Broken Angels (28 page)

Noah shrugged. “Guess I got really good eyes.” Truth was, he’d followed the guy to his dad’s office, watched him press that checkered barrel to his mom’s head.

“Did the gun make noise when it went off?”

The butterflies grew fangs. “Just a popping sound.” Then blood staining his mom’s shirt. Rivers of it streaming from his dad’s chest, his dad’s mouth…

Noah’s hand closed around the ring, nearly ripped it off the chain.

“Can you describe the shooter for me?”

He surprised himself by finding his voice. “Tall, round around the edges. Looked a bit like a turtle.”

“A turtle?”

“Yeah. Eyes far apart, big nose, not much hair.”

“Did you notice anything specific, like a tattoo—”

Something sparked in his memory. Something he’d forgotten. “He had a birthmark on the back of his neck. Dark red, like a burn.”

Mr. Jenkins’ expression changed, grew pinched and serious, and Noah realized he’d said something important. “Did you get a good look at it?”

“Yeah. It was shaped like a heart. I remember thinking it was weird for a guy with a gun to have a heart on his neck. Maybe a skull, but not a heart.”

“What happened when he went into the den?”

“What do you think?”
He shot my parents, genius. Shot them dead while I hid like a total coward.
The words whirled inside his head, took tiny nips out of him.

“Did you see or hear anything?”

The fridge stopped buzzing. Somewhere in the distance a faucet dripped. “I don’t know. I think my dad gave him something.”

“What did he give him?”

“I don’t know.” He didn’t want to answer any more questions, didn’t want to remember. But Mr. Jenkins wouldn’t let him be. He kept pushing and pushing.

“Did they speak at all?”

“I told you I don’t know.” The shadows were closing in on him, suffocating him. “Can we please stop now?”

“Tell me what you heard, Noah, and this will all be over.”

“Please. I can’t— I don’t—”

“Think, damn it, think!”

The door burst open, and Uncle Zach came rushing in. “Take it easy, Pat. We can hear you all the way outside.”

Mr. Jenkins tossed his pencil on the table. It made a clunking sound, then rolled across the shiny surface. “Just trying to get to the truth, like you asked.”

His uncle gathered him off the chair and held him hard against his side. It felt good, all that strength pouring into him, keeping him on his feet even as his knees wobbled. “Not this way.”

Jason’s dad closed the notebook and leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “Sorry. Guess I got a little carried away.”

Uncle Zach said nothing. He just led him out of the kitchen, through the back door and into the bright day. The shadows retreated. But they’d be back. Memories, same as nightmares, never really went away. They hid like snakes in the grass, waiting to pounce on him when he walked into a familiar room, played a favorite game, watched a friend build a sandcastle. They were part of him now.

Still, there was one thing he didn’t get. Why did his parents’ faces keep getting fuzzier and fuzzier, when their killer’s ugly mug seemed to grow clearer by the day?

“You fucked up.” His employer rarely swore, so Raymond knew this was bad. Perhaps even bad enough to get him discharged, permanently.

“I downloaded everything. If the information wasn’t on there, then I was right. Birch didn’t make a copy.”

Static filled the line. “This has nothing to do with the files. It’s about the kid. He saw you pop his parents.”

For a second Raymond heard nothing but the annoying buzz in the untraceable cellular phone his boss had given him when he’d first hired him. Then the words took shape, sharpened. “Impossible. I’m always thorough, never leave witnesses behind. You know that.”

“Not this time.”

“How can you be sure?” Dread crusted along his spine, made ice chips congeal in his blood. A lifetime of being invisible, of blending into the crowd, and he was about to be exposed by a nine-year-old. It couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t allow it.

“I’ve got my sources.”

“Want me to take care of him?”

A long, aggravating pause. “No, I want you to hang low. Your cover’s blown. He knows what you look like.”

That wasn’t good enough. He needed this problem fixed. Now. “You can’t expect me to just sit on my ass—”

“That’s exactly what I expect.”

“But what if he talks?” Sweat beaded on Raymond’s forehead. His hands grew so damp the phone nearly slipped from his grasp.

“I won’t let that happen. The plan’s back on track. Meet me at the safe house tomorrow morning at seven.”

“What are you going to do in the meantime?”

