“Then who?”
Darby looked up from her coloring book, then returned to the half-completed image of Spongebob.
Cammie frowned. “She was with me, and she can’t talk. She has no idea what Charter is, and I can guarantee she doesn’t know the number. Don’t look at her that way. Get that thought out of your head right now.”
Adella’s radio crackled.
“Adella, get to the roof. Twelve vans now.”
Preacher, who had remained silent through all of this, scooped up a radio, noise-canceling headphones, ammunition for the Walther PPK in his shoulder holster, and an assault rifle. “Neither of us made that call, kid. Drop the conspiracy theory bullshit. We’ve got work to do. I’m going with Adella.” He tossed a radio to Cammie. “You need me, you call. I’ll come right back, okay?”
Cammie set the radio between her and Darby and nodded.
Then they were gone.
My father watched them leave before turning back to me. “For what it’s worth, Richard and Emma were scared of her, of Stella. She couldn’t hurt them, probably something genetic, but they knew what she could do to anyone else. At one point, Richard called me, must have been three o’clock in the morning. He told me he had this nightmare where he went into Stella’s nursery and smothered her with a pillow. In the dream, he said it felt like the right thing to do. When he woke, the feeling lingered, and that frightened him more than anything. He said, for a few minutes, he lay there in bed and actually thought about it. The right thing to do. Then the guilt set in. When he called to tell me this, about halfway through the call, I realized he wasn’t just telling me about a bad dream, he was feeling me out. In his own way, he was trying to figure out ifIthought it was the right thing to do. I gotta tell you, Jack. I thought long and hard on that, and I never did work out an answer. In the years that followed, hearing about all those she killed, that last call from Richard has replayed in my head more times than I’d care to admit.”
I took several steps back toward the bathroom and Stella’s cot.
My father raised his hands defensively. “I won’t hurt her, son. Cammie won’t hurt her. None of us will. That’s not what I’m getting at. She was a child then. She had no idea what she was doing. When Charter had her, I’m sure they brainwashed her into believing she was doing the right thing. I don’t know if I can fault her for that, either. She’s an adult now, though. Clearly, the guilt eats at her. I’ve overheard her tell you several times she won’t do it again, she’d rather die than hurt someone else. That’s what I want you to think about. Think as long and hard as I did when Richard called me. If the time comes, are you willing to respect her decision, let it happen, if that is what she truly wants?”
I started to answer him, and he waved me off. “This is between you and her, not us. I don’t need to know. I don’t want to know. I’ve lived through enough death due to Charter and their fucking shot. I also lived through the loss of your mother, and I can tell you without a doubt, outliving someone you love is a pain unlike any other, and if she decides to let go, if you lose her, just know I’ll be there for you. Missing out on your childhood, watching you grow up from afar in order to keep you safe, that was as hard on me as losing your mother. I’m sure you’ve got mixed feelings, and sometime soon, when this is all over, we’ll sit down and talk about that. You’re here, you’re alive, I know I did the right thing, but I’d appreciate the opportunity to try and make up lost time with you. I want to be your father. And I’ll help you through this, no matter what happens.”
His eyes were shimmering with moisture when he finished.
I wasn’t sure if I should hug him, hate him, or tell him I forgive him. I could only nod.
“Go to her now, son. Stay with her as long as you can.”
I took a radio, two pairs of headphones, and a handgun with me, a 9mm Ruger.
19
For the next two hours, we let them surround us.
Dozens of them. White vans, white trucks, white cars, SUVs. Over the small radio sitting beside me on Stella’s cot, the reports came in at a steady clip. The vehicles lined Rankin Boulevard and Kenmawr Avenue on the opposite side of the tree line beyond the railroad tracks. They weren’t visible from Carrie Furnace, not even from those watching on the roof, but Dunk’s people saw them from the blinds perched high up in those trees. The vehicles parked, but nobody got out. Their numbers were estimated to be around one hundred and fifty based on the number of vehicles and possible occupancy, but that was only a guess.
Several boats docked in the Monongahela River at our backs, too. We had no way to know if they were part of Charter, but Dunk had people watch them, just the same. I heard his voice several times over the radio, but he didn’t make it down to the bunk room. I couldn’t fault him for that. He had his hands full.
Stella slept.
Not a relaxing sleep, but the kind filled with low moans and heavy sweats, the kind you wake from only to roll over and find yourself trapped deeper in the sticky mess that is a fever dream. She mumbled in that fitful state, mostly unintelligible. I did hear my name a few times, Oliver, too. At the sound of my name from her lips, I perked up, only to be disappointed again when I realized she was still asleep. I wanted to wake her, but I didn’t dare. Something told me whatever waited for her on the opposite side of the wall that is sleep was far worse than the torment her body raged on her now, and I had no intention of being the one to bring on whatever came next.
Cammie’s little girl, Darby, fluttered around. At first, I caught her little head poking around the corner of the doorway, her blonde curls framing her face and large blue eyes. She disappeared when she realized she had been spotted, only to return about twenty minutes later to watch again. An hour or so after that, she brought me a glass of water. When I thanked her for it, she smiled back, curtsied, and ran back toward the bunk room. Snacks followed—some crackers and cheese. Water refills, too. At one point, she brought in a bowl with a wash cloth which she carried over to the floor next to Stella’s bunk. She tugged on a pair of the latex gloves, far too big for her, and dabbed at Stella’s forehead with the cloth. She was a cute kid.
The last of the fruit had gone a while ago, now nothing more than a black, pulpy mess at the bottom of the bowl. I’d carry Stella out to the trees if I had to, let her drain their life one at a time, the whole damn forest. God forgive me for what I’d do to anyone who tried to stop me from helping her.
I spoke to her.
For those two hours, I told her all there was to know about John Edward Jack Thatch, her Pip. From my earliest childhood memories to my worst fumbles as an adult (and there were many), I held nothing back. I told her about Dunk, Willy, and me as kids, and I told her about my Auntie Jo and Jo’s faults, flaws, dreams, and achievements. I explained how my aunt harbored such a hatred for my father, one I didn’t understand as a kid but became clear the moment I discovered his empty grave, while also learning the grave beside it was not. Our visits, year after year to those headstones—I could only imagine the thoughts running through Jo’s head when she looked at my father’s headstone. Her neglect of that stone, her reasons for her indifference toward him, painfully obvious now. A sister lost while the man who was with her lives on.
I told Stella about the money Jo arranged for me, the life she wanted me to build, and how I had dropped all to find her instead. As I weaved my gloved fingers between Stella’s and held her hand, I harbored not a single regret. Here, by her side, was where I was always meant to be.
“Jack?”
When I heard my name from her lips, I assumed it was only another dream-inspired utterance. Not until she said my name for a second time did I realize Stella was awake, her heavy eyes watching me from the small ball she had become on the cot.
Stella’s fingers squeezed around mine. She pulled my hand closer. “Can you take me outside? I’d like to see the stars.”
