Was that a click? She grabbed the base of the lock and tugged hard. Nothing. She re-inserted the blade point and tried again and again. Sweaty palms made the knife slippery. Sweat rolled down her spine, tickling the crack of her ass.
A feeling of being watched scratched the back of Bree’s neck. She turned to her left. Large, luminous green eyes glowed in the murk. A tiny, blonde girl with dirt-smudged cheeks clung to the bars of the pen.
“I’m hungry.” The plaintive whisper echoed in the darkness, shattering her heart.
She can’t be any older than Maddie. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” Bree thrust her arm through the bars, trying to comfort the child. Her fingers fell a few inches short. “I’ll get us out of here.”
“Promise?”
Hesitating, she rubbed her fingers across her heart. Forcing a confidence she didn’t feel into her voice, she answered, “I promise.”
Determined, Bree turned back to the lock. She inserted the point of the pocketknife back into the keyhole. She wiggled the tip around but the blade slipped and and sliced her hand. Fuck! She wrapped her hand in her shirt to slow the bleeding. She switched the blade to her left hand and renewed her efforts. Just one more twist. Plink! The tip of the blade snapped off. Hope disintegrated, crumbling to dust.
Crawling back to the farthest, darkest corner of the cage, she curled up into a tight, little ball. Panting, she rocked back and forth. Bree shoved her fist against her mouth as she tried to stop herself from bawling. She failed.
Daddy! I want my daddy.
****
Dreams of car crashes, drowning, and oil-soaked bodies haunted Noah’s sleep. Bree’s image danced just out of reach. He chased her and chased her and could never quite catch her. Behind it all, Seamus laughed and laughed.
Noah tossed and turned. The sound of his text notification startled him awake. Beside him, a steady, gentle snore indicated Cat slept soundly. He grabbed for the phone, quickly silencing the repetitive beep. Fumbling in the dark, he pressed his thumb to the lock screen and swiped on his text app.
The screen glowed, but he couldn’t decipher the words. Rubbing sleep from his exhausted eyes, he tried to focus. The message from a blocked number flared to life on the screen.
—Hey, cuz. Long time no see—
Noah’s fingers flew across the keyboard.
—Who’s this?—
—Don’t play stupid, Ferrell. It doesn’t become you—
Ferrell? Noah buried his head in his hands.
Ding! —Still there, cuz? Or should I call you Noah now? How did you like the little present we left you? Not that I expected you to find her. Damn oilfield trash—no guts. Too bad she wasn’t strong enough to handle the heat. Sure hope this new one is stronger—
Noah sat straight up in bed. Next to him, Cat moaned and rolled over to snuggle deeper into the quilt. Using both thumbs, he worked the phone rapid fire.
—Where the hell is she?—
—She calls you Uncle Noah. Isn’t that sweet? Guess that makes me her uncle, too. Or just a cousin, hmmm, I wonder?—
—If you hurt her…—
Silence. Noah tapped the screen on his phone. He climbed out of bed and walked into the darkened living room, shutting the bedroom door quietly behind him. He re-sent his last text and waited. No response. He tried once more.
—Hello?—
Again, he waited. Minutes ticked by. No response. “Son of a bitch!” He flung his phone across the room. It hit the wall with a solid thump.
Noah sank onto the sofa, his head buried in his hands. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to track the cold-hearted bastard down and beat the shit out of him until he tells me where Bree is, and then I am going to put a bullet right between his eyes.
“Babe?”
Wearing an ancient Department of Public Safety t-shirt, hair tousled, eyes swollen with sleep, Cat stood in the doorway between the bedroom and the living room. The light from the bedside lamp cast a golden glow around her. She noticed his phone laying on the floor several feet away. “What’s going on?”
His stomach lurched. “Nothing.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Nothing?”
He crossed the room and wrapped her in his arms. Holding her tight, he said, “You know I love you? Right?”
She pulled away. “Too tight. Can’t breathe.”
“Sorry.” Stepping back, he stared intently into her eyes. He nodded. “You know I love you more than anything?”
