Noah glared at the doctor from the bed. The plastic ID bracelet chafed his wrist. Tubes and lines snaked around him, tying him to various monitors. The beeping of the equipment combined with the moaning cries and the vomiting noises from the bed in the next cubicle and the doctor’s flippant attitude stomped all over his last nerve. “Not funny, Doc.”
The doctor cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said in a brisk, decidedly more professional manner. “Let me see what we have here.” He nudged the readers farther up his nose. After skimming the chart, he snapped it closed and removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “You were beyond lucky today. The bullet passed cleanly through the soft tissue on your anterolateral flank…”
Rhyden interrupted. “His what?”
Seeing the blank expression on Noah’s face, the doctor continued, “Err, um, your love handles…”
Affronted, Noah cut in. “I do not have love handles. Look at this torso. Fit as a fiddle.”
Without missing a beat, the doctor continued. “The bullet missed all your major organs and blood vessels. Thank God. It’s a good thing the bullet was a target round. Had it been a hollow point, we’d be having a completely different conversation right now, most likely with your next of kin.” The doctor paused and asked Noah, “Is it true…err, well, I mean, a couple of the officers were saying you charged a suspect holding a loaded gun. You do realize this could have been a fatal wound, right? What were you thinking? Especially now, with Cat—”
“Doc…” A warning tone edged Noah’s voice.
“Right. Sorry. Okay. We’ve cleaned the wound and closed it with absorbable stitches. They should dissolve in two to three weeks. Keep the dressing clean and dry. Change it daily. Gently clean the wound and treat it with antibiotic ointment. I recommend wrapping the bandages with plastic wrap when you shower.”
He scribbled on a prescription pad, ripped off the top page, and scribbled on the one beneath it as well. He handed them to Noah. “I’m prescribing something for the pain and a general antibiotic for the next seven days. Based on our previous encounters, I don’t suppose I can talk you into spending the night?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” The doctor threw up his hands in an I give up gesture. He exhaled sharply. “All right, tough guy, wait here. The nurse will be in shortly with discharge instructions.”
Noah nodded. “Thanks, Doc.” He faced his partner. “What are you doing here? Have you found Bree?”
“You were shot. Why do you think I’m here?”
Noah scrubbed his hands across his eyes. He peered at Rhyden, taking in the dark circles beneath his eyes, the obvious weight loss. “I really don’t know. Girl came in rambling on about murdering people, and she had a gun. She was going to shoot herself. I stopped her. Something else…something…important.” He yawned widely and rubbed at his eyes again. “Damn drugs.”
“Bree!” Noah shot straight up in the bed, grabbing the railing, eyes wide. “She said she knew about Bree.” White hot pain shot through his abdomen. “Is the girl all right? Did anyone question her? Do we have Bree home?”
Laying a hand on Noah’s shoulder, Rhyden eased him back to a prone position. “Easy, buddy. The girl’s fine. Bennett County investigators interviewed her. She claims to be the school shooter. Some boy—we think it may be the same one the Sanders girl was mixed up with—convinced her shooting up the school would save the world. She kept calling him PC. Judge is holding her on an emergency detainment. We can’t talk to her again until her parents are located, and they’ve vanished. She’s being held up on the fifth floor in the psych unit with armed guards on the door while we search for them. She didn’t know the kid’s real name or where Bree was. She didn’t even know for sure that he took Bree.”
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out searching for your daughter?”
Pain flashed across Rhyden’s features. “Search where? We’re at a loss. It’s killing me, but there’s literally nothing more I can do without new information except sit by the phone and pray. I can’t stand to go home. Sam and Maddie follow me around the house, silent accusations painted all over their faces. Constantly asking if we’ve found Bree yet, when we’re going to bring her home…as if I would hide her away from them. It’s been almost a week now. I’ve never felt so useless in all my life.” He paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggled for control. “I was hoping the girl had told you something useful. Given us a new starting point.”
Noah ripped the blood pressure cuff from his arm. He tugged on the IV needle where it slid beneath the skin of his arm. “Where are my clothes? I need to get out of here so we can interview her. She came looking for you. Maybe she will tell us something she didn’t tell the detectives.”
