Broken Toys Read online

  “Boy, are you still screwing around out here? I told you the other day, work comes first.”

  Though Noah couldn’t see the speaker, he recognized the voice of Seamus Gorman. From his left, footsteps crunched through the dry grass, coming closer, heading directly for the barn.

  No. No way. He dropped flat to the ground and, using infinitesimally small movements, belly crawled toward the tree line. I can’t let him see me. After what seemed an hour, he reached the cover of the brush. Standing, he wiped dried grass, red dirt, and sand burrs from his clothes, ignoring the sharp pain from the burrs.

  Working to remain undetected, he slowly and carefully made his way back to his car. He fumbled the key fob when he tried to open the Hellcat, almost dropping it in the dirt. After finally getting the door open, he folded his long frame into the driver’s seat. Ignoring the seatbelt, as usual, he threw the transmission into reverse.

  No way. No way. No way. I had to be imagining that voice. Plenty of other people have Irish accents.

  Who happen to be named Seamus?

  And work for a fly-by-night paving company?

  His stomach rolled. After doing a fast K-turn, he shifted into drive, dumped the clutch, and stalled the Hellcat. Damn it!

  He slammed his hands against the steering wheel, took a deep calming breath, and restarted the car. Methodically, he put the car in gear. He swallowed hard and scanned the parking lot before pulling out onto the county road. In the rearview mirror he saw the kid who just a few minutes ago drooled over Ruby Lee heading toward the derelict barn.

  Something about the young man, and the blacked-out windows on the barn, gave him the heebie-jeebies. His skin crawled just thinking about them. He wasn’t sure what, but there was something horribly off about that kid. Much more than the fact that he lied through his teeth about his name.

  His mind set up a running argument with his gut. What the hell am I going to do if this is my Declan? His mind said, it can’t be the same one. Travelers trade names like they change socks. Hell, how many names did you have over the first twenty years of your life? Really, what are the odds they would end up here? You chose this part of Texas because it wasn’t clan territory. Not even close.

  You wish, his gut taunted. You knew that voice. There are too many coincidences for it not to be who you fear it is.

  Realizing he was still idling at the end of the parking lot, Noah scanned left, then right, and then left again before pulling out onto the deserted county road. Mood darkened by ugly memories and conflicting thoughts, he accelerated, then cursed as the car bounced on the washboard surface of the road. Shifting rapidly through the gears, he drove way too fast for the road conditions. The car fishtailed, sliding sideways in the loose rocks on the county road. He didn’t care. He had to get away.

  A cloud of red dust followed him as he sped down the road. Gravel pinged against the dust shield beneath the car. By the time he arrived at the main highway, his breathing had returned to normal; his heart rate slowed to normal range. The urge to vomit no longer tickled the back of his throat. His hands steadied on the wheel.

  Maybe he’d regained some bit of control.

  For the next hour, he drove mindlessly, paying little attention to where he was going, following the whims of the road. Eventually, he found himself on the highway outside of Devine, a small city that featured the Triple C, the best steakhouse around. Seeing the signs for the restaurant reminded him of Cat. They had met at the Triple C, a blind double date set up by Cat’s paramedic partner, Jim, and his flavor of the month who just happened to work for the sheriff’s office. They'd had an amazing time. Jim’s date, however, moved on long ago, no big surprise.

  Cat.

  His breath caught in his throat. What would she do if she knew the truth? Broken toy, broken, toy, broken toy. The taunting chorus echoed inside his head.

  His heart sped up again. Sticky patches of sweat formed beneath his arms, staining his shirt. Beads of sweat rolled down his spine, creeping beneath the waistband of his jeans. He could smell his own fear.

  A homeless man sat on the concrete embankment with his back leaning against one of the graffiti-covered pillars supporting the overpass of IH-35. Long, greasy gray hair covered his face. Noah braked to a stop next to him and rolled down his window. The rumble of traffic thundering overhead echoed in the darkened space. He held his badge out the window for the man to see and motioned for him to approach the car.

