Broken (7 page)

I took a
seat on my couch to wait, and now I did pick up the vodka. I wasn’t going to
drink it yet. I just wanted to hold it. At least, that was what I told myself.
It turned out not to be true.

Chapter 9

I spent
most of the night lingering in that little space between awake and asleep, the
space I got trapped in when I hadn’t had enough to drink to knock me out, but
didn’t have the wherewithal to get up and find more alcohol.

For a
brief interval I dreamed. It was an old nightmare that I hadn’t had in a long
time. I was on my knees in the Laughing Man’s abattoir, where I’d gone to
confront him and save the two little girls that had been his last victims. I’d
been too late, and now I was on my knees, my right wrist broken from where he’d
smashed it with a crowbar. He’d hit me once in the knee as well, hard enough
that I wouldn’t be standing up for a while, and several times in the torso.
Then he’d gone to work on me with his hands. I didn’t know how much damage he’d
done at the time, but I knew our fight was over.

In the
end the Laughing Man stood over me, savoring his victory, savoring the end of
our game, the straight razor in his hand poised to end me once and for all. I
watched him through tears of pain and despair, waiting for him to do it. And
then he’d just turned and walked away.

I knelt
there, covered in my own blood, staring at my hands. My wrist had swelled up to
twice its normal size, cutting the nerves off so I couldn’t move the fingers on
my right hand at all. Blood ran down my arms. I’d failed. I’d lost the game.
The two little girls were dead, posed in his still-life with wide grins carved
into their faces. It was the Laughing Man’s signature mutilation. I stared at
them in horror as physical pain and mental anguish wrestled each other for dominance
over me.

And then
I started to laugh.

At first
it was only a giggle, one tiny giggle as my eyes focused on a single rivulet of
blood running toward my elbow. It was followed by another giggle, and then
another. And then I was laughing in earnest, laughing through the pain of my
broken ribs, a high-pitched hysterical shrieking that continued as the goddamn
backup I’d called for too late finally arrived. The other police officers thought
I must have taken a blow to the head, but it was worse than that. I’d somehow
taken a blow
inside
my head. Something in my brain had snapped and even
then, in the midst of my hysteria, I knew it was something I wouldn’t be able
to put back together again. I was still laughing when the ambulance came,
laughing while they drove me to the hospital, and I kept laughing right up until
they shot me full of Thorazine.

I
blinked and was back in my bedroom, the sun coming up outside. I looked at the
clock and was surprised to find it was fairly early in the morning. The vodka
I’d brought into the bedroom with me was still on the bedside table. I hadn’t
had nearly enough of it, obviously. Clearly not enough to keep the nightmare
away.

My legs
felt weak but not shaky as I stood up next to the bed. I picked up the vodka
and looked at it for a moment, then took a small sip. I debated taking another,
but put the bottle down instead. I wanted more, but I had things to do. Later I
could crawl into a hole and die, if that was what I really wanted. But right
now I had a case to solve.

The outline
of Todd’s body the CSI guys had taped down the night before was still on my
living room carpet. I guess they expected me to clean it up myself. I looked at
it for a moment, and then the strangest damn thing happened. I started to cry.

It only
lasted for a few seconds, half a dozen heaving sobs, and then it was over. I
rubbed my face clean of the few tears that had fallen. What the hell had that
been about? I didn’t cry. I
never
cried.

My
stomach rumbled. That was unusual. I rarely had an appetite in the morning. But
then again, I rarely had an appetite at all. I went into the kitchen to see
what I had, unsurprised that it turned out to be next to nothing. I was going
to have to settle for instant soup again. I put the water on to boil and made
myself a cup.

I sipped
the soup as I plotted my next move. I needed to talk to Alan Davies. If he
didn’t know his family had been abducted, he needed to know. If he knew that
already, we were going to have a discussion about how telling lies has
consequences.

Something
wasn’t sitting right with me, though. I thought about it as I sipped the soup.
I had the feeling I was missing a big old obvious clue somewhere, but my brain
was too fogged from alcohol abuse to work out what it was. I sighed. I’d figure
it out eventually. I almost always did.

