The Broken

by Shelley Coriell

  Butcher.

  Baker.

  Candlestick maker.

  Even a dragon.

  He blinked away the red hiss of steam. It wasn’t time for the dragon, not yet.

  He looked at the clock, which had just turned to eleven. It was time. He must do things in the right order, always in the right order. He flicked the monitor switch.

  The monitor had to be checked every day at eleven a.m. and eleven p.m. Until six months ago he had checked the monitor only once a day, but that had been a mistake, one that cost him what he wanted most.

  Six months ago Katrina came back to Reno at 1:20 a.m. She snuck into her condo under the cover of night and left seven minutes later. He didn’t know what she was doing or why she was there. No, the important thing was that she was still alive, and so were the secrets she knew.

  The three black-and-white images on the screen—no, four, as of tonight at 9:57 there were four cameras in place—flicked on, and he settled into the chair and watched. He ignored the images of Katrina’s condo in Reno, Kendra and Jason’s Dorado Bay front porch, and the KTTL building in Reno. Instead he focused on the image from the newest camera he’d set up, the one that showed the little yellow cottage on the lake.

  * * *

  Monday, June 15, 9:30 a.m.

  Carson City, Nevada

  The next morning Hayden stood before the weed-choked path leading to the Victorian house with the busted porch swing and considered calling Kate. But he’d called an hour ago, and both Evie and Hatch reported that Kate, ensconced in the cottage, was safe. After finding the necklace last night, an agitated Kate fell asleep and barely moved all night. He knew because he’d spent much of the night awake, watching the woman in his arms. He wasn’t worried that she’d run or that the Butcher would attack. He held her in his arms because…He scrubbed his palm along his face. No logical reason came to mind, which is why he needed to get Kate out of his mind.

  The walkway ended at a flight of four sagging steps that led to an intricately carved pair of double doors streaked with peeling pale blue paint. Neglect hung in the air, dusty and flat. Hayden pushed the doorbell button.

  Robyn Banks’s house was in the historic district of Carson City, which featured a collection of rambling Victorian mansions and cottages in various states of grandeur. He rang the bell five more times before it cracked open, framing a wedge of a short, thin man in a red morning coat with gold-threaded peacocks. He had bare feet and dirty toenails.

  “I’m looking for Robyn Banks,” Hayden said.

  Hidden by the gloom of the big old house, the man belched out a long, whiskey-drenched breath. “Hmmmm. The more apropos question is, Is Robyn looking for you?”

  “Is she here?” Hayden asked with a sharp bluntness. He had no time for drunks.

  The man in the ridiculous coat moved to shut the door, but Hayden shot out his hand and shoved the door wide open. “Where is she?”

  At the bright wave of brilliant sun, the man blinked, at least the eye not covered in an eye patch. “Indisposed. Predisposed. Take your pick.”

  Hayden flashed his creds. “Would you care to rethink your answers to my questions?”

  The man pushed away Hayden’s wallet. “I care to—”

  “It’s okay.” Robyn Banks stepped out of the shadows.

  “Oh, dearest Robyn, we are anything but okay.” The man’s cynical laugh curled the air as he disappeared into the bowels of the dark Victorian.

  Robyn motioned him inside without a word. Heavy drapes covered the windows, and Hayden had a hard time making out the house’s layout and furnishings as she led him to a room just off the entryway. The room held a card table with a computer and a single folding chair.

  “You’re certainly fast, Agent Reed.” She motioned for him to take the chair while she rested her backside on the table. “Efficient, too. I expected to see you, but not so soon.”

  “I’m trying to catch a killer, Ms. Banks.” Hayden, who sat in the metal chair, folded his hands in his lap. “So I’ll get straight to the heart of my visit. I ran your fingerprints against those found at all the Butcher crime scenes, and we got a match. At Katrina Erickson’s condo.”

  “No surprise there.” She waved a red-tipped finger at him as if scolding. “I already told you I was there that night to talk to Katrina about a story.”

  “Cut the act, Robyn. We’re both on deadlines, and we don’t have time for drama.”

  Her hand fell to her side. “What do you want?”

