The Broken

by Shelley Coriell

  Kate’s heart contracted and slammed against her chest, which was crazy. Why should she care about this woman who had never cared about her? She nodded at the older woman and clipped down the granite steps. Hayden’s hand once again slid to the base of her spine, holding her steady.

  * * *

  Saturday, June 13, 6:40 p.m.

  Dorado Bay, Nevada

  “Fishing’s stupid,” nine-year-old Benny Hankins said. “So is spending all day in this stinkin’ boat.” He tossed a rock into the water.

  “Stop throwing rocks, pea brain. You’ll scare away the fish,” Charlie, his twelve-year-old brother, said. Charlie didn’t want to bring his kid brother out fishing, but his mom made him. You have a good head on your shoulders. Maybe some of it will rub off on Benny.

  Charlie glared at his motionless bobber. Nothing was going to change his brother. Benny got into more trouble than anyone he’d ever met. Just last week after baseball practice, Benny stole a motorboat from old lady Milburn’s dock and grounded it, ruining the blades. His stupid little brother told police he saw one of the boys from Hope Academy swimming away from the boat, but the police found Benny’s baseball mitt in the hull. His brother was a thief and a liar.

  Benny tossed in another rock. “Ain’t no fish in this stupid part of the lake, asshole.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Charlie said. “Of course there are fish in here. Last week Neil Parker caught a sixteen-pound mackinaw.”

  Benny flapped his lips in a crude sound. “Neil Parker beat you out, didn’t he? That’s what’s ragging you, that he has a great big fish, that and the fact that BB Delinski knows it.”

  “Don’t call her that.” Charlie’s hands tightened around his pole. “Her name’s Belinda.”

  “But all you care about are her BBs. Big boobs.”

  “Shut up.”

  Benny tossed the rest of the rocks into the water. “I’m going swimming.”

  “Don’t—”

  His brother jumped into the lake. Stupid kid. This wasn’t the best place to swim. Too many reeds, which could get caught around the idiot’s foot.

  Charlie checked his line again. Heck, no fish was going to come within a mile of his hook with Benny splashing so much. He started cranking in the line, and for the first time that day felt a tug. Charlie reeled faster. The line strained. Man, he must have a big one. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Benny climbing a rock. “Benny, get back here now or I’ll tell mom.”

  “Ooooo, I’m quaking so hard my balls are gonna fall off.” The twerp dove into the water.

  Charlie focused on the fish, which was really fighting him now. “Benny, get over here. Come see what I got.” He looked behind him. No blond head. No splashes, not even bubbles. “Benny,” he called as he yanked the stupid fish into the boat and threw down his pole. “I’m going to kill you if you don’t manage to get yourself killed first.”

  Charlie powered up the trolling motor and aimed his skiff at the rocks. “Benny!” He slapped the oar on the water. “Come out now or you’ll be grounded for life.”

  The water remained still. Had something really happened to his brother? He was a pain and a liar, but…Charlie looked at the black mounds of rocks huddled above and below the dark blue. Did Benny hit his head on a rock? Was he caught in the reeds? Charlie tore off his shirt and kicked off his shoes. He was about to jump in when a blond head popped up.

  “Gotcha!”

  Charlie’s heart slammed into his chest and fell to his quaking knees. When he was able to speak, he jerked his thumb and said between clenched teeth, “Get in the boat.”

  Benny’s cheesy grin fell off. “Hey, no need to get pissy. I was just joking.”

  “I said get in the damn boat.” Charlie yanked his little brother into the boat by the waistband of his trunks. “Sit!” But Benny remained upright. “Sit now!”

  Benny shook his head. “Wh…wh…what’s that?”

  Charlie went to the back of the boat and reached for the motor. “What’s what?”

  “Th…th…that. On the end of your fishing line.”

  Charlie looked at the bottom of the boat, where his pole sat. He jumped back, almost falling overboard. There on the end of his fishing line wasn’t a fish to beat Neil Parker’s mackinaw record. It was a human foot.

  * * *

  Saturday, June 13, 9:40 p.m.