The phone line crackled, drowning out the roar of Raymond’s heart as he waited for his boss to answer. “Damage control.” The words rose above the hum, buzzed in his ear. Then, without warning, static melted into silence.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The night was deep and silent as Rebecca slipped into the children’s room to check up on them. Will had taken an exceptionally long time falling asleep again. He’d been restless, more fussy than usual, and she couldn’t help but worry. This whole mothering thing was new to her. She still couldn’t tell the difference between a hungry cry, a teething cry or a something-is-seriously-wrong cry, which made her paranoid. How did mothers do it? How had Lindsay?

For now the baby slept peacefully enough, though not in his usual spot. At some point since she’d laid him down, he’d climbed out of his playpen and crawled into bed with his older siblings. The three of them huddled together in the king-sized bed, like little pixies trapped in a cloud. Concern slid into affection, wrapped in a ribbon of possessiveness.

They were hers, and they needed her.

No one had ever needed her before. It was crazy, the way children made you feel important, indispensable. They changed everything. You suddenly found yourself wondering what would happen to them if you weren’t around. Who would make them breakfast, brush their teeth, give them a hug when they needed it? Who would guide them and teach them what it meant to be a better person? Who would love them the way only a mother could?

Because that was what she’d become to them now—their mother—whether she’d asked for it or not, whether she was ready for it or not.

Zach crept up behind her, wrapped his arms around her middle. His touch was as familiar as the sun, yet new somehow. Things were different between them, better than they’d ever been before. This time they were partners, equals in every sense of the word. She no longer felt like the ugly stepsister dancing with Prince Charming. For once in her life, she honestly believed she deserved him. They hadn’t been able to build a life on the burning flames of passion alone, but maybe they could build one on love, understanding and mutual respect.

“I finally get it.” His warm breath brushed her ear and sent a pleasant tingle skating down her neck.

“Get what?”

“Why they call them angels.” His voice was thick and sweet, like candy melting in the sun.

She studied the children’s peaceful expressions and knew exactly what he meant.

Then Will stirred, scrunched up his little face, and let out an ear-splitting scream. Bolt scampered into the room, happy for any excuse to bark. Both Noah and Kristen jackknifed in bed, their hair ruffled, their eyes glazed with sleep.

Rebecca swept the wailing baby in her arms as Zach chased the dog from the room. She hastened out after him, with the toddler wrapped securely in her embrace, leaving Kristen and Noah to drift back to sleep.

Small fists flailed as an inconsolable Will fought to free himself from her grasp.

“What’s wrong with him?” Zach took the baby from her, attempted to soothe him.

“I’m not sure. He was restless all evening.”

“Must be teething again. I’ll give him some Tylenol. That’ll help settle him down.”

Nearly an hour later, Will finally succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep. “Let’s keep him in the room with us tonight,” Zach proposed. “Keep an eye on him.”

Rebecca couldn’t have agreed more. They placed the dozing toddler between them, flanked him like bodyguards. Then, soothed by the gentle rhythm of his breathing, they, too, yielded to the numbing pull of sleep.

Noah spent a good hour tossing and turning, then decided it was useless. Will had snapped him out of a deep dream, and now he was wide awake. Beside him Kristen snored like a warthog. Not that he knew for sure that warthogs snored, but if they did, he was willing to bet that was the sound they’d make. Careful not to wake his sister, he hopped out of bed and fled the room. The house was really dark, so quiet it hurt his ears, same as when he was underwater and pressure built around his eardrums. The eerie silence almost made him miss Kristen’s warthog snoring.

A floorboard creaked beneath his feet, and he nearly flew out of his skin. He stood statue-still, waited to see if his aunt or uncle had heard the noise. No one stirred. With feather-light steps, he slunk down the stairs. It was hard to find his aunt’s laptop without turning on the lights, but he managed all right. He carried it to the kitchen, flipped open the screen and pushed the on button. Within seconds the machine came alive.

As usual, he logged on to Falcon World. This time it didn’t surprise him to find Night-Owl waiting for him.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” Noah wrote.

“I like the night,” his friend replied. “What R U doin up so late?”

“Couldn’t sleep. My dumb baby brother was screaming again.”

“Babies are a real PITA.”
Pain in the ass.

