The Broken

by Shelley Coriell

  “A story, of course.” A feral smile tugged at Robyn’s glossy lips.

  “You got my story.”

  “I got two minutes of vetted FBI propaganda.”

  “It’s all I have.”

  The painted calm of Robyn’s face cracked. “It’s bullshit.”

  “There’s no more. So don’t waste your time or mine.”

  “Do you think you’re going to get rid of me that easily?”

  Kate walked toward the door.

  Robyn’s red-tipped nails dug into her upper arm. “Déjà vu, huh? You and me at each other’s throats. We had our share of heated moments.”

  “We fought like cats. Claws extended.” Kate shook off Robyn’s hand.

  “Thirty minutes.” Robyn blocked the door. “That’s all I want. Your terms. You choose the location, the camera angle. Hell, I’ll even let you choose the questions. Just give me an exclusive.” Robyn’s desperation had an almost manic tone.

  Kate took a page out of the Book of Hayden. “No.”

  The calm ruffled Robyn even more. “You owe me the story.”

  “I owe you nothing.” Kate stepped around her and reached for the door handle.

  “You owe me your life.”

  Kate stopped but didn’t turn.

  “The night you were stabbed and bleeding to death, someone called nine-one-one.” Robyn’s words lost all bravado. “That someone was me.”

  * * *

  Hayden grabbed Hatch’s shirtfront in his fisted hand. “Where the hell is she?”

  Hatch blinked his surprise. “In the bathroom.”

  He let go of Hatch, forcing his heart out of his throat. “How long has she been in there?”

  “Five, six minutes.”

  Hayden’s fist twitched. “Is it five or six?”

  “I’m sorry, buddy, but I forgot to set my stopwatch.”

  Hayden raked a hand through his hair. “Why did you let her out of your sight?”

  “You want me to wait outside the bathroom stall while she pees?”

  “I want you to do a better job keeping an eye on my witness.”

  “Your witness?” Hatch’s eyebrows disappeared into his shaggy blond hair. “Is that what she is?”

  Hayden pushed past Hatch and into the bathroom, where he almost crashed into Kate. She stood still and white, a marble statue in front of a brassy-haired woman with a bloody leg.

  He grabbed his sidearm and drilled it on the woman. “Step away from her and put your hands in the air.”

  The woman laughed. “Oh God, you sound so FBI.” She made a show of running a liquid gaze up and down the length of his body. “You look it, too.”

  “Hands up.”

  Kate placed a hand on his outstretched arm. “Hayden, it’s okay. She’s harmless.”

  The woman tilted her head, a sly smile sliding onto her red-lacquered lips. Keeping the Sig aimed at her, he whisked his left hand along her dress. No weapon.

  “Feel free to search a little longer,” she said with a sultry laugh.

  He ignored her and asked Kate, “Who is she?”

  “Robyn Banks. We used to work together at KTTL.”

  A broadcast reporter. The woman in the red dress had the sleek look, the practiced moves and delivery of someone accustomed to life in front of a camera—from the look of her, many years in front of the camera. An unnatural tightness stretched from the corners of her eyes, and a false fullness plumped her lips. This was a woman who had had some serious anti-aging work done.

  “Did she hurt you?” He moved closer to Kate.

  She shook her head. “Shocked me though. She claims to be the one who called nine-one-one the night I was stabbed.”

  That low simmer bubbled in his gut. “You were at Kate’s house that night?”

  “Fortuitous thing, wouldn’t you say?” Robyn said.

  His pulse spiked, and questions raced through his head. Go slow, he warned himself. He first needed to know if she was indeed the caller. “How did you identify yourself to the nine-one-one operator?”

  “I told her I was Katrina’s fairy godmother.”

  His pulse accelerated. The fairy godmother line was a holdback. “Why the anonymous call?”

  She shrugged. “It was easier that way.”

  “Easier?”

  “I like to cover the news, not make it.”

  “Why did you go to Kate’s that night?” Hayden asked.

  “A story, what else?” Hayden watched Robyn Banks speak. Most people lied easily with their mouths. Tougher to do with a body. “I’d just broken a story and needed Katrina’s help with some sources she’d used in the past.”