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  “You know, this peckerhead is really beginning to piss me off.” Lottie aimed her index finger at the skinny, red-haired man with the yellow and orange tennis shoes. He sat behind the glass in interrogation room number three, his mouth shut. This was Greg Wullner, the man found jogging by Shayna Thomas’s grave.

  “Jogger taking the fifth?” Detective Traynor asked.

  “Not a fucking word. Said he won’t talk until his attorney arrives.” She and her men spent most of the afternoon having a go at him. He was nervous and had puked twice.

  “If he won’t talk without an attorney, he’s hiding something,” Traynor said.

  “Ya think?”

  “I guess he isn’t so stupid after all.”

  Mr. Stupid. That’s what Lottie called Greg Wullner when she first saw the footprints, fingerprints, and ejaculate outside Shayna Thomas’s bedroom window, but right now, he was more scared than stupid. He had no priors and worked as a mechanic at the local Lexus dealership. And yes, Shayna Thomas drove a Lexus. And yes, the dealership confirmed that Mr. Stupid had worked on Thomas’s car last year.

  “But he’s still pissing me off,” Lottie said.

  “I have something that may bring a smile to your face.” Traynor handed Lottie a single piece of paper.

  She grabbed the search warrant and let out a whoop. “If he ain’t talking, maybe his home will.”

  Lottie and Traynor pulled up in front of the Colonnade apartment complex, and the property manager let them into 214C.

  “Is this the home of a serial killer?” Traynor asked as they stepped into a cluttered living room with a flat-screen TV and a coffee table made of flattened beer cans.

  Lottie lifted the lid of a pizza box. Inside was a single triangle covered with green fuzz. With her left toe, she nudged aside a pillow with crusty yellow stains. “It’s the home of a man in serious need of soap and a bucket of water.”

  “Didn’t Agent Reed say we’re looking for a neat freak?” Traynor asked.

  “Yep, but Reed said the trait could be manifested in only specific areas of his life. We’ll need to check out his work space, his computer, and his car.”

  Lottie checked out the elaborate TV and DVDs, looking for anything that connected to Shayna Thomas or the TV station where she worked, but finding nothing. Just as she was about to dig into the next drawer of the entertainment center, Traynor called her into the front bedroom.

  “Holy shit,” she said with a hiss.

  “There isn’t anything holy about this room,” Traynor said.

  “It is if you call it a shrine.”

  Candids and professional photos of Shayna Thomas covered one wall. On the desk sat dozens of DVDs, all neatly labeled as Shayna Thomas newscasts. In the desk drawers they found shoes and undergarments and a straw with bright red lipstick stains.

  “This creep’s obsessed with her,” Traynor said.

  Lottie scratched a curl of hair above her ear. “But did he murder her?”

  * * *

  Saturday, June 13, 11 p.m.

  Dorado Bay, Nevada

  Kate carried in two glasses of tea and placed one in front of Hayden, who sat on the sofa, his computer open on the coffee table before him. Sweet mint wafted up from the icy drink.

  “Sorry it’s not champagne,” she said.

  “Champagne?”

  “To celebrate.”

  He raised both of his eyebrows, noticing for the first time the half grin on her mouth.

  “You’re not the only one who can read people, G-man.” She set the other glass on the table near the recliner. “You’r
e getting close to something. It’s all over your face.” He took a long sip and watched her swaying hips disappear back into the kitchen.

  She was right. He was getting close to unraveling the mystery of Jason Erickson. Earlier this evening the coroner confirmed that the body found in Jason’s shed was indeed Kendra Erickson. Cause of death was not a single immobilizing stab but heart failure. Kendra Erickson died of natural causes. The coroner was still working on time of death, which was harder to pin down given that the body had spent time in a frozen state, most likely in Jason’s freezer.

  Hayden could clearly see the sequence of events: In January, something causes Jason Erickson to snap, possibly the death of his mother by natural causes. He can’t bear to lose her, so he stores her body in the freezer. When he’s finally able to part with his mother, most likely after taking the prescription medication for panic attacks, he takes her to the hunting cabin and gives her a ceremonial send-off. Monthly he travels to the cabin and covers her body with the pink roses she loved. Now here’s where things get less clear. Jason then goes on to systematically kill the broadcasters. Why? Is it something to do with his long-gone sister, Kate? And what happened in Colorado Springs? Why didn’t he break the mirrors?