Cat rested her hand on his cheek. Her eyebrows drew together. “Noah, baby, you’re scaring me. What’s happening?”
He hugged her close again, burying his face in the loose hair surrounding her neck. He held her close, inhaling her jasmine scent. His voice shook with emotion. “I just need you to know I love you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Seamus carried his tackle box and pole to the surf. He turned at the sound of his grandfather’s voice. “What?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Declan repeated, his voice tight. The tails of his untucked, vented fishing shirt flapped in the ocean breeze.
What the fook is the old fool blathering on about now? Schooling his features into a neutral expression, he asked, “Tell you what, Grandda?” He continued rigging up his hook and leader before reaching into the cooler for a piece of live bait.
Face flushed, the old man's eyes bulged. “Tell me what? Tell me what?” he snarled. He raised a hand and rubbed his chest just below his breast pocket.
“Grandda, you’re losing it. Do we need to look for a nursing home?” He dragged a rugged workman’s hand across the back of his leathery neck and turned back toward the surf.
“Don’t you turn your back on me. All that nonsense about wearing a dead man’s boots.” Declan stepped closer to be heard over the sound of the waves crashing on the sand in front of them. “You couldn’t tell me Ferrell was still alive?”
“I…” Seamus swallowed hard. “I…” His mouth opened and closed, but no words emerged.
The older man surged forward. His fist tightened, knuckles cracking. “You knew? Knew my grandson was alive, trapped in the car slipping beneath the surface of the river?” His words bounced off Seamus’ chest like hot pellets of lead. “Alive beneath the flames burning on the surface of the water and you left him there to die a slow, hellish death?”
The younger man retreated, stumbling over a piece of driftwood. He fell, landing hard on his ass in the damp sand. “How did you find out?”
The old man barked a short laugh. He rubbed his chest again. “How did I find out he was alive? Your stupid gobshite son showed me his picture on his phone and asked me who he was. How did I find out you tried to kill him? You just told me.”
“I’m going to skin that boy alive.”
“Maybe you should have answered his questions instead.” Declan loomed over his grandson as he scrambled backward to the water. He plucked a desert tan pistol from the waistband of his shorts.
Seamus stared up at the black hole at the end of pistol’s barrel. It wavered slightly as the old man’s hand trembled. The closer the gun came, the harder it shook.
With a sudden moan, Declan collapsed to his knees. The gun fell from nerveless fingers.
Seamus scooped the gun from the sand and turned the barrel on his grandfather. The old man didn’t move. The younger man’s lips turned up in a narrow sneer. “You never suspected. I played the grieving cousin so well. I missed him like a brother, or so you thought. Never suspected I caused the wreck in the first place, did you? Never dreamed I was the one who forced his flashy little hot rod off the road and into the river.”
Seamus kneeled beside his grandfather and leaned closed to the old man’s ear. His voice dropped to a faux-honeyed tone. “Here’s something else no one will ever suspect, old man. I’m going to sit here and watch you die. After you take your last breath, I’m going after your precious Ferrell again. And this time, I’m going to finish the job I started all those years ago.”
; Chapter Nineteen
Think, Morgan.
Overwhelmed by so many questions with no answers, Noah tapped his fingers against his desk in time to the music playing on the radio. “Get Back” by the Beatles segued into “Sweet Home Alabama.”
Even though the music was upbeat and totally out of sync with his current mood, it isolated him into his own little bubble, slowing the random thoughts bouncing through his brain like a pinball. The melodies helped him to shut out any distractions and focus.
He stood and paced around his office. What do I know? His fingers beat the rhythm of the song against his jeans. I know Bree is missing. Why?
I know the boyfriend is not Patrick, and he did not do it.
I know Seamus did. But why now? And the bullshit text about slowing down the investigation is just that, bullshit. He knows involving Bree, involving the rangers, is just going to turn up the heat on the investigation, so why does he want us focused on Bree? What are we missing? What are we being distracted from?
