Bad Parts Read online

  Something else bothered him: traded parts only disappeared for two reasons. Either the Trader died or they left the ten-mile radius surrounding town. Mac didn’t have his kidneys this morning, but he wasn’t dead. That meant he’d left the local limits—and most definitely not by choice. Someone must’ve kidnapped him, driven him out, and brought him back.

  Someone who wanted the kidneys to be available again.

  But who?

  A Trader? No. Wouldn’t work. Any Trader who drove Mac outta the zone would lose their own traded parts in the process. Only an outsider could safely make that trip. But the only way an outsider could know anything about this was if a Trader told them.

  Karl buried his face in his hands. This was bad. It was hard enough keeping secrets when everybody played by the rules. If someone had betrayed the group, everything could unravel.

  He grabbed his phone. He needed to ask Candace if anyone had expressed interest in the kidneys recently. He could build a suspect list from there. But the moment he dialed her, he realized something. The abductor would’ve targeted Mac only if they knew for certain he had the kidneys. But knowing for certain was difficult because info on traded parts was kept private. The only people who knew about Mac’s kidneys would be Mac himself, anyone he might’ve confided in, and Candace, who kept a master list of everyone’s trades.

  Karl cancelled the call.

  Good God. Candace might be involved. She knew Mac had the kidneys. She was also the first to find him this morning. Heck, she’d even asked Mac to work late last night. That added up ugly.

  Then again, it was possible Mac had told others about his kidneys. Or perhaps the Trader who’d invited Mac into the group betrayed him. That happened once before. Fella had invited a lady with lung cancer into the group and killed her two years later when his own lungs developed stage four. What a mess that had been.

  Karl exhaled. Looking up at the church steeple, he prayed that Candace wasn’t involved. That would not only tear apart the group but Karl as well. Deep down, though, he knew it wasn’t her. Even if she had kidney issues, they could be managed. She’d have to be extremely reckless to kill a Trader over them.

  Besides, she prided herself on protecting the Traders. It’d been that way ever since her husband was murdered for his traded heart fifteen years ago. She swore on his grave that it wouldn’t happen again. Not to anyone.

  Karl’s phone buzzed.

  Candace.

  “Hello?” he answered.

  “You called, Karl? I was in the shower.”

  “Had a question. An important one.”

  “I see. Take an early lunch. Stop by the house.”

  He notified dispatch, drove over, and rang the doorbell.

  Candace answered in seconds.

  She was in her bathrobe, the blue one he’d bought her for her birthday last winter. Her blond hair was wet from the shower. She smelled of citrus and morning energy, nothing like the sweat she’d accumulated earlier while they moved Mac’s body.

  “Any news on Mac?” he asked, stepping inside.

  She shook her head. “Scoured the banquet hall but couldn’t find anything. Then again, I’m no Columbo.”

  Karl rubbed his eyes. “I’ll double-check later, after you close up tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  He hung his head and sighed. God, could he use a drink.

  “What’s wrong, big man?”

  “Been thinking,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Anybody come to you asking about kidneys?”

  “Not recently.” Nothing in her demeanor suggested she was hiding anything. She didn’t avoid eye contact or fidget or stammer. “Everybody knew the kidneys were taken, so they stopped asking.”

  “Tell me, who invited Mac into the group?”

  She squinted, deep in thought. “Bill Werner.”

  “Oh boy.” Bill Werner co-owned the burrito shop on Main Street. He was a penny-pinching fella who thought the Traders owed him everything. The only thing he loved more than demanding favors was getting them. “Maybe Werner’s our guy. If he brought Mac into the group, he’d know about the kidneys.”

  “He would, but…” Her head drooped in frustration. “Christ, I hope you’re wrong. The moment we question Werner, he’ll play the victim and paint us as the bad guys. He’ll rip the entire group apart.”

  “We’ll think of something.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t Bill.”

  “But who else would know? I mean, other than people Mac confided in and…” Karl hesitated. “And you.”

