Broken (40 page)

“Whatever,” Arena said before he raised his gaze and seemed to truly see her for the first time. “Hey . . . are you okay?” he asked, frowning again. “You look sick. And shouldn’t you be getting fatter, not thinner? Are you eating?”

“I’m fine,” she said, wandering back to her desk.

Arena watched her go and wondered again what she was addicted to, and how she was getting it. He was pretty sure it wasn’t at the high school he’d observed her breaking into the previous night. She had come out about fifteen minutes later without any goods or company, but he’d resolved to check it out if she went there again.

Given her pale and gaunt appearance, she was the perfect picture of an addict. She looked unwell, and he felt an irrational desire to try and help her before he pushed the urge away.

She deserves what she gets! Doesn’t she?

Chapter Forty-One

I don’t know where to go

to find my way back home.

I’m drowning.

–Stereophonics, “Drowning”

B
erg practically crawled with the traffic to her storage unit over on North Western Avenue. Her preferred driving speed was breakneck, but her vision was blurry and her mind strangely cloudy. She couldn’t afford to be taken out by a truck before her business was complete.

She daydreamed as she drove, envisioning the baby kicking in her hard, swollen abdomen. Patting the imaginary baby lightly in encouragement, she pretended that Jay had chosen to leave Carla and be with her. Picturing perfect days and nights with them as a family, professional family portraits, big family barbecues in their large backyard, their son growing up to follow in his daddy’s footsteps, nights filled with words of love and moments of passion . . . everything she never knew she wanted until now.

Jesus. I’m actually dreaming of a white picket fence.

The moment of clarity she had felt when she’d decided to break up with Arena and tell Jay about his baby came back to her. She knew she had been on the right track then. It had felt so right . . .

For a second, she almost turned the car around and accidentally swerved into the path of an oncoming minivan. Its horn blared indignantly as she corrected her course quickly and passed it.

It wasn’t fair that she had been denied that kind of normal family existence. How did those more evil than her get what she desperately wanted? What had she had done to deserve a life filled with abuse, hatred and death? Why couldn’t she seem to stop it leaching into the lives of the people she cared about?

It doesn’t matter now.

The crushing reality fell down around her shoulders. She had no baby. No Jay. She was responsible for a murderer going free and an innocent child being in danger.

She pictured Elizabeth’s smug face and felt a stab of hatred.

She will not harm that baby. No way.

She turned off at the storage unit place and dawdled to give her shadow all the time he needed to figure out exactly where she was going as she unlocked and rolled up the small red door of number twenty-four.

Leigh’s rifle sat on the cold, hard concrete, its blanket-wrapped body the only object in the stark space.

She was glad she had not been able to part with it. While she hadn’t understood stealing it from the crime scene at the time, it seemed like providence now. Leigh had been insane, but her idea of justice had been right—an eye for an eye.

Berg cocked her head to the side, wondering where Leigh’s voice was. Come to think of it, she thought, she hadn’t heard hers or her mother’s voices for a while.

Weird. No matter.

Elizabeth deserved her own brand of justice, and Berg was going to deliver it with Leigh’s weapon.

Berg carefully lifted the weapon, caressing it lightly before opening her trunk and placing it inside. She made sure Arena got an eyeful from his hiding spot before closing the trunk and driving away.

Arena watched Berg leave and dialed Consiglio.

“Sir? I know what she’s doing. We’ve got her.” He swallowed the guilt he felt as he hung up.

Chapter Forty-Two

I’m bulletproof, nothing to lose.

Fire away, fire away.

Ricochet, you take your aim.

Fire away, fire away.

You shoot me down, but I won’t fall,

I am titanium.

–David Guetta, “Titanium”

B
erg lay concealed in the dark shadow cast by a huge, silent air conditioning stack on the flat roof of the old high school, sweltering. The blistering summer sun had been baking the dark roof all day, and even early in the evening, the asphalt was still hot and slightly sticky to the touch, giving off a nauseating tarry smell that she was beginning to taste in the back of her throat.

Sweat formed on her upper lip and even more rolled down between her shoulder blades to wet her black, sleeveless tee. 

The nine-pound, bolt-action hunting rifle felt cold and smooth in her hands. She rested her flushed cheek against the Teflon-coated stainless steel of the barrel for a moment.

The magazine had a five-round capacity but she had inserted only two. She would, of course, have no rounds left to defend herself when the CPD came, but that was the plan.

Her fingers trembled and she took a few deep breaths to calm her hammering heart and steady her hands.

