“Excellent.” She tapped him on the butt and pointed at the door. “Time to get up close and personal with all of these people you invited into my life.”
With a satisfied smile, she followed him into the cottage, but when the screen shut, a shriek tore across the darkened porch. Kate’s eyes plunked closed, and another shriek sounded. She opened the screen. Ellie strutted in, her crooked tail high in the air.
* * *
Wednesday, June 17, 7:35 p.m.
Carson City, Nevada
“Goodbye, bitch.” Robyn Banks threw a photo onto the fireplace grate and watched flames leap across Katrina Erickson’s face.
Robyn discovered the shoebox full of photos the first night her husband was released from prison, the night he drank himself into a stupor and she kept him from drowning in his own vomit. She ended up unpacking the small duffel he brought home from prison, including the box of photos. Until now, she’d pretended they didn’t exist.
Robyn smelled Mike before she heard him. The scent of cheap whiskey with a double shot of despair curdled her stomach.
“You shouldn’t touch what isn’t yours,” Mike said with a heavy slur as he snatched the shoebox from the mantel.
“It’s time to get rid of them, Mike.” Robyn tried to take the box from his hands, but he wouldn’t let go. “You’re out of prison. You’ve served your time. You need to move on with your life.”
“Move on with my life?” He swung a hand wide in the grand gesture of a ringmaster. “This is a life?” A boozy cackle reverberated through the big, empty room.
“Stop it!”
“Angry tonight?”
Yes, she was livid about this ramshackle house, her flailing career, and the downward spiral of her sorry excuse for a husband. She took a deep breath, trying to push aside her growing anger. “If you’re not up to a job, you can at least try to work on yourself. Your probation officer gave you the name of a therapist, and when you’re ready, I have that list of jobs—”
“Jobs?” Mike hooted. “Who, my dear, wants to hire a money man who stole hard-earned pennies from a bunch of retirees forced to live on canned beans for the rest of their lives?”
His pompous edge sliced into her, but she fought the urge to jab back. “You can get work outside of finance. People change careers all the time.”
His lips twisted in a grimace. “And what the hell am I supposed to do with a goddamn felony hanging around my neck and one fucking eyeball?”
She looked at the smoldering photo, at the flames leaping and crackling, charring the paper image of Katrina Erickson, and she looked at the man who promised her a future in hell.
She sunk onto the floor in front of the fireplace. “We can’t go on like this, Mike. KTTL is letting me go. I sent out a few resumes.” Her trembling hands flattened on the fireplace hearth. “Nothing.”
His moment of manic ugliness disappeared as he tucked the box under his arm. “Sad thing, isn’t it? An aging broadcaster trying to stay in the bright lights. But bright lights show all the flaws and wrinkles, don’t they?”
She flinched. He wanted to hurt her because he was hurting. She kept telling herself that over and over. Prison skewered him, and all those little holes festered, oozing puss and hatred.
* * *
Wednesday, June 17, 11:50 p.m.
Dorado Bay, Nevada
A broad-shouldered figure stepped into the blackened frame of her bedroom door, and Kate’s breath caught in her throat. “How’s Lottie?” she asked.
Hayden took off his coat and hung it in her closet. She almost laughed at the absurdity of that exquisite coat next to her T-shirts and leathers. He loosened his tie. “I just woke her to check on her, and she told me if I touched her again, she’d make sure I never fathered a child.”
Kate tried not to smile. “I assume she used more colorful words.”
“You assume correctly.” He sat on the edge of the bed. Something warm and tingly feathered out from her heart.
She shrugged off the shiver that rocked her body and focused on Hayden, trying to gauge his mood. After he spilled the story about his wife’s suicide and his own guilt and sense of hopelessness over the whole thing, Hayden spent the rest of the evening at work, phone to his ear and hands on his keyboard. She came to bed an hour ago, but she hadn’t been able to sleep. She was too busy thinking about Hayden and trying to figure out what was going on under that granite façade.
She didn’t know, but she knew how she felt. She pushed back the bedsheet and reached for his tie, sliding the piece of silk from his neck. “You should probably get some sleep,” she said.