  She frowned. “Look, you don’t have to coddle me. I understand. I found Mac on my property, so I’m a suspect.”

  “Yeah.” He scratched behind his ear. “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be.” She tightened her robe’s fuzzy belt. “Honestly, after this morning I deserve worse. I still can’t believe what we did. I mean, we had to, but it’s horrible.”

  “Yeah.” His throat lumped up. “Tell you the truth, I keep wanting to turn myself in.”

  “Don’t,” she said. Her eyes met his. “Remember, this is bigger than you and me. You turn yourself in and all sixty-six Traders go down with you.”

  “Sixty-five now.”

  She sighed. “Ugh. What a mess.”

  Karl stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. “We’ll keep a close eye on Werner.”

  “Right,” she said, returning the hug. Her arms felt warm and secure around his sides. “I’ll drop by the burrito shop sometime this week. Friends close, enemies closer—that sort of thing. If Werner’s behind this, I’ll make an example of him.”

  For some time, they stood there holding each other. Then she stepped back.

  He sighed.

  “You look beat.” Her hands squeezed his shoulders then slid down his arms to his wrists. “When’s your lunch over?”

  “Forty-five minutes, give or take.”

  “My son’s at the gym.” Her eyes held his. “It’s been a rough morning. Think we need some stress relief?”

  Part of him wanted to agree. The rest of him felt too rotten about Mac. The last thing Karl deserved right now was—

  He jumped as her hand cupped his crotch.

  When he looked up, her face was mighty close to his. He could really smell that citrus shampoo now. Like he’d wandered into a Florida orange grove.

  If only he could move south. Heck, vacation south.

  But a trip upstairs wasn’t so bad either.

  9

  Once the bedroom lights were out and the blinds were drawn, Karl undressed. His duty belt hit the floor with a thud. His pants followed. In his excitement he’d forgotten to take his shoes off first. He hopped on one foot, tugging at a shoe, and bumped a photo frame on the wall. Candace, sitting on the bed, grumbled about the delay. He reminded her he usually wasn’t in uniform when these situations arose.

  His clothes set aside, he moved through the darkness toward her. Pitch darkness was part of their ritual. They needed it. If the lights were on, he’d think too much. He’d beat himself up about the weight he’d put on, or that Candace was his buddy’s widow, or that he was black and she was white, which even nowadays could draw some funny looks in Hollow Hills. If the lights were on, he could feel the town watching him, silly as that sounded.

  “What’s the holdup?” The mattress creaked as she leaned closer. “You need a map?”

  He laughed and climbed onto the bed. Her hands cupped his shoulders before gliding down to his rump. She squeezed each cheek, pulling him toward her sweet, sunny scent.

  He reached out, brushing her terry bathrobe. He found the fuzzy belt and unknotted it in a nervous hurry. Her body radiated warmth underneath. The skin lay smooth in some spots, flabby in others—not that he was complaining. Despite her age, her breasts still had a springy quality to them, particularly the left one. His thumb flicked across her nipple and she moaned.

  He didn’t realize he was hard until her hand gripped him. She must’ve licked he
r palm, because it greased along his shaft with slick rhythm. Heat rose to his cheeks as she guided him into her. For a moment his world was Candace and nothing but. Then his mind ran elsewhere, to Mac. To fresh, ugly memories.

  Carrying him out to the woods.

  Jamming the knife into his lower back.

  Watching him bleed.

  Fitting him into the garbage bag.

  Sealing him away.

  Candace’s palm slapped his chest, knocking him back to reality. Time to switch. Her turn on top. He pulled away, leaving her, the only woman who could hold him together. Six years ago she’d gotten him off the bottle and had kept him sober ever since. After this morning, he needed her more than ever.

  With a satisfied moan, she climbed onto him, her slippery tightness hugging him. Her thighs, warm and thick, straddled his sides. Karl held his breath as she rocked against him, her weight pressing down comfortably. They worked toward each other’s rhythm, but he couldn’t quite connect. Not with Mac haunting his mind.

  Karl finished first. She kept going. And going.

