Broken Toys Page 12
A fist-tight knot formed in his stomach.
“Looks fly-by-night, doesn’t it?” Rhyden asked.
Noah pulled Ruby Lee to a stop next to an older-model, faded-silver, one-ton work truck. He caressed the custom leather seat, relishing the feel of the butter-soft fabric beneath his palm. Ruby Lee, named after her gorgeous crimson color and paid for with blood, sweat, and tears, was his personal symbol of overcoming a less-than-stellar childhood.
Rhyden pulled out a pen and miniature spiral notebook and started jotting down the license plate numbers of every vehicle in the lot. He grabbed his cell phone to call dispatch. While waiting, he pointed out a super clean, ancient custom pickup, lime green in color. “You don’t see many of those in that good a condition very often these days.”
Noah studied the truck through the windshield of his muscle car. The vehicle sparked fuzzy images at the edge of his brain.
Can’t be. Paddy’s truck never had dark, tinted windows. Or Texas license plates. As he wondered whatever happened to his father’s old truck, a premonition of dread crawled up his spine.
Rhyden hit the speaker function on his phone. “Hey, Brooke. Can you run some 28s for me, please?” He rattled off the make, model, and license plates of the cars and trucks scattered over the parking lot. Within minutes, they would know who each of the vehicles was registered to, and whether any of them had been reported as stolen or involved in a crime.
After a moment, her voice floated from the speaker as she rattled off the requested information. One, in particular, caught Noah’s ear. “Can you repeat the last 28, please?” he asked.
“Sure. 1969 Ford F-100, new lime color, registered to Gorman, Patrick C. of White Settlement, Texas. No wants or warrants at this time.”
Noah’s hand tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles turning bone white. Impossible.
He opened his car door and unfolded his lanky frame from the driver’s seat. He walked woodenly toward the truck, acid churning in his gut. Cupping his hands against the tinted glass, he peered through the windows. The cracked black leather covering the seat curled up around the splits to reveal the crumbling yellow foam cushions beneath. A rusty spring poked through the driver side, guaranteed to stab the unwary as they climbed in and out. An empty gun rack hung on the rear windshield. Dirty rubber floor mats collected crushed, empty beer cans and wadded-up fast-food wrappers. The pristine exterior contrasted sharply with the trashed interior.
Exactly like the man who once owned the truck. The man now sitting on death row.
His knees buckled, but he caught himself on the bed of the truck. A memory surfaced and grabbed him, thrusting him back to the past. Suddenly, he was four years old again.
Gravel pelted the windows on the side of the house as Daddy’s truck roared into the driveway. Mommy raced to the door with her mad face on. She slid the security chain in place before kneeling beside him, bringing them face-to-face. She smiled, but he could tell it wasn’t her happy smile. Rubbing her hands up and down his skinny arms, she said, “Honey, let’s play hide and seek. You go hide really good now, okay?”
“Okay, Mommy.” He giggled and ran away. After spinning in a circle, looking around the living room, he darted to the far corner of the room. He crawled behind the brocade sofa.
Daddy pounded on the front door. He shoved the door open as far as the chain would allow. “Open this damn door. Now.” Growling, he kicked the door. It shuddered in its frame but wouldn’t open any farther.
Noah scooted deeper into the shadows behind the sofa, tucked his head beneath his arms. Sometimes Daddy scared him.
“No, sweetie, I can still see you.” She took him by the hand and led him to the hallway. Hands shaking, she propelled him into the closet. “Stay here. Lock the door and stay in here no matter what.”
“But it’s dark, Mommy, and…”
She gave him a little shake. “No matter what. Do you hear me? No. Matter. What. Stay put and don’t make a sound. Not one sound.”
He stuttered, “Y-yes, ma’am.”
She slammed the door shut, trapping him in the darkness, except for a tiny splash of light sneaking in through the gap at the bottom of the door. “Lock the door. Now.”
He twisted the shiny new lock Mommy had added to the closet door a few weeks ago and slid down the door to the floor.