“I should.”
She pulled his shirt out from his pants and dipped her fingers beneath the silky fabric. “You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
“Can I do anything to help?” She slid her hands along the flat, hard plane of his abs and then followed with her lips.
“What you’re doing is fine.”
* * *
Kate woke hours later to a razor-sharp hiss coming from the foot of her bed. She raised her head and found Ellie standing near her feet, baring her teeth at the bedroom door.
Kate blinked. Hayden lay next to her, sound asleep, his face unlined, his breathing even. A soft tap sounded on the door, and Ellie hissed again.
The tap sent Hayden bolting up, his hands circling her. She pushed him away and smiled.
“It’s just someone at the door,” she said. “Lottie probably needs something.”
Hayden slipped into his trousers and opened the door to Maeve, who stood there, her eyes wide and her hands trembling.
“Sergeant King?” Hayden asked. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” Maeve said. “It’s Smokey. He’s gone.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Thursday, June 18, 6:20 a.m.
Dorado Bay, Nevada
Gone?” Kate’s heart lurched to her throat, making the single word a raspy croak. “What do you mean Smokey’s gone?”
“I checked the back deck, the front drive, and the lakeside path,” Maeve said. “No signs of him. I’m worried.”
Hayden dipped his arms into the shirt he’d worn last night. “Did you check with Lottie?”
Maeve nodded. “She hasn’t seen him, either.”
Hayden bolted into Smokey’s room, and Kate followed. The old man’s wrinkled brown leather slippers sat at the foot of the bed. The warm breeze that had kicked up yesterday blew past the strips of muslin over the screen.
“The window,” Kate said with a heavy breath of air. “He always sleeps with the window open.” Kate ran to the window, her head swimming when she saw two drops of red splattered on the sill.
Hayden grabbed the pillow from the bed and sucked in a breath. Maeve screamed. And Kate saw red. Literally. Slick, bright red coated the pillow.
Lottie came running, wobbly and barefooted.
Kate looked at Lottie, Maeve, and Hayden. Anywhere but at the blood on Smokey Joe’s pillow. She tried to stop the words, but they came out cold and hard. “The Butcher.”
Hayden took her icy hands in his. “We don’t know that.”
The ice moved from her hands, up her arms, and across her chest. The cold fogged her brain and slowed her blood. She thought of Smokey, his old, wrinkled body pummeled by the Butcher’s knife. Two hands reached for her, and two arms clanked around her. No. She pushed back the arms, but Hayden didn’t let go.
“We’ll find him, Kate. Smokey Joe is a tough man. He knows how to survive.”
The cold split her in half, tore open her chest, but the blood didn’t flow, because it froze solid. She couldn’t shake her head, couldn’t even speak and tell Hayden he was dead wrong.
* * *
Thursday, June 18, 11:45 a.m.
Dorado Bay, Nevada
The world as Hayden knew it had turned into a giant grid, measured off in distinct sections and assigned to the ever-growing mass of volunteers descending on Dorado Bay in the hunt for Josep
h “Smokey Joe” Bernard.
The midday sun pounded Hayden as he stood at a picnic table in the public park that served as the search’s command center. More than 150 searchers combed the pine forests and boated through the reedy waters of the lake. Word spread quickly that a seventy-four-year-old blind man disappeared, leaving behind a pool of blood.
Chief Greenfield joined Hayden at the table. “Just sent out the ground dogs, and I’m waiting for the water-trained Labrador to arrive from Tahoe City. Herb and his crew are out at Mulveney’s Cove.”
Hayden refused to see the image of Smokey’s bloated body lifted out of the chilled waters that recently yielded Jason Erickson and Benny Hankins.
“My people talked to the sheriff’s department and to officials at Incline Village and Crystal Bay,” Chief Greenfield continued. “Has your guy arrived yet?”
Hayden shook his head. “MacGregor should be here within an hour.” This morning, after an hour of searching for Smokey Joe and finding nothing, Hayden called Jon MacGregor, the SCIU’s missing and endangered child expert, and his teammate hopped on Parker’s private jet. No questions asked. Before joining Parker Lord’s team Jon MacGregor worked for the FBI’s Crimes Against Children Division and gained worldwide recognition for his efforts at finding the lost.
