She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be

by J. D. Barker

  I’m not gonna lie, when Hobson went to the table near Preacher and Adella and picked up some kind of long-range rifle, less than ten feet from Cammie and her daughter, the tension in the air was palpable. Even Hobson appeared nervous. The only person who didn’t seem worried was Cammie.

  She smiled at him and nodded toward a box of ammunition on the corner of the table. “444 Marlins. You could drop a grizzly with those.”

  Hobson loaded the rifle with practiced ease, pointed it toward the back wall, and peered into the sight. “I can work with this.” He looked back at Adella and Preacher. “Where do you want me?”

  Adella tossed him a handheld radio and nodded toward one of Dunk’s men standing outside our door. “Cortez will take you up to the the roof. You can help cover the woods. Most of our guys are good up close, but we only have a handful of sharpshooters.”

  Hobson nodded, scooped up the box of ammunition, a pair of headphones, gave Cammie a wink, and disappeared down the hall behind the one called Cortez.

  When he was gone, my father returned his gaze to me. “We need to talk about your girlfriend, Jack.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “She could kill all of us. She’s not in control, and she’s getting worse,” Cammie said. “I’ve got a daughter to think about. We need to secure her.”

  “Stella’s not gonna hurt anyone. If we’re going to talk about anything, we should discuss who called Charter from Whidbey. They’re already here. Got here right after us. Gotta wonder if someone is tipping them off. Detective Fogel said whoever called told Charter where we were. Stella was out cold. My father and Hobson were tied up. That leaves you and Preacher.”

  “How do we know that detective of yours was even telling the truth?”

  “Was it you?”

  “No, it wasn’t me,” Cammie insisted. “And I trust Preacher. It wasn’t him, either.”

  “Then who?”

  Darby looked up from her coloring book, then returned to the half-completed image of Spongebob.

  Cammie frowned. “She was with me, and she can’t talk. She has no idea what Charter is, and I can guarantee she doesn’t know the number. Don’t look at her that way. Get that thought out of your head right now.”

  Adella’s radio crackled.

  “Adella, get to the roof. Twelve vans now.”

  Preacher, who had remained silent through all of this, scooped up a radio, noise-canceling headphones, ammunition for the Walther PPK in his shoulder holster, and an assault rifle. “Neither of us made that call, kid. Drop the conspiracy theory bullshit. We’ve got work to do. I’m going with Adella.” He tossed a radio to Cammie. “You need me, you call. I’ll come right back, okay?”

  Cammie set the radio between her and Darby and nodded.

  Then they were gone.

  My father watched them leave before turning back to me. “For what it’s worth, Richard and Emma were scared of her, of Stella. She couldn’t hurt them, probably something genetic, but they knew what she could do to anyone else. At one point, Richard called me, must have been three o’clock in the morning. He told me he had this nightmare where he went into Stella’s nursery and smothered her with a pillow. In the dream, he said it felt like the right thing to do. When he woke, the feeling lingered, and that frightened him more than anything. He said, for a few minutes, he lay there in bed and actually thought about it. The right thing to do. Then the guilt set in. When he called to tell me this, about halfway through the call, I realized he wasn’t just telling me about a bad dream, he was feeling me out. In his own way, he was trying to figure out if I thought it was the right thing to do. I gotta tell you, Jack. I thought long and hard on that, and I never did work out an answer. In the years that followed, hearing about all those she killed, that last call from Richard has replayed in my head more times than I’d care to admit.”

  I took several steps back toward the bathroom and Stella’s cot.

  My father raised his hands defensively. “I won’t hurt her, son. Cammie won’t hurt her. None of us will. That’s not what I’m getting at. She was a child then. She had no idea what she was doing. When Charter had her, I’m sure they brainwashed her into believing she was doing the right thing. I don’t know if I can fault her for that, either. She’s an adult now, though. Clearly, the guilt eats at her. I’ve overheard her tell you several times she won’t do it again, she’d rather die than hurt someone else. That’s what I want you to think about. Think as long and hard as I did when Richard called me. If the time comes, are you willing to respect her decision, let it happen, if that is what she truly wants?”

