Broken Toys Page 8

  Rhyden held up the journal so Justin could see it. “Thank you for this. I’m sure it will help. Now, go back inside and help your parents as much as you can. If you think of anything else, anything at all, please call us.”

  Chapter Eight

  The clatter of the school bell woke Patrick from a power nap in the front seat of his great-uncle’s truck. The double doors of the school flew open, and students swarmed down the front steps. He grabbed a black trench coat off the seat beside him. He curled his lip in disgust as he slipped it on and scrambled out of the pickup truck.

  Fuck, this thing’s hot. Why do all the weirdos wear these damn things, anyway? What’s the deal?

  Hiding his greater interest in getting off school property and out of the stifling jacket, he strolled around the front of the truck and leaned against the hood. The black of the jacket looked like an oil stain against the lime green paint of the truck and came close to matching the illegally dark tint on the windows.

  Shoulders hunched, head tucked, a dark-colored backpack draped across her shoulders, Rochelle moved slowly, reminding him of a turtle plodding her way to the bus line. She kept her gaze on the ground, hiding her face from the other students behind a curtain of shaggy, unkempt brown hair.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he called out.

  No reaction, just a slow, steady pace forward, lost in her own world. Other students swirled around her in clumps of threes and fours as if she didn’t even exist. Here and there girls tossed lustrous, shiny hair over their shoulders as they scanned the crowd to see who was calling them “beautiful.”

  “Roc.”

  No response.

  “Rochelle.” He placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled, a high piercing sound. “Hey, Rochelle, over here.”

  She stumbled to a stop, shoved the hair out of her eyes, and peered in his direction.

  He pushed off the truck and sauntered over to where she stood. He dropped his voice into that smooth, sexy, melted dark chocolate sound he knew girls loved. “Hey, beautiful.”

  She scanned the area around, beside, and behind herself, seeing no one near. She pointed at herself and mouthed, “Me?”

  He smiled. “Yes, you.”

  Several groups of girls stared at them, turning their heads from him to her and back again before giggling and whispering furiously. Patrick narrowed his eyes and glared at the giggling girls. “Fucking bitches. Don’t let them bother you.” He paused, his voice dropping to an ominous tone. “They’ll get what’s coming to them.”

  Rochelle raised her head high. Eyes narrowed, she flipped off the girls with both middle fingers, and drew closer to him.

  He took both her hands in one of his. With the other, he brushed a lock of hair off her cheek, tenderly tucking it behind her ear. “Of course, I mean you, beautiful.” He kissed her blushing cheek. “Want a ride?”

  She peered at his truck and then back at the school buses. “Uh…I…uh…”

  He let go of her hands and shrugged. “Never mind. Forget it.” Dangle the bait, then take it away. He turned his back on her and walked back toward his truck, keeping an eye on Roc in the reflection of his truck windows.

  She hesitated a moment longer, turning her gaze from him to the buses, back to him.

  He kept moving.

  “Wait! Wait a minute. Wait for me. Can I ask you a question?”

  Keeping his back turned to her, he smirked. Gotcha. Slowly, he drew to a stop and waited for her to catch up to him before he turned to face her. “For you, beautiful, anything. What do you want to know?”

  Arms wrapped around her chest, she gazed up at him from under the fringe of her bangs. “Well, um,” she stammered, “what’s your name?”

  Laughter rolled off his tongue. Ireland deepened his voice. “Patrick Cillian Gorman, my lady.” He bowed with a flourish and held his hand out to her. “I usually go by PC because my uncle’s name is Patrick, too.” He winked at her. “But for you, my gorgeous princess, you can call me PC because I plan to be your prince charming.”

  High color flashed up her chest to her cheeks. She bounced on her toes. A smile shot from her entire face. Her eyes sparkled, and the air surrounding her seemed to dance with elation.

  He opened the driver side door of his truck. Sweeping wadded-up hamburger wrappers and empty French fry containers from the seat to the floor, he motioned for her to climb in.

  Rochelle slid across the cracked, black vinyl seat that had to be blistering the back of her legs. She didn’t seem to notice or mind the heat or the scratches.

