Broken Toys Read online

  He slammed a hand on Declan’s desk. “Damn it, Grandda. How many times do I have to tell you we are not losing money? Do I not do everything you ask of me? Didn’t I give up my wife for you? My son might be better behaved if he had grown up with a mother.”

  “Wife? You mean the fancy piece of ass you drug down here from the city?”

  Seamus stepped away from his grandfather’s desk. His hands itched to wrap themselves around the old man’s throat. He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly—very slowly. “I can’t help it that Ferrell died, but he’s been gone a long time, Grandda. I’m still here.”

  He studied his grandfather’s shocked face, noticing for the first time the deep lines, the gray tinge to his skin, the smudged-bruised color of the heavy bags beneath his age-washed eyes the color of faded-denim.

  He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, Grandda, but I am sick and tired of wearing a dead man’s boots. They’re never going to fit. When are you going to see me for who I am? For all I’ve done for you? All I’ve sacrificed for you and the clan? I’ve never gone away. I’ve always been here—right here with you—ready to do whatever you asked of me. Why am I not good enough for you?”

  “Noo, laddie, ah didnae mean tae offend ye. Things often aren’t as clear in this old noggin’ of mine as they used to be,” Declan said in a voice as thin and leathery as his skin. “Forgive an auld man, wid ye?”

  “I know, Grandda, I know. I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. But, damn it, Ferrell’s been gone more than sixteen years, and he’s not coming back, no matter how much we wish for it.” I made damn good and sure of that.

  Before Declan could respond, Patrick called from the front office. “Hey, Da, there’s a peeler on the phone. They want to talk to you.”

  Seamus drew back his shoulders and nearly cursed out loud. What the hell do the police want? Did they find the girl? Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have trusted the boy to clean up his own mess.

  Slowing his thoughts, Seamus picked up the telephone receiver on his grandfather’s desk. “Good afternoon. How can I be of assistance?” He grabbed one of his grandfather’s pencils and a scrap of paper. “Sage Drive, you say? Let me see.”

  A crash sounded down the hallway. Seamus put the officer on hold and stuck his head out the office door. His son was busy picking up a stack of books containing photographs of jobs completed for supposedly satisfied customers. The boy refused to make eye contact.

  As stupid as the boy is, surely he wouldn't bury a body in a driveway.

  ****

  Patrick knocked on the dented metal door of the aging single-wide mobile home. As he waited for an answer, he looked out at the overgrown weed-filled lawn surrounded by a sagging chain-link fence.

  “What do you want?” A tall, skinny man wearing an embroidered, pearl-snap shirt and faded blue jeans growled from behind the screen door.

  Patrick turned to face the man. “Hello, sir, is Rochelle available?”

  “Rochelle, get your ass in here,” the man bellowed over one shoulder. “Right this minute.”

  She slipped into view, clinging to the edges of the room. “Dad? You wanted me?”

  Her father jerked a thumb at Patrick. “Door,” he grunted as he stomped off.

  Rochelle rushed to open the door. “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey, yourself. Can I come in?”

  “Oh.” Visible embarrassment washing across her face, she opened the door wider. “Please, come in. What are you doing here?”

  The stench of old grease and stale food turned his stomach as he stepped into the threadbare living room. He leaned over and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. “I thought we could go grab a pizza or something.”

  She shuffled her feet, arm down by her side, hand slightly hidden behind her back. Her thumb bounced from finger to finger, faster and faster. “Um…”

  “Or not. No big deal.”

  “Hang on, let me go ask my dad.”

  As Patrick watched, Rochelle peered around the doorjamb into the kitchen. Before she could speak, her father bellowed, “Who the hell is that punk?”

  Patrick stepped up behind Rochelle. “Patrick Gorman, sir. I’d like to take your daughter to dinner if that’s okay.”

  A woman dressed in a ratty terry-cloth robe lounged at a crappy laminate table. A cigarette burned in the ashtray, blue-gray smoke swirling upward to stain the walls and ceiling. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat next to a plastic cup near her elbow. The woman smirked. Rochelle’s father stood behind her like the wicked queen’s sergeant-at-arms, one hand resting on her shoulder. His other hand slapped angrily against his leg.