  The man rolled to his feet and stumbled over. The smell of old, cheap whiskey and unwashed body assaulted Noah as the man drew closer. The scent overpowered the smell of fear.

  “Sir,” he asked, “what are you doing here?”

  The man shrugged, not making eye contact with Noah. In a raspy voice rusty from lack of use, he said, “Staying away from people.” He tossed rapid glances over his shoulder in each direction while rubbing his hands in a washing motion. “It is not safe.”

  “What’s not safe? Are you in danger?”

  The man briefly met Noah’s eyes. A shrill giggle escaped him, echoing off the concrete walls of the underpass. He glanced away quickly. His agitation increased. “No, not me. Safety is an illusion. Not safe for me to be around people right now.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Not safe. Not safe for them. Too many big bugs. Demons and metal monsters. And the crying, always with the crying.” The man peered up at Noah, bloodshot eyes filled with sadness. “It never stops.”

  “Do you have any identification on you, sir?”

  “No, sir. I was riding a wooden rocking chair with my gringo porch monkey until those big-eyed metal locusts from the bottomless pit buzzed down and chased me off.” He kept his head bent low, avoiding eye contact. His hands tugged at his hair, making it stand out at weird angles. He resembled Albert Einstein—if Einstein didn’t bathe and lived under a highway bridge in South Texas. A low rumble issued from the man’s stomach.

  Noah’s stomach replied with a grumble of its own. “Are you hungry?”

  The man raised his chin and tilted his head to the side in a curious bird-like listening motion. He finally made eye contact, studying Noah for a few minutes before replying. “Guess I could eat.”

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  Across from the steakhouse stood a convenience store/gas station with a fast food joint attached. Noah passed through the drive-through and ordered several large cheeseburgers, a couple of large fries, two sodas, and two large chocolate shakes. He returned to the underpass with the food and parked the Hellcat on the shoulder.

  The homeless man stared at him in wide-eyed awe as he approached with the bags of food. “Huh.”

  “Huh what?”

  “You returned.”

  “Told you I would.”

  Noah handed him the bags of food and drinks and one of the shakes. He kept the second shake for himself and sat on the concrete embankment to drink it. Ignoring the rough surface beneath his somewhat bony butt, he propped his elbows on his knees and watched as the homeless man fished a napkin from the bag and spread it primly over his lap before lifting out a box of hot, greasy French fries.

  The man noticed Noah watching him. “Mother always said one cannot eat unless one has one’s napkin properly covering one’s lap.” He took a drink of the chocolate shake. An expression of rapture illuminated his face. He folded his paper napkin as if it were made of the finest linen and placed it on the ground to his left. He stood and offered Noah a courtly bow, then extended a grimy hand. As if just noticing how dirty it was, he pulled it back and wiped it on his shirt before extending it again. “Arthur J. Panzer the Third, at your service, sir.”

  “So, Mr. Panzer, what did you mean it’s not safe for you to be around people?”

  “Please, sir, call me Trey.”

  “Okay, Trey. Is someone after you?”

  “Eggs have no business dancing with stones.”

  Panzer dropped back onto the concrete embankment. He picked up the napkin and ceremoniously dra
ped it across his lap. He ate a few more fries and several bites of burger as he appeared to contemplate the question. Glancing at Noah from the corner of his eyes, he said, “No, sir. I do not mean it is unsafe for me. I mean it is not safe for all the others trapped in a prison of flesh.”

  “Care to explain that statement?”

  “Not particularly,” Panzer said and returned to his meal.

  “You know you can’t stay here under this bridge, right? Devine has an anti-vagrancy ordinance. They can and will put you in jail. Do you have a place to go? Anyone I can call for you?”

  Mr. Panzer thought for a moment. “I am uncertain. Those hellish locusts bearing the faces of men and tails of scorpions keep buzzing my home. The screaming and crying from the haunted house keep me up at night. I am afraid the aliens will vanquish me if I return to my domicile.”

  What the hell does that mean?