“Glad to have the expertise,” the chief said, “because if we lose another one to the Butcher, I’ll have a riot on my hands. This fellow has my town more nervous than a pack of rattlesnakes in a room full of rocking chairs.” The police chief pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair.
They had plenty to be sweating. Smokey had been missing nearly six hours, and they had found nothing more than a few drops of blood and that red-soaked pillow.
“How did he do it?” Greenfield crammed his hat back on his head. “You were less than twenty feet away, and I had patrols running by the cottage every hour last night. The neighbors saw nothing. My men saw nothing. How did the Butcher drag Mr. Bernard out the window and get him out of there without leaving a sign? Damn, sometimes I think we’re chasing a ghost.”
“He’s not a ghost, but he knows how to fit in.” This was another key piece of the puzzle. The Butcher was not extraordinary in any way. He was gray, tan, shades of twilight. He shifted unseen through shadows. “As I see it, he was dressed in a manner that wouldn’t draw suspicion—a garbage worker, a gardener, the cable guy. He may even have dressed himself up as one of us.”
“A cop?” Greenfield asked.
“Anything’s possible with the Butcher. He could be impersonating a cop, a reporter, a cleaning lady. We’ve probably talked to him already. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were out with the search team right now.”
The chief’s ruddy face whitened. “You really think he’d be that bold?”
Hayden’s blood bubbled. “Bold? No, the man’s a coward, unable to show his own face, but he’s getting desperate.”
The chief shook his head and walked off, mumbling something about getting all the search-and-rescue volunteers to sign in to a master roster.
Hayden left the search command and made his way back to the cottage, where he spotted Lottie drinking coffee and pacing back and forth across the porch. The Colorado Springs sergeant was still shaky this morning, and she was antsy to get outside and look for Smokey. She stayed put only when he told her he needed someone he could trust to watch over Kate.
Kate. What was he going to do about her? She hadn’t said a word all morning. She sat in a kitchen chair, staring at the crystal-blue water with that hissing cat on her lap. Kate was wrong. He did have the capacity to feel, and right now a low, hard ache throbbed in the middle of his chest.
“Any news?” Lottie asked as he walked up the steps.
“Nothing.” He dipped his head toward the cottage door. “How’s Kate?”
“Beating the shit out of herself. You better get your ass in there before she knocks herself unconscious.”
Inside the cottage Hayden tossed his jacket on the couch where Kate sat with Ellie and squatted before her. “We’ll find him.”
She shook her head, tears streaking her face and dampening the cat’s fur. He’d never seen her cry before. Those tears hurt him more than when her head had slammed into his mouth and her elbow had jabbed his ribs.
“Kate, we have more than a hundred people looking for Smokey. We’ll find him and bring him back to you.”
“We also have a pillow soaked with blood.” Kate turned a hard stare on him. “You of all people know how important blood is to the Butcher.”
“This may not even be a Butcher attack.”
“And you’re living in a fantasy world!”
“Anything is—”
“Hayden, do you believe the Butcher came into this house and kidnapped Smokey Joe?”
He didn’t want to say it, but he did. “Yes.”
“The Butcher doesn’t leave survivors.”
“Lottie survived.”
Kate’s eyes welled with a fresh batch of tears. “Sergeant King is a trained cop, not a seventy-four-year-old blind man.” Her voice cracked.
“Smokey’s a fighter.”
“Exactly. He’s a soldier, a man who survived eighteen months in a North Vietnamese underground prison no bigger than a closet. He knows how to fight. To survive. Hasn’t it occurred to you we heard nothing last night? Nothing! And you don’t miss anything, G-man. Smokey Joe wouldn’t go quietly, not unless the fight had been taken from him.”
No. Hayden still had hope, and he’d hang on to that hope until he had proof otherwise. “Come outside, help me look for him.”
Kate dug her hands into his shoulders. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
“He’s dead, Hayden. Smokey’s dead.”
* * *
Thursday, June 18, 12:15 p.m.
