She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,107

anything he could say aloud.

“I’m getting it together,” I said to both of them. “It’s been a rough patch, but I’ve got it now. I’ll come back when the weather breaks, clean this up.”

The vase attached to Auntie Jo’s gravestone did contain a flower, a single daisy, now dead and shriveled. I wondered who put it there.

“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