I know of at least two other girls who have now been found dead: Alyssa Sanders, the hip implant, and Jane Doe, the girl from the overturned tanker.
His stomach rolled at the thought of finding Bree’s lifeless body. Nope. Not going to let that happen.
How many of the reported missing can be pinned back to Seamus?
Even more worrisome, how many children that haven’t been reported missing does he have?
He circled back to his desk where he flopped into the leather desk chair. He picked up a number-two yellow pencil, made sure it was sharp, and grabbed a legal pad. He needed to find the pattern. “Brown-Eyed Girl” poured from the speakers hidden in the acoustical ceiling tiles of his office. He twirled his pencil between his fingers before bouncing the eraser off the pad.
Grandda always taught him everything always boils down to “why.” He said his father and his father before him taught him that if he could find the why, he could figure out the rest.
What in the hell does Seamus want with these children?
Deciding it was time to start a list, he spun in his chair, allowing his head to fall back against the cushioned headrest. He made a visual search of the dingy ceiling tiles, casting for answers he still couldn’t find. The words of the song circled in his head like an earwig burrowing ever deeper. Brown-eyed girl?
Sitting straight up, he dragged the legal pad closer and stared the list with “appearance” and followed it with a question mark.
All three girls shared a similar build—petite, slender with curves. No other similarities, though. One redhead, one blonde, one brunette. Eye color varied. Bree was a whisper older than the other two girls, seventeen to their fourteen and fifteen. Briefly, he considered going through the files of the additional missing children, but he lacked enough information to know which files to include in his lists and which to exclude.
Okay, moving on. What do the girls have in common besides being female?
Fragments of a long-forgotten memory whirled through his brain. Bits and pieces of a conversation tickled the edges of his conscious thought—one of the last conversations with his cousin before—well, just before.
A shudder danced down Noah’s spine as the memory ran into a brick wall. He couldn’t remember what happened after that conversation no matter how many times he tried. Seamus had been calling people sheep, something about livestock needing a master.
Livestock? Could he be keeping his captives on a ranch? Lord knew there were enough big places and empty hunting cabins in the area. It would take weeks to search them all. Time was something they didn’t have. Still, he made a note of it on his list.
Why? Why is the key. Noah wrote “why” on his list, circling it multiple times before drawing harsh, black lines beneath it. It all came back to that one word. Why had Seamus grabbed Bree? It couldn’t be as simple as wanting to slow down the investigation. Even the most simple-minded idiot would know grabbing a ranger’s kid would turn up the heat, not turn it down. There had to be more.
Unless they hadn’t known she was a ranger’s kid when they grabbed her. But if that was the case, why not let her go? Why taunt them?
Noah forced himself to focus on the past he’d tried to repress, to think on the time growing up with Grandda, Nana, and Seamus. He had to figure out what his cousin really wanted.
The scar on his lower abdomen twanged. Noah convinced Cat it was from an appendectomy. In reality, Seamus had wielded the blade that caused the scar. Why does he hate me so much? Would he really use an innocent girl for vengeance against me? I went away. He’s the one dragging me back.
Noah dropped his head into his hands. What did he say when he stabbed me? Why can’t I remember?
****
A furious wind howled, buffeting the metal container holding the hog traps. No light crept through the cracks; Bree had no way of knowing the passage of time. Just the wind, pummeling, whirling wind that threatened to rip the doors off their hinges. The constant roar made her teeth itch. She curled into a ball, tucking her head against her knees, swiping at tears tracking down her face.
Whimpers from the cage next to her added to her feeling of helplessness.
“Here, take my hand.” Bree sat up and scooched to the edge of her kennel. She stretched her arm through the bars of the cage. Pinching and bruising it as she forced it through the narrow space, she took the young girl’s hand in her own. “Hush now,” she crooned, “it’s all going to be okay.” She cringed as soon as the words left her mouth. How could anything ever be okay again?
She gave the small hand another squeeze. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
Sniffles answered her.
She tried again. “I bet you are five years old?”
“Nuh-uh. I’m six.”