  Patrick smiled. “So, beautiful, where would you like to go?”

  ****

  Noah laid Alyssa’s journal open, facedown, in his lap. “Have you read any of this?” he asked.

  “No, not yet,” Rhyden said. “Why?”

  “You might want to. This secret boyfriend thing reminds me an awful lot of your situation with Bree.”

  “I don’t have a situation with Aubree. She’s just not communicating with me right now. Besides, after the massive scene with Samantha, she’s dumped the stupid idiot. One thing about my eldest, you don’t cross her and walk away unscathed. Let me tell you that girl can carry a grudge. She’s over this whole secret boyfriend thing.”

  “Listen to this.” He picked up the journal and began to read. “I’m in love. There. I said it. All other boys pale in comparison to him. Just the sound of his name makes my heart sing. He wants me to call him PC. I’m his fairy-tale princess, and he’s my prince charming. My heart is soaring like an eagle above the clouds. He makes me feel alive.”

  Noah tossed the journal on Rhyden’s desk. “Whatever. I really think you should at least skim through it. The guy even uses the same initials—PC. Prince charming? Really? Where do these girls come up with this shit?”

  Rhyden raised one eyebrow, picked up the journal, and flipped through a few pages. He shrugged. “Beats me. I’ll never understand teenage girls. Not even my own. Same initials, huh? I guess with all the fairy-tale movies being re-released, it’s not surprising. Every little girl seems to dream of finding her prince charming. Hell, even the grown-up girls seem to be searching for a fairy-tale ending. Did you find anything helpful in here?”

  “Not really. Just a lot of rambling about how mean her parents are, how they don’t trust her for no reason known to her, how her mother is overprotective, how they don’t understand her, etc., etc., etc. The last few pages talk about how gorgeous this PC guy is, how different he is from all the ‘little boys’ her age, how she could drown in his deep, blue eyes. Truly stomach-turning.”

  Rhyden set the journal on the corner of his desk. “I’ll look through it, but Bree’s over the guy she was seeing. And if you can’t find anything useful in it, I doubt I will either. I do think I need to have another chat with my daughter and find out everything I can about this character she was seeing. I don’t think there’s a connection, but you never know.”

  “On another note,” he continued, “I’ve been researching some of the paving companies. I think we need to go visit Mr. Schmidt again.”

  Images of what the driveway looked like the last time he had seen it raced through Noah’s mind. “Do we have to? He’s going to be one pissed-off old geezer.”

  Rhyden chuckled. “I bet he will, but, yeah, I don’t see any way around it. Grab your stuff. Let’s go.”

  ****

  They pulled up in front of Mr. Schmidt’s house, parking on the street next to the old man’s boat-size vehicle. What used to be the driveway now held giant potholes where asphalt had been dug up and sifted by the crime scene techs. Snippets of yellow-and-black crime scene tape flapped in the breeze.

  As they stepped out of their unmarked unit, Mr. Schmidt raced out of his house, waving his arms. “Nein, nein. Go away.” He made shooing motions with the mesquite cane. “Mein Gott! You are more trouble than you are worth. I call you about Gypsies doing a shoddy job on my driveway and next thing I know; I don’t have a driveway anymore. You and your Tyvek-su
ited gorillas destroyed it—chopped it up and carted it off. Go away. At least when der Zigeuners left, I still had a driveway.”

  “Mr. Schmidt,” Noah began. A yellow jacket wasp buzzed his ear. Noah waved it away and tried again. “Mr. Schmidt…”

  The wasp landed on his cheek. Noah swatted it away, but not before it stung him. Damn it. His cheek felt like a cigarette cherry landed on it. Almost immediately, the bite began to swell, then itch, and his tongue started to feel furry.

  Mr. Schmidt sniggered. “No more than you deserve, tearing up my driveway the way you did.”

  Before Noah could retort, Rhyden stepped up. “Mr. Schmidt, we are sorry for the inconvenience. As soon as the crime scene teams tells us they are finished, we will have someone from the county’s maintenance department come fix your driveway.”

  “And what’s that going to cost me?”

  “Not a penny. Not one red cent. May we come in, please? We need to ask you a few more questions regarding the pavers.”