  I started to answer him, and he waved me off. “This is between you and her, not us. I don’t need to know. I don’t want to know. I’ve lived through enough death due to Charter and their fucking shot. I also lived through the loss of your mother, and I can tell you without a doubt, outliving someone you love is a pain unlike any other, and if she decides to let go, if you lose her, just know I’ll be there for you. Missing out on your childhood, watching you grow up from afar in order to keep you safe, that was as hard on me as losing your mother. I’m sure you’ve got mixed feelings, and sometime soon, when this is all over, we’ll sit down and talk about that. You’re here, you’re alive, I know I did the right thing, but I’d appreciate the opportunity to try and make up lost time with you. I want to be your father. And I’ll help you through this, no matter what happens.”

  His eyes were shimmering with moisture when he finished.

  I wasn’t sure if I should hug him, hate him, or tell him I forgive him. I could only nod.

  “Go to her now, son. Stay with her as long as you can.”

  I took a radio, two pairs of headphones, and a handgun with me, a 9mm Ruger.

  19

  For the next two hours, we let them surround us.

  Dozens of them. White vans, white trucks, white cars, SUVs. Over the small radio sitting beside me on Stella’s cot, the reports came in at a steady clip. The vehicles lined Rankin Boulevard and Kenmawr Avenue on the opposite side of the tree line beyond the railroad tracks. They weren’t visible from Carrie Furnace, not even from those watching on the roof, but Dunk’s people saw them from the blinds perched high up in those trees. The vehicles parked, but nobody got out. Their numbers were estimated to be around one hundred and fifty based on the number of vehicles and possible occupancy, but that was only a guess.

  Several boats docked in the Monongahela River at our backs, too. We had no way to know if they were part of Charter, but Dunk had people watch them, just the same. I heard his voice several times over the radio, but he didn’t make it down to the bunk room. I couldn’t fault him for that. He had his hands full.

  Stella slept.

  Not a relaxing sleep, but the kind filled with low moans and heavy sweats, the kind you wake from only to roll over and find yourself trapped deeper in the sticky mess that is a fever dream. She mumbled in that fitful state, mostly unintelligible. I did hear my name a few times, Oliver, too. At the sound of my name from her lips, I perked up, only to be disappointed again when I realized she was still asleep. I wanted to wake her, but I didn’t dare. Something told me whatever waited for her on the opposite side of the wall that is sleep was far worse than the torment her body raged on her now, and I had no intention of being the one to bring on whatever came next.

  Cammie’s little girl, Darby, fluttered around. At first, I caught her little head poking around the corner of the doorway, her blonde curls framing her face and large blue eyes. She disappeared when she realized she had been spotted, only to return about twenty minutes later to watch again. An hour or so after that, she brought me a glass of water. When I thanked her for it, she smiled back, curtsied, and ran back toward the bunk room. Snacks followed—some crackers and cheese. Water refills, too. At one point, she brought in a bowl with a wash cloth which she carried over to the floor next to Stella’s bunk. She tugged on a pair of the latex gloves, far too big for her, and dabbed at Stella’
s forehead with the cloth. She was a cute kid.

  The last of the fruit had gone a while ago, now nothing more than a black, pulpy mess at the bottom of the bowl. I’d carry Stella out to the trees if I had to, let her drain their life one at a time, the whole damn forest. God forgive me for what I’d do to anyone who tried to stop me from helping her.

  I spoke to her.

  For those two hours, I told her all there was to know about John Edward Jack Thatch, her Pip. From my earliest childhood memories to my worst fumbles as an adult (and there were many), I held nothing back. I told her about Dunk, Willy, and me as kids, and I told her about my Auntie Jo and Jo’s faults, flaws, dreams, and achievements. I explained how my aunt harbored such a hatred for my father, one I didn’t understand as a kid but became clear the moment I discovered his empty grave, while also learning the grave beside it was not. Our visits, year after year to those headstones—I could only imagine the thoughts running through Jo’s head when she looked at my father’s headstone. Her neglect of that stone, her reasons for her indifference toward him, painfully obvious now. A sister lost while the man who was with her lives on.

