didn’t want to, but he spoke anyway. “I only know where Cammie is. And she may not be there no more. She likes to stay on the move.”

  “How do you stay in touch?”

  Hobson said nothing.

  “Dewey…”

  “Dalton tracks all of us, helps us organize.”

  “And where can I find Dalton?”

  “Dunno,” Hobson said. “I never know where Dalton goes.”

  “Where is Cammie?”

  Hobson told him.

  David leaned back in his chair. He liked the smell of the burning wood, the heat from the fire. He found the atmosphere comforting, relaxing. “Did you like my parents, Dewey?”

  “Your mother was nice. A little shy, but nice. Nobody really liked your father, though. He was a real jerk.”

  “It’s not nice to say mean things like that, to speak ill of the dead.”

  Hobson said nothing.

  David tilted his head. “Do you think I’m a good-looking guy, Dewey?”

  “No.”

  The answer stung, but David had heard it before. More times than he cared to count. He glanced down at the shotgun…almost time. “I’m a beautiful man. Probably the best-looking man you’ve ever seen or will see.”

  “You’re a beautiful man, David Pickford.”

  “That’s better.”

  David stood and hunted through the books on the table until he found The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. A fine first edition, bound in leather with gold leaf on the edges. “This is your favorite book? The best one here?”

  Hobson nodded.

  David tossed the book through the open door of the wood stove. The topmost log crackled and split under the new weight. Flames crawled around the sides and began to chew at the leather. “Go ahead and put the shotgun back into your mouth, Dewey.”

  Hobson did.

  David planned to watch the man kill himself. He rarely got the opportunity to watch, but then he got an idea.

  A much better idea.

  4

  Eastern Airlines flight 5091 touched down in Reno, Nevada, at twenty-three minutes past six on the night of August 8, 1998. Detective Joy Fogel sat at the window in row eighteen, with an elderly woman knitting in the seat beside her and a business man buried in notes at the aisle.

  At Reno Airport, she rented a Toyota Camry at the counter, retrieved her gun and shoulder rig from her checked bag before stowing the suitcase in the trunk, then followed the signs to I-80 East, then US-50, arriving in Fallon, Nevada, at a little after eight.

  The temperature was insanely hot. Even with the sun down and the air conditioning at full, her back was soaked with sweat, sticking to the leather car seat. She made a mental note never to return to the state of Nevada in the summer.

  Never.

  Like most small towns in Nevada, Fallon grew out of the desert and looked like it could return to the sand if someone broke the tap or shut off the water for more than an hour. Alfalfa fields surrounded the outskirts of town, adding to the “carved out” feel. The main street (aptly named Main Street) was a series of one and two-story buildings that might easily double for the set of a Wild West movie, had the road not been paved.

  She found a small diner at the center of the town proper, took a booth near the back, and ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a large Coke. From her purse, she retrieved the Nokia cell phone Stack had given her before she left Pittsburgh, and powered the contraption on. She tried calling him twice from the road, and both times she had no signal. Since the battery didn’t last long, it seemed best to keep it powered off. When the display came to life, she had two bars. She hit number one on the presets. Twenty seconds passed before the call connected.

  “Stack.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Fogel said. “There’s not much out here.”

  “Where are you now?”

  She told him.

  “Did you ever see the movie Top Gun with Tom Cruise and Kelly something?”

  “Kelly McGillis.”

  “Whatever. The real Top Gun training facility moved from Miramar, California, to the naval air station just outside of Fallon two years ago, a little south of town. That base keeps the town alive. The place you’re heading is about halfway between town and the airfields off I-118.”

  “And you think he’s there now?”

  “Thatch withdrew another three hundred from the same ATM machine last night at a little after ten—that’s two nights in a row at about the same time. Got no reason to believe he’s anyplace else. I’ve got some buddies watching the cemetery here in Brentwood just in case, but my gut says he’s out there.”

  Fogel popped the last bit of her burger into her mouth and followed it with a sip of Coke. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “Are you dressed like a cop? You’ll probably want to change.”

  Fogel glanced at her dark blue button-down blouse and black slacks. “What do you suggest? I’ve never been to a place like that.”

  “Something casual.”

  “Casual, got it.”

  “No
t sexy.”

  “Good-bye, Stack.”

  Stack said something else before the call dropped, but she couldn’t make it out. Even with two bars, reception wasn’t good. She noted nearly a quarter of the battery was gone now, too. These things will never replace a solid landline, she thought to herself before powering down the Nokia and dropping it back into her purse.

  She got the check, left cash on the table, and stepped back out into the oven that was the Nevada night.

  Fogel spotted the purple neon glow on the horizon long before she saw the squat building set back from I-118 about three miles outside Fallon. She had passed a rundown motel about a mile back, but other than that, there was nothing else out here. She supposed even in a town like Fallon, it was best to keep these kind of places outside the city limits. With a naval base this close, there would be these kind of places.

  A large purple neon sign signaled the turn from the highway for Mike’s Gentlemen’s Club, but the marker wasn’t necessary. She simply followed the line of cars. Once in the parking lot, employees dressed in tuxedos tried to wave her into the valet line, but she opted to circle around them toward the back of the building. If she needed to leave in a hurry, she wanted to have the car keys handy and the vehicle someplace accessible.

  She changed into jeans and a white tank top in the back seat of the car, then followed the line of men in naval uniforms around to the front of the building. Air conditioners must have been working overtime, because the temperature dropped at least twenty degrees the second she stepped through the double doors. She considered going back out to the car to change into something with sleeves, then changed her mind—she didn’t plan to stay long.

  Signs stated a twenty-dollar cover charge, but apparently that was only for men—she was handed ten free drink vouchers and ushered inside at no cost, where it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way” belted from unseen speakers and laser lights cut through the dark, sliding over multiple stages and dozens of tables scattered throughout the space—a space which was much larger on the inside than it appeared from the parking lot. On each of the stages, many of the tables, and strolling randomly about were beautiful women in various stages of undress. Some were completely nude while others wore skimpy bathing suits or lingerie. There were a couple female patrons, but not many, and Fogel felt incredibly out of place.