  Hayden had heard from Lottie. She tracked down the man at Shayna Thomas’s back window and discovered he was a bona fide stalker. Greg Wullner, whose shoe and fingerprints matched those found at Thomas’s house, had pictures of Thomas and pieces of her clothing along with trash pilfered from Thomas’s Lexus, all kept in a spare bedroom.

  Was Wullner working with Erickson? Or if he wasn’t, did he see something?

  It was no wonder Kate saw something on his face. For the first time in five months, he was making headway in this investigation, getting close to getting his hands on the Butcher.

  Hayden checked his watch. Lottie said she’d call as soon as she and her people finished interviewing Wullner, whose lawyer had finally showed. The numbers staring back at him told him that it was late, that he should be tired, but he was wired.

  Kate came back with two plates piled high with thick browned bread topped with thin sliced roast beef and peppers in a steamy BBQ sauce.

  He took it, realizing he’d had nothing to eat since the Danish at breakfast. Given the way Kate dug into her sandwich, she was starving. So much for taking care of his witness.

  He took a bite, his mouth wakening at the myriad textures and flavors, the crispy bread, crunchy peppers with tender roast beef, and sweet-sour tang of the sauce. “This is incredible. Where’d you learn to cook?”

  “The corral.”

  He took another huge bite. Forgetting to eat while on a case wasn’t new to him. Having someone cook for him was. His mouth full, he raised an eyebrow.

  “You mean, after all that background research on me you don’t remember ‘Katrina’s Korral’? I was working for a station out of Abilene and got assigned to the morning show. I wasn’t quite anchor material, so they put me on features. I ended up with the segment called ‘Katrina’s Korral,’ which was sponsored by the local beef council. Along with my chef guests, I cooked up a storm, all beef, all the time.”

  He took another bite and washed it down with the minty tea. “I remember now. Red apron with the longhorns on the”—he paused as an image of Katrina in the kitchen flashed through his head—“front.” The points were strategically placed at the tips of her breasts, clearly sexist, and clearly memorable.

  She shrugged without a blush. “I did what I had to do, and six months later I ditched the apron and started covering hard news.” She licked the BBQ sauce from the side of her index finger. “But I never forgot how to wrangle a good beef dinner. By the way, you’re a mess.” She wiped at his chin.

  Her touch was casual, but there was nothing casual about the jolt that sparked in his midsection. His hand jerked, and a sliver of beef slid down his shirt and landed in his lap.

  She laughed. It was low and sexy, rumbling at the back of her throat. She picked the beef off his thigh—a good thing because he was suddenly immobile—and pointed at the red sauce plastered across his shirt. “It’s going to stain unless you get it in cold water.”

  Cold water. He could do with some right now. His training and common sense told him she was off-limits. His head knew that. Unfortunately, his body was having a harder time with the concept. He dropped his sandwich on his plate, walked to the bathroom, and turned on the water in the sink. As he took off his shirt, his phone rang. “Can you get that? It’s probably Lottie.” Red stains also streaked his undershirt, and he stripped that off, too.

  He could still feel where Kate’s hands touched him. Something besides spicy BBQ sauce was heating him up. Kate. Her angry shouts. Her cries. And more recently her laughs. She wasn’t shy with her emotions. She was loud and boisterous, not the type to be quiet in bed. He plunged his shirts into the icy water. She was probably one of those women who made soft little sounds at the back of her throat, who threw her head back and screamed in pleasure. The BBQ sauce on his pants shifted as he stiffened.

  The last thing he should be thinking about was Kate moaning and screaming in his arms. But he was. The image was clear and vivid, leaving nothing else in his head. No shattered mirrors, no voices, not even the bloody hands.

  His fingers gripped the cool porcelain sink. Kate was a victim, a witness, someone he needed to protect, but she was also a beautiful, vivacious woman who lived hard and probably loved hard, too. He swallowed a groan.