  Once she was content, she climbed off, grabbed her robe, and disappeared into the bathroom.

  “You were right,” he said, pulling his trousers on. “About the stress relief.”

  “When am I ever wrong?” Her voice sounded muted behind the door. “Make sure you don’t forget your undershirt like last time. If Mickey comes up here and sees it, I’ll stroke.”

  He frowned. He didn’t understand why they still had to keep everything secret after six years. Her son Mick was a young man now. He’d seen them eat many lunches together. Some dinners, too. Then again, maybe she wanted their relationship kept secret from the Traders. If the group found out, they might accuse her of divulging secrets to Karl. That could cause an uproar.

  After he dressed and donned his duty belt, he turned the lights on. The wedding photo he’d bumped earlier hung off-kilter. He lifted it from its hook and flinched when he saw a wall safe. Its green digital display read LOCKED. There was a number pad beneath. He could probably guess the code. More importantly, he could probably find Trader records in there. Maybe something he could use against Werner.

  But robbing his lover’s bedroom wasn’t wise. Not when he was stuck in town for life.

  “I’m heading out,” he yelled after hanging the photo. “We finished with ten minutes to spare.”

  “You need to build that stamina,” she called.

  He laughed. Stood there wondering if she might come out for a goodbye kiss. Even a hug.

  “Candy, uh—”

  “Don’t call me Candy. That junk fattens you.”

  “Candace, are we doing anything for Thanksgiving?”

  “Isn’t Trent coming in?”

  “He is.”

  “Then let’s—holy shit!”

  He hurried for the bathroom door. “You okay?”

  The door opened. Candace looked at him wide-eyed.

  “I just checked the creek cameras.” She turned her phone toward him. “Someone’s up there.”

  Without stopping to breathe, they ran to their vehicles and headed for the banquet hall parking lot. Candace parked her Jeep at the far end, next to the dirt trail leading up into the woods. Karl parked his cruiser beside her and got out, pausing at the sight of MacReady’s empty Toyota behind the building.

  Candace exited her Jeep wearing a denim jacket and sweatpants. She tugged on a pair of hiking boots and started up the trail. “Hurry, Karl!”

  “That girl at the creek, has she moved?”

  “Nope. Still lying there.”

  “Any clue who she is?” Tightness seized his chest. “Think she knew Mac?”

  “Not sure.” Candace checked her phone again. “Looks like a college girl, maybe older. Hope she didn’t drown.”

  “Did she trade?”

  “Of course not,” Candace said. “That’s impossible with the cameras on.”

  “Right, right.” He wasn’t thinking straight. “Let’s see what she knows.”

  They hurried uptrail, their boots crunching twigs and squelching through mud. Karl kept close to Candace, checking his sides and rear every chance he got. Until they found this girl, they needed to stay alert. Mac losing his kidneys and a stranger showing up at the creek couldn’t be coincidence.

  He drew his pistol.

  They climbed deeper into the woods. The exertion sent Karl’s senses into overdrive. Upon reaching the third level, his ears caught every splash of the creek, every whistle of the wind.

  Bare oaks gave way to pines. He charged through the thicket and into the creek clearing. There he saw the girl lying prone, covered in shadow. Behind her the water glimmered.

  Gripping his gun, he stepped forward, checking his surroundings in case someone tried jumping him.

  The creek trickled. Snow dripped from high branches. Something stirred nearby.

  He spun toward the sound.

  Just a squirrel. The rodent hopped off the ground and onto, of all things, a guitar case. The sight of it reminded him of Ashlee. What if—no.

  No, it had been ten years.

  He stepped closer.

  Spotted the dreadlocks, the tattoos.

  Heart pounding, he ran to her.

  “Ashlee!”

  He dropped to his knees and flipped her over. She hung limp in his grasp, her freckled cheeks pale as powder. A grimy cast covered her arm, misshapen purple fingers poking out. Something terrible had happened.

  Candace ran over. “Karl?”

  “It’s Ashlee!”

  “What? You’re shitting me.”

