A loud clattering noise outside the room made the children jump. Bree wrapped her arms around Sarah, holding her tight. She wasn’t sure if she was comforting the child or taking comfort. The other young children darted behind Bree, attempting to hide. More thumping noises and a few voices came from the outer room.
A key grated in the deadbolt. The door swung inward. A large man holding a pistol in his right hand blocked the opening. With his left hand, he tossed a large bag of fast food into the room before slamming the door closed and relocking it.
The kids swarmed the bag, ripping it open and tearing into the lukewarm hamburgers. Bree grabbed a burger for Sarah and for herself. She took a bite. It tasted off, but she was so hungry she didn’t care. She inhaled the entire burger.
Twenty minutes later, her head began to swim, and the room spun. In one moment of clarity, a thought occurred to her. Damn it, they drugged the burgers.
****
Seamus paced outside the metal door, watching the hairdresser and two makeup artists set up their workstations. He glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes had passed since they had fed the livestock. He nodded at his son. “Handle this. I’ve got to go.”
Patrick opened the steel door and dragged out three of the younger children, handing them off to the hairdresser and makeup artists. The women went to work on the children, curling hair, applying makeup, and draping them in skimpy costumes.
“Hurry it up,” he snapped at the photographer setting up lights and a background. He ran his hand over the bandage on his face. “We don’t have all day. The drugs will wear off soon.”
“I’m ready.” The photographer adjusted the height of one of the lightstands. “Lead them over.”
One at a time, the photographer took digital images of the children for the online catalog. As soon as he finished with one child, someone carried out another. Before long, all the captives were in the front room.
Patrick watched the man with growing disgust. He understood getting excited about the older girls, but half these kids were just that—little kids.
****
Bree’s mouth tasted like old gym socks. Drugged again. Damn it!
She blinked her eyes and shook her head trying to clear it. She realized they were no longer in the dilapidated wooden room where they'd been held. She scanned this new room, searching for an escape. Dizziness messed with her depth perception. She reached her hand for the door only to fall to the floor, landing on her face.
Rough hands dragged her to the other side of the room. They propped her against the wall like a rag doll.
Fight it. Push through. You can do this. She struggled against the drugs. Slowly, clarity returned. She stayed huddled in the shadows against the wall, keeping her head down and trying not to attract any attention. She touched her lips, smearing dark red lipstick across her fingertips.
Sarah sidled over and climbed into her lap. Bree wrapped her arms protectively around the tiny girl.
The photographer’s assistant grabbed for Sarah, trying to tug her away from Bree, but the little one clung like a burr.
Bree tightened her grip. The photographer motioned to one of the men guarding the children. “Screw it. Bring me both of them.”
The beast grabbed Bree around the waist and lifted her to her feet. He half-carried, half-dragged her in front of the cameras. The photographer’s assistant carried Sarah. She dropped the child with a hard plop onto the backdrop.
The heat of the lights made Bree glisten with sweat. She fought to keep Sarah hidden.
“For heaven’s sake, fix the girl’s lips. She’s smeared.” The photographer threw his hands up in the air. “And give her a drink. I can’t work like this. She’s dripping sweat.” He reached around and grabbed an open bottle of water sitting beside his camera. Shoving it toward the teenager, he commanded, “Drink.”
She glued her lips shut. Shook her head no. She crossed her arms over her chest and thrust her jaw out. No way. No how. Not gonna do it.
The brute who had already manhandled her pinched her nose closed. As soon as she opened her mouth to breathe, he dumped the water down her throat, spilling it over her chin and shirt. Within moments, euphoria allowed giggles to escape her lips. The sensation of being swept away in a veil of light engulfed her. I can fly. She gathered Sarah into her arms and began stumbling around the room, believing she was waltzing on clouds. Bright lights flashed around her. Bree collapsed to the floor, her limbs like jelly. Sarah curled up in her lap.
“Beautiful. Magnificent. Little Madonna, perfection.” Lights continued to flash. The photographer dashed around, draping fabrics over and around the two girls, posing Bree’s arms and legs this way and that.