Bam!
The front door burst wide open, crashing against the wall. Voices raised in anger. His heart raced. Blood pounded in his ears, muffling the words. Sliding his hand across the wooden floor, he found his teddy bear, the one he thought he was too old to play with now. He grabbed the bear and clutched it tightly against his chest. The voices got louder. He curled into a ball, burying his face in the bear’s soft fur.
Daddy’s home. Mommy called him Paddy. She only called him that when he was scary mad, and she was trying to make it better. What was happening? He had to see. He lay down on the floor and peeked through the crack under the door. Daddy drew back his hand and punched Mommy in the stomach. His voice grew louder and louder. “Why can’t you be like the other wives? Is it really that hard?” He dragged her nearer to the closet. “Do you realize what the family says about me? The snide comments about how I can’t even control my own wife? How am I supposed to take over the clan when Grandda passes if I can’t even control one woman and a four-year-old boy? Don’t you see I’m doing this for us?” He shoved her away.
The door rattled as Mommy fell against it. The boy jumped back. His stomach hurt. He couldn’t swallow. She stood, had to lean against the door for balance. He saw her feet and Daddy’s giant, mud-caked, steel-toed boots as he came closer.
“Is that where you’ve hidden him?” Daddy dragged Mommy away from the door.
The doorknob rattled. He rocked back and forth, trying not to make a sound.
The door rattled again, but the lock held. Mommy screamed at Daddy and jerked him away from the door. Glass shattered. He lay back down and peered under the door and saw Daddy backhand Mommy in the face, knocking her into the rock fireplace. As she fell, he leaped upon her. “Get up, whore,” he screamed. “I’m not done with your sorry ass yet.”
She didn’t move.
“Are you in here, boy?” Daddy rattled the closet door again, but the lock wouldn’t open.
The boy pressed even farther back into the dark corner. He covered his ears with his hands and buried his face in his lap. Eyes squeezed closed; he held his breath. Please don’t find me. Please don’t find me. Please don’t find me.
A door slammed. The pickup truck screamed out of the driveway. Silence fell.
Hands trembling, the little boy cracked open the closet door and peered out. Mommy still lay on the floor. He peeked around the corner of the door. “Daddy?”
When there was no answer, he opened the door a smidge wider. “Daddy?”
Tick, tick, tick. The clock was the only sound breaking the silence of the house. The boy sagged in relief. Daddy was gone. Shivering with fear, he crawled through the sticky, red pool to Mommy. She lay so very still. Maybe she was pretending to be asleep so Daddy would go away. He patted her arm. “Mommy?”
Her head rolled to one side. He didn’t know what to do. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t talk. “Mommy!” he yelled. “Daddy’s gone. You can wake up now.”
He didn’t remember laying his head down beside his mother. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but when he woke up, his Grandda and Nana were there to carry him away.
****
“Hello-o-o-o-o-o-o-o?” Rhyden snapped his fingers in front of Noah’s face. “Hey, man, snap out of it. You’re freaking me out here.”
After releasing the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, Noah surveyed the parking lot in an attempt to regain his bearings. Slowly, he unfolded his white-knuckled fingers as he turned the death grip he held on the bed of the truck loose and shook the tension out of his hands.
“Buddy, are you okay?” Rhyden asked. “I was starting to get worried.”
Rhyden shot him an expression that said he wasn’t buying the bullshit Noah was shoveling.
Before he could ask any more questions, a young man in his early twenties and dressed in tar-stained blue jeans, sturdy work boots, and a heavy-metal T-shirt with the sleeves cut off be-bopped out the front door of the metal building. Shaggy, brown sable hair framed deep-set, narrow blue eyes. Sun-kissed streaks in his hair contrasted with nearly black lashes and brows. White wires ran from the earbuds in his ears down to the cell phone clutched in his stained fingers. He bounced around to the music coming from his phone.