  “And when you got there?”

  She tapped her finger against her chin. “Hmmm…this sounds like official questioning.”

  “It is.”

  “I got to her house and she didn’t answer. Being the curious sort I am”—she shot him a what-can-I-say look—“I walked in.” The cockiness oozing from Robyn dried up. “I found her in a pool of blood in her bedroom. I knew she needed help, so I left and called nine-one-one.”

  “You went to a convenience store two blocks away to make the call from a pay phone. Why didn’t you call from her home phone or your cell?”

  “Like I said, I like to cover the news, not be a part of it. I didn’t want my prints on the phone or the call traced to my cell.”

  He’d run across the don’t-involve-me mindset many times. “Did you see anyone at or near Kate’s house?”

  “No one.”

  Hayden drilled her with the look he saved for his most reluctant witnesses.

  “I may be a hard-ass reporter, Agent Reed, but I’m not heartless. If I had any information on Katrina’s attacker, anything that could have stopped those other killings, I would have come forward long before this.” She raised her eyebrow and looked at Kate. “You’re not the only one who believes in justice for all. Now, since you’ve refused me an interview, I need to get back to the station.”

  “One more question,” Hayden said.

  “For a face like yours, I’ll give you two.” Robyn puckered her lips.

  “How old are you?”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “Is it important?”

  “Is it a secret?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  He nodded. “Before you go, I need contact information.”

  She pulled out a business card.

  “Home address, too.” He handed her a pen, but she didn’t take it. It hovered between them. He waited. With a scowl that sent ridges along her lipstick, she grabbed it and scribbled on the back of the card.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said. After she left, Hayden handed the pen to Hatch. “Have latent run prints.”

  * * *

  Go away!

  Kate wanted to scream at the journalists still milling about the police station as she and Hayden headed for the rental car. They all wanted a piece of her, just like the Butcher.

  “Go slow, keep your face straight ahead,” Hayden said against her neck. “I’ll handle them.”

  Of course Hayden could handle the press. He’d summarily handled Robyn Banks, and for that she’d been grateful. Her head still rang with the shocking blow that her colleague had saved her life.

  “No questions,” Hayden said to the first reporter who got in their way. “No comment,” he told the next and the next and the next.

  You got you your own personal government-issued bodyguard, she could hear Smokey say. A smile, the first of this long and emotional day, curved her lips. The old soldier would probably love to get in on this battle.

  When Hayden started the car, she noticed his face was not masked in its normal stony composure. He looked…excited.

  “What did you see at the press conference?” she asked as he pulled out of the parking lot with a squeal.

  Hayden pressed the accelerator. “Not what, who. Beth Watson from Hope Academy was there.”

  “So was half the town.”

  “She wore
a baseball cap and big sunglasses and stood at the back of the crowd. It was obvious she didn’t want to be seen.”

  Minutes later Hayden pulled into Hope Academy’s circular drive and parked next to two cars, where two sullen-faced youths loaded suitcases into trunks. More fallout from the Jason Erickson bomb.

  The reception area was empty, but it didn’t surprise Kate, given today was Sunday. However, a sharp thud and scream coming from the hallway made her jump. She and Hayden ran toward the noise. Another cry echoed on the air. They drew up in front of the infirmary.

  “You fucking lunatic! I’m going to stab an ice pick through your brain. Gonna bite your balls off. Gonna—”

  A man with black-rimmed glasses held the arms of a wiry, towheaded boy who clutched a letter opener in his hand. The man, who reminded Kate of a short Clark Kent, jerked his head at Hayden. “Don’t just stand there. Give me a hand before he hurts himself.”

  The kid tossed his head back and slammed it into the wall. Hayden charged in and grabbed the kid’s legs, and the man with the crooked glasses nodded to her. “Get me the syringe on my desk.” She didn’t move. “Dammit, I’m the boy’s doctor. I need to get him calm.”

  Kate handed the syringe to the man. DR. ANDREW TROWBRIDGE, the nameplate on the desk read.

  “Noooo,” the kid screamed.

  “Hold him tight,” the doctor said to Hayden as he jabbed the syringe into the kid’s upper arm.

