The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  I shot another glance at Archie. With an arm propped against the window, he pressed against his temple, as if he were fending off a migraine. When we last worked together, he mentioned something about being stationed in Afghanistan. Perhaps he had witnessed some crazy shit as well. Or was actually in the middle of it.

  “Anything?” he asked, nodding at my phone.

  “Nothing. Uggh. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. I just hope I didn’t guess wrong.”

  We moved south on I-95, passing green and white signs imprinted with towns named Columbia, Jessup, and Laurel.

  “Beltway is just two miles ahead,” Archie said with an arched eyebrow.

  I gave him a tight-lipped nod. Archie was referring to the I-495 loop around DC and the surrounding cities in the area. I could sense self-doubt creeping into the back of my mind. Perhaps I’d acted too hastily. Nothing said Turov couldn’t have headed west to Duluth, or even Denver, or any number of cities. Maybe following the rulebook was why they made the book anyway. The “maybe this/maybe that” theories flooded my brain, and in seconds, my eye sockets felt like they were being pounded from the inside out.

  “Dammit.” I squeezed the phone while propping my elbow against the window, the blur of pine trees and one-story buildings keeping my mind occupied for a moment.

  The phone vibrated and rang. Infused with a shot of adrenaline, I looked at Archie and punched up the call, putting it on speakerphone.

  “Nick, tell me you got something.”

  I only heard mumblings of agitated voices.

  “Nick?”

  “Alex, Brad here. Hold on. Nick’s just running in from Jerry’s office.”

  “Jerry found something,” Nick said.

  I could hear the clip of Nick’s dress shoes and then his heavy breath.

  “Here it is,” he said.

  “Cool. What is it?” I asked.

  “The…” He puffed three more times. “Dammit, I’ve got to get back into shape. The address to Margaret’s CIA-assigned psychiatrist.”

  “East or west on 495?” Archie spit out.

  “It’s in Silver Spring, Maryland. So west on 495, then south on Blair Road.”

  Archie gunned it.

  “Got a name?” I asked.

  “Dr. James Teague. Been treating Turov at least once a quarter for more than ten years.”

  The sports car leaned to the right.

  “Have you tried contacting the good doctor?”

  Nick said, “Jerry called him from his office. Didn’t pick up, but he left a voicemail.”

  Archie and I traded stares.

  “How the hell did Jerry get this name? Is the CIA finally giving us some professional courtesy?”

  “Shit no. He contacted someone he went to school with. Said he owed him a favor.”

  Archie smacked the dashboard. “So we got this information illegally?” He glared at me.

  I jumped in before my team could respond. “You’re kidding me, right? We use every means possible to share information, figure out Turov’s location, what kind of crazy motive she might have. Nothing but lies and deception from the CIA. And now we know why. It’s one big-ass cover-up. I just haven’t decided if you’re part of it, or just another pawn in the CIA game.”

  His eyes sparked with anger, and he said, “Screw you, Alex.”

  I rolled my eyes and turned away, only to find the backside of an eighteen-wheeler almost on top of us. I slammed my foot on the floorboard and screamed, “Look out!”

  Archie jammed the brakes and jerked the car right. We fishtailed into the left lane, causing a minivan to swerve out of the way. The driver laid on the horn and flipped us off as Archie finally gained control.

  He glanced at me, and we both smirked.

  “You guys still with us?” Brad asked.

  My chest lifted in a quick cadence. “Yes. We’re good. How far are we from Teague’s house?”

  “We’re tracking your cell phone. Looks like you’re about five minutes out.”

  I pulled my Glock from my purse and checked my ammo.

  “Damn, Alex,” Archie said with rigid shadows flashing across his face. “You think this is the final showdown or something?”

  I had a feeling.

  ***

  Sweat drained down from her white coif and onto her face, mixed with saliva and a bit of blood, and then dripped into the swollen eye of Dr. James Teague. Seething like a wild dog that had just been branded, Margaret Turov huddled over her longtime psychiatrist—counselor and confidante for many years. Someone she might have called a friend.

