She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,39

had turned to the thick glass window. “I can’t see him in there. Can you?”

“That’s why I asked you if he was sleeping. I don’t think he’s on his bed.”

“It’s too fucking dark in there. They need to switch that red night-light thing back on.”

“The kid told the doctor he couldn’t sleep well with that little light on. She had it removed.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s in his bed.”

“Maybe he’s in the shitter.”

“Maybe. I don’t see him on the infrared, either.”

“Well, he didn’t get out and go for a walk. Turn the light on for a second.”

“No way. I’m not getting written up.”

Carl frowned. “They won’t write us up for checking on him. If they don’t want us to turn the light on to do our job, they should have fought the doc on the night-light. We’ll just flick the light on for a second, figure out what he’s doing, then shut it down again. No harm done.”

Warren let out a breath. “Okay, but fast. If he’s sleeping, we don’t want to wake him.”

Carl reached back to the control board and flicked on the lights.

Warren leaned over the board, close to the observation window. “I don’t see him, do you?”

Carl stood, leaned forward, looked too.

“Do you see him?”

Carl shook his head and pressed microphone button. “Hey, kid, where are you?”

Warren smacked his hand off the button. “Don’t do that!”

David jumped up from beneath the window and slapped both hands against the glass. The motion was soundless, hampered by the thick glass, but that didn’t keep both men from jumping back.

Carl’s leg snared on his chair, and he fell to the floor in a twisted mess.

“What the fuck!” Warren shouted.

David grinned back at them both from the other side of the window. He laughed silently while Warren found the light switch and plunged the room back into black.

—Charter Observation Team – 309

1

I did take the gun and on August 8, 1989, the year I officially became a teenager, I planted my butt firmly upon the bench in the cemetery and waited. The weather was particularly warm that day, and I felt like an idiot sitting there with a jacket on, but that was the only way I could properly conceal the weapon. I tried sticking the gun down the waistband of my jeans (both in front and in back) like they do in the movies, but the gun toppled out and fell to the ground after only a few steps. There was also the odd bulge in my pants that would have to be explained—even with a tee-shirt pulled down over it, the gun was plainly visible. I grew that year—from four-nine to five-three in just the past nine months. I only weighed one hundred and two pounds, though. I looked like a telephone pole dressed up in last year’s long-forgotten fashion. My scrawny body simply wasn’t meant to hide a gun—that’s something that wouldn’t feel right for a few more years.

Dunk’s dad owned an ankle holster, but my leg was a little too small and the gun a little too big for that, too, that left only my jacket. Mr. Krendal gave it to me, a brown leather bomber jacket that had belonged to his son. I later learned he was lost in the war. The jacket had two pockets on the inside, and the gun rested comfortably in either. Because the jacket was large and bulky on me, the shape of the gun was lost in the folds, creases, and assorted bumps my body had yet to fill in.

The jacket was perfect, aside from the heat.

Eighty-six degrees when I left Dunk’s apartment, and no sign of cooling until the sun took leave.

I didn’t want to take the gun, but Dunk made a good case for it, and he had made that same case almost every day for the past year. When I finally agreed, he looked relieved.

“It’s a Rossi 352 two-inch .38 special. Five shot capacity—” He jerked his wrist, and the cylinder popped out, revealing the heads of five gold casings. He gave the cylinder a quick spin, then slammed it back into place with the palm of his hand. “You can pull back the hammer with your thumb if you want to scare them, but the gun will still shoot if you don’t, the trigger pull will just be a little longer.” He did all of this with the skill of a veteran. His dad felt it was better his son be familiar with the weapon, understand