I
finished up the soup, fairly certain I’d be able to keep it down. I’d pick up
something more solid later on. It would be a nice change for my system, having
the chance to digest real food.

Alan
Davies’s card was still in my pocket. I took it out and looked at the number,
then put it away. I wasn’t going to do this by phone. I’d go see him in person.

My
clothes didn’t smell all that great, but I didn’t see much point in changing
them. I didn’t have anything else that was cleaner. I’d get some laundry done
one of these days. Or maybe I’d just burn all of my clothes and buy new ones.
That might actually be a better idea.

Outside
I saw that the police had put up yellow crime scene tape around my yard. One
more thing for me to clean up, but it could wait. Todd’s Lincoln had been towed
away sometime during the night. I wondered if Davies knew about the hit yet. I
imagined it would have raised some questions when Todd didn’t show up for work
this morning. Or, more likely, Dan had called him last night and torn Davies a
new asshole.

I had
just put the key in the Mustang’s ignition when I decided I wasn’t ready to see
Davies yet. That weird crying jag had been disturbing. I needed to see someone
else first.

Pacific
Beach, or PB as it was known to the locals, was about ten minutes north of my
house on surface streets. PB was a place full of tourist bars, aging hippies, and
grifters. I had no use for it, but the person I needed to see would probably be
up there this morning. If she wasn’t, her staff would be able to tell me where
to find her.

Molly
Malone’s dojo sat in a small strip mall about a block from the beach. The rent
on the place must have been astronomical, but I knew she operated the dojo at a
small financial loss. Molly had made a small fortune in her therapist’s
practice, and later as a self-help author. She ran this place out of her love
for karate, not to make a profit.

I
spotted her standing in a corner of the dojo when I stepped inside. Molly stood
at exactly five feet tall and might have weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet,
provided she was also wearing an overcoat that was soaking wet. She was
speaking with a lanky man in a Hawaiian shirt and a scarlet-haired woman in a
leather jacket. That reminded me I had a leather jacket just like it hanging in
my closet at home. I could wear that one instead of the one with the bullet
hole in the arm. That might save me some awkward glances later.

Molly
spotted me and her eyes lit up. She said goodbye to her visitors and came over
to see me. I braced myself for the hug I knew was coming. People just couldn’t
stop hugging me these days.

She held
on to me for a moment and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “You look awful,”
she said, pulling back to frown at me.

“Nice to
see you, too,” I said. I nodded at her guests. “Am I interrupting?”

“No,”
she said. She smiled gently at the man in the Hawaiian shirt as he passed by on
his way to the door, the redhead trailing behind him. The man smiled sheepishly
back at her.

“What
was that about?” I asked.

“He
asked if I knew any place they could buy some good seafood.”

I
winced. “First time you’ve heard that one?”

“It’s
not the first time I’ve heard that one this week,” she said. “I’m thinking of
writing a book of ‘Molly Malone’ jokes. But, no, they were looking for a friend
of theirs. Actually, two, I guess. A guy and his cat. Something about…” she
shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s Pacific Beach.”

“Stranger
things.”

“Yeah.
What are
you
doing here? You said you were done with therapy. And done with
me, if I remember correctly.”

I
spotted an interesting crack on the floor and pretended to study it. That was
the politest possible version of what I’d said to her the last time I’d seen
her. “I think I said something like that,” I admitted.

“Well
then? What’s going on? You didn’t come to work out?”

“I doubt
I could,” I said. “I’ve been…pretty sick.”

“Yeah,”
she nodded. “I can smell that you’ve been pretty sick. You’ve been sick for a
long time, I think.”

“Yeah.”
Now I’d spotted an interesting crack on the wall. I wanted to look anywhere but
at her.

“What’s
going on, Nevada?”

I hadn’t
come here to lie to her, had I? It was time to come clean. “I…I killed someone
last night.”

I’d
almost expected her to recoil, but Molly only nodded. “Okay. Are you hurt,
Nevada?”

“No.”