  “The truth. I want to know exactly what happened when you went to Katrina’s house the night she was stabbed, and I don’t want the Reader’s Digest condensed version about you walking in, seeing the bloody body, and running to call nine-one-one. I want the other details. Like why your prints were found on a highball glass in Katrina’s dishwasher. And what you really saw that night.”

  * * *

  Robyn could lie, a task she did quite well. She’d done it in the past when it suited her or Mike. But Hayden Reed saw everything. Those sharp eyes would shred her to pieces if she lied to him. And that would hurt like hell. She’d taken hits lately, hard blows that bruised her to the bone.

  She gathered her thoughts as she walked to the brocade-covered window. “Katrina and I both worked the news desk that night. She went home right after we signed off, and I came by about an hour later to talk about a story she’d worked on. When she didn’t answer the door, I walked in.”

  “Front door?”

  “Yes, it was unlocked. I was about to call out her name when I heard a scream from upstairs.” The words clung to her throat with sharp barbs. “The scream chilled my blood, and I froze.” Even now cold terror gripped her.

  “Did you recognize any voices, hear any words, names?”

  “Mostly grunts and screams. Although one time I heard Katrina yell, ‘You’re not going to kill me you son of a bitch!’ Hard to forget something like that.”

  “And when you could move, what did you do?”

  “I ran to the coat closet in the hall and shut the door.” She watched as Agent Reed’s impassive mask fell off. “Yes, not your usual reaction, but you mustn’t forget, I’m a reporter. A story was breaking, and I planned to cover it. About that time the first mirror shattered. Then came the rest, thirteen, fourteen crashes. I lost count. Eventually everything quieted until I heard someone walk past the closet and out the front door.”

  “How many sets of footsteps did you hear?”

  “One.”

  “And after you heard the door close, what did you do?”

  “I waited. Eventually I went to Katrina’s bedroom.” Dust fluttered in the air as her fingers dug into the curtains. “She wasn’t moving; blood was everywhere, red foam bubbled on her lips, so I could tell she was breathing.”

  “And…”

  “I went to the bathroom and threw up. Then I stopped in the kitchen and poured myself a scotch. Straight. In case that makes a difference.” She let go of the drapes and shook her head. “No, not the smartest thing to do, given Katrina’s physical state and her immediate need for medical attention, but I’ll blame it on the shock of hearing a madman bludgeoning a colleague.”

  “A man? What makes you think it was a man?”

  “I don’t know. I just assumed an attack that grisly would be made by a man.”

  “And you saw nothing? No one?”

  “No. With a shot of liquid courage under my belt, I drove to the convenience store and called nine-one-one. That’s it.”

  “So you went home and remained silent.”

  “Because nothing I saw would help the investigation.”

  “And…”

  “And because it scared the hell out of me.”

  To her relief, Agent Reed stood and straightened the cuffs of his shirt. “One more question,” he said. “Who’s your roommate?”

  Robyn was prepared to talk about Katrina Erickson but not about Mike Muldoon.

  “Ms. Banks, who is the man who answered the door
?”

  She thought about lying, but there was that little issue of public records. “My husband.”

  * * *

  Monday, June 15, 4 p.m.

  Dorado Bay, Nevada

  Hayden had just come back from Carson City, where he had met with Robyn Banks, and Kate figured he must have won the sparring match. His gray eyes flashed triumphantly as he flipped open his laptop.

  She, on the other hand, was going stir crazy. She’d been cooped up in the cottage all day, Hatch and Evie taking alternate watch over her. Hayden’s colleagues buried themselves in work, either on the phone, on their computers, or rushing out to meet with people. She spent the entire day pacing the airless living room.

  “Can we go out?” she asked Hayden who pecked on the keyboard. “Take a drive?”

  “No.”

  She appreciated Hayden’s doggedness, as she knew that kind of passion would get the Butcher, but right now, she needed a break. “Why not?”

  “Mike Muldoon.”

  A breath caught in her throat. “Muldoon?”

  He looked up from his laptop. “You know him?”

