Broken

by Vanessa Skye

  Leigh’s rifle sat on the cold, hard concrete, its blanket-wrapped body the only object in the stark space.

  She was glad she had not been able to part with it. While she hadn’t understood stealing it from the crime scene at the time, it seemed like providence now. Leigh had been insane, but her idea of justice had been right—an eye for an eye.

  Berg cocked her head to the side, wondering where Leigh’s voice was. Come to think of it, she thought, she hadn’t heard hers or her mother’s voices for a while.

  Weird. No matter.

  Elizabeth deserved her own brand of justice, and Berg was going to deliver it with Leigh’s weapon.

  Berg carefully lifted the weapon, caressing it lightly before opening her trunk and placing it inside. She made sure Arena got an eyeful from his hiding spot before closing the trunk and driving away.

  Arena watched Berg leave and dialed Consiglio.

  “Sir? I know what she’s doing. We’ve got her.” He swallowed the guilt he felt as he hung up.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I’m bulletproof, nothing to lose.

  Fire away, fire away.

  Ricochet, you take your aim.

  Fire away, fire away.

  You shoot me down, but I won’t fall,

  I am titanium.

  –David Guetta, “Titanium”

  Berg lay concealed in the dark shadow cast by a huge, silent air conditioning stack on the flat roof of the old high school, sweltering. The blistering summer sun had been baking the dark roof all day, and even early in the evening, the asphalt was still hot and slightly sticky to the touch, giving off a nauseating tarry smell that she was beginning to taste in the back of her throat.

  Sweat formed on her upper lip and even more rolled down between her shoulder blades to wet her black, sleeveless tee.

  The nine-pound, bolt-action hunting rifle felt cold and smooth in her hands. She rested her flushed cheek against the Teflon-coated stainless steel of the barrel for a moment.

  The magazine had a five-round capacity but she had inserted only two. She would, of course, have no rounds left to defend herself when the CPD came, but that was the plan.

  Her fingers trembled and she took a few deep breaths to calm her hammering heart and steady her hands.

  It didn’t work. If anything her shaking seemed to worsen and the intake of air made her chest ache. More sweat beaded across her forehead and on the backs of her hands under her black leather gloves.

  What’s wrong with me?

  She had been over this from every possible angle, racked her brain for any other way. Marilyn had been her last shot, and she’d fucked up. There was no other way. If there had been, she would have found it.

  She looked at her watch. Elizabeth would be rounding the street corner in the next five to six minutes.

  Despite her intentions, she grudgingly admired the precision with which Elizabeth ran her life. Every evening she went for a run, jogging at a steady pace of around four miles per hour, looping around the same dappled streets near her new home.

  It was obviously having the desired effect. Each time her lewdly grinning face had appeared on the television she was leaner, blonder, her teeth whiter. The caterpillar had emerged from her cocoon and was now an evilly beautiful butterfly . . .

  Berg squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and tried to settle the commotion within. Her head was pounding. Every time she moved, the motion surged through her skull, pain spiked through her belly, and she felt dizzy. She blinked again, trying to bring street level back into sharp focus, then a few more times but her vision remained slightly fuzzy.

  Sweat was pouring down her face, stinging her eyes, and she was forced to put the rifle aside, using her cotton tank like a towel to mop the liquid away. Picking the weapon back up, she rested the end of the barrel lightly on the low edge of the roof to compensate for her unsteady hands.

  Any moment now . . .

  Just as she’d expected, Elizabeth jogged into view at the end of the street. Berg gripped the rifle firmly, nestled the black synthetic stock into the crook of her shoulder, and rested her finger lightly on the trigger—waiting . . . willing her heart rate to slow.

  She tracked Elizabeth with the rifle as she jogged into view. Twenty yards closer . . . ten yards . . .

  She prepared for that perfect shot, took a deep breath, and slowly released it, hoping that would suppress the trembling and stabilize the gun.

  Now!