  “You know the old saying, right? You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

  “I suppose if those dubious characters referring to themselves as Travelers can make movies and the ghosts do not hamper them, then I shall be safe enough. Correct? If only the aliens will refrain from visiting. And those damn insects, noisy, noisy, metal dragonflies. Bright lights and noise, I swear. Grandfather always declared one cannot skirmish inanimate objects successfully, so I have refrained from engaging them in a melee. I vacated the premises prior to the metal insects discovering my existence. Tell me, sir, who creates bugs that loud, anyway?”

  Travelers, again? Really?

  Panzer exhaled heavily. Slowly, he gathered the refuse from his meal and placed it neatly back into the paper sack. “But I digress. To answer your question, yes, I surmise it will be safe enough for me to proceed home. After all, my presence is required no other place. Based on the cycle of the moon, the aliens should not return for a week or more. Father always said if one must be stupid, one must be tough. Time enough to test the theory, eh?”

  “And where is home?”

  “Over in Bennett County, of course. Redus Crossing to be exact.”

  Finished with his shake, Noah stood up and brushed off the back of his jeans. He thought about the pristine black leather interior of his precious Hellcat, then surveyed Mr. Panzer’s filthy rags.

  “What the hell? It will clean,” he muttered, half out-loud. “At least black doesn’t show dirt.” He gestured to the passenger side of his car. “Climb in. I’m headed that direction and will give you a ride.”

  Panzer rubbed his hands together before clasping them prayer-like in front of his chest. “Perhaps we could stop along the way and pick up some brown bottle bravado? I mean, after all, why not? A miniscule portion of liquid courage to help me make it through the frightful night?”

  Noah rolled his eyes. “Why not indeed?”

  ****

  A tap on the door drew Noah’s attention. He looked up from the stack of files on his desk. “Hey, bud, you feeling better?” Rhyden lounged against the door frame, a white bangora hat dangling from the fingers of his left hand. Noah shrugged as he sorted through the papers in the top file folder. “Yeah, I guess. Must have been something I ate.” He closed the folder and leaned back in his chair. “Get anything helpful talking to the pavers?”

  “Other than this Patrick kid is obsessed with your ride? Not really. I got the impression the old man Declan character was hiding something, but I don’t know what. Never did meet the kid’s father. I think he’s the one I probably need to talk to. The old man just wanted to know if I was there investigating a complaint about his crew’s work.”

  “Since when do Texas Rangers handle labor disputes?”

  “That’s almost verbatim what I asked him. I did discover he claims to use a quarry down near Carrizo Springs, maybe the one up near Von Ormy. Of course, he also claimed they could have used material left over from previous jobs. He really had no way of knowing what they used where.”

  “Convenient.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “You do know the chances of the kid’s name actually being Patrick Collum are slim to none, right?”

  “I picked up on that, too. Kid was lying through his too-white, too-bleached teeth. Man, he reminds me of someone. Haven’t figured out who yet but there’s just something about him. Something familiar.” Rhyden paused as if thinking, then shook his head as if to clear it. “On the way back to the office, I called the quarries the old man Declan mentioned and guess what? Neither of them knew anything about this paving company nor are they familiar with a Declan Gorman nor a Seamus Gorman for that matter.”

  “No surprise there,” said Noah. “What did the old guy look like?”

  “I don’t know.” Rhyden shrugged. “Like an old man. What does his appearance have to do with anything? You don’t suspect him of being the secret boyfriend, do you?”

  “Was he a blond about six foot tall? Scar over his left eye? How old was he?”

  Rhyden advanced into the office and leaned his hip against the edge of Noah’s desk. “Okay, what’s going on? Since I’ve seen some of the things you eat, I know for a fact you have a cast-iron stomach. I’ve never known you to skip out on an interview before. It’s kind of hard to play good cop, bad cop with only one cop and not look schizophrenic—which by the way is not at all helpful in the grand scheme of interrogations.”

  Noah spun in his chair, reaching for another folder on the credenza behind his desk. Fear tied another knot on top of the one already in residence inside his stomach. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you I had another lead to check out.”