Dorado Bay, Nevada
Smokey Joe had put up a good fight. Too good. He studied his right eye in the mirror, the one the old man had slammed with his age-spotted fist. The eye was red, swollen, just like his lower lip, which Smokey Joe had butted with his knobby head.
He was surprised the old guy was so fast and strong. Pretty sharp hearing, too. Smokey woke when he got within a foot of the bed, his knife raised. The former solider dove at him, getting him in the eye and the lip. But he had spent the past six months fine-tuning his knife skills and with a quick thrust had silenced Smokey Joe, who now lay in a very special grave at the edge of his property.
The grave had been brilliant, a four-by-four hole big enough to hold one shrunken old man in a fetal position, although he wasn’t done with him, not yet.
He turned from the mirror to the mask sitting on his office desk. He ran his fingers along the green and black sequins he’d fashioned into dragon scales. Good thing the fundraiser tomorrow night was a masked, black-tie affair. The swelling in his lip would probably decrease, but his eye would be black and blue for a few days. Hayden Reed would notice it. Hayden Reed noticed everything.
A soft chuckle escaped. Well, almost everything.
G-man—he loved Smokey’s name for the uptight FBI agent—hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t really who he said he was. Only one knew his true identity, the green-eyed woman who’d once believed in justice for all.
He pushed aside the scaly green mask he’d spent hours crafting and picked up the other one he just started working on. This one was fashioned out of white satin, with long white ribbon dangling from one corner. In the other corner, he dabbed a dot of glue and picked up the tiny, one-winged teal angel. A broken angel. How appropriate.
* * *
Thursday, June 18, 12:30 p.m.
Dorado Bay, Nevada
“I’m not going to go, Hayden. It’s a waste of time—mine, yours, and the hundred people you have looking for Smokey. He’s dead.” Kate planted her feet on the kitchen floor and wondered if Hayden would bolt across the table, pick her up, and throw her over his shoulder. She could see he was trying to control his temper.
He stood before her, jacketless, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and a lock of hair loped across his forehead.
“You’re not staying here alone,” he insisted with a matter-of-factness that made her want to scream.
“So get one of your fancy-suited buddies to stay with me.”
Hayden jammed his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’m not going to waste a man babysitting you when he could be out looking for Smokey Joe.”
“I’ll lock the doors and stay by myself.”
He pushed in the kitchen chair. “I’m not going to let you sit around feeling guilty.”
She raised both hands and jabbed them at her chest. “Why the hell shouldn’t I feel guilty? My best friend just got sliced by a butcher who really wants to get at me. The Butcher always finishes the job. He breaks the mirror. He kills all the broadcasters.”
Hayden jabbed a finger at her. “Stop right there. You are not responsible for Smokey’s disappearance.”
“And where’s the turnip truck you just fell off? You know damn well Smokey wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. How can you say I’m not responsible for his death?”
“He’s not dead!” So much heat from cold Hayden. Too bad it wouldn’t do any good.
“We’ve already beat that dead horse.”
He went after her, and his fingers dug into her arm. “You didn’t force Smokey to get on that plane from Tucson and come here. Kate, look at me, listen to me.” His fingers pressed harder. “You can’t control what other people do. There’s only one person whose actions you’re responsible for.”
Something snapped. Maybe it was the tension of the Butcher getting closer. Maybe it was the load of guilt over Smokey’s death. Maybe it was Hayden and his damned jacketless chest. But she laughed, just threw her head back and let a long, bitter laugh ring through the kitchen. “Oh, that is too much coming from you, the man who thinks he’s responsible for the world.” She cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “I am super agent Hayden Reed. Bring me the lost, the lonely, the torn, the tangled, the blind, and the buried, and I shall fix them all.” The steam rose, hissing and blinding. “Well, here’s a news bulletin, G-man. You’re not God. You’re not even close. You’re a man, just a man, one that eats and sleeps and breathes and bleeds like the rest of us lowly, broken bits of humanity, so stop pretending you’re so damned perfect, because you are one screwed-up human being, just like me. No, you’re worse, because you don’t admit it. Smokey’s dead. The bad guy won.”
The Broken Page 25
