Broken Monsters (29 page)

Gabi wakes
up from an uneasy sleep, too early, five a.m., to a house that's unnaturally quiet. Layla's absence is a physical thing in the darkness. Is this what it will feel like when she goes to college? There's a warm weight on her legs. NyanCat, who hunkers down in protest and tries to make herself heavier when she moves.

“I'm bigger than you, cat,” Gabi says, tipping the animal off the bed. She stalks away, tail quivering in outrage.

She never understood the name. Some video game? Layla showed her a clumsy animation of a piece of toast with a cat's head trailing a rainbow, so she took to calling the kitty-litter box the “rainbow drop zone” just to annoy her. Layla makes it too easy. Gabi mangles pop culture on purpose to get under her skin. Somehow this has become an acceptable shorthand for “I love you.”

Gabi gets up and starts flipping through the reports. Boyd dropped off a bunch more last night, after she got back from dealing with the asshole parents, looking as exhausted as she felt. She was so wiped she forgot to ask him if he'd heard from Sparkles.

She flips open the files.

“What the fuck do you want? What are you trying to do?” She flips through the photographs of the doors. The monstrosity of Daveyton's remains in the garden, the deer's hollow eyes.

NyanCat meows plaintively from the floor, and she rubs her with her foot, idly. It's all the encouragement the cat needs. She jumps into Gabi's lap, tipping all the files onto the floor.

“You ridiculous animal!” She pushes the cat away and starts sorting the reports back into the right folders. She examines the names of the participating artists on the spreadsheet. Fifty people. She turns the page over, not for any good reason. Cop instinct.

There are three more names, printed in red, in an eight-point font, and struck out. Two men, one woman.

She gets onto her knees on the floor and starts digging for the student registry at Miskwabic Pottery, running her fingers down the names from the last three years, looking for a Vincent or a Clayton.

Nothing.

But maybe he was there before that. There's an accounts book in the evidence box at the precinct. She pulls on a sweater and a pair of jeans, gathers up all the files, and drives down to the station.

She phones Boyd from the road.

His voice is thick with sleep. “Another one?”

“No. But I think I have something. Can you come down?”

He finds her flipping through the hardcover book where Betty Spinks tallied her income and expenses.

“Here. April 19, 2010. ‘$50. General assistance. C. Broom.' April 30, ‘$35 Custodial work. C. Broom.' May 11, ‘$50 minus clay purchased = $35.' And look at the list of participating artists. Clayton Broom. Crossed out on the back page. What do you think that means? He dropped out? They dropped him? Why?”

“Because he's a psycho killer? I'll run his name through the system.”

“Can you get me the curator on the line?”

“You know it's six in the morning, Versado.”

“I give a fuck.”

Patrick Thorpe materializes half an hour later with Darcy D'Angelo, both of them effervescent with nerves.

“Of course it's him. Of course!” Patrick says. “I should have put this together! He's always been peculiar, but lately he's been…”

“More insane than usual,” Darcy offers.

“His work developed very suddenly, almost overnight. This amazing vision, but a very disturbing direction. Do you think it's because he was killing people? Do you think that opened him up creatively?”

“Can you slow down please, Mr. Thorpe.”

“He was supposed to deliver this wonderful waxy fat man for the show, but he bailed. Oh God, do you think there was a body in there, too? But the picture you showed me of the thing in the garden, it was so crude. Not like his other work at all. Slapped together. But that makes sense, doesn't it, because don't serial killers start unraveling, getting sloppier? And he's got a history, hasn't he, Darcy? That blood-stained hospital sheet he once put up as an artwork.”

“Don't you remember what he did to Marcelle?” Darcy chimes in. “You all tried to play it down as a prank, but let me tell you the girls in the house knew he was off from that moment.”

“What prank? When was this?” Gabi snaps.

“It must have been seven or eight years ago,” Darcy says. “There were a group of artists sharing a communal studio squat. It was a scene, lots of parties, and Clayton was couch-surfing there for a while. No one really liked him—he was very intense—but they couldn't figure out how to ask him to leave. Anyway, there was a girl he liked, Marcelle. Clayton painted her portrait and when she said it was ugly—”

“He said, ‘I'll show you ugly!'” Patrick interrupts.

“He went and got dried-up sheep's intestines from the slaughterhouse next door and glued them onto the painting, over her hair. Marcelle was very upset and there was a huge fight. They threw him out over it.”

“I'm going to need you to go on the record with this.”

Patrick gasps. “Darcy! What if it wasn't sheep's intestines?”

“I don't think speculation is useful. Rather let us investigate. You've been very helpful,” Gabi hustles them out. “We'll follow up with you, but in the meantime, please don't talk to anyone about this, especially not the media.” She shuts the door on the pair and leans against the wall.

“Jesus,” she breathes.

He's been right here, in front of them, this whole time. They've even got him on tape at the party, just for a second, before the camera dips down. “I need a camera,” he says, chillingly. “I need people to see.”