  But her trigger finger didn’t obey.

  The cops will be here soon. Take her out! You’re gonna miss the shot!

  Her head throbbed incessantly as she argued with herself—the pain almost unbearable. The pounding in her skull was so loud. It seemed to be coming from outside her body, near the jammed stairwell door.

  She tried to shake it off but the sudden movement had vomit rising in the back of her throat.

  The strikes to her temples silenced with a loud crack, and she heard steady and solid footfalls on the asphalt roof.

  Tears blurred her vision, joining the rivulets of sweat running down her face. She tried to use the rifle to push up to her knees, but unable to hold the weight any longer, she released her grip and the gun clattered to the ground.

  She felt unconsciousness coming as the edges of her vision went black.

  No! You have to save the baby!

  One thought played over and over as she sank into nothingness:

  Don’t take another child from him!

  Chapter Forty-Three

  And all I can taste is this moment.

  And all I can breathe is your life.

  ’Cause sooner or later it’s over.

  I just don’t want to miss you tonight.

  –The Goo Goo Dolls, “Iris”

  Jay flicked through the various folders and papers on his desk wearily. He just wasn’t in the mood for the incessant fucking paperwork. Reaching the bottom of the pile, he picked up a red manila folder and looked through it—more forms requiring his signature.

  Is it not possible for anything to get done in this city unless I fucking sign something?

  Slapping them back down, he wondered again what Berg had meant by she knew what she had to do. She had actually looked at him when she’d it, her big brown eyes meeting his for the first time since . . . that night—the best night of his life.

  Had she seemed sad, or was it his own sadness bleeding through?

  He sighed—a deep gulp that reached his gut and sent the breath whistling through his lips like wind off the lake.

  It was time to man up and break it off with Carla. She was great on paper—everything he thought he’d ever wanted in a wife and potential mother, but she wasn’t Berg, and nothing was going to change that. He’d rather be alone than pretending.

  Jay had no clue what Arena had that he didn’t, and he tried not to think about it too much, but Berg was with Arena, and they were having a baby, and he’d be happy with her situation as long as she was.

  He sighed again, picked up his phone. When it went to voice mail, he assumed she was in court and left a quick message asking her to call. He was grateful he’d avoided moving into her place so at least there was no impending awkward division of possessions to look forward to. The conversation would be awkward enough.

  He heard a knock at his door and looked up, hoping it would be Berg. It wasn’t. In fact, he realized both Berg and Arena had been missing all day. He felt a stab of irritation. This was why partners becoming lovers was discouraged—it was too much of a distraction.

  “Jay?’ Cheney said. “There’s someone here who wants to speak to you.”

  Jay motioned him in, and Marilyn Young followed.

  “Mrs. Young,” he said, trying to sound polite and not fearful.

  Jesus, if Berg’s been harassing the woman again it’ll be her job. He silently cursed her.

  “How can I help you?” he said aloud.

  “She can’t get hold of Berg,” Cheney answered. “She wants to make a s
tatement, and apparently, Berg told her if she couldn’t be found to only talk to you.”

  Jay frowned, thanked Cheney, and gestured toward a chair. He smiled at her and noticed, with more than a touch of relief, that she didn’t appear angry. In fact, she looked positively sick with worry.

  “What can I help you with?” he asked.

  Marilyn immediately burst into tears. “I think m-m-my d-daughter killed my other daughter, a-a-and now she’s trying to kill my granddaughter!” she cried between choking sobs.

  Cheney and Jay stared at the hysterical woman, both audibly slamming their jaws shut when they looked at each other.

  “Ah . . . okay. Wow.” Jay placed his palms flat on his desk and cleared his throat, not quite sure how to proceed. “Can you please try and locate Berg or Arena?” he asked Cheney.

  Cheney nodded, grateful relief written on his face as he closed the door behind him.

  “Do you need a moment?” Jay asked the weeping woman in front of him. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? Do you want me to call legal counsel or a female officer?”