  I told Stella about the money Jo arranged for me, the life she wanted me to build, and how I had dropped all to find her instead. As I weaved my gloved fingers between Stella’s and held her hand, I harbored not a single regret. Here, by her side, was where I was always meant to be.

  “Jack?”

  When I heard my name from her lips, I assumed it was only another dream-inspired utterance. Not until she said my name for a second time did I realize Stella was awake, her heavy eyes watching me from the small ball she had become on the cot.

  Stella’s fingers squeezed around mine. She pulled my hand closer. “Can you take me outside? I’d like to see the stars.”

  Although the volume was set low, the radio beside me was a constant buzz of Charter’s growing presence, and even though nothing was said aloud, I heard the tension building in the various voices chiming in with those reports. Something bad was coming, growing closer with each passing minute.

  “I don’t know if it’s safe outside.”

  “I want to see the stars, please Jack, it’s important to me.”

  The weakness in her voice pained me. As she sat up, she looked so frail. I couldn’t deny her, not now, not ever. I helped her to her feet. “Can you walk?”

  Stella nodded. “I think so.”

  I tucked the Ruger into my waistband (a skill I had finally mastered), put the radio in my pocket, and placed both pairs of headphones around my neck so I could free both hands to help Stella.

  She smiled for the first time in days. “You look ridiculous.” She grinned. “Like a horrible white rapper who misplaced all his gold chains and decided to go for a new look.”

  “True dat.”

  The bunk room was empty. No sign of my father, Cammie, or Darby. One of Dunk’s men stood sentry in the hallway, and at first I thought he might try to keep us in the room, but he didn’t. Instead, he followed silently a few paces behind us as I helped Stella negotiate the hallways and stairs to one of the catwalks outside, this one overlooking Carrie Furnace Boulevard, the railroad tracks, and the trees in the distance. Although I knew Charter was busy grouping beyond those trees, the area immediately surrounding the steel mill seemed oddly peaceful.

  We sat on the edge of the catwalk, our legs dangling over the side. “Where are the others?” Stella asked, her fingers still in mine.

  “On the roof, I think.”

  “And Charter?”

  “All around us.” I told her what I knew while pointing back at the trees.

  She looked around, studied the open fields. “Seems so quiet.”

  And it was quiet. The air was perfectly still, hovering somewhere in the sixties. A nearly full moon, at least three quarters, coating everything in a bluish white blanket of light.

  Stella tilted her head up and smiled. “Of all things, I believe I’ll miss the night sky most of all. The absolute vastness of it, the unknown. While we’re down here fighting our pesky little battles, we’re really just a speck on the shoe of the universe. Any problem life may present seems so small, so insignificant, when you simply look up and realize your true place in all things.”

  “You have a lifetime of night skies ahead of you.” I said the words knowing they weren’t true. I think I said them not only for her benefit but my own. As if speaking such a thing out loud would make it so.

  “Thank you for the last few days, Pip. For all you’ve done for me. You’ve been one of the few constants in my life, perhaps the only bright spot. I never thought I’d know love, to be loved and to love another, and yet you are all those things to me. You have been all those things to me my entire life, for our entire lives. If I have any regret, its that I shied away from you so, that I held you at such a distance rather than embrace you years ago. I didn’t want to expose you to what I was, what I did, and what I knew I would continue to do. It was easier for me to push you away, to tell myself that was the right thing to do. I regret the talks we never had, the lost nights we never shared.” Stella looked back out over the fields and leaned her head on my shoulder. “Do you remember the paintings in my house? Landscapes and cities, far-off wonders and places?”

  I nodded.