  “Not personally, but I covered his story in a ‘Justice for All’ report for KTTL.”

  Recognition dawned on Hayden’s face. “That’s it. I’ve been wracking my brain all the way here trying to remember where I’d heard that name before. Muldoon was the pension administrator convicted of fraud and embezzlement and the subject of one of your last ‘Justice for All’ stories.”

  “Why are you interested in him? He was in jail at the time of my attack.”

  “Which is why I didn’t investigate him when I first ran across him. Given the fact that Jason was most likely operating on someone else’s orders, Muldoon now is a viable suspect. I need to find out if Muldoon and Jason were connected in any way.”

  “But Muldoon’s still in jail. I think the judge handed him a five- to ten-year sentence.”

  “He’s out and living with Robyn Banks.”

  “Robyn Banks? What the hell is he doing with her?”

  “They’re married.”

  Kate shuddered. “I can’t see that.”

  “It’s not a pretty sight. Apparently, all is not well in the Muldoon-Banks household. I need to find out when he got out of jail.”

  As Hayden continued his calls about Muldoon, Kate continued pacing. Did Mike Muldoon have something to do with her attack? Did he know Jason? Her feet moved faster as she considered the scenario Hayden laid out. Jason attacked her on someone’s orders. That someone was the Butcher. The Butcher went on to kill seven broadcasters and Jason. The pixie dust necklace proved the Butcher was here and still wanted her. The only lead Hayden had to work with was a woman in a pink dress. And this is where more questions began. Was the woman in the dress the Butcher in disguise or an accomplice? If a female accomplice, could it be Beth Watson? Hell, why not Robyn Banks? Was it possible Mike Muldoon was the Butcher?

  The rustling of paper interrupted her thoughts. Hayden left his computer and offered her a bag. “For you. I picked it up on my way back from Carson City.” He smiled, looking oddly pleased with himself.

  Growing up, she never received gifts from her mother for her birthday. Her grandparents never sent her Christmas presents. She wasn’t used to getting gifts, which is why she hadn’t been able to take Smokey Joe’s one-winged tourmaline angel. She regretted it now. Crusty and gruff by nature, Smokey probably didn’t give many gifts.

  Hayden had tucked his gift in a plain brown paper bag. She wondered what kind of present he’d give her. Definitely something thoughtful—he spent way too much time in his head—and probably perfect. He had a lock on that, too.

  Fingers tingling in silly anticipation, she reached in and took out a box of oil pencils and a sketch pad. She hadn’t touched drawing materials in years. The tingle in her fingers morphed into sparks. Yes, definitely perfect.

  * * *

  Monday, June 15, 7:30 p.m.

  Dorado Bay, Nevada

  Hayden pulled in front of the Grab-a-Chick restaurant, an outdoor eatery just off Main Street, and ushered Kate to a picnic table with a single occupant.

  “Glad to see me, Pretty Boy?” Sergeant Lottie King wrapped him in a bear hug.

  Hayden laughed out loud and returned the hug, and that’s when he knew something was seriously wrong in his world. Maybe he was in some altered state of exhaustion caused by more than a week of snatching two and three hours of sleep a night, because he wasn’t acting normally. First, he had bought Kate a set of oil pencils, not because it would help her psychologically deal with her troubled childhood and not because it would be a safe activity to keep her occupied as he and his team tracked down the Butcher. He bought them for her because he wanted to see her smile. There was no logic in that and no logic in hugging Lottie, other than he was glad to see the Colorado Springs police sergeant.

  Kate sat on the bench and held out her hand to Lottie. What a difference a week made. That Kate could walk into a public place and make eye and skin contact with someone proved she’d come a long way since he sat bleeding at Smokey Joe’s kitchen table.

  “Time for a meeting of the minds?” Lottie said.

  Time for his world to stop spinning off its axis. He motioned to the waitress and ordered three sets of wings, rings, and iced teas. After the waitress left, he asked Lottie to fill them in on the Thomas investigation.