  “Uh, no, you didn’t.” Rhyden raised his right eyebrow. “What was the lead?” When no answer came, he continued, “Seriously? You are a lousy liar. How long have we been friends? Who was there for me through the whole Edwards fiasco? Something’s wrong. I’d have to be blind not to see it. It’s my turn to be there for you.” He paused. “If you’ll let me.”

  The memory of Rhyden teetering on the precipice of self-destruction as his world fell apart around him surfaced. At the time the poor slob got slammed with one knock after another. Like the partner who turned on him during an undercover sting and having to shoot same partner in self-defense. Then having his wife, Cara the bitch, abandon Rhyden and the girls before getting herself murdered. Not the best times in his friend's life considering. Rhy even spent a few days in jail under suspicion of murder.

  Noah turned back to face him. “You haven't mentioned Edwards in a really long time. How are you doing with all of it? Still seeing Dr. Napoli?”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. Don’t try to change the subject. We’re talking about you, not me.”

  “Hey, you brought it up.”

  “And I’m shutting it down. I’m fine, and yes, Dr. Napoli is still helping. End of discussion. Now what the hell is going on with you? Spill it.”

  Noah rubbed a hand over his eyes. He squeezed his temples as if to force a migraine out of his head. “I’ve just got some shit going on right now. Personal stuff. I’ll try to keep it from spilling over into work.”

  “No, I don’t know,” Rhyden said, “because you won’t talk to me, won’t let me help you.”

  “Rhy, I appreciate it. Really, I do. But this is something I need to handle on my own.”

  Noah grabbed his keys off the desk, stood, and headed for the door. As he walked out, he said, “Give me a little space, okay?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  With his father at his side, Patrick tugged the right-hand door of the metal shipping container open. A shriek of rusty hinges split the humid air. Whimpers and scampering noises echoed from the shadows within. Patrick flipped on his flashlight. The batteries were weak, and its sickly, yellow gleam did little to cut through the gloom. Darkness lurked in every corner.

  He unlocked the left-hand door and with a grunt shoved it open, banishing all except for the farthest shadows. A dozen steel cages with plywood floors lined the walls. The stench of urine, feces, and fear e
xploded from the space. Huddled at the back of each pen, except for one, sat a disheveled, frightened child.

  “…ten, eleven.” Seamus slowly counted the children. He stopped at the last, empty kennel and turned on his son with a scowl. “I see you still haven’t found me a replacement.”

  Patrick bit the inside of his cheek and silently counted to five. Between clenched teeth, he ground out, “I’m working on it.”

  “Work faster. We’re almost out of time. And clean this place up.” He gestured at the cages. “None of our buyers would want something like this in his bed.”

  Behind his father’s back, Patrick glowered.

  “Don’t glare at me.” Seamus turned to face his son. “The auction is in ten days. We need this merchandise ready to sell, and we’re still short one. Are you going to be able to find me a replacement in time?”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  His voice deceptively calm and cool, Seamus asked, “As far as you know?”

  Disregarding the telltale muscle tic in his father's cheek that warned Patrick he needed to be careful, the boy replied, “Well, I can’t know any further that that, now can I?”

  “Boy,” Seamus growled. Raising a fist, he closed the distance. “Don’t make me strike you.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Patrick barked and mock-saluted his father.

  Seamus’ features tightened. His fists clenched at his sides. “I really don’t need any of your smart-ass shit right now. Do you not realize what is at stake here? Do you know who these buyers are? Ever hear of the Hijós de Yucatán? They make MS-13 look like pussies. Do you really want to piss off people like that? Because I sure as hell don’t. Pull up your socks and find a replacement. Today.”

  Patrick followed his old man as he stalked from the container. After locking the door behind him, the heat and humidity swamped his lungs. Damn, I hate South Texas. I could drown just standing here.

  When considering his father’s parting words, a lazy smile turned up the corner of his lips. Maybe I don’t care if your buyers get pissed off. Maybe they will make you disappear for me.