A wolf whistle split the air as he loped toward the rangers. “Nice wheels, dude,” he said, tugging the earbuds from his ears. “Is that a Hellcat?”
Noah met the young man at the car, placing a protective hand on Ruby Lee’s roof, stroking it gently. “Challenger Hellcat SRT coupe with a Redeye upgrade.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “A Hennessey Redeye? Aww, man! Is it true they embed the washers with crushed diamonds?” He held up his cell phone. “Hey, mind if I take a picture? I want to show my dad what I want for my birthday.”
Rhyden snorted a laugh. “Careful, son, don’t get too close. He might bite your hand off if you try to touch the car. He’s mighty possessive of his baby, Ruby Lee, there. I’m surprised he even lets me ride in her.”
“You named her after a girl? Was she your girlfriend? She had to be hot, right?” The young man slid to a stop in the gravel parking area a few feet from the front of the car. A slight scent of weed clung to his clothing. His eyes widened in awe. “Who can blame him for being protective? Eight hundred and eighty rear wheel horsepower from a supercharged 6.2-liter V-8? Eight hundred six pound-feet of torque? I’ve died and gone to heaven.” He ogled the car and with a tone bordering on reverence asked, “Six-speed manual transmission or eight-speed automatic?”
“Manual, of course,” replied Noah in his most “duh” voice, “as if that was ever even a choice.”
“Of course,” the boy echoed. “It’s all about control, isn’t it?” He tossed a quick peek over his shoulder at the creepy old barn barely showing through the brush on the edge of the property. Lost in thought, he rubbed his chin and lower lip with three fingers. He murmured almost to himself, “It’s always about the control.”
Noah and Rhyden both glanced toward the barn, then back to the boy. Rhyden raised an eyebrow; Noah just shrugged. No clue, dude.
Noah cleared his throat to regain the boy’s attention. “Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m…uh,” he stuttered. Sapphire eyes flicked up and to the right. “…Um, Patrick Gor…Collum.” He nodded his head a couple three times. “Yep, I’m Patrick Collum.”
“Okay, Patrick, do you work here?” A tinge of worry niggled at the back of Noah’s mind. Not an uncommon name but not that common either. The coincidences were starting to pile up, and Noah didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Yeah, for now anyway,” Patrick said. “I’m studying to be a taxidermist, though. Lot easier work than paving driveways and not nearly as hot as slaving away on a rooftop in the middle of a Texas summer.”
Rhyden stepped forward and held out a hand for the boy to shake. “I’m Texas Ranger Rhyden Trammell. This is Ranger Noah Morgan. We’re from F Company. Can we come in and speak to you for a moment?”
“Um, well, I’m supposed to be…uh, um…” He waved toward the parking lot.
Rhyden stepped closer and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He motioned toward the office. “Just for a moment. Is the office air conditioned? You’d probably like to cool off a bit, right?”
The boy shrugged and headed back toward the metal building. “Sure, I guess.” He cast one longing-filled last look back at Ruby Lee. “Didn’t realize rangers made enough money to drive Hellcats. I may need to rethink my career path.” He stopped and laughed. “As if Da would really give me a choice.” He shook his head and led the way into the office.
Once inside the thankfully air-conditioned building, Rhyden continued questioning Patrick. “Who handles your scheduling? And your materials procurement?”
“Well, my Great-Grandda, Declan Gorman, owns the business but my Da, Seamus Gorman, pretty much runs things nowadays, so probably Da.” A tinge of bitterness crept into Patrick’s tone of voice. “I’m just the slave labor who does all the actual physical work around here.”
“I thought your last name was Collum? But your dad is named Gorman?” Rhyden asked.
All the blood in his body drained straight to Noah's feet. Icicles of panic pierced the knots lingering in his stomach. His heart pounded like a bird of prey trying to escape a cage. Before the boy could answer, Noah jumped in. “Declan Stuart Gorman?” He forced the question through a throat that was trying to snap closed. The words sounded strangled.
Rhyden tilted his head a bit. “You okay, buddy?”