  Ignoring Patrick, the man barked, “Get over here.”

  Rochelle stepped closer but kept her distance.

  Smart girl, staying out of striking distance, Patrick thought. He moved closer, placing one hand on the small of her back in a gesture of support.

  “Little Mama says you aren’t speaking to her. Why?”

  With a sideways glance at Patrick, Rochelle said, “Dad, please?” Shrugging, she lifted her hands in an I-don’t-know-what-you-want-me-to-say gesture.

  Her dad crowded into her space. “I asked you a question. I expect an answer. Now.”

  Beneath his palm Patrick felt Rochelle cringe, but she stood her ground. Her thumb continued tapping against her fingers. “You’re the one who taught me if I couldn’t say anything nice not to say anything at all. ”

  “Why you ungrateful little…”

  The blow bounced her head off the wall. Blood dripped from her lower lip where her teeth cut it. Patrick surged forward, fists balled.

  Rochelle shook her head at him. She stepped between him and her father. Straightening her spine, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Minutes crawled past. Her father shuffled his feet, dropped his gaze. Without a word, head still high, Rochelle swept from the kitchen.

  Patrick crowded in on her old man. “If you ever lay a hand on her again, I will rip off your head and shit down your neck. That goes for both of you.” Leaving the suitably cowed couple in the kitchen, he followed Rochelle’s path. He found her collapsed on her bed.

  She turned a silver razor blade over and over in her hand, rubbing her fingers on the shiny, flat surfaces.

  “Hey, now, give me that.” He plucked the blade from her hands. “Don’t do that.”

  She looked up at him, anguish clouding her eyes. “I just want to feel something. I want to know I’m alive. Know what I mean? I feel hollow, like there’s nothing inside me. The blade lets me know different. I lurk behind this mask, trying so hard to be like the rest of them, but I fail at that, too. The herd—no, the flock of sheep, too afraid to think for themselves, realize somehow—or maybe they just sense I’m different, and they band together against me.”

  He tugged her into a loose embrace. “Who cares what they think?”

  She touched her tongue against the still-bleeding spot on her lower lip. Her features hardened. “I know this. I will never be a victim again. Not his, not hers, and definitely not theirs. Her boys will never touch me again. Never!”

  Patrick tightened his hold on her. “Her boys touch you?” His stomach fluttered as his thoughts raced. He wasn’t sure how he felt about anyone hurting her. Quickly, he tamped down that line of thought. She’s just a mark. Keep it in check.

  She sighed. “They try. Why else would I staple quilts over my windows and keep a dresser next to the door where I can shove it in place to keep the door from opening?”

  Releasing the embrace, he leaned away from her. Time to set the hook. He took her hands in his and studied them as if too embarrassed to make eye contact with her. “If I tell you something…” He dropped her hands, turned away. “Never mind.”

  Roc scooted closer, placed her hand on his face and turned his face back to hers. “Please? What were you going to say?”

  “I’ve never told anyone this. You know why I don’t go to your high school anymore?”

  Mutely, she sho
ok her head. He pulled away from her. She grabbed the pillow on her bed and hugged it tight. “Last year, the biology teacher cornered me in the boys’ restroom. He started telling me how cute I was and rubbing on me and then…” Patrick broke off, pretending to be too overcome to speak. He buried his face in his hands.

  She dropped the pillow and reached out to him, jerking her hands back at the last moment. “Is it okay if I touch you? If I hold you?”

  He nodded, and she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. His shoulders shook as if he were sobbing his heart out. The longer she held him, the bigger his smirk became. Candy from babies.

  Finally, she released him. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” He fake sniffled. “I’m fine, but I should go. You didn’t need me to dump this garbage on you.”

  “No, don’t ever say that. It’s all good. I’m here for you, but I think maybe you should go now. I’m sorry about the pizza. I’m just not very good company. I need to go for a drive. Clear my head.”

  Patrick followed her to the kitchen where she snatched her keys off the counter before heading out the front door.