  “You asshole! Fuckhead!”

  Kate didn’t know what was in the syringe, but after another three curses, the boy slumped.

  Dr. Trowbridge nodded at the cot. “Let’s put him there.” Now that he wasn’t flailing, the kid looked small—all bones and angles with wide, glassy eyes.

  The man righted his glasses and picked up a chart. He checked his watch, looked at the boy, and, when the boy’s eyes closed, made a few marks on the paper. After he set down the chart, he nodded. “Dr. Andrew Trowbridge, staff physician.”

  “Special Agent Hayden Reed. This is Kate Johnson.”

  The doctor’s face remained placid. “I’ll get Kyl.”

  “No, I’d like to speak with you.”

  Dr. Trowbridge studied the passed-out boy and nodded. “I have a few moments.” Limping, he led them to a small conference room with a large banner that read HOPE ACADEMY. RESPECT, RESPONSIBILITY, HONESTY, COURAGE.

  Hayden nodded toward Dr. Trowbridge’s leg. “You okay?”

  “Jimmy connected with one kick before I restrained him.” Dr. Trowbridge lifted his arm and showed them a faint white scar in the shape of a bite mark. “Compliments of Frankie three months ago.”

  “You work with some rough boys,” Hayden said.

  Dr. Trowbridge pressed his fingertips together. “I work with boys who choose to take rough roads.”

  “And it’s your job to get them on the right path.”

  “I’m part of the team to get them headed in the right direction. As the staff physician, I work on behavior modification strategies and implementation.”

  Drugged-up Jimmy, who seemed to be fighting the world, certainly needed something, Kate couldn’t help but think with sadness.

  “Kyl Watson mentioned that the staff worked closely together for the good of the boys,” Hayden went on. “Did you work much with Jason Erickson?”

  “I knew Jason, but not well. The kids liked him, and so did Kyl and Beth.” The doctor tapped his fingertips together. “And let me do this as efficiently as possible, Agent Reed. Jason was of average intelligence. He lacked basic social skills and confidence. He was fatherless and had a mother who dominated him. When he first started here, she’d call him five or six times a day, but he never let her know he hated her. His health records show no instances of long-term psychiatric care or institutionalization, although he was placed on an antidepressant for panic attacks six months ago.

  “I haven’t observed any fetishistic, sadomasochistic, or voyeuristic behavior. Nor have I observed him harming small animals, playing with fire, or suffering nocturnal urination.” After his litany, a smug smile landed on Dr. Trowbridge’s face. “Did I miss anything?”

  “You pretty much covered the standard arsenal of serial killer questions,” Hayden said with a mask of impassivity.

  “But you have more?” Dr. Trowbridge asked.

  Hayden’s jaw ticked. “Who would you like to see in the World Series?”

  Dr. Trowbridge’s fingers stilled. “World Series, as in baseball?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t follow baseball.”

  “You prefer basketball, tennis?”

  “Golf.”

  “I see.” Hayden stood. “One more question. Do you know where we can find Beth?”

  The doctor’s lips pulled down. “She was supposed to be here today, assisting me with Jimmy’s intake. If she’s not at the front desk, try the barn.”

  * * *

  The day was molten, the sky a cloudless blue. On days like this, she used to take Jason out on her father’s old fishing boat. They’d putter across the crystal-clear water with only the sun beating down on them. When they got too hot and they’d emptied the thermos of lemonade she’d brought for them, they’d jump into the lake, but she’d always gone first, making sure the water wasn’t too deep or lake bed littered with sharp rocks that would hurt her little brother. The memory surprised her, as did the surge of wetness lurking behind her eyes.

  Jamming her hair behind her ears, she told herself she’d deal with the memories later. Right now she needed to catch up with Hayden, who was race-walking across the campus.

  When they reached the barn, she heard a scream coming from a stand of trees to their right. Hayden tucked her behind him and guided them through the pines until they emerged in a small clearing, where Kyl Watson was alone with a boy, probably fourteen or fifteen.

  The boy was on the ground, collapsed in a motionless heap, a yoke-type structure strapped across his shoulders and attached to a pallet piled with cinderblocks.