  The old man eyeballed his front door. He appeared to shrink a size or two. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer we stay out here. The missus is napping, and I don’t want to wake her. Besides, she won’t let you have sugar in your tea, either.”

  Noah chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” Schmidt demanded. “You think I’m joking?”

  Noah swallowed his mirth. “No, sir. I’m sure you are quite serious, and we definitely have no desire to disturb her. How is your wife today?”

  “Bah! You didn’t come to ask about her. What do you want to know?”

  “We need to ask you about the paving company. We tried investigating the name you gave us, but we can’t find a listing for them or any other information. Did they happen to give you a receipt or a card with a telephone number or address on it?”

  “They damn sure didn’t give me no receipt, but I think the wife has a card somewhere. Wait here. I’ll see if I can find it.”

  “Before you go back in,” Rhyden asked, “do you think you could also make us a list of any of your other neighbors who had work performed by them as well?”

  As the front door closed, Noah and Rhyden returned to the truck. “Told you the old man was afraid of his wife,” Noah said.

  Rhyden rummaged around in the glove box until he found an anti-sting stick. “Here, try this on your face,” he said. “That bite is going to double the size of your head if you don’t take care of it. And your head is already big enough, believe me.”

  “Ha. Ha. Hilarious.” Noah tried to swallow. His throat tightened.

  Mr. Schmidt returned with a business card and a short piece of paper bearing a list of his neighbors’ names and addresses. “Heiliger Strohsack.” Mr. Schmidt glanced at Noah. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Noah glared at Mr. Schmidt and scratched his face. All of a sudden it became more and more difficult to breathe. His vision began to gray.

  Rhyden followed the direction of Mr. Schmidt’s gaze.

  Noah’s respirations became labored as his throat continued to swell. His chest tightened. Panic set in. He gasped for oxygen. “Rhy…Rhy…” He tried to speak but couldn’t force the words out. Black dots swarmed the air, crowding his vision.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were allergic to bee stings?” Rhyden motioned Noah back into the passenger seat of the pickup. He turned to Mr. Schmidt, accepting the card and list. “We’ll be back in touch as soon as we can about repairing your driveway. Thanks for the information. I need to transport my partner to the hospital now.”

  Mr. Schmidt shook hands with Rhyden and nodded to Noah. “Ja, his lips are turning a rather interesting shade of blue.”

  Back in the truck, Rhyden flipped on the sirens and overhead lights as he raced to the emergency room. “Hang in there, buddy. We’ll be there most ricky-tick.”

  Noah just nodded and concentrated on breathing. As his vision tunneled, memories surfaced. The screech of wounded metal, shattered glass, water roaring around him and over him. Flames dancing on the surface of the water. His lungs tightened, pressure built and tried to escape, but no air could get in. Cold surrounded him. His feet went numb. His hands tingled. A spike of pain shot through his skull.

  Tires squealed on the pavement as Rhyden slid the truck into the ambulance bay at the emergency entrance to the hospital. “Can I get some help over here?” he yelled toward the paramedics heading back to their ambulance.

  A female figure in the ER doorway glanced over one shoulder. “Rhyden? What are you doing here? What’s wrong?” She jogged over to the truck.

  As she approached, Noah squinted his eyes, recognizing the figure as Cat. Just her presence calmed him. She took one look at Noah and started barking orders. “Grab a couple of EpiPens from the box. Let’s move him inside. Stat.”

  Her partner ran up, EpiPens in hand. She grabbed the first one and jabbed it into the meaty section of Noah’s thigh. With capable hands, she brushed the hair from his clammy forehead. “You'll feel better in a sec.”

  Unable to speak, he just shook his head. Raspy, gasping breaths swept a miniscule amount of oxygen into Noah’s lungs. Cat supported him on one side while Rhyden held him up on the other. Together, they quick-stepped it through the ER entrance.

  “Hey, you want the gurney?” Cat’s partner hollered from the ambulance.

  “Nah, take too long. We’ve almost got him in.” Cat hit the paramedic lock code on the emergency room door to open it, then with Rhyden’s help, half carried, half dragged Noah inside.