The outrage in the little voice made Bree chuckle despite the circumstances. “Oh, I’m sorry. My sister is five. I thought you might be her age. What’s your name?”
“S-S-Sarah.”
“Hi, Sarah. Where do you live?”
“I’m scared.” Sarah laid her head against the bars. She raised her face, a pale oval in the darkness. “I want my mommy.”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she said, struggling to keep her voice light. “My name’s Bree, and my dad is a Texas Ranger. He and my Uncle Noah will find us and get us out of here.”
“What’s a Texas Ranger?”
Bree smiled for the first time in days. “A ranger is a police officer only better. He always gets his man. He will move heaven and earth until he finds us. He won’t ever stop.”
Please, God, let him find us. Soon.
****
Noah cranked up both the speed and incline on the treadmill, pushing himself harder and harder. Sweat dripped onto the control board. He jabbed at the buttons, forcing the machine to its maximum capabilities. Inside his running shoes, the soles of his feet burned as he pounded the belt.
From her perch on the sagging second-hand sofa across the room in their home gym, Cat asked, “You okay, babe?”
Gulping oxygen between words, he replied, “Just…hunky…dory.”
My best friend’s daughter has been grabbed by my psychopathic cousin. I have information that could find her, but I can’t share it because I don’t have a logical reason for having the information. I’m hiding everything, including who I really am, from the woman I love. And I’m probably going to lose my job. If my cousin doesn’t kill me first.
So yeah, hunky dory.
“Babe, you can’t keep pushing yourself like this. You can’t keep working eighteen, twenty hours a day. You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“Bree is missing.”
“I know, babe, I know, but you can’t help anyone if you work yourself to death.” Cat patted the worn cushion of the ratty sofa. “Join me for a minute? We need to talk.”
“That sounds ominous.”
She grabbed her Saint Michael’s pendant and slid it back and forth on the chain. A wa
n smile faltered on her face. When she met his eyes, the smile faded.
“Uh-oh.” He shut off the treadmill, grabbed a towel, and mopped the sweat from his face and neck. Dropping the towel across the handrail of the machine, he walked over to join her. He placed a kiss on top of her head before slouching onto the seat beside her.
He lifted the medal from her fingers, rolled it between his own. “St. Michael, patron saint of police officers, paramedics, firefighters, and the military. Do I need his help?”
Silence.
“Hey.” He placed a gentle hand on her cheek. “I was teasing.” He searched her eyes. “Is everything okay?”
“Why don’t you want to have children?”
Everything inside him stilled. “Cat.” He stood and stepped away from her. Looking at his watch, he said, “I don’t have time for this discussion right now. I need to get back to work.”
She reached for him. “I need—”
He brushed her hand away. “Not now. I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up.”
****
The squeal of rusty hinges on the shipping container split Patrick’s already pounding head. Squeezing his eyes shut didn’t help. Rubbing his temples—forget that.
Fuck! Will I ever learn? Beer before liquor, never sicker. Semi-sweet air competed with the overwhelming odors of captivity. The stench turned his already rebellious stomach.
The captives scooted to the backs of their cages, moving as far away from him as possible in their tight, confined spaces.
“Clean the cages.” With an ugly twist to his mouth, Patrick mimicked his father’s voice. “Water the livestock.” He snorted. “Do this. Do that.” Reverting to his own alcohol-soaked voice, he muttered, “Why don’t you do any of the work yourself, huh, Da? What am I? Your whipping boy? Your slave?”
He set the beer can down and withdrew a syringe and glass bottle from his pocket. He inserted the syringe and measured out a dosage of the fast-acting sedative. Holding the syringe up to the light, he pushed the plunger just enough to squirt a bit of liquid from the tip of the needle.
Armed with the needle, he unlocked the first cage. Grabbing the child by her arm, he dragged her to the door of the cage and injected her. Within moments, she collapsed in his arms. He scooped her up, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her out into the sunlight where he laid her on the grass. He then picked up a hose and rinsed the accumulated dirt and filth off the unconscious child.
Broken Toys Page 18