Noah waved the question away. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Is your great-grandfather Declan Stuart Gorman? From Murphy Village, South Carolina? What are you doing in Texas?”
Patrick’s expression broadcast doubt. “How do you know Grandda’s middle name? And where he’s from? Do you know him?” His eyebrows drew together as he gave Noah a close inspection. “I didn’t think Grandda had anything to do with the peelers.”
At Noah’s narrowed-eyed look, crimson crept across Patrick’s cheeks. “No offense intended,” he said. “I just didn’t know Grandda knew any Texas Rangers.” The boy walked to the back of the office and shouted down the hallway. “Da? Grandda? Couple guarda here wanna talk to you.”
Spinning on one heel, Noah couldn’t get to the exit fast enough. Why did I think moving twelve hundred miles was far enough to escape my past?
“Can you handle this, Rhy? I need to… uh…” Coherent thought was impossible; his worst nightmare had come true. “I gotta…uh, take care of something.”
“Sure, I’ve got this. I’ll call one of the patrol deputies to pick me up and take me back to the office when I’m through.” Rhyden slid a worried gaze up and down Noah. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive? You look a little green around the gills.”
“I’m fine.” Repeat a lie often enough, it becomes the truth, right? “Just need air. Got to get out of here… for a minute.”
Voices echoed down the hallway.
Get out. Get out now!
Noah glanced at the hallway that presumably led to other offices occupied by Declan and Seamus Gorman. Sweat formed on his face despite the cooled air in the building. His heart rate accelerated. His stomach turned.
“On second thought, I think I am going to be sick.” He dove toward the front door and fumbled with the doorknob. His sweat-slicked hands slipped on the knob.
Rhyden reached past him to open the door. “Why don’t you head on home? Are you sure you can drive?”
“Just need air, that’s all.”
“Get home and have your paramedic girlfriend perform another examination on you. You really don’t look good. I’ll call dispatch and catch a ride with one of the deputies. This shouldn’t take long. Catch you later.”
Noah stared longingly at freedom a few feet beyond the door before turning back to face his partner. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ve got this.” Rhyden took his phone out of his pocket and called the office. He spoke a few words and hung up, giving Noah a thumbs up. “Deputy Miller is right around the corner. He’ll be here in three minutes. Go on, get out of here before you upchuck all over the carpet. I’ll call you later.” He examined Noah’s face. “Or do you need me to drive you home? We can always come back here later.”
The last thing Noah wanted to do w
as come back here. “No, I can drive. Probably just something I ate.”
“Well, if you’re sure—”
Come on, come on, come on. Let me go.
The sound of footsteps drew closer. “I’m sure.” Gratefully, Noah escaped the office just as Rhyden turned back to face the counter. As the door swung closed behind him, Noah heard Rhyden say, “Good afternoon. Mr. Gorman, I presume?”
“Aye, I’m Declan Gorman.”
Chapter Twelve
As Noah headed to his car, movement near the old barn caught his attention. After scanning the area to make sure no one was watching, he eased down a beaten path in the overgrown grass that led to the barn. Dried weeds crackled beneath his feet; stickers clung to his jeans. With thoughts of discovery stretching his nerves piano-wire tight, he kept his head on a continuous swivel.
He crept forward, his skin steaming from the heat. The closer he came, the more insistent his internal radar pinged. Within a few feet of the building, his danger meter went off the charts. Adrenaline mixed with fear had the hair on his arms standing straight up—just like walking through an electrical storm. Dropping into a crouch, he duck-walked to one of the dirt-encrusted windows. After rising to peek in, he discovered the inside of the windows blacked out, likely from spray paint. He tried squinting through tiny scratches in the paint but saw nothing in the darkened interior. The putrid, sickly-sweet odor seeping from the barn triggered his gag reflex.
One step at a time, pausing and stopping to avoid detection, he worked his way around the corner of the barn toward the door. Just as he stretched his hand out to grasp the door handle, a voice from the past rose up. And paralyzed him.