Kelley Armstrong - Made to Be Broken

"By that time? Too old. Wouldn't want to leave."

"How do I know that if I never tried?"

"Gave her a job. No one else did."

"Too little, too late. No wonder she hated me – hated all of us." I undid my belt. "Okay, back to work. So how are we going to interrogate a guy who's passed out dead drunk in a truck in a public place?"

"Could be tricky."

"A master of understatement, as always."

I peeked in the passenger-side window. The man inside was in his fifties, with dyed black hair that he probably wore in a comb-over, but was now sticking straight up. He had his face planted on the steering wheel, every snore making that rooster comb quiver. We wouldn't need to see him wake up. We'd hear it.

The passenger door was locked. The driver's side wasn't, but I couldn't risk that slap of cold night air waking him when I opened it. I slid the slim jim in and jostled the passenger door open. Then a low whistle from Jack stopped me. I glanced over as a drunken couple wobbled my way, arms wrapped around each other. I dropped and rolled under the truck.

The woman's giggles twittered across the quiet lot. "Can you believe that place? It was like something out of a honky-tonk movie."

"Or a meeting spot for Rednecks Anonymous," the man said.

They roared with laughter, pleased by their incredible wit. More giggles. More jabs about the "rubes," who'd probably treated them with respect, served them full-strength drinks at reasonable prices, fed them an unlimited supply of peanuts and pretzels, and peppered them with suggestions for the best hidden fishing spots and scenic lookouts. I could rail against the stereotype, but the truth is that more than a few residents are just like me, with a high school education, driving a fifteen-year-old pickup, and only wearing makeup on special occasions. Doesn't make us worse; we just have a different set of values.

Apparently, though, all that crisp fresh air and undiluted booze was bringing out Mother Nature in this citified couple. Or maybe it was just all the drunken stumbling, grabbing each other for support. Before they were halfway across the lot, their giggles gave way to moans, their jibes to whispers of "oh, baby," proving they weren't any more articulate than our local high school dropouts.

The wet sound of sloppy kisses tempted me to do a little moaning of my own. Move along, people. I'm sure you have a perfectly good bed in your fancy inn. Undress out here, and you re going to freeze.

"Hmm, is that an open pickup bed over there?"

I had a mental flash of Janie's truck… and missing tailgate.

No. Please, no.

Two pairs of feet stumbled my way.

"Wait," the woman said. "There's a guy in there. Sleeping, I think."

"Then let's give him a thrill. Show these country bumpkins how it's done."

No. Please…

The truck jolted as they banged into the back. Rust rained down. The woman's feet disappeared as her partner lifted her onto the bed. A pair of panties landed in a puddle. He stayed standing, presumably just hiking up her skirt.

The bed rocked once. Twice. I wrapped my arms around my head and squeezed my eyes shut against the rust shower.

Three. Four.

It stopped. Shit, they'd woken him up. I braced for a shout or, worse, the engine starting.

"Good?" the woman panted.

"Yeah, babe."

That was it? I hadn't even had time to regret what I was missing.

They staggered off, leaving her panties still floating in the mud puddle. Once the couple had driven away, Jack gave an all-clear whistle. I crawled out and glanced in the truck cab. Our target was still snoring.

I prepped my materials, then took a deep breath. That brief rocking might not have woken him, but it could have started the process. I counted to five, then threw open the door and lunged across the seat, gag going around his mouth, turning his face away from mine before his eyes opened.

I didn't need to bother. I had the gag tied, the blindfold on, and the guy pulled flat on the seat and he kept sleeping. If it wasn't for the now-muffled snores, I'd have thought he was dead. It was only when I tried to bind him that he woke, flailing and elbowing me in the gut, knocking my wind out. Tight quarters for a takedown. Even tighter when Jack got in the passenger side to drive us out of there before someone noticed the struggle.

There were a few moments of chaos as I got the guy's hands and feet bound while trying to keep him off Jack's lap. Jack got kicked and elbowed a few times, including one in a place that probably smarted, but he didn't say a word, just drove from the lot.

By the time we reached the road, I had our guy fully restrained and on the floor at my feet. Then I sat up, face toward Jack, as if talking to him. The streets were empty, but if anyone did notice us, they'd see only a couple heading home. I didn't say a word, though. I wasn't giving our guy any sign that he was dealing with a woman. If he took that story back to White Rock, I'd have Don Riley on my doorstep in a flash.

When we neared the town limits, which didn't take long, I pulled out the man's wallet. Peter Weston. I showed it to Jack, so he'd have the name, then stuffed it back in the wallet and tossed it behind the seat.

Jack pointed to a sign announcing Eagle's Nest lookout.

I shook my head. It was a great location – a thickly wooded hill with a winding road going up – but on Saturday night, even this late, we couldn't be sure local teens wouldn't be using it for more than sightseeing.

It didn't take long to leave the town lights behind. Out here, civilization is just a hole carved from the wilderness, the thick woods always at the outskirts, waiting patiently to reclaim their territory. In more than a few places up here, that's exactly what's happened. Our ghost towns are nothing like the empty buildings and dusty streets of the old West, but just village ruins overtaken by Mother Nature, the footprint of man growing fainter with each year.

Jack drove a couple of kilometers from town, then he headed down side roads until we found a lot with a For Sale sign so weather-beaten it was almost illegible. There are plenty of good building lots up here. This just wasn't one of them. Maybe the forest was too dense to clear, the ground too rocky, the lakes too far, or – the kiss of death – it was too near a potential native land claim.

Jack drove up a rutted lane and parked behind a curtain of brush. I hauled Weston out and dragged him deeper into the woods as Jack cleared a path with his crutch, the harsh thwacks betraying his frustration at leaving the heavy work to me.

Once I got Weston in place, facedown in the undergrowth, I retreated, staying close enough to hear but too far to be tempted to jump in with "extra persuasion."

Jack reached down, grabbed Weston's hair, yanked his head back, and ripped off the gag. Weston only moaned and mumbled something about his head.

"Out celebrating tonight, Peter?" Jack said. "Feeling a little extra flush?"

"Ow, my head. My head hurts."

"Answer the question, Peter."

"I don't know what you're talking about. My head – "

"Janie Ernst."

Weston went rigid and, after that, it didn't matter what he said. We knew we had Janie's killer.

"I don't know no – "

"You were involved with her. You were seen coming out of her house tonight, right before one of my associates went in and found her with a broken neck, shoved behind the sofa."

It took Weston at least ten long seconds to muster up an appropriate exclamation of shock and dismay. Then he stopped short.

"Are you guys cops?"

Jack gave an ugly laugh. "You wish. Have you ever heard of the Rock Machine?"

"S-sure. A biker – um, I mean motorcycle club. Janie used to run with them back in the day. But they were swallowed up by the Banditos and the Angels." Again he stopped. "Are you guys from – "