  “Still got the stalker under lock and key. He insists he had nothing to do with Shayna Thomas’s murder, and he’s sticking to the story that a gray-haired woman in a pink dress walked into Thomas’s bedroom at the time he’d finished jerking off and decided to head home. We had one of our best sketch artists draw a composite. Over the next few days I’m hoping to flash it around here and get some nibbles.” She took it out. “My stalker said it’s not quite right, but he couldn’t tell the artist where to change the damn thing.”

  Hayden studied the sketch, which depicted a gray-haired woman with a high forehead and recessed chin. He certainly didn’t recognize the woman. “Would you mind if I got one of my teammates, Berkley Rowe, to talk with your stalker and create a sketch?”

  “Another Apostle?” Lottie nodded. “Bring her on. At this point I’ll take Jesus Christ. Got him on speed dial? ’Cause this case could use a miracle or two.”

  * * *

  “We’re getting closer. I can feel it.” Kate crossed her arms over her chest as she watched Sergeant King drive out of the Grab-a-Chick parking lot.

  “There you go, feeling things again.” But Hayden said it with that half grin she’d seen a few times in the past few days. “And for the record, I agree. The Butcher’s here, and we’re going to find him.”

  “And there you go again,” she said, “wearing your Mr. Hopelessly Optimistic hat.”

  He opened the door for her. “I’d rather be a hopeless optimist than one in denial.”

  She smirked. “You are so wrong if you think I’m an optimist at heart, and I can prove it.”

  “Good. I like proof.”

  “If I were an optimist, I’d continue to argue with you about this topic, but I’m not. Just like I know I can’t move a mountain, I cannot and will not shake your belief that justice will prevail and that good guys will always win. So why bother? I’ll just shut up and move on to something else.”

  “That shouldn’t make sense, but it does.” Hayden shook his head and laughed. “We’ve been spending too much time together.”

  They pulled out of the parking lot. True. Other than a few hours with Hatch or Evie, she’d spent almost an entire week with Hayden. It was strange, being so close to another person. She was close to Smokey, but that was different because he couldn’t see her.

  But he could.

  He may not have been able to see her scars, but her friend had sensed that she needed money and suggested the online jewelry store because he wanted to use his new computer. He saw the times she desperately needed to move and would demand she take him for a drive on her
motorcycle so he could have some fresh air. She wondered if Maeve was taking him on drives through the desert and letting him sleep with open windows.

  “Smokey’s fine,” Hayden said. “I talked with Maeve on my way to Carson City.”

  She didn’t bother to growl in frustration. “How did you know I was thinking about him?”

  “The bridge of your nose bunches.”

  She wondered what she looked like when she thought of Hayden, because she’d been thinking a good deal about him, and she wondered if he’d been thinking about her in ways not connected to the Butcher case. He wasn’t fazed by her broken past and didn’t see her scars. He’d held her in his arms last night—two golden bands that made her feel safe and right. Hayden was controlling and obsessed with his work, but he felt right. Last night was proof. Despite the gift from the Butcher, she’d fallen into a deep, worry-free, anger-free sleep. And he felt something, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it.

  She lifted her face and enjoyed the almost-cool wind rushing in through the open car window. A nice, inky darkness spilled across the sky, except where the half-moon peeked from a thin layer of clouds. The steady whir of tires spinning on asphalt comforted her. She didn’t want to go back to the cottage on the lake. She knew what would happen. She’d go to bed and try to sleep, and Hayden would sit with his case notes and not sleep.

  “Slow down,” she said, jerking her hand to the left. “Turn there.”

  Hayden let up on the gas. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Turn and take this road.”

  “Why?

  “I want to go for a drive.”

  “Where?”

  “Nowhere. Everywhere.” She threaded her fingers through her hair and let the warm wind slip through the waves. “Just drive.”

  “You want to just drive.” In the moonlight, she could see the tick along his jaw.

  “You have a problem with that?”

  He kept going straight, toward the cottage. “I have a problem with aimless, purposeless activity, and a drive right now is not the wisest use of my time.”

  She slammed her open palms on the dash. “Dammit, Hayden, do you always have to use your time wisely? Is it part of your super agent oath? Or is it just you? Can’t we do something for once that isn’t on your schedule?”