“N/S.”
No shit.

“Guess what?” Night-Owl typed. “I’m coming to Chatham. I’ll be staying with my aunt up at Minister’s Point.”

Excitement glided down Noah’s spine, curled in his tummy. “That’s where I’m at. What street?”

“Ministers Lane. The gray house with the blue shutters and the fake rooster on the roof.”

“I think I know it. Went biking there once. When will U be here?”

“Tomorrow at 1. Wanna drop by? Ralph wants to meet U.”

“You’re bringing him along?”

“Yup. He gets lonely without me.” A short pause, then, “Do you have a pet?”

“A dog.”

“Don’t bring him with U. Ralph will freak.”

Noah sent Night-Owl a laughing face.

“And don’t tell anyone you’re coming. It’s our little secret.”

“Do I look stupid to U?”

“Tell U tomorrow.”

He rolled his eyes, even though Night-Owl couldn’t see him. “LMAO.”
Laughing my ass off
, he wrote sarcastically.

“CU tomorrow,” was Night-Owl’s response.

For the first time in days, a smile spread across Noah’s face. “CU.”

Fog hovered over the sea like a drowning cloud. Raymond’s motor boat cut a steady path through the blue-gray mist, angled toward the mountains, where his boss’s craft sat moored. Behind him, a fat sun rose to salute the day. Raymond knew this place well. He came by every few months to drop off the special packages his employer dispatched him to collect. Here they remained, sometimes for days, until his boss could make the necessary arrangements to transfer them. Paperwork needed to be done, photographs taken, identities changed. Raymond didn’t know where they ultimately ended up, and he didn’t care.

He was just the middleman.

The day would be bright, clear and warm. He could tell by the way the sun steadily ate away at the fog. He anchored his boat, left the key in the ignition in case he had to make a quick getaway, then skillfully scaled the low cliff. Beyond it, acres upon acres of land stretched. There was a narrow trail that would lead him straight to his destination, so he took it. This tended to be a little more challenging in the winter months, but his employer needed the cloak of invisibility this remote location offered. Neighbors could be such a nuisance. Raymond had learned that the hard way.

Within minutes the house he sought came into view. It was quaint, picturesque, something one might expect to see in a painting of the countryside—the ideal shroud for the devil’s workshop. The air was sweet, redolent with the aroma of fruit ripening beneath a thin cover of dew. The only sound was that of crickets and of a spotted sandpiper greeting him as he passed. He found the key hidden in the usual spot, a flowerbed now overrun with weeds, and fished it out. Then he let himself in.

The place looked deserted, but he knew his employer was here. He’d seen his boat anchored below. Raymond didn’t bother announcing his presence. He just waited. As the minutes stretched, he grew restless, nervous. Damage control, his boss had said. Raymond was smart enough to understand he was part of the damage that needed to be controlled. So he’d hedged his bets, made a life-altering call late last night. If it came down to him or his employer, he’d feed the bastard to the wolves in a heartbeat.

A loud clang startled him. From the back room, machinery droned with steady precision, like a well-oiled assembly line. Raymond followed the sound. Rusted vats framed him as he searched for the source of the noise. Then he saw it, a mammoth of a contraption, lifting monstrous steel arms and plunging them deep within its own dark center. The sight mesmerized him. He’d never seen the machine in operation before. Curiosity and boredom propelled him up the metal stairs, where a low platform hung. He stared into the empty bowels of the crusher, waiting for his employer to make an appearance, wondering why he’d suddenly decided to turn the device on.

Then it struck him, the culmination of all his fears, seconds before he heard someone call out his name. He turned, aware that—despite all his planning—he’d walked straight into the belly of the beast. The black barrel of a gun yawned before him. He panicked, scrambled for the 9mm SIG strapped to his belt. But it was too late. The gun exploded, glinted silver in the semi-dark room. A spray of bullets slammed into him. Blood squirted from the wounds in his chest, thick and sickening.

Pain made his body spasm. Pain and an unbearable heat. Regret swamped him. The only consolation was the knowledge that his murderer would burn in hell alongside him. As he fell backward, right into the steel-toothed mouth waiting to chew his carcass to bits, his last thought was of the terrible mess he’d leave behind.