  Chapter Ten

  A dark-colored car, foreign make, flashed past Noah, with the bass pounding out of the little car hard enough to rattle the windows on his truck. The engine sounded like a souped-up sewing machine.

  Within minutes, static crackled from the radio on the dash of his unmarked unit. “Attention all officers, all units, we have reports of a stolen vehicle. 10-99 out of Hopper’s Creek. Be on the lookout for a 2006 Honda Accord, dark blue in color. Believed to be heading west on FM 472.”

  Noah grabbed the microphone. “832—Bennett County. I may just have seen your suspect vehicle. Did you get a license plate number?”

  “10-4, 832. Twenty-eight is Victor-David-Sam Two-Niner-Niner. Repeat Victor-David-Sam Two-Niner-Niner. Registered owner is Bruce Waters of 349 Timberlake Drive in Hopper’s Creek.”

  Noah followed the suspect car. “832—Bennett County. Confirming I have eyes on your stolen vehicle. Lighting them up now.” He turned on his lights and sirens. The car decelerated and coasted to a stop on the side of the farm-to-market road.

  “10-4, 832. What is your location?”

  “We are coming to a stop in front of the abandoned post office off FM 472.” Noah pulled in, angling his truck at a forty-five-degree angle behind the little car so he could use the engine block as cover in case the driver began firing at him.

  The driver rolled down the window. Music poured out, the bass so heavy Noah felt it reverberating in his chest while still inside his pickup. Stepping out of the truck, he slid his service weapon from his holster and held it at the ready. Remaining behind the truck’s door, he yelled at the driver, “Turn off your vehicle and step out. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  The engine shut off. Thankfully, so did the punishing bass. The door swung open, and a teenage girl hesitated before clambering out of the car.

  Weapon still in hand, Noah continued barking instructions. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Face away from me. Get on your knees. On your knees now. Keep your hands up. Drop to your knees.”

  The girl complied.

  “Slowly, lower yourself, face first, to the ground. Stretch your arms out to the side.”

  Noah approached the teenager as she stretched out on the ground. After quickly frisking her and finding no weapons or drugs, he tugged both hands behind her back and handcuffed her. He helped her to her feet and escorted her to a safer area beyond the two vehicles. “What’s your name?”

  Wide-eyed and trembling, the girl stammered, “Ro-Rochelle Waters.”

  “Miss Waters, I stopped you because someone reported this vehicle as stolen. Do you have anything to say about that?”

  The radio unit clipped to his duty belt beside his pepper gun chattered to life. “Bennett County—832, checking your status?”

  Noah lifted the radio, keyed the mic, and replied, “832 code four. One detained. Requesting 10-51 to tow vehicle.” He replaced the radio on his belt and returned his attention back to the girl. His nostrils flared as he took in her split lower lip and the bruise beginning to form on her cheek. He placed a hand under her chin, turning her face for a better view of the injuries. “Who did this to you?”

  Ducking her chin, she winced and shook her head. Stringy hair fell in front of her eyes, hiding her expression. “I—I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fine then. Let’s talk about the vehicle. Whose car are you driving?”

  She met his gaze with her own, though clearly frightened. “Mine. I mean, it’s in my dad’s name, but I make the payments on it and pay for the insurance.”

  “I see. Where’s your ID?”

  “In my purse. On the front seat of the car.”

  “Have a seat.” Noah lowered her to a seated position on the grass and fetched her purse. “Do I have your permission to search your purse and vehicle? Is there anything in here that’s going to harm me?”

  Tears flooded the teen’s eyes. “N-no, y-yes. I mean yes, you can search. No, nothing will hurt you.” Mascara streaked down her pale cheeks. A fit of hiccups overtook her, interrupting her muffled sobs.

  He fished around inside her bag. Why do females’ purses hold so much crap? At last, he tugged her wallet from the bag, opened it, and inspected her driver’s license. “You’re seventeen? Do you realize how much trouble you could be in if you really did steal this vehicle? What’s your father’s name?”