  Watson lay on his stomach, nose-to-nose with the boy, yelling, “Get up, Nathan! Get up!”

  The boy groaned and ground his face into the dirt.

  Watson stayed in the kid’s face. “If you can’t make it to your feet, Nathan, crawl on your knees. You hear me? Crawl on your knees!”

  The boy raised his head, and Kate winced at the dirt and blood and saliva coating his nose and chin. The boy heaved himself to his hands and knees only to fall back on the ground. She lunged toward the boy, but Hayden pulled her back. “It’s not our place.”

  She glared at his hand. “When do you want to intervene? When the kid’s dead?”

  The kid got to his hands and knees again, let out another scream, and surged forward. The pallet of bricks jerked about six inches.

  “Good job, Nathan. Baby steps. You can do it. Take those baby steps,” Watson said.

  Nathan let out another scream, and the pallet jolted forward a foot this time. The boy continued to move forward, blood dripping from his nose, saliva streaming from his twisted mouth.

  Heave. Groan. Scream. Heave. Groan. Scream.

  Kate wanted to scream.

  Watson remained on his knees, crawling backward as the boy inched forward with the load of bricks. After what seemed like an hour, the pallet crossed a line etched in the dust. The boy collapsed. Watson gathered the kid in his arms. “You did it, Nathan. You did it. Those eight blocks represent the eight people you hurt this week with your fists or words. You took responsibility for your actions. Good job, son, good job.”

  Despite the blistering sun, Kate wrapped her arms across her chest as she turned from the strange scene. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s pretending to be something it’s not.” She pointed to the small pond with the family of swans, to the homey yellow daffodils, and to the bright white fencing. Then she motioned to the bleeding boy. “It’s a violent place. Something doesn’t feel right.”

 
; His gaze turned thoughtful. Maybe he was finally starting to realize the power of feelings, that they could be as reliable as his beloved observation and analysis.

  They returned to the barn, a two-story log building that smelled of hay and horseflesh.

  Inside the door, Hayden grabbed her arm. She opened her mouth, but he shook his head and pointed up. Then she heard it, creaking boards. Hayden maneuvered through the maze of stalls to the far end, where a ladder stretched to a second-story hayloft. As he disappeared through the opening, a sharp gasp and then a woman’s wobbly laugh sounded.

  “Good afternoon, Agent Reed.”

  Battling falling straw, Kate followed Hayden up the ladder. Beth Watson sat on a hay bale, a small box in her lap.

  “You don’t seem surprised to see me,” Hayden said.

  “You spotted me at the press conference, and you want to know why I was there.”

  “You’re a smart woman.” Hayden spoke differently to Beth than he had to Robyn Banks, authoritative but tempered with gentleness. “Why were you there, Beth?”

  Although only a few inches over five feet and birdlike, this woman had a strong, callused presence, as if hardened by life. “To hear what you had to say about Jason.” Her pinched features smoothed, and she looked almost pretty at the mention of Jason’s name.

  “You cared about him, beyond coworkers, beyond friends.”

  She smiled. “Nothing gets by you, does it, Agent Reed?”

  “Not important things.”

  “And my relationship with Jason was important?”

  “It could be.”

  She stroked the top of the box. “Jason and I were lovers.”

  Kate frowned. Having a lover was…normal. And Jason wasn’t normal. Their crazy mother made sure of that. Jason wasn’t a killer, but still, he was damaged enough to allow someone to convince him to bludgeon her with a knife.

  “How did it happen?” Hayden asked.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Life usually is.” He leaned against a stack of hay bales.

  Beth stared out the small window that lit the loft. “As Kyl told you, Jason was a lonely young man. He needed attention.”

  “And you gave it to him.”

  “I gave him the care I give everyone in this place, but he took my friendship as something more.” She blushed. It was odd, seeing this middle-aged woman rosy-cheeked. “It was just a few times, about three years ago. Jason seemed particularly needy, almost lost. He’d been unusually quiet, not smiling his normal people-pleasing smile. I reached out to him at first simply to let him know someone cared.” The pink crept to her neck. “I hugged him. That’s how it started, with a hug.”