She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,14

then sending them back to the kitchen to fetch his meal. They might spit in it, or worse. He once heard of a cook running a chicken sandwich through the dishwater when he heard the recipient was a former high school teacher who gave him a C minus in history class three years earlier. Imagine what that same person might do if he or she had a sudden dislike for a regular patron simply because that patron was rude or tipped poorly on a previous visit?

Preacher always tipped 20 percent, and he had done so when he ate breakfast at Krendal’s Diner this morning. Based on the income stated on Josephine Gargery’s tax returns, her regular patrons did not. She earned $7,840 last year. That amounted to $150.77 per week—only a few dollars above the national poverty level of $7,240 per year. Considering she had the boy, a dependent, Ms. Gargery wasn’t doing well. This became abundantly clear as Preacher turned and surveyed the apartment.

The small space reeked of cigarette smoke, even with the two living room windows open and a light breeze lofting in. Smoky grime stained the walls. He could only imagine how the filth of it infiltrated the furniture, the bedsheets, the clothing. He wore thick leather gloves. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, touch anything with bare hands.

Preacher did not smoke, nor did he tolerate anyone in his presence to do so. Such a filthy, wasteful habit.

Standing with his back to the door of the apartment, the small kitchen was on his left. The appliances appeared to be about a decade old, the corners and crevices lined with rust. The refrigerator contained nothing but condiments, some prepackaged sliced American cheese, and a quarter gallon of milk that smelled just this side of funky.

A narrow hallway led to the living room in front of him, and two doors lined the wall on his right, most likely the bedrooms. He saw nothing of interest in the kitchen, not even a single note affixed to the refrigerator door—the room looked rarely used, so he went on to the living room. A dining table sat tucked into the corner on the left, littered with stacks of both opened and unopened mail. Preacher took up the nearest pile and studied the labels: bills and Publisher’s Clearing House. The bills were unopened, the Publisher’s Clearing House envelope was not only open but the application had been completed and stuffed into the return envelope, ready to be mailed. Although completed in the name of Josephine Gargery, the handwriting was that of a child, no doubt belonging to the boy.

Preacher returned the mail to the table, careful to place everything back exactly as he found it, and studied the living room. A recliner and couch both faced a small twelve-inch television. A coffee table stood at the center of this little triangle. He expected it to be thick with dust, but he found the table to be clean, same with the top of the television. The grime of the space seemed to start and end with the cigarette smoke. Someone took the time to clean the apartment on a regular basis, and he found this surprising. Most likely, this was the boy again. He knew the aunt worked long hours and was rarely here, probably just long enough to sleep, shower, and return to work. The boy fended for himself. How that woman managed to smoke enough to create this cleanliness problem was perplexing. Preacher imagined her chain-smoking just to keep up with it. He knew the boy didn’t smoke, not yet anyway. They had been watching him closely, and someone would have made note of such appalling activity. A sniff of both the couch and the recliner confirmed she sat in the recliner as she smoked. Oddly, he found no ashtrays. The window nearest the chair had no screen. He supposed she could dispose of her ashes through that opening, but that seemed unlikely.

The door to the first of two small bedrooms stood adjacent to the living room, clearly the boy’s room—posters of superheroes and pages torn from comic books covered the walls. On the dresser he found stacks of books, classics such as Treasure Island and Lord of the Flies as well as nearly a dozen volumes of Hardy Boy mysteries. Comic books sat beside those, all stacked in neat piles. Within the drawers he found nothing but clothing, all folded and organized by type. The socks were paired off and rolled together in careful