Without taking the time to aim, he fired the shotgun toward the top of the staircase, then raced up the steps behind the blast, unloading the remaining bullets from the Sig in the general direction the shots had originated. The wall above chipped and splintered. Chunks of drywall and wood wainscoting blew out to the side. When the gun was empty, he dropped it, raised the shotgun as he reached the top and rounded the corner, and fired two quick blasts, the bright muzzle flash illuminating the hallway. The first left a large hole in the wall, the second left a large hole in the man who had been standing there.
At the top of the stairs, Preacher froze. He closed his eyes. He listened.
From the blueprints, he knew seven bedrooms and five bathrooms occupied the second floor. There was an attic space above running the full length of the house.
Eyes still closed, he reloaded the shotgun.
He needed the third bedroom on the left.
He opened his eyes and started down the hallway, shotgun at the ready.
He expected at least three other guards on this level, but none appeared.
He expected the bedroom door to be locked.
The door wasn’t locked.
Preacher stepped into the room.
He leveled the shotgun at the bedroom’s only occupant.
The girl, grown up now, sat calmly in a chair at the window looking out over the expansive backyard. Without turning to him, she simply said, “There are more coming. You’ll never get out of here.”
He watched as she stripped off her long, black gloves, carefully folding the elegant material and setting them aside on a table.
Smoke drifted up from downstairs.
He heard shouting.
More coming.
23
“What the fuck, Thatch!” Willy shouted as I pushed past him through the door.
Water pooled on the floor behind me, puddled on the worn hardwood. I went to the window, turned, paced back toward the door, turned, back toward the window.
“Jack! Stop!” Willy tried to grab me as I passed him for the third time, but I shrugged his hand off my shoulder.
I barely heard him over the drumming in my ears, the bloodswooshingthrough my veins.
“What the hell happened?”
I tried to talk.
I tried to tell him.
Instead, I just tugged Stella’s letter from my pocket, dropped it on the table, then went to my room, slamming the door behind me.
If he hadn’t taken the bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum from my dresser, I surely would have drunk it all.
I hated him for finding that bottle.
Log 08/09/1993—
Subject “D” within expected parameters.
Audio/video recording.