  Sniffling, she said, “Bruce Waters, sir.” Rochelle shrank into herself, raising her shoulders and lowering her head, as if retreating into a shell. Her voice dropped to a barely-there whisper. “But it’s my car. I swear. It’s my car. I didn’t steal it.”

  Noah helped her to her feet. “Let’s go to my office and sort this out.”

  Twenty minutes later, with the car towed safely to the parking lot of the Bennett County Law Enforcement center, an unhandcuffed Rochelle Waters sat across the desk from him. As she nursed a soda, Noah dialed the number for Bruce Waters. While she picked at her cuticles, he placed the call on speakerphone.

  “Hello?” A woman answered the phone, her smoker’s voice raspy and harsh.

  “Hello, this is Ranger Noah Morgan with Ranger Company F. May I speak to Bruce Waters, please?”

  “Did you catch that ungrateful little bitch?” she growled. “I want my car back. I want it back now.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me. Who am I speaking to?”

  “This is Mrs. Waters and you can talk to me.”

  “Ma’am, I need to speak to Bruce Waters, please. Is he home?”

  “Bruce!” A shrill shriek issued from the speaker. “It’s the fucking pigs, and they won’t talk to me. Get your ass on the phone and send that ungrateful little bitch to jail.”

  Muffled voices and scrabbling noises filled the room through the speaker. A male voice dominated. “Give me that.” The sound of flesh hitting flesh followed. “How many times have I told you not to answer my phone?”

  From the corner of one eye, Noah saw Rochelle cringe, then tug her sleeves down both arms, far enough to cover her hands. Her thumb began tapping a rhythm against the tips of her fingers.

  A gruff, grating male voice asked, “Who is this?”

  “Mr. Waters?” Noah asked.

  “This is him. Who is this, and what do you want?”

  “Sir, this is Ranger Morgan. Did you report your vehicle as stolen?” Noah glanced at Rochelle who turned her gaze away from his. He tapped his pen against the notepad resting on the desk before him.

  A strident, female voice came over the speaker. “Damn right we reported a car stolen. You need to lock up that lying little slut. Nothing but trouble, that one.”

  Gritting his teeth, Noah clenched his fists and then shook them loose. With a visible effort, he fought to maintain his calm. “Sir, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Yeah, my car was stolen. Did you find it yet?”
r />   “I’m sitting here with a Miss Rochelle Waters. Is she your daughter?”

  “So her mother says.”

  Noah raised sympathetic eyes to Rochelle who blushed bright red and squirmed in her seat. Making no eye contact, she continued to fiddle with her shirtsleeves and sank lower in the chair. He cleared his throat. “Miss Waters claims she makes the payments and pays for the insurance on the vehicle. Regardless, it is registered in your name, and you are within your legal rights to press charges for the unauthorized operation of a motor vehicle. Do you wish to press charges, sir?”

  The woman screeched from the background. “Damn right we want to press charges.”

  Noah glanced at the teenager slumped in the chair. His focused on the split lip, the bruised cheek. He took the phone off speaker, picked up the receiver, and pressed it to his ear. “Sir, before you respond to my question, I am going to be blunt. If you say yes, we will open an investigation. Allow me to assure you, sir, it will be an extremely thorough investigation. We will need to get the entire story…like where your daughter’s facial injuries came from. Given her age, I will be sure to involve Child Protective Services and see that everything which happens in your household—I repeat, everything—will be placed under a microscope. So I ask one more time. Are you absolutely one-hundred-percent positive you want to press charges against your daughter?”

  Silence greeted his question. In the background, the grating female voice started up again. He blocked it out. “Mr. Waters?”

  “Well, uh, we may have been a bit hasty calling the police. No, it’s okay. No charges.”

  After hanging up the phone, Noah rubbed the scar that cut through one eyebrow before turning to the bruised girl. He lowered his voice to the tone he remembered Rhyden used to calm his daughters. “Rochelle, is there anything you want to tell me? Anything I can do to help?”

  She grabbed her bag off the table and hugged it to her chest. With one shake of her head, she asked, “May I go, sir?”

  Noah stepped around the desk and kneeled beside the girl’s chair. “We can help. If you’ll let us.”

  “Please, sir, may I leave?”