“Were
you drunk?”

“I’m
usually drunk,” I admitted.

“How did
it happen?”

“Ridge-hand
to the throat. Crushed his windpipe.”

“No, I
meant…” Molly shook her head. “Nevada, you know I love you, but should you be
speaking to an attorney instead of me right now? Because I’m going to have to
call the police.”

“Oh,” I
said, realizing what she was getting at. “No, it was self-defense. He came at
me with a pistol. I had Dan Evans and half the SDPD at my house last night.
It’s okay.”

“All
right,” she nodded. “Did you come here because you need to talk about it?”

“I don’t
know,” I said. “I don’t think so.” What
had
I come here for? God, I was
just hopeless, wasn’t I? I had things I needed to be doing right now instead of
having a meltdown.

Molly
looked at me the way you look at a baby when it’s thinking about taking its
first steps. “Go get a
gi
out of the locker room,” she said.

“What?”

“Go,”
she said. “There are some clean ones hanging on the guest rack. One of them
will fit you.”

I went
into the locker room and took a white
gi
from the set Molly’s staff
loaned to prospective clients who wanted to try a session before they signed up
and bought their own gear. I changed quickly, putting my own clothes in an
unlocked locker. Anyone who wanted them badly enough to tolerate the stink
deserved to have them. I fastened the
gi
with a white belt. I had my own
black belt at home along with a
gi
I’d had custom made for me, but they
were probably growing moldy under a pile of garbage. Someday I’d find them, and
maybe burn them along with the rest of my old clothes.

Molly
was waiting for me in a corner of the dojo when I came out. She bowed sharply
as I approached her. “Defend yourself,” she said. Then, without even bothering
to square off, she came at me.

Even on
my best day I’d have been no match for her. When I was healthy I’d been very
good, and I’d earned my black belt honestly, but Molly was some kind of karate
savant. She spent ten minutes toying with me, launching attacks I could just
barely defend against, and shrugging off any attempt I made to counter. Finally
I collapsed, drenched with sweat and breathing harder than I could remember
ever breathing before.

Molly
fetched a small trash can and put it down in front of me. “Here,” she said.
“You’re going to need this.”

“Why?” I
panted. Then I started retching. The remains of my noodle soup and vodka
breakfast were in the trash can a moment later.

Molly
was good enough to hold my unwashed, unbrushed hair back as I vomited. When it
was over I looked up and saw a group of green-belts watching us in horror. They
must have assumed Molly had landed a good punch in my gut. The truth was she’d
never hit me at all. The exertion alone had been enough to wreck me.

She took
the trash can away when she was sure I was done heaving and handed me a bottle
of water. “Sip it slowly,” she commanded. I took two sips, the cool water a
relief as it went down my throat. Molly watched me approvingly. “Good,” she
said. “Now stand up.”

“Why?”

“We’re
not done.”

This
time she did hit me. Not hard enough to hurt me, but enough that I’d remember
having been in here when I woke up tomorrow. I didn’t do much better with my
attacks than in the session before, never coming close to making contact with
her, but at least not missing by enough to completely humiliate myself in the
process.

We went
at it for another ten minutes until I collapsed, my legs shaking from a
combination of withdrawal and exhaustion. “That’s enough,” Molly said.

“Jesus
fucking
Christ,” I wheezed.

Molly
sat down next to me, crossing her legs. She offered me the bottle of water
again, which I took eagerly. “That was pathetic, sweetheart,” she said.

“I
know,” I said. I drank the water, gulping too quickly. A wave of nausea hit me,
but I managed not to vomit this time.

“You all
right?”

“Not
really. You could have gone a little easier on me.”

“Oh,
Nevada,” she sighed. “You can’t do anything the easy way. Come on.” She stood
up.

I put a
hand up in surrender. “No more. Please.”

“No,
we’re done. Time for the sauna.”

Molly
half-supported and half-dragged me as we went into the locker room. My
gi
was drenched with sweat and as I took it off I was a little surprised to find
that my body smelled like stale vodka. It was nearly enough to get me retching
again.