“Yeah, can’t do that until we find her parents. Minor, remember?”
“Damn.” He fell back against the gurney, ignoring the trickle of blood running down his arm. “How weird is it that I don’t know whether to be furious with the girl or feel sorry for her? She just kept ranting and apologizing. I didn’t really believe her when she said she had killed people. This tiny little waif with big, soulful eyes. She looked like a war orphan.” Fatigue swept over Noah. Eyes heavy, his head drooped against the pillow. His arms weighed a ton. Even breathing became a chore.
“From the sounds of it, she lives in a war zone. The sheriff’s office has had multiple calls to her residence for domestic situations. Dad beats up stepmom. Stepmom beats up dad. Sounds like stepbrothers have tried sexually assaulting the girl, too.”
Rhyden’s nostrils flared. He cracked his knuckles. “Don’t know why CPS didn’t yank her out of there years ago, but then again I don’t know how much she says is real and how much is imagined. She’s pretty messed up. She does know details only the school shooter could know, so yeah, I’m with you. Don’t know whether to feel sorry for her or hate her. Poor girl is completely broken.” He ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Have to wonder how much of it is the system’s fault.”
Rhyden fidgeted with the rolls of bandages on the stainless-steel rolling tray. He avoided making eye contact with his partner. “So,” he continued, “on the subject of not knowing whether or not to feel sorry for someone, what happened with you and Cat? I’ve known her for a long time, and I’ve never seen her so shut down before.”
Noah fake yawned. “Damn these drugs.”
“Answer my question. I’m worried about you. You’ve just been really weird lately. What’s going on?”
“Do we have to do this now?”
Rhyden tapped his fingernails against the tray. He stared at Noah without responding. Tap, tap-tap, tap, tap-tap, tap, tap-tap.
On top of the beeping, and the other hospital sounds, pain, misery, and that god-awful tapping pushed Noah over the edge. “Fine. I’ll tell you. Just, please, stop that infernal racket.”
Leaning back and folding his arms across his chest, Rhyden tucked his hands under his armpits. He nodded regally. “Please. Proceed with your tale of woe.”
“Tale of woe? Really? Cat and I had a fight.”
“Duh.”
He dropped his chin, tilted his head, and aimed a venomous look at his partner. “Do you want to hear this or not?”
Rhyden pretended to lock his lips and throw away the key before he waved his hand in a rolling go ahead motion.
“It was bad. She left. I trashed the house. Huge mess. Holes in the sheetrock. The works. Then I headed to the bar.”
Rhyden’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “You what?”
“Don’t worry.” Noah obviously hadn’t shared specifics of his childhood with his buddy, but he had talked about growing up with an alcoholic and his feelings about drinking to solve problems. “I didn’t drink. I sat and stared at the glass for an hour before deciding to go home and clean up the house.”
He conveniently forgot to mention the altercation with the thugs. That would lead to too many other questions he did
n’t want to answer. He was good at skipping over things he wanted to hide.
“O-ka-a-a-y. What am I missing? Did Cat give you the black eye? I mean, y’all have fought in the past, but you’ve never gotten physical before.”
“We didn’t get physical this time either.”
“Fine, you didn’t get your ass kicked by a girl. I get it. This isn’t your first rodeo, though. Y’all always make up. So what’s actually going on?”
This time, he avoided Rhyden’s eyes. He zeroed in on the whiteboard hanging on the wall across from his bed, the one with the smiley-frowny faces used to indicate pain levels. What’s my pain level? Physically or mentally? Cat ripped out my heart. I don’t think numbers go high enough.
“Hello?” Rhyden waved a hand in front of his face. “Where did you go?”
“I don’t know what to do.” He turned to face his best friend, despair radiating from his entire being. “Cat’s pregnant…and she didn’t even tell me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah. I found the test stick. Great big, bright pink letters spelling out P R E G N A N T.” His voice shook. “I’m going to be a dad.” And I’m probably going to fuck that up, too.
Rhyden scooted closer and patted Noah awkwardly on the leg. “Um, congratulations?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
There’s only one way to solve this problem.