Bree faded away, drifting on clouds of nothing.
****
The key scraped in the lock as Noah re-entered his house. Broken dishes, splinters of glass, a shattered tea pitcher, debris from his temper fit, littered the dining room floor. A sharp spike of pain pierced his right eye. A band tightened around the top of his skull like someone had stuck an oil filter wrench on top of his head and cranked it down. Bright flashes of light and dark spots intermingled in his vision. This migraine would finish the job started by the thugs outside the bar.
He stumbled to the bathroom and collapsed on the floor in front of the toilet. Clinging to the porcelain god, he emptied his stomach. It was way too late to take the triptan that might have broken the migraine before it reached this point. Maybe I should have gotten drunk. The fleeting thought danced through his aching head.
He opened the cabinet and blindly fumbled for a washcloth, wetting it with hot water. Laying on the bathroom floor, in a semi-fetal position, he draped the cloth over his eyes. Just before his eyes closed, an object on the floor caught his attention.
Pushing through the pain, he struggled to his knees and crawled across the floor. There, by the trash can he had kicked over earlier, lay a box. A box for a pregnancy test. Random images flashed through his mind—Cat turning down wine; Cat holding her stomach; the weird way she acted when he said he was glad they didn’t have kids. He picked up the box. Rattled it. Empty. Headache forced to the background, he pulled himself to his feet using the bathroom vanity. Where is it?
Frantically, he gathered the garbage from the floor, placing it back into the trash container. Nothing. No sign of the test. He checked the debris on the bedroom floor. Still no test. He whipped his gaze from wall to wall. Where could it be? The fancy table setting popped into his memory.
Noah made his way to the dining room. Faster and faster, he began cleaning up the mess he had made all while searching. He had to know.
He had to know now.
There. In a pile of shards of ceramic from the broken dinner plates, he spotted the white stick. He nicked his finger, drawing blood, as he grabbed the test, hands shaking. Cat must have wanted to surprise me with it at dinner tonight. He could see her presenting him with the dome-covered silver platter, whisking away the lid with a sultry voilà, a soft smile on her crimson lips, and then what? How do I read this damn thing?
Taking a deep breath, he turned the stick over. He fell to his knees. In the result window, he read one word—pregnant.
Everything faded away. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, dry as a desert. A stupid grin lifted his cheeks. He smiled so hard it hurt. He was going to be a father. His shoulders dropped back as his chest puffed out. Pride filled him. I’m going to be a daddy.
Suddenly, he felt like he could walk on water.
A moment later, reality slammed home. He folded in on himself, his heart racing out of control. A cold sweat dampened his hairline. His migraine returned with a vengeance. Cat was out there somewhere, running from him, alone—and pregnant.
****
Hours before sunrise, Noah paused in the doorway of the all-night café, gathering his courage. Cat sat in their favorite booth on the far side of the restaurant. Armed with his new knowledge, his gaze lingered on her, searching for hints or confirmati
on. Light from the streetlamp in the parking lot flooded in the window. It teased cinnamon sparkles from her espresso colored hair. So beautiful.
Noah inhaled sharply. Scents of dark-roasted coffee beans—why does coffee always smell like week-old skunk spray? Why do I even care?—competed with freshly baked bread. His stomach growled. Ignoring it, he slid across the hunter green vinyl bench into the booth opposite Cat. “Hey, you.”
She stared at the untouched cup of coffee sitting on the green-speckled laminate table in front of her, her face tight, and her expression closed. She refused to face him. She twisted her fingers together. “What do you want?”
He reached across the table, placed his hands over hers. “Cat, sweetheart, look at me? Please?”
She yanked her hands out from beneath his. Her gaze met his. Hurt and anger battled for dominance on her face. “Don’t.”
“Cat, sweetie…”
She scrambled out of the booth. “Don’t touch me and don’t sweetie me.”
He stood, blocking her path to the exit. “Please, sit down.” He sighed. “I won’t touch you.”
