She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,222

minute, then: “You’re dead.”

Brier only smiled. He leaned back in the chair the way he always liked—the front legs off the ground, balancing precariously on only the back. Stack always told him he’d catch a bad chair one day, one that would break apart under him, and he’d look like a fucking fool when he landed on his ass, but Brier sat like that anyway.

“Am I dead?”

Stack couldn’t move his legs. They held tight against the base of his chair. Even moving his head was a chore. He felt no pain, though, and that was good. That was real good.

Brier leaned forward in the chair. “I’m not gonna lie, buddy. It was your heart. A couple too many beers, people running around your house, your crazy trip up the steps…You pushed just a little too hard and blew a gasket. You knew it was coming, though, right? Not much of anything holds up after eighty-two years of constant beating and abuse. Frankly, I’m surprised you got as many miles out of that body as you did. The only thing holding you together was beer, Denny’s takeout, and beef jerky.”

“Not much beer, not at the end anyway.”

“Enough.”

“When?”

“When did you die? It’s been about a day and a half,” Brier said.

Stack looked around the spare bedroom—the walls covered in twenty years’ worth of evidence, all the boxes lining the floor, the smudged up windows and thick dust in the corners. “This is it? No white light? No pearly gates? And my old partner as an escort? Is that why you’re here? To take me to the other side?”

Brier shook his head. “I’m here to run the case with you.”

“Why? You know this case inside and out.”

“I want to hear it from you, one last time.” He waved a hand. “Old times’ sake, and all.”

Stack licked at his lips, still dry. His eyes went to the glass of water on the table. He had drained it a few minutes ago—the glass was full again. “That’s a neat trick.”

“Want more?”

Stack nodded.

Brier lifted the glass and held it to Stack’s mouth. When it was gone, he set it back on the table. “Better?”

Stack nodded again. “Where should I start?”

“Wherever you’d like.”

“Maybe I should start when you died.”

“When was that exactly?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not really.”

Stack told him. He explained how Brier had followed the man in the black GTO back to the house at 62 Milburn while Fogel tailed the Thatch kid. How someone took him out with a head shot. “Ballistics confirmed a .45 caliber. The shot came from a Sig Sauer P220. They found the gun. Someone tossed it into the bushes. No usable prints.”

“But you think it was the guy in the GTO?”

Stack shrugged. “Probably. Although, they found tracks for a Chevy behind both your car and the GTO. Possibly a third party. It could have been them, too. No way to be sure without more information.”

Brier kicked the lid off one of the boxes sitting beside the table, the one for the Dormont house. He reached inside and took out the letter from Richard Nettleton. “This is from the girl’s father, right?”

“Yeah. The Thatch kid had it, remember? You gave me a copy.”

Brier seemed to think about this. “Things are a little fuzzy.” He dropped the letter back in the box. “Tell me about the Thatch kid. Where is he now?”

“Dunno. Fogel lost him in Nevada. She’s trying to pick up the trail again. He’s with the girl, though. We know that much.”

“Where do you think they’re heading next?”

“Can’t say.” Stack looked around the room. “Who were those people in the white vans? What did they do after…”

“After you died?”

Stack nodded.

“You killed one of them, you know that, right?”

“Shot him through the floor.”

Brier’s lips went tight. “Yeah, right through the floor.”

“Are they still here?”

Brier said nothing.

Stack said, “If I’m dead, and I’m still in the house, can I somehow see them?”

“What, like a ghost?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You want to haunt your own house?”

“I want to see why they came here. What they were after.”

Brier leaned forward on the chair, the legs tipping slightly. “This investigation is over for you, Terry.”

“Fogel’s still out there,” Stack muttered.

“Out where?”

“Chasing a lead. Someplace called Charter outside Chadds Ford.”

Brier didn’t seem surprised by this. “Tell me about Charter.”

Stack tried to reach for the notepad he had left near the door, the one with his notes on Charter, but his arms and legs wouldn’t work. “Why can’t I move?”

“Dead people don’t move.”

“You’re moving, though,” Stack pointed out. “My head, neck,