Noah tugged on latex gloves before he reached for the unregistered AR-15 he had picked up at a gun show. Lightweight and inexpensive, the locally built gun rested beside his binoculars on the seat of the rental car. He removed the magazine and checked his ammunition for the fourth time. Fully loaded.
One at a time, he flicked the bullets out of the magazine. Picking up a red mechanic’s rag, he rubbed each cartridge down, ensuring no fingerprints existed on it. He wasn’t going to prison because of a stupid mistake. Keeping the gloves on his hands despite the sweat building up inside of them, he reloaded each round one by one.
He inserted the magazine back into the rifle and racked the charging handle, chambering a bullet. Determined, he tucked the gun under the driver’s seat within easy reach. He pulled off the gloves, wadded them up, and tucked them into his shirt pocket.
Eyes glued to the front door of the paving shop, he tapped a rhythm on the sticky steering wheel. His leg bounced. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. His stitches itched beneath the bandage. With one hand, he popped the lid off a bottle of pain pills. He tossed two in his mouth and swallowed them dry. He chucked the bottle onto the seat beside him.
Come on, come on, come on.
A light in the office went dark. The door of the shop swung open. A familiar profile, now creased by time, exited the building. Noah’s chest tightened. Grandda. A flood of warm recollections swept over him. The man turned. Noah caught sight of him head-on. Wait, that’s not Grandda. Cold hatred flooded through his veins.
Seamus. Let’s go, you bastard. I’m gunning for you.
He saw his cousin lock up the office door, then amble across the parking lot to his heavy-duty work truck. His cell phone must have rung because he lifted it to one ear while he climbed into the truck, started it up, and drove out of the parking lot.
Hidden in the shadows of the dump truck, Noah cranked up his rental. Dust blew from the air conditioning vents in the cracked dash. A tinny rattle from a loose heat shield filled the cabin. Guess they weren’t kidding when they called the place Rent-A-Wreck. He tugged the bill of his ball cap lower, hiding his face, hoping the darkly tinted windows would help conceal his identity. With a heavy clunk, the vehicle’s automatic transmission ground into reverse. Noah backed from the parking space. Hands twitching with anticipation, he shifted into drive, ready to follow his prey. Hopefully, Seamus would lead him to the captives.
Why the hell didn’t I think of this sooner?
Noah thought of the rifle nestled beneath his seat. And if he doesn’t lead me to the kids, well, I’ll still solve one problem.
Mile after mile, he followed Seamus down twisting back roads, hanging far enough back to stay off his cousin’s radar but close enough not to lose sight of him. The sun slipped toward the horizon, leaving a brilliant swatch of crimson in its path. The glare reflecting from the silver pickup blinded Noah. He wished the sun would hurry up and go down. He squinted before shoving his aviator shades over his aching eyes. Lack of sleep, anger, and the glare combined to give him a vicious headache. The pain pills couldn’t touch it. Hell, with his luck, they probably even contributed to it.
Come on, you sorry bastard. Lead me to the kids. The silver truck drove farther into the South Texas countryside before turning off on a red dirt road. Mexican eagles picked at a swollen deer carcass lying partially on the roadway. As Seamus’ truck approached, they lifted off as one, spiraling upward. As the truck passed, they drifted back down to finish their roadkill dinner.
Seamus turned right passing a yellow “no outlet” sign previously peppered by a shotgun. Rust formed at the edges of the pellet holes. Noah’s eyes narrowed. Got you now, you useless waste of human flesh. He sped up, knowing the cloud of dust kicked up by his cousin’s truck would keep him hidden from view. Red brake lights flared in front of him. Noah eased off the accelerator.
Ignoring the posted no-trespassing signs, Seamus left the county road turning into an oilfield lease. The easement he turned onto was a narrow, one-lane path with deep tracks embedded in the red dirt. An eighteen-wheeler carrying a full load had obviously traversed the thoroughfare shortly after the last heavy rain. Noah pulled to the shoulder of the county road, idling in the high weeds. If things continue true to course, my muffler will start a brush fire.