She remained standing, arms crossed protectively over her abdomen. “It's a little late for that, don't you think?” she scoffed than stepped back. “I have absolutely nothing to say to you. I don’t even know who you are.”
His shoulders slumped. He moved aside and motioned for her to walk past him. As she did, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “I know.”
She stiffened, started to look at Noah, but whipped her head forward, raised her chin, and swept past him, right out the door.
“Damn it.” Noah slammed his hand on the table, splashing cold coffee from the full cup. He dropped back into the booth and buried his head in his hands.
“Hello, Officer. I hope you will forgive me for mentioning it, but you look like shit.”
Noah lifted his head.
Trey Panzer stood beside his table. Gray hair neatly bound in a braid dangling over his shoulder, clothes and hands clean, he appeared more alert and saner than Noah had ever seen him. The older man gestured to the empty bench. “May I join you?”
Wearily, he waved at the empty seat. “By all means. After last night, I owe you at least a cup of coffee.” He checked the time on his watch. He had an hour before meeting Rhyden at the office. “Probably even breakfast. Please, join me.”
Trey dropped into the booth and immediately began rearranging the condiments. He lined them up by size, in a precise line on the back edge of the table. Next, he picked all the sugar and sweetener packets from their ceramic container and likewise straightened them by color and size, turning the labels so all the lettering faced the same direction. “So what rests so heavily on your shoulders this morning?”
What the hell? “Where should I start? My girlfriend hates me. I bought her a ring, foolishly believing we would be together forever. Last night she left me. And I just discovered she’s pregnant. She didn’t even tell me. I’m going to be a daddy and will probably never even get to meet my child.” Noah looked across the table, evaluating his audience.
“The truth will set you free. Of course, according to Garfield, first it will make you miserable. James Garfield that is, not the lasagna-loving cat.” His hands still busy adjusting items on the table, his eyes clear and focused on Noah, Trey nodded encouragingly.
In for a penny, in for a pound. “It goes deeper than that.”
“Doesn’t it always?” Lining up the salt and pepper shakers, he nodded sagely.
“My life is crumbling all around me. The past I tried to escape is trying to ruin the future I’ve made for myself. I have so many holes in my memory it may as well be made of swiss cheese. I’m terrified those blank spots will destroy my life. That is if my cousin doesn’t kill me first. I’m going to lose it all…every single important piece of my life.
“And the rage…damn it, the fucking rage. It’s eating me alive. Consuming me from the inside out. I don’t know how to deal with it.”
“You know, Father always said, a man who has never angered a woman is a failure in life. I believe he was a big fan of Christopher Morley. I miss Father. Perhaps he could make the rolling beasts and metal locusts go away. I know for certain he would be able to dismiss the aliens and the ghosts. I, for one, certainly do not wish to feel the sting of the locust’s scorpion tail. I doubt my domicile such as it is would survive.”
Noah bit back a heavy sigh as he glanced at his watch again. He let Trey’s words roll over him without registering.
Trey continued rambling. “What a dust-up yesterday afternoon when one of the ghosts escaped the aliens! It was a sight to see. Vastly different from the parties they normally host. You could come and watch if you wanted. They are sure to let the ghosts out of the metal box tonight. It’s time, you know. Last night the flashes. Tonight, the aliens come and take the ghosts away before the next batch arrives.” Trey folded his hands neatly in his lap. “Perhaps we could order breakfast now?”
Noah waved to catch the attention of the server. “Perhaps we should.”
As the server took Trey’s order, Noah surreptitiously dialed Cat’s number. The phone rang in his ear, once, twice, click. She sent his call to voicemail. Again.
****
“Ranger Morgan?”
The tone of Sylvia’s voice triggered an alert in Noah. He met her at the door of his office. “Sylvia, what is it?”
She twisted her hands together. Speech rushed, she said, “Ranger Trammell’s not here. I tried calling him, but it went to voicemail. I need you up front. There’s a girl waiting. Says she knows something about his daughter. Knows she is missing.”