Clayton Elias Broom. Fifty-three years old. Clay Broom. Arrested several times. But never for a felony crime that would have required fingerprints. Loitering. Disturbing the peace, traffic obstruction.

He's on the personnel list from the meatpacking plant. Worked there for three months in 2010, and again more recently, before they ran into trouble with the unions. He definitely would have had access to the meat glue.

He is in Betty Spinks's accounting registry.

He's in the fucking phone book, address and all. Daveyton's bus route goes right past his house.

“We've got him,” Boyd says.

“Not until he's in custody,” Gabi says. She is strapping on her bulletproof vest. Everyone has rallied. Everyone is ready.

“Shit,” Boyd says, shaking his head. “Can't believe me and Sparkles missed this.”

Gabriella freezes. “Have you seen him?”

“Not this morning, no.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Dropped him off on Sunday after we did the door-to-doors.”

“And yesterday?”

“No. But I was busy. We all were.”

“Has anyone seen Officer Jones?” Gabi yells out. She thinks about the missed call from yesterday. She never checked to see if he left a message. She dials voicemail. “Hi, Detective Versado,” Marcus's voice says, “I found some more names on the list, I'm going to—”

It cuts out there. She plays it again. Fuck.

Fuck
.

“Did Marcus have this list?”

“We had a couple of copies. He was working from one on Sunday.”

She punches in a different number. “Hello, 4th Precinct? This is Detective Versado from Homicide. Is your supervisor there? Can you tell me if Officer Marcus Jones reported for duty yesterday? Yes, I know he's on special dispensation. He didn't call in sick with you? I know he's supposed to be with me. He's not.”

“Damn, it's
cold,” Cas complains, perched on the edge of the merry-go-round turning in lazy circles. Every so often, she kicks off with her sneaker to maintain the momentum, leaving tracks in the icy sludge from last night's snow. “You think he's going to show?”

“He has to.” Layla sits on the fence, freshly painted, low enough to jump over and run, if necessary. There are houses and shops nearby. There's a gas station across the road. This is not her mom's advice. It's an adolescence of watching bad horror movies and yelling at the dumb-ass characters.

Ten thousand dollars. That has to be enough to pay for Travis's dental work, surely?

VelvetBoy didn't want to pay that much, of course. But she told him he had to match her other offer. Call it a finder's fee for his wallet. Which also includes deleting all the screengrabs of their chats and texts and the video footage from the diner, which she doesn't have, but hey, he doesn't know that. She didn't tell him that the “other bidder” wanted crime-scene photos off her mom's laptop, not proof of a pedophile chat.

“Can I see the gun?” Cas asks, swirling past her.

“No! God.” The .38 in the pocket of her hoodie has its own black-hole density. They made the cab driver wait outside Layla's house while she fetched it out of the safe, before he brought them here. All courtesy of Cas's mom's taxi account. “What if he comes around the corner right now? We'll scare him off.”

“Or scare him into paying up, no questions asked.”

“Is that the same car?”

“What?”

“The green Pontiac. I'm sure it went past earlier.”

“Girl, I can't tell the difference between a Porsche and a Pontiac.”

“There it goes again. Same license plate. Don't bail on me again, okay?” she warns.

Layla pulls her cat mask down and steps forward, waving. The other hand is in the pocket of her hoodie. Cas sits up, digging her heels into the gravel to bring the merry-go-round to a squeaking stop.

“What are you doing?”

The Pontiac slows and she sees Philip's pink, frightened face behind the wheel. She beckons. The car leaps forward, tires squealing, and speeds away.

“Was it him?”

“Yeah.”

“Where's he going?”

“To have a panic attack. He'll be back.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he's been past twice already. He's already invested.”

Cas comes to sit beside her on the fence, pulling down her own mask. Sure enough, five minutes later, the Pontiac creeps around the corner and pulls to a stop, engine still running, exhaust pluming from the back. Phil leans over to lower the window: “Hey! Why don't you get over here?”

“You come here,” Layla calls back. He has red leather seats in his car. How lame is that?

“I don't want to talk about this in the open. We can go for a drive.”

“We're not getting in your car. You come here, or the deal's off.”

“No.”

“Okay. Hope your boss at the electrical place is really understanding when I email him our chat sessions.”

“All right! Just wait.” The window slides up. He turns the key and the car shuts off. He sits in the driver's seat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel.

“What's he doing?” Cas is tense as a guitar string.

He's banging on the steering wheel, his mouth open, yelling silently. Layla tightens her hold on the gun in her pocket. It feels even heavier.

He stops yelling and banging and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath and turns to open the door. He comes around the side of the car, smiling. It's not a real smile.

“Snowing already, huh? Who would have thought.” He's rubbing his hands together, because maybe that way he can stop himself from lunging forward and choking them.

“Stay there,” Layla warns him.

“Make up your mind,” he snaps, the smile gone.

“Where's the money?” Cas says.

“In the car.”

“Get it, please.”