He watched as Seamus drove up the easement to a gate. The newfangled automatic gate blocking access to the property contrasted greatly with the leaning mesquite fence posts and drooping barbed wire. Seamus stretched his arm out of the truck window and typed a code into a keypad at the entrance of the lease. The gate slowly swung open. He drove forward and continued bouncing down the easement. He paused just long enough to ensure the gate closed behind him.
Noah placed the rental car in park and switched the ignition off. He picked up the binoculars and watched the silver truck until it came to a stop in front of a stack of rusty shipping containers. He scanned the area, watching for any other activity. To the left of the containers, he spotted a set of tank batteries used for storing oil and the saltwater waste pumped from the oil wells. Beyond them sat an empty helipad. Several hundred yards past the helipad stood a falling-down, centuries-old farmhouse.
Noah double-checked to make sure the overhead light was disabled before easing the door on the rental car open. He didn’t want an untimely flash of light to attract Seamus’s attention. A throbbing twinge in his side prompted him to pop another couple of pain pills. Reaching beneath the seat of the car, he grabbed his rifle. He hissed. A sharp pain sliced through his finger. Damn rental car. A loose spring hidden beneath the seat had cut into the meat of his trigger finger. He wiped the blood on his shirt as he stepped from the vehicle. He leaned back into the car, grabbed the binoculars, and placed their strap around his neck.
Another quick look around where he stood revealed no danger of anyone spotting him. The sun finished its silent slide into oblivion, shrouding Noah in darkness. Quietly, he eased across the bar ditch to the deteriorating fence surrounding the oil lease. He examined the fencing material. Good, not electrical. Raising the binoculars to his eyes, he searched for Seamus. Too dark. He let the binoculars fall, dangling against his chest. Picking up the rifle, he peered through the night vision scope. Like looking through green cellophane. He found Seamus still sitting in the driver’s seat of his truck. The man appeared to still be focused on his cell phone.
Noah reached the fence and cautiously placed his rifle in the grass on the other side. Avoiding the cut on his finger, he carefully separated the strands of barbed wire and climbed through the fence. Clear of the obstruction, he dropped to a crouch, wincing at t
he pain from his wound. He used the rifle scope to once again scout for danger. Not seeing any, he allowed tunnel vision to take over, focusing all his attention on Seamus. He clenched and unclenched his fists. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth. Taking a slow, deep breath, he relaxed his jaw and shook the tension from his hands.
He scanned the area one more time. The shipping containers snagged his interest. His sixth sense tingled. Secure. Isolated. Good place to keep captives.
Beyond the containers, he saw the helipad and farther along, the decrepit farmhouse, all bathed in shades of green from the night vision. The helipad showed signs of recent use but was empty now.
Noah strained his ears. No telltale whomp, whomp, whomp noise. He watched the horizon. No navigational lights so unless the helicopter was running dark, there wasn’t one inbound…yet. He inspected the farmhouse through the scope, searching for movement. It sat several hundred yards beyond the helipad. Roof caving in on one corner, paint peeling, it appeared abandoned. His gut told him looks could be deceiving.
He slithered closer to the tank batteries. His skin steamed with sweat. The stench of oilfield gases stung his eyes, burned his lungs. He examined the tanks. Someone, probably the pumper, had left a hatch at the top of one of the storage tanks open.
An interior light flashed from the pickup. Seamus stepped out of the truck, glancing at his wristwatch before turning his attention to the night sky. Impatience boiled. He paced beside his truck. He rolled his neck and shoulders. His eyes flicked from the night sky to his watch and back again. Several times he paused and checked his cell phone.
Noah wasn’t close enough to hear what he said, but it was plain from his expression and gestures that Seamus was complaining. After checking the security of the rifle strapped over his shoulder, he dropped to his belly and crawled closer. Sand burrs dug into his clothing, reaching all the way through to draw blood. His stitches pulled. He ignored the pain and crept ever closer. Even with the sun long set, the heat continued to rise. Sweat glued his shirt to his back, turned the dust lingering on his skin from the road to sticky, red mud. Still, Noah snuck closer to his target. Finally within range…
Broken Toys Page 22