It didn’t work. If anything her shaking seemed to worsen and the intake of air made her chest ache. More sweat beaded across her forehead and on the backs of her hands under her black leather gloves.

What’s wrong with me?

She had been over this from every possible angle, racked her brain for any other way. Marilyn had been her last shot, and she’d fucked up. There
was
no other way. If there had been, she would have found it.

She looked at her watch. Elizabeth would be rounding the street corner in the next five to six minutes.

Despite her intentions, she grudgingly admired the precision with which Elizabeth ran her life. Every evening she went for a run, jogging at a steady pace of around four miles per hour, looping around the same dappled streets near her new home.

It was obviously having the desired effect. Each time her lewdly grinning face had appeared on the television she was leaner, blonder, her teeth whiter. The caterpillar had emerged from her cocoon and was now an evilly beautiful butterfly . . .

Berg squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and tried to settle the commotion within. Her head was pounding. Every time she moved, the motion surged through her skull, pain spiked through her belly, and she felt dizzy. She blinked again, trying to bring street level back into sharp focus, then a few more times but her vision remained slightly fuzzy.

Sweat was pouring down her face, stinging her eyes, and she was forced to put the rifle aside, using her cotton tank like a towel to mop the liquid away. Picking the weapon back up, she rested the end of the barrel lightly on the low edge of the roof to compensate for her unsteady hands.

Any moment now . . .

Just as she’d expected, Elizabeth jogged into view at the end of the street. Berg gripped the rifle firmly, nestled the black synthetic stock into the crook of her shoulder, and rested her finger lightly on the trigger—waiting . . . willing her heart rate to slow.

She tracked Elizabeth with the rifle as she jogged into view. Twenty yards closer . . . ten yards . . .

She prepared for that perfect shot, took a deep breath, and slowly released it, hoping that would suppress the trembling and stabilize the gun. 

Now! 

But her trigger finger didn’t obey.

The cops will be here soon. Take her out! You’re gonna miss the shot!

Her head throbbed incessantly as she argued with herself—the pain almost unbearable. The pounding in her skull was so loud. It seemed to be coming from outside her body, near the jammed stairwell door.

She tried to shake it off but the sudden movement had vomit rising in the back of her throat.

The strikes to her temples silenced with a loud crack, and she heard steady and solid footfalls on the asphalt roof.

Tears blurred her vision, joining the rivulets of sweat running down her face. She tried to use the rifle to push up to her knees, but unable to hold the weight any longer, she released her grip and the gun clattered to the ground.

She felt unconsciousness coming as the edges of her vision went black.

No! You have to save the baby!

One thought played over and over as she sank into nothingness:

Don’t take another child from him! 

Chapter Forty-Three

And all I can taste is this moment.

And all I can breathe is your life.

’Cause sooner or later it’s over.

I just don’t want to miss you tonight.

–The Goo Goo Dolls, “Iris”

J
ay flicked through the various folders and papers on his desk wearily. He just wasn’t in the mood for the incessant fucking paperwork. Reaching the bottom of the pile, he picked up a red manila folder and looked through it—more forms requiring his signature.

Is it not possible for anything to get done in this city unless I fucking sign something?

Slapping them back down, he wondered again what Berg had meant by she knew what she had to do. She had actually looked at him when she’d it, her big brown eyes meeting his for the first time since . . . that night—the best night of his life.

Had she seemed sad, or was it his own sadness bleeding through?

He sighed—a deep gulp that reached his gut and sent the breath whistling through his lips like wind off the lake.

It was time to man up and break it off with Carla. She was great on paper—everything he thought he’d ever wanted in a wife and potential mother, but she wasn’t Berg, and nothing was going to change that. He’d rather be alone than pretending.

Jay had no clue what Arena had that he didn’t, and he tried not to think about it too much, but Berg was with Arena, and they were having a baby, and he’d be happy with her situation as long as she was.

He sighed again, picked up his phone. When it went to voice mail, he assumed she was in court and left a quick message asking her to call. He was grateful he’d avoided moving into her place so at least there was no impending awkward division of possessions to look forward to. The conversation would be awkward enough.

He heard a knock at his door and looked up, hoping it would be Berg. It wasn’t. In fact, he realized both Berg and Arena had been missing all day. He felt a stab of irritation. This was why partners becoming lovers was discouraged—it was too much of a distraction.

“Jay?’ Cheney said. “There’s someone here who wants to speak to you.”

Jay motioned him in, and Marilyn Young followed.

“Mrs. Young,” he said, trying to sound polite and not fearful.