  Marilyn, dabbing at her tears, shook her head.

  “Can I ask what makes you think Elizabeth killed Emma? I mean, you’re aware that her killer did make a full confession?”

  Marilyn tried to talk but it took a few moments before her sobbing calmed enough for her to get words in between the hiccups. “My daughter may not have done it herself, but I think she was involved.” Marilyn was careful to avoid using Elizabeth’s name.

  “What makes you think that?” He wasn’t sure if Marilyn was genuinely fearful or if this was Berg’s doing. He hoped for Berg’s sake it wasn’t the latter, and she hadn’t manipulated the woman into seeing things that weren’t there.

  “She . . . hated Emma. Not normal sisterly rivalry, but real, evil loathing from the moment Em was born. I lost count of the number of times I caught her trying to hurt Emma when they were young. When she was six, and thought I wasn’t watching, she pushed Emma down the stairs in the backyard. Concrete stairs. Emma was only four and ended up with twenty-eight stitches and a concussion. It wasn’t harmless play like my husband always claimed it was. She was really trying to hurt her sister. Maybe even . . .” She shut her eyes and held the tissue over her mouth as though finishing the thought was too much. “So I would watch them. I had to. It got to the point where I couldn’t leave them alone together. It became my full-time job. We always had money troubles because I didn’t feel I could leave them unsupervised and go back to work. Alex would just laugh and say I was overprotective.”

  “And the behavior continued, even when they got older?” Jay asked.

  “Yes. If anything, it got worse because my first daughter got better at hiding it. She became more manipulative, stole every boyfriend, every friend . . . anything Emma had, she tried to take it. She would ruin Emma’s clothes by cutting holes into them or unpicking the seams, but my husband would just laugh at Emma’s carelessness and buy her more. Once, Emma got blisters all over her body after using a cream that my husband had given her as a gift. She had to be hospitalized—if she had gotten any in her eyes . . . we still don’t know what had been put in it because my husband immediately threw it out.

  “He refused to see what was going on, wouldn’t even talk about it, and would get terribly angry at me if I did.” Marilyn barely took a breath, as if she had been holding in the words for a very long time, and she had to get them out before she lost her nerve.

  “So you think Elizabeth finally hatched a plan?”

  “I think so. But I have no real evidence. I can say that I saw her playing that strange online game that you said the murderer played. I found her asleep at her computer late one night, and that game was on the screen. I thought nothing of it at the time, but after the attack happened and I heard the details, it became clear. About a week before, she’d started being really kind to Emma, after twenty years of hate. It was eerie.”

  Jay nodded, hoping Cheney had found Berg. She would know all the right questions to ask to get the evidence they needed to bring Elizabeth in—the woman was confirming everything Berg had suspected.

  “You need to see this,” Cheney said as he barged in. He flicked on the small television located in the corner of Jay’s office.

  A blond woman was talking.

  “Who’s that?” Jay asked, irritated.

  This is not the time . . .

  “My daughter,” Marilyn said softly.

  Jay raised his eyebrows in shock but choked down the expletive that threatened to erupt from between his teeth. It had been a while since Jay had seen her, and the difference was startling.

  Gone was the slightly pudgy, mousy, snaggletoothed, brown haired girl, and in her place was a thin, blond, perfect Emma clone. The resemblance to her dead sister was uncanny, not to mention creepy. The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention as he watched her speak.

  It wasn’t just her appearance, however; it was the way she worked the cameras, almost flirting with them, as they clicked away. It was the way she callously parlayed her sister’s rape and murder into a television career for herself.

  She was shameless.

  All three watched as the highlights of Elizabeth Young’s press conference earlier that day played out on the evening news. She spoke easily to the cameras—as if she had been born to do so. Jay knew she had become a victims’ advocate since Emma’s attack, but today she was announcing that she would also be hosting a true crime show on one of Chicago’s various cable channels, and that her own sister’s rape and murder would be the subject of the first episode.