Wetting lips that suddenly dried up, Noah brushed past the receptionist, texting his partner as he went. “Where is she? The girl? Where?”
“In the lobby, sir.”
Noah pushed through the glass door separating the employees-only area of the law enforcement from the public lobby. A teenage girl sat alone, arguing with herself, rhythmically tapping her thumbs against her fingers. At the sound of the door opening, the girl jumped to her feet. She was a tiny thing with stringy, mouse-brown hair, wearing a too-large long-sleeve shirt, baggy jeans, and scuffed, holey tennis shoes. She clutched an oversized hobo bag to her chest. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. He searched his memory for friends of Bree who might resemble this girl and found none.
“You’re not Ranger Trammell. I know you.” She searched the lobby. Her thumb bounced faster against her fingers. “Where is he? I need to talk to him. Now. Please.”
“No, I’m not.” Noah approached the girl. “I’m Ranger Morgan. Ranger Trammell is in the field. Do you know where Bree is? Can you take me to her?”
Her shoulders drooped. She appeared to fold in on herself, her petite frame shrinking even more. “But I really need to talk to Ranger Trammell,” she whispered brokenly.
Noah moved closer, holding one hand in front of him, palm up. “It’s okay, Miss…?”
No response. She seemed to be struggling with a weighty matter. Her eyes flicked back and forth across the floor as if she were foraging for answers.
A memory clicked in his head. She was the girl with the crappy parents who tried to have her arrested. “I remember you. The girl with the Honda, right?” He racked his brain, trying to remember her name.
She startled as if she had forgotten he was there. Her eyes held a world of hurt. She swallowed visibly hard, her throat jerking up and down. She shook her head. “He said he loved me.” One hand slipped into her open bag. She drew a pistol from her bag, raised it.
“Gun!” Sylvia yelled, hit the panic alarm and scrambled behind the bulletproof glass.
Noah waved the receptionist off. “Get out of here.” He turned his attention back to the girl. Hand still outstretched toward her, each step precise and deliberate, he eased slowly closer, never losing eye contact with her.
The gun wavered in her hands. Tears cut a path down her cheeks. She gulped air.
Gentling his voice like he’d observed Rhyden do with a skittish, unbroken colt, Noah said, “Hold on there, darlin’. Why don’t you give me the gun?” A tiny touch of Irish whispered through his words. “Ye don’ wanna choose a permanent solution for a temporary problem, now do ye?”
Rochelle jerked away from him as if slapped. She steadied the gun in her hands. “Temporary problem? Who says it’s a temporary problem? Don’t you get it? I can’t fix it. It can’t be fixed. I killed people.” Her voice broke. “I murdered people…for…a lying sack of shit. I thought we were changing the world. Making it better.” She locked eyes with Noah. “I thought he loved me.” Pain rolled off her in waves. “Why?” she whispered. “Why did I believe anyone could ever love me?”
Her words struck a deep chord within Noah. With infinite patience, he sidled another step closer to the girl. He caught movement in the corner of his eye. Other officers converged on the lobby. He signaled for them to stay back.
In one smooth, swift motion, Rochelle raised the gun to her temple.
Noah rushed her, slapping the gun from her hand. He slammed her to the floor. They grappled for the gun. The gun fired. Both stopped moving. A puddle of blood formed on the tile floor around them. Officers rushed into the room, screaming for medical assistance.
****
Sharp, stabbing pain and an incessant beeping forced Noah’s eyes open. The thin fabric curtain surrounding the emergency room cubicle whisked open with a rattle of metal hooks in their tracks. A doctor wearing a white coat over bloodied green scrubs carrying a clipboard in his large hands approached the bed. A purple stethoscope looped around his neck.
Looking up from the chart in his hands, he squinted over his reading glasses at his patient. A smile wreathed his face. “Ranger Morgan. Are you trying to set a record for the most ER visits in one week? Don’t you see enough of the lovely Cat at home?”
Beside him, Rhyden caught the doctor’s attention. He frantically ran the flat edge of his hand across his throat in a cease-and-desist motion.
Broken Toys Page 21