  Until he betrayed her.

  “You fucking told them everything about me. You told them I was an animal, a danger to society. A danger to myself. What kind of friend does that?” She ripped off her garment’s white headpiece and threw it to the side.

  Leaning awkwardly against the turquoise wall in his living room, Teague lifted his hand and tried to point at her.

  “What? Just say it,” she barked, surveying the damage she’d already inflicted.

  “I…I only told them…” He paused and released a guttural, painful sound as he clenched his side.

  “Yeah?” She tapped the end of her blade on the top of his head, and he blinked rapidly. “I don’t have all day. We’ve got a murder to finish here.”

  He began to tremble, and his pained stare made her feel uncomfortable.

  “I gave you the chance, so if you’re not going to take this opportunity to get it all out, we can just—”

  “No, no,” he said, then squeezed his eyelids shut as he gulped. He glanced at the most significant wound on his body, at his side, where three fingers had no chance to plug the jagged gap.

  “Go on, Doc.”

  “Dammit, I had to share my notes with them. They paid me. It was part of my job. But that wasn’t the most important reason. Margaret, I truly wanted you to get help.”

  “Help? Isn’t that what you were for?”

  “No…well, kind of, yes. But you needed to be hospitalized.”

  “Are you saying I’m certifiable?” Standing the tip of the blade on his chest, she brought up her other hand and slammed it downward, purposely whiffing past the knife.

  He cried out in pain. Or was it mental anguish? “Oh, Margaret,” he said with little energy, his ability to inflate his lungs nearly impossible. “Don’t scare me like that. Can’t you see that I only wanted what was best for you? Still do.”

  “You, sitting here on your floor, minus one ear, with a black eye and other assorted wounds, want what is best for me?”

  She then felt something loose in her mouth. Nudging it with her tongue, she spit out a tooth.

  “Damn, Doc. I gotta hand it to you. I’ve been in more scrapes than a homeless dog, but you’re the first one who knocked out a tooth. Congrats.”

  Teague’s bloodshot eyes shifted to Turov and then down to the floor.

  Her lips turned upward at the corners, and she reached over and snatched the fireplace poker off the hardwood. “You’re just trying to waste more time. Maybe convince me to get you some water or a rag for your wound. Right? Then you would grab this poker here, hide it under your leg, and then slam it into what you might call my fucked-up brain. Unlike a few minutes ago when your wayward swing just happened to catch my tooth, you might get lucky and even take me out. A single kill shot.”

  He choked and wheezed for a good twenty seconds, then managed to say, “No, Margaret. It’s not that way. I truly care about you. Couldn’t you tell all these years?”

  Inspecting the poker closer, she watched a million images fly through her mind.

  “I can see that you do remember, don’t you?”

  Her eyes stayed transfixed on the poker as she recalled the many sessions in Dr. Teague’s office, sitting on his comfortable couch, a box of tissues on one side and two large pillows on the other. The doctor had called them her punching bags. Whenever she had aggressive feelings toward someone, she was to take it out on the p
illows and then let the hostility drain from her body. It took her several sessions before she even contemplated his bizarre tactic. Finally, she relented. She was shocked to feel a difference. Less anxiety, fewer violent thoughts. She still had her moments, but for a while she thought she had her problem licked.

  That was until she had a run-in with a person in a drive-thru. That didn’t end well.

  “I’m a stand-up person. I’ll admit that you did a couple of things for me. But all along you were working for the CIA, feeding them every nugget of data you had on Margaret Turov.”

  He coughed once more, wincing in pain. “I only did that to appease them, Margaret.”

  “Appease. Really?”

  A stiff nod. “It’s the truth, Margaret. I care about my patients. I’m not in this business to betray my patients. I’m here to help people.”

  She glanced over to the foyer, wondering if she heard something. A single lamp arching over the doctor’s reading chair illuminated the front part of the refurbished Tudor home. She knew there was a dog next door that would alert her if anyone set foot on Teague’s property.