  “Did you find Berg or Arena?” Jay asked Cheney after he flicked off the television.

  “No. I’ll keep trying,” Cheney said as he headed for the door, leaving them alone once more.

  Jay tried to be objective. He thought of Berg’s insistence that Elizabeth Young was a sociopath who hated her sister and had her killed out of jealousy, and now, that hatred was directed at her sister’s only child. He suddenly remembered the child’s close call at the hospital, the horrifying SIDS scare at her grandparents’ home just last week, and the strange respiratory arrest that Emma Young experienced while she was pregnant and on life support.

  “Please,” Marilyn whispered, her voice increasingly desperate. “She’s going to hurt the baby. You have to do something. Surely someone here can do something!”

  “Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit,” Jay whispered as he looked out at Berg’s desk—still empty.

  I know what I have to do.

  Quickly dialing Berg’s number, he groaned when it bumped immediately to voice mail, signaling it was switched off. He left a desperate message and then tried Arena. As much as he didn’t want to talk to the man, at least he would know where Berg was.

  His phone was off, too.

  He looked at Marilyn again, and his heart sank. He didn’t need to be a psychic to know that Marilyn Young thought the baby was in deep, deep trouble or that Berg had no intention of sitting idly by and letting it happen.

  Jay tried her phone again. “Where are you?” he muttered. He had a bad feeling. A very, very bad feeling.

  His cell rang, piercing the acute silence in his office.

  Hoping it was Berg, Jay flipped the phone over to check the display. No such luck. “Where is Berg, Arena? I need her here!”

  “I’ve done something stupid,” Arena said.

  Jay scoffed, any remaining drops of patience draining out of him. “And that makes today different from any other day how, exactly? Where the fuck is—”

  “I think Berg’s—wow, I don’t even know how to say this out loud. I think she might be considering suicide by cop. I dunno, I hope I’m off ba—”

  Jay jerked ramrod straight in his chair. “What do you mean?”

  “Look, I don’t have time to go into it, but I’ve been working with Consiglio to get you both fired—”

  “What? You fucking son of a—”

  “Yeah, save the
ass chewing for later! Unless you want Berg to be arrested, or worse, shut up and listen!”

  Jay clenched his jaw, the only sound his grinding teeth.

  “Berg’s been doing recon down at Evergreen Park Community High School, the one near Elizabeth Young’s new place. I know because I’ve been following her. For the last few days, she’s been breaking in, and she just did it again. The thing is, Elizabeth Young runs right by the school every night at six thirty exactly—thirty minutes from now. Berg’s there, and I think she has a rifle. I tipped off Consiglio before I really thought about it. I know it was stupid, but it was that will of hers. The will makes no sense unless she’s . . .”

  He was muttering incoherently, and Jay slammed his hand on his desk.

  Whether it was the sound that jarred him back into focus or his own conscience, Arena cleared his throat and finished his confession. “Anyway, Consiglio’s going in with a CPD team. If he gets there before she does what I think she’s doing, she’ll just get arrested and do some time, but if they get there after . . . she won’t go down until she’s sure she’s taken Elizabeth with her. I think that was her plan all along. She was onto me, man.” Arena’s voice was becoming desperate. “She was counting on me to tip off Consiglio.”

  Jay’s lips tingled he was so angry, and he worried he might pass out. He took a few deep breaths in an effort to calm down. “Why?” he asked, almost strangling on the word. “Why? Why would you do this to her?”

  “Consiglio promised me your job if I gave him enough dirt to take you two down and help him get reinstated. At first, it seemed like a great career move, but then Berg and I got closer, and there was the baby, so I told him it was off. When she broke up with me, I got pissed and told Consiglio I was back in . . . after that, I couldn’t figure out a way to get out of it.”

  Jay tried to take in several important pieces of information while simultaneously working out a rescue plan, but Arena’s last point floored him. “Wait, she ended it? I thought you two were—what about the baby?”