  Karl cupped a hand into the stream and splashed Ashlee’s face. Her left eye twitched. He splashed her again. This time her nose scrunched.

  His heart swelled. He didn’t know what to feel. He never expected their reunion to happen like this, with her lying half-dead in his arms.

  “C’mon. Wake up.”

  Her eyelids parted. She blinked then gazed blankly at him. It reminded him of thirty years ago. Back when he first held her. Back before he adopted her.

  Squinting, she croaked, “Dad?”

  10

  Something was burning. No, not burning. Cooking. Ash could smell melted butter on burnt toast. Breakfast.

  She blinked and squinted through blurred sunlight. She realized she was lying on her back, dressed in a tank top and a pair of baggy gym shorts. But she didn’t own any gym shorts. That was creepy. Her scalp tingled as she tried to remember where she slept last night. The van? A motel? She didn’t know what day it was or what gig they had tonight. Philly? Allentown? Harrisburg?

  Slowly she realized she was lying in bed. In the house she grew up in. In the upstairs master bedroom.

  Sunlight sliced through the blinds, glinting off decade-old photos of her with her twin brother Trent. The pictures hung beside an open closet stuffed with pressed police uniforms. Nearby dressers and bureaus were topped with coupons, TV Guides, DVD cases, and—please, no—her silver trophy from a Battle of the Bands competition ten years ago. That was the night she got wasted, drove her van off the road, and nearly killed her brother.

  Groaning, she sat up against the headboard. As she reached up to tie back her dreads, her left hand erupted in fiery protest. She thought she was imagining it until she saw the cast.

  Oh, fuck.

  Now she remembered.

  The bedroom door creaked open. Dad stepped in with a quiet smile and a plate of eggs and toast. “Morning, darling.”

  He’d fried the eggs hard, just how she liked them. But remembering her dining preferences wouldn’t repair the tension between them. She clenched her jaw, not bothering to disguise her annoyance. “Morning, officer.”

  His smile faded. “Sleep okay?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Food time. When’d you last eat?”

  Her stomach gurgled. He set the plate on her lap and handed her a glass of water. She sipped. Her dry mouth welcomed it, but the liquid settled funny in her empty s
tomach. She took a bite of toast. Grimaced. He still torched his toast until it was a scratching pain to chew it. Some things never changed.

  “Glad to have you home,” he said. “Just in time for Thanksgiving.”

  She frowned. He was being too nice. This wouldn’t last. Sooner or later he’d screw this up. Or she would.

  “How’s things, Ashlee?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Too late.” He forced a laugh. “Already did.”

  She swallowed the bite of charred toast.

  “Oh, guess what,” he said. “I bought your band’s albums. Got them on my computer.”

  She cut her eggs with a fork, averting her eyes from the deep wrinkles on his kind face. “Following my career, huh?”

  “Yep. Always Googling you and your band.”

  “Ah.” Didn’t surprise her. Didn’t move her either. “Thanks, Officer.”

  “Please stop calling me that.”

  “What time is it?” she asked again.

  He checked his watch. “Seven thirty.”

  “AM? Shit, it’s Wednesday?”

  “Got somewhere to be?”

  “Yeah. Florida.” She set the plate on the nightstand next to her painkillers. She vaguely remembered waking up last night and downing two of them. “Got a monster gig on Friday.”

  He eyed her cast. “What happened to the hand?”

  “Got drunk and punched a wall,” she lied. “Was planning to trade it to the creek like you did with your knees.”

  “Ashlee…” His eyes widened. He set a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever’s wrong, the creek is no way to fix it.”

  “Career-ending damage is what’s wrong.” She tried to flex her fingers. The pain made her flinch.

  “Darling, even if you trade for a new hand, you can’t leave the area with it.”

  “I can’t?”

  “If you leave town, the hand’ll start buzzing, then burning. Ten miles out, you’re in a real pickle.”

  Nobody had told her this. Then again, when she left a decade ago, she was in too much of a hurry to pay attention to details.