  The soft shuffle of bare feet sounded behind him. Attached to those feet would be curvy calves with a spray of freckles, a softly rounded butt, breasts just big enough to fit nicely in the palm of his hand. Topping her off were those chestnut waves, so soft he could imagine burying his face in them as he pressed his body against the length of hers. One nudge, that’s all he needed from her. A slant of her gaze, her body angled just a degree toward him.

  He turned slowly. Kate stood in the bathroom doorway in her shorts and flimsy T-shirt. Her cheeks were flushed, and her breath came out in choppy bursts. She thrust a hand toward him, jabbing his phone in his face.

  “It’s the Dorado Bay police. They found Jason.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday, June 13, 11:34 p.m.

  Dorado Bay, Nevada

  Jason is dead.

  When she was a child her father told her if she said something enough, believed in it enough, it would come true.

  Jason is dead.

  Jason is dead.

  Hayden held her elbow as they joined the cluster of bodies at the edge of the lake near Mulveney’s Cove.

  “How did it unfold?” Hayden asked Dorado Bay police chief Mitt Greenfield.

  “Local kid caught the foot while fishing. Got our boys in here a few hours ago and found the body thirty yards out near the boulders. Weighted with cinderblocks. Wrapped partially in plastic. In his wallet we found a driver’s license that read Jason Erickson. Knew you and your team needed to take it from here.”

  Take-charge Hayden was here. Iron-faced. But there was a crack, a fissure of urgency. As for Kate, she was ready to crack, to split like fissioned atoms.

  Jason is dead.

  They walked through the darkness toward the klieg lights and a stretcher near the shore. Standing at the edge of light, she put her hand on Hayden’s.

  “It’s over, right?” Kate said. “If this is Jason’s body, everything is over. No more broadcasters killed. No more blood. No more broken mirrors.” No more running.

  Hayden raised a hand and placed it along her neck where her pulse slammed out a wild rhythm. “We don’t know for sure if that body is really Jason’s. We need to go slow.”

  Go slow? Was he insane?

  No. He was Hayden. He’d changed into a new crisp white shirt and another beautiful silk tie, this one with cool green and blue and lavender waves. His hair was neatly combed, his shoes shiny. But they wouldn’t be for long with the damp, spongy lakeshore sucking at his feet. The cluster of bodies
parted as she and Hayden approached the stretcher draped with a white canvas-like sheet.

  The crickets stopped chirping. The owls fell mute. Even the lake ceased its gentle drumbeat on the shore. All was silent but the mantra in her head.

  Jason is dead.

  One of the officers folded back the sheet, and a wave of putrid air slammed her. She took a step back but stared fixedly at the corpse. It was stiff, covered in a frosty-white, waxy substance. Something had nibbled away the eyes, ears, lips, and nose, making the exposed teeth—which appeared frozen in mid-chatter—the only feature recognizably human.

  “His arm,” she said with a catch in her voice. “Let me see the inside of his right arm.”

  The officer carefully pulled back the shirt sleeve, exposing a scar, a crisp white checkmark, the one she’d given him when he’d jumped between her and her maniacal mother on prom night. Her eyelids slammed shut. “It’s him.”

  Jason was dead.

  Relief. She waited for it to pour over her in glorious waves. She expected her arms to jut high in triumph, but something held her back. Was it the thought of celebrating death, even one of a killer, that left her heavy-limbed? Or was it being next to him, her attacker, the man who’d stolen so much from her with twenty-five thrusts of a knife?

  A hand curved around her waist. She was a broadcast journalist who saw news feeds that would never make the airwaves: a YouTube video of a woman hanging herself from an attic rafter, a wobbly cell phone video of junior high kids kicking one of their classmates until he was comatose. But this was different. This was personal. She leaned into the smooth, warm wall of Hayden’s suit coat.

  Another Dorado Bay police officer approached Hayden. “Kyl Watson from Hope Academy is here. He said you asked him to come and ID the body. You still want to see him?”

  Hayden nodded. Kate almost wanted to hug him for being so predictable. There were too many unfamiliar feelings ricocheting through her chest right now.

  Watson wasn’t alone. He’d brought his sister, Beth, her face as pale and waxen as the moon. He drew up in front of the body and swallowed. “The hair, the body size. It looks like him.”