  After dumping him onto a bed like a sack of potatoes, while waiting for the ER doc to make his presence known, Cat gave Noah a second epinephrine injection. She leaned over and placed a kiss on his forehead. “Babe,” she said, “if you wanted to see me that bad, all you had to do was call.”

  With the struggle for breath easing a bit, he gave her a lopsided grin. “This is nothing. You know I would drive thirty minutes one way any day just to kiss you for ten seconds.”

  ****

  Disgusted, Bree tossed her cell phone onto the bed. Sixteen texts in eighteen minutes from the jerk. Ignoring the incessant chirping sound, she flopped onto the mattress, rolled onto her side, and hugged her pillow tight. Asshole. She punched the pillow and decided she couldn’t cry anymore even if she wanted. Her tears were all used up.

  The phone rang again, an actual call this time. She punched the pillow again and glared at the small plastic electronic leash. It fell silent, for only seconds, then began ringing again. Giving up, she tapped accept on her phone. Throat raw, she croaked, “What?”

  Silence greeted her. Gritting her teeth, she repeated, “What do you want?”

  A subdued whisper responded. “I didn’t think you would answer. I’ve been calling and texting for two days. I planned to leave a message.”

  “Fine. I’ll hang up. I don’t want to talk to you, anyway.”

  “No, please, don’t. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Bree snorted. “Obviously. Did you really think it was okay to cheat on me? With my sister? How did you not think you would get caught?”

  The boy mumbled, “I didn’t realize Sam was your sister.”

  “And that makes it okay?”

  “Please. Please don’t hang up. I really am sorry.” He dropped his voice in timbre and volume. “I miss you. More than I thought possible. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep.”

  “Sounds like a personal problem to me.” Bree leaned her head back against the pillows, wrapping a strand of hair round and round her finger. Her face twitched as she bit back the smile hovering on the edges of her lips.

  “Can I see you again?” he begged. “Please?”

  “I guess it depends.”

  “On what?”

  She rolled onto her stomach, crossing her sock-clad feet in the air. Silky strands of hair slipped between her fingers. “What time you plan on seeing my sister again.”

  “Bree, baby, please. That won’t ever happened again. I made a huge mistake. F
orgive me? Please?”

  “Don’t baby me. You two-timing, chicken-shit ass wipe. What was your huge mistake? Seeing someone else? Not realizing she was my sister? Or getting caught?”

  “Come on, Bree, please? I’m begging you.”

  “Well, bless your pea-picking little heart. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t just hang up this phone.”

  An hour later, when she finally hung up the phone, Bree grinned from ear to ear. Warmth rippled from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. Picking up her body pillow, she squeezed it tight, slipped off the bed, and danced around the room.

  Chapter Nine

  Noah slipped into the dining room. As he watched Cat fiddle with the place settings on the table, the weight of the day lifted from his shoulders. He was home.

  “Hey, babe,” she said. “You’re running late, later than usual. I should have known you wouldn’t take it easy despite what the doctor advised. How are you feeling?”

  She stepped around the dining room table where she carefully placed china plates, cloth napkins, and utensils. The pretty, white plates glowed in the flickering light from long tapers resting in fancy candlesticks. The candlelight sparkled off her dangly earrings and reflected from her long, shimmery silver blouse. Soft black leggings and bare feet completed the image that filled his heart with warmth.

  She pressed the back of her hand against Noah’s forehead briefly before dropping her hand to rest against his chest. With the other hand, she casually picked up his wrist, placing her fingers on the inside below the base of his thumb. She glanced at the wall clock and began counting under her breath.

  Left hand still tucked behind his back, Noah leaned forward and whispered, “You know I know what you are doing, right? My pulse is fine.”

  An enticing blush blossomed on her cheeks. She dropped his wrist and stepped back. “Fine. So sue me for caring. I just wanted to make sure you were doing better. You were in pretty rough shape when they brought you into the ER. I can’t believe you disobeyed the doctor’s orders and went back to work.” She rolled her eyes. “Never mind. Yes, I can.” She poked a sharp-tipped fingernail against his shirt, one poke for each word. “But I still think it was stupid.”