  “As I painted each one, I pretended you and I were there, visiting each of those places together—the Golden Gate bridge, the Grand Canyon, the lights of Paris and the pyramids of Egypt, the streets of New York and the wilds of New Orleans, far open fields and hidden lakes lost among ancient trees. My hand in yours or your arm around me—you taking me in your arms and kissing me at each new place, my illness nonexistent in those wanderings of my mind. In many ways, we’ve already spent a lifetime together, and I’m grateful for that but I am grateful for these past few days most of all. My Pip, my wonderful John Edward Jack Thatch.”

  Stella shivered, and I pulled her closer. I considered going back for a blanket, when a deep-throated rumble filled the night.

  “We’ve got a car approaching. Came over Rankin Bridge, just turned on Carrie Furnace Boulevard. Moving fast. Let it pass or take it out?”

  Static.

  Dunk’s voice followed. “Single car? How many passengers? Can you tell?”

  “I only see one, just the driver.”

  My father’s voice, then, “Get those headphones ready. It might be Pickford.”

  I had set our headphones down beside me. I reached over, turned on the power switch, and handed a pair to Stella.

  Dunk again. “Let it pass. Shooters on the roof, standby. I give the order, I want a rain of bullets on whoever steps out. Only if I give the order, copy?”

  A dozen voices replied in confirmation.

  I spotted it, rounding the bend at the far end of Carrie Furnace Boulevard. The car went over the railroad tracks, then picked up speed on the straightaway, with dusty rooster trails at its back.

  A black Pontiac GTO.

  Preacher’s car.

  “Is that the car we left behind on Whidbey Island?”

  “Yeah.” I leaned forward to get a better look. Preacher must be pissed.

  I half expected whoever was driving to pull the emergency brake, yank the wheel, and slide the car to a stop from a high speed drift. That’s probably what I would have done if given the chance behind the wheel of a car like that. But rather than accelerating as the GTO drew close, the black Pontiac slowed and came to a stop about twenty feet from the main building, the high beams slicing through the night.

  The engine let out one final growl as the driver tapped the gas before killing the motor.

  The driver leaned over and opened the passenger door, then opened his own.

  “Shooters, steady,” Dunk said over the radio.

  I could see the driver in the car. A middle-aged man with short brown hair, wearing a white shirt and what looked like a white coat. I picked up the radio and pressed the transmit button. “That’s not Pickford. Repeat, that is not Da
vid Pickford.”

  “Copy,” Dunk replied.

  The driver leaned over. It looked like he was messing with the radio. From the car came a loud click followed by the low hum of a recording at high volume. This was followed by a voice I recognized immediately.

  Kaylie from Penn State, four and a half years earlier in her dorm room.

  “Go ahead and put these on.”

  A loud metronome came from the GTO’s amplified speakers with a heavy electronic hum behind it.

  Tick…tock.

  Tick…tock.

  Tick…tock.

  “Okay, Jack, I want you to listen to the rhythm of that sound, like a comforting heartbeat. Breathe in through your mouth, out through your nose, let your breathing fall in time with the sound. It’s all about the sound, that comforting sound. A heartbeat. Visualize a heartbeat, that sound. The rush of your blood, the life flowing through every inch of your body. Warm and comforting. My voice, brings you deeper, faster and deeper, faster and deeper in a warm, calm, peaceful state of relaxation. Like sinking deep down into a warm bath.”

  Tick…tock.

  Tick…tock.

  “Sinking down and shutting down. Sinking down and shutting down. Sinking down and shutting down completely in the enveloping warmth,” she said from so far away. Repeating. “Warm and calm, a blanket, snug and tight. The blanket holds your arms at your sides, your legs still. You’ve never been so comfortable, your mind never so free.”

  Tick…tock.

  Tick…tock.

  “Where are you, Jack?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Doctor.”

  “You’re at the doctor’s?”

  “Doctor.”

  My voice, high pitched. Mine but not mine.

  This was the missing recording. The one from Kaylie’s microcassette recorder, I was certain.

  My voice again, sounding so small, childlike.

  “No more, no more, no more, no more, no more.” This same phrase repeated for nearly five minutes, then my voice dropped lower, sounding like a much older man—