Preacher knocked at the apartment door.
It was the polite thing to do, and Preacher always did the polite thing. He didn’t expect anyone to answer. He kept close tabs on the Gargery woman and knew she was busy knocking on a door of her own, only her door belonged to Death.
He saw the boy run off toward the cemetery—waited for him, in fact, watching from across the street, before he came up here.
Nope, his bet was on alone.
She’d be passed out in her chair, just like the last few times.
When he heard the dead bolt unlatch, this took him a little by surprise. Not much, mind you. Nothing ever really surprised Preacher. He liked to think he was always ready for just about any situation. He just didn’t expect the woman to climb out of that chair.
The door opened, with a stocky teenager standing behind it. “Can I help you?”
Preacher cocked his head. “Huh, you’re new.”
“What?”
Preacher kicked at the bottom of the door and watched the wood frame slam into the boy’s forehead. The kid stumbled back a few steps, the door swung open, and Preacher kicked it again—the door bounced off the wall and slammed shut behind him.
Rushing toward the stunned boy, Preacher drew back his right fist and punched him square in the center of his nose. He felt the soft bone and cartilage beneath give way. The boy’s head snapped back with the impact, and he crumbled to the floor, unconscious.
The entire ordeal lasted about three seconds, but they were a noisy three seconds, so Preacher stood perfectly still then, his eyes closed, listening for the sound of a neighbor’s opening door or voices in the hallway. He heard nothing but a steady snore coming from the chair at the window and the wheezing breaths of the boy at his feet as air tried to find a way around his newly-remodeled nasal passages.
He located the boy’s wallet in his back pocket and plucked the kid’s ID from the plastic slot—Duncan Bellino of apartment 207 in this same building. He put Bellino’s ID in his own pocket and dropped the wallet on the kid’s chest. He had no reason to hurt the boy further. He had simply gotten in the way, it happens. Preacher was good at what he did, though, and he learned a long time ago a simple gesture like taking someone’s identification went a long way. That person tended to paint a nasty mental picture of what was to come, usually far nastier than was necessary, and those images proved to be a better deterrent than threats and actual violence when trying to keep someone in line. Preacher wasn’t quite sure how the Bellino kid fit into all this, but he wanted to keep his options open. He might need him down the road, or he might not. No need to kill him today, though.
He stepped over the unconscious body into the apartment.
It was muggy, stifling even. Hardly the environment for someone in Gargery’s condition. He opened both windows in the living room before heading into the boy’s bedroom.
Although their single meeting had been rather one-sided, he felt like he knew this Jack Thatch pretty well now. He had watched the boy grow up. He witnessed the superhero posters in his room disappear over the years, replaced with bands. The growing stacks of books had nearly become a hazard, piled over nearly every inch of space. How the kid maneuvered the room in the dark was beyond him. He no longer hid the sketchbooks, either. Dozens cluttered the top of his dresser and nightstand. Some of the drawings were even tacked up on the walls. The kid was exceptionally talented. He perfectly captured his little love interest. Her eyes seemed to follow him around the room, that sidelong grin of hers.
Preacher didn’t like that.
He didn’t like that one bit.
He was never fond of being watched, beingseen, and that’s exactly what it felt like.
He pulled the envelope of cash from his jacket pocket and dropped it in the center of Jack’s bed.
He took out the carton of Marlboro 100s from his other jacket pocket and began hiding the cigarette packs around the apartment, all the usual places—Ms. Jo Gargery was in no condition for a complicated Easter-egg hunt. When the last pack was safely tucked away, he went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He was famished.
4
We drove for about thirty minutes.
In Pittsburgh, this didn’t mean much. Whether your destination was a half mile away or ten miles, everything always seemed to take thirty minutes or more. Roads were always in a constant need of repair. Lanes were closed for no reason whatsoever. Sidewalks were cracked away and replaced in a day’s time, with traffic routed around the construction as if the city wanted everyone to move slow.
I tried to determine where we were. After the black hood went over my head and we started forward, I followed the narrow road out of the cemetery in my mind, picturing the left turn they made four years ago onto Brownsville Road, then then another left on Nobles.
After the turn on Nobles, I counted two right turns, then a left, then another right. After that, things got sketchy. I was lost. Eventually, the vehicle jolted to a stop. I heard a train roll past. Then we started moving again..
About twenty more minutes passed before the SUV came to a final stop and the engine shut off. I heard the two front doors open, then close.
Ms. Oliver opened her door. “Wait here.”
Then her door closed, and I was alone.
I considered removing the hood, just for a second, then thought better of it. Somehow, she would know. She might be standing right outside my window, waiting for me to do just that, give her an excuse.