  Certain she wouldn’t be disturbed, she puffed out a breath and studied the situation. The good doctor had stated a fairly solid case. Like he had appeared all these years, he came across as sincere, authentic.

  Bringing the poker to eye level, her arm brushed against the wooden beads that wrapped around her opposite wrist. Then her eyes followed the trail of blood to her veil and sleeves.

  “At your core, Margaret, you are a good person. I knew that all along.”

  She skidded back a few feet, suddenly annoyed at his sales job. Good person? She’d never been called a good person.

  “Dr. Teague, you had a chance.”

  Bewilderment etched deep trenches into his leathery face.

  “But I truly believe it, Margaret. You just need a little help. We all do at one time in our lives.”

  She chuckled once, paused, and then snorted out another raucous round of laughter that caused her to fall to her back, the poker banging off the floor. “Whew! You’re going to make me cry, Doc.”

  “I’m glad your opinion of my sincerity is so damn comical.”

  “I think you actually believe yourself. That’s either pathetic or hilarious. For some reason, you got me right in the tickle box.” Her laughter filled the room.

  She finally picked herself up and rested the poker against the wall, just out of the doctor’s reach.

  She noticed his eyes listless, and she wondered if he’d finally retreated into an unconscious state.

  “Dr. Teague, are you there?”

  He took in a wheezy breath. “What do you want?”

  “Just making sure you’re still with us.”

  “Does it matter anyway?”

  “Why, James, I thought all doctors cared ultimately about saving a life. Are you saying that you’ve given up all hope? Without hope, what do you really have?”

  “All these years, I wondered what it was like to be on the receiving end of the rants of a homicidal maniac.” He lifted his vision and stared right into her eyes. “And now I know.”

  A sense of melancholy tugged at her conscience. She realized it must be connected to the glimmer of hope she once held that she could leave all the horrific memories to the killing fields half a world away.

  “You’ve done some good work in this world, Doc. Nothing to be ashamed of. But if you ever have to ask yourself why this is happening to you…” She glanced at her garb and then shot him a wink. “…then you just need to remember three simple letters. The letters that represent you committing treason of the highest order.”

  She grabbed her knife, wrapped both hands around the grip, and raised it above Teague.

  “No, Margaret. Please. I’m begging you. There has to be a better way,” he cried out.

  “Do you know those letters, Dr. Teague?”

  “No, please!”

  “The letters that will eat your soul. C-I-A.”

  With every ounce of strength in her body, she thrust her arms down until they met a slight resistance. Teague’s lips quivered for a second, and then he gasped one final breath.

  A dog barked just once. Looking over her shoulder with her knife hovering just above the body, she eyed the front door. Was it just an evening jogger or had someone finally chased her down?

  Gritting her teeth, she fought against the primal urge to carve up the good doctor. A temporary feeling of euphoria would have to take a backseat to her long-term goal. Much work was still left to be accomplished.

  ***

  The clip of shoes crunching across gravel ignited my pulse. I jumped, twisted ninety degrees in midair, and landed on the hollow front porch, steadying my Glock. At first, I only saw a long shadow. With my finger on the trigger, I waited for the first opportunity to fire my weapon and stop the killing machine, once and for all.

  Another shadow, shorter and in spastic motion, seemed to be adjoined to the first shadow.

  “Get the hell off me, dammit.” Archie hopped toward the front of the house.

  I lowered my gun and tiptoed a few steps toward the edge of the porch, wondering if my eyes had deceived me. They hadn’t. The neighbor’s dog was humping Archie’s leg.

  “Crap, Archie. I thought you were covering the back,” I said in a loud whisper.

  I watched him bounce up and down while trying to shake the basset hound off his leg.

  “I thought you were the dog whisperer, able to quiet the most aggressive dogs in the world.”

  “I am. I shut him up when I first petted him, but he must have crawled under the fence when I left to go around back.”

  “Looks like you have a friend for life.” The dog’s tiny legs had a firm grip on Archie.