“Why should I? How can I trust you? You've been lying to me this whole time.”

“Because you know the consequences,” Layla says. This sounds bad-ass. She thinks about what it looks like, two girls in cat masks in a playground facing off against a lanky white guy in a Lions beanie. Probably pretty damn cool. It has the displaced feeling of a movie. She's watching it happen. “Don't fuck with me,” she says, because it seems like the sort of thing she should say.

“Bitches.”

“Go on,” Cas goads.

“I don't have it.”

“What?” Layla is stunned.

“Where'm I s'posed to get ten gees?”

“You said you would.”

“Look at me. Look at my car. I pull in two grand a month. My rent is seven hundred dollars. I spend four hundred dollars on groceries. I got debts. I got a real sick father. He's got Parkinson's. It makes your whole body claw up like a dead crab. He sits in a wheelchair all day. His insurance wouldn't pay for a colostomy. So he shits himself and I have to get him out of the wheelchair and change his diapers. My father.”

“You got enough money to buy online vouchers for little girls,” Cas says.

“It's a fantasy. I never acted on it. I'm lonely. You don't have fantasies?”

“You asked for photos!” Layla objects. “You wanted her to send you videos. You wanted to meet her!”

“Who's her? There's no
her.
SusieLee doesn't exist. There's you. You two playing some crazy head game. Leading on innocent people. I didn't want to meet.
You
did. I thought…”

“What? You thought what?”

“I don't know! I thought maybe you were lying. That you were older. You seemed older. But not so old that you were already screwed up and bitter, like the women I've dated.”

“You're pathetic.”

His face tightens. “You want your money, girly? How about I pay you and your fat friend twenty bucks to suck my dick.”

Cas loses it. “You pig! You're a disgusting pervert. You're just like them.” She barges into Layla with her shoulder. The hand holding the gun comes out of her pocket and Cas wrenches it away from her.

“No, Cas!” Layla shouts.

“Fucking liar. Fucking pervert!” She screams. She shoves the revolver into Phil's crotch. He yelps, a high-pitched sound, backing up against the car.

“Where's the money, pervert?”

“I don't have it! I told you.”

“Cas, stop it,” Layla begs.

“Of course you don't. Because you're a loser. You want a blow job? How about I blow off your fucking balls? How does that sound, Phil? Hope you got a spare pair of your daddy's diapers in the car. You're going to need them, motherfucker.” Tears are streaming down her face.

“I'm sorry! It was a joke.”

“Stop it!” Layla grabs Cas's arm, but she's stronger and she's not letting go.

“Yeah, that's what
they
said. A joke. I'm so sick of you all!” Cas screams into his face. “You're all the same.”

“I'll get you the money!” Phil shrieks, cringing away.

“He's not them, Cas!”

“Please! I'll get a loan!” he squeals. “Don't shoot me.”

“He's not the same. He's not the guys who did this to you.” Layla gets hold of Cas's thumb and wrenches it down, forcing her hand to twist sideways, her whole body following.

The gun goes off, louder than Layla could have imagined.

They all jump and Phil screams. It's muted, like it's coming through a tin-can telephone on a string. For a moment the whole world turns to pearlescent glass, an art-deco ashtray. And then it snaps back to normal.

Her head is ringing. Cas is crouched down, her hands over her ears, shoulders jerking. Phil is screaming and gasping and screaming, his eyes scrunched shut, palms flat against the car.

Layla looks down at the gun in her hand. She raises it and taps Phil on the forehead with the butt. “Hey, dummy. It didn't hit you.”

He opens his eyes and flinches, his eyes darting to the gun. She's never had someone be afraid of her before.

“You're okay, Phil.” Her own voice sounds dulled.

“Oh sweet Jesus. God in heaven. Thank you, God.”

“Get in your car, Phil. Drive away. Don't come back. Don't ever try this shit again. We'll be watching you. Next time, I'll let her shoot you.”

“Yes, yes. I will. I mean, I won't. Whatever you want.”

“Get in the car.”

He scrambles around to the driver's side, and drops his keys in the street. He fumbles around for them, his breath coming in shallow grunts. He peers under the car, reaching in, then peeks over the hood to see what she's doing. “I can't,” he implores.

“Take your time. I'm not going to shoot you. See, I'm putting the gun away.”

He nods, his eyes wet, and lies down in the icy sludge, reaching under the car.

Layla reaches into her pocket for a Sharpie. She writes “SusieLee” in giant letters across his back windshield. From this angle, the red leather in the back of the car looks almost vaginal—warm and fleshy. She imagines him being swallowed by his car. She's losing her mind.

“What's that?” he says, standing up, keys in hand. His hands are shaking. But then so are hers.

“In case you forget. If you even think of following us, if you try to find us, I'll let her shoot you in the balls. We know where you live. C'mon, Cas.” She pulls her sobbing friend to her feet and walks away, fast, across the street to the gas station and the neon safety of the gas pumps and the aisles filled with produce. She doesn't look back.