  “I just can’t—”

  “Pull him off and get around back,” I said. “Hurry up.”

  Archie peeled the paws off his leg and hightailed around back.

  Cupping my hand against my face, I put my eyes to the stained glass, looking for some type of motion. Nothing I could see. With two hands still gripping the Glock, I inched over to a window that appeared to have a light on the other side. I tried to peek through a gap in the white shutters. I could only make out the top of an aqua-colored wall. The range of my vision was limited, so I kept searching for another crack. I found one, and it gave me a tiny view of floors—hardwoods.

  Still searching, I found another crack.

  “Is that a—” I was almost certain it was a man’s hand coated with blood. “Shit!”

  I put my hand on the door. It was locked. Holding my gun by the barrel, I rammed the butt into the stained window, and the glass shattered all over the interior floor. I reached inside the opening, turned the deadbolt, and punched the door open.

  A dead man, presumably Dr. Teague, was propped against the aqua wall in the living room. Two seconds later, the back door burst open, and Archie stumbled into the kitchen.

  “What the hell, Archie?”

  “I thought it was locked, but it wasn’t even shut all the way. I couldn’t see shit back there.”

  “Get your ass over here.”

  He jogged up the hallway and met me where I stood near the body. Dr. Teague’s eyes were open, but nothing more than a lifeless stare. Seeing that his ear had been cut off, I avoided the dried blood and touched his neck in several places, confirming no pulse.

  It was rather obvious why he died. A massive wedge had been made in his chest, but I also noticed another wound just under his ribcage on the left side.

  “The skin is clammy, but not overly cold. Skin color is a sallow yellow. I’m guessing he died in the last hour. Maybe more recently than that.”

  “Crap.” Archie rubbed his face. “A little sooner and we might have been able to stop this one. Stop her.”

  “Call it in to the locals, and let’s get the nearest FBI ERT here as soon as possible.”

  As Archie put the phone to his ear, I continued talking. “Did you notice
there isn’t the same type of vignette? He’s been stabbed, but I don’t see any body parts on display.”

  “Are you saying you think Turov didn’t kill Teague?” Archie dropped the phone to his side.

  “No. I don’t think so. I think she was in a rush.”

  I let Archie finish his call as I walked the room, looking for anything that might give us a clue as to what might be Turov’s next move.

  I circled the couch and came up at a different angle. “Not sure how I missed this.” Crouching, I eyed a fireplace poker propped against the wall about six feet from Teague’s outstretched hand.

  “No obvious sign of it being used on Teague,” Archie said, shuffling around the body.

  “Wonder if Teague surprised her for a change?” I scanned the room, and everything pretty much looked in order. An ottoman was shoved on its side, magazines strewn on the floor. But all the blood and gore appeared to be contained in about a ten-square-foot area.

  Crack.

  Archie stopped in his tracks. “I just stepped on something, dammit.”

  “It’s always good to crush the evidence before we have a chance to inspect it.”

  “Thanks.” He lifted his heel, and I spotted something white.

  I nearly touched the floor with my chin. “Looks like a tooth.”

  He scooted out of the way. “Do you think it’s the doctor’s or could it be from Turov?”

  I eyed the doctor and didn’t see any obvious bruising around his jawline.

  Sirens echoed in the distance, and I drifted across the hall toward another room. “Why don’t you flip on the lights and meet the paramedics and cops out front?”

  Archie tiptoed through the broken glass and stepped onto the front porch as I surveyed what appeared to be the doctor’s office. It was an active crime scene, so anything in my sights was fair game. A laptop sat on top of his desk. I moved the mouse, and a password prompt lit up the screen.

  “Need to get this to Quantico,” I said to myself, knowing I’d have little hope of cracking the security on the laptop. Two framed degrees hung from the wall, one from the University of Virginia and the other from Virginia Commonwealth. I moved to my right and came upon a set of built-in bookshelves. They were stuffed full of books and notebooks with paper sticking out. Most of the books appeared to be about human behavior and relationships. I also spotted two Stephen King novels.