The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  I flipped the page of the magazine with extra zest. I was pissed at myself for not letting peace resonate inside of me. My phone rang. “Do I have to get it?” I asked Saul.

  “Didn’t you say Cristina was looking at some office space options today?”

  It had been a while since I’d heard from her. “If she’s calling, she’s probably bitching about our agent, Danny.” I pushed off the couch, found my purse, and pulled out my phone. It wasn’t Cristina, and I didn’t recognize the number. I punched the line open.

  Before I could say my name, a man said, “Ivy, you’ve got to help me. Please, come help me.”

  “William?”

  “My grandson…he’s gone.”

  Had he been drinking some of his bourbon, or had black spots on his memory created some type of delusion? “William, don’t you remember? We found Billy. In the shack by the lake.”

  “No, dammit. It’s not Billy. It’s his older brother, Drew. The cops are on their way, but I need you. We’ve got to find Drew.”

  I asked him to text me the address. After a brief kiss from Saul, I was out the door in less than five minutes. As I waited impatiently at the elevator, one thought floated to the top of my mind: two kidnappings within twenty-four hours impacting the same family definitely wasn’t normal. The fact that the two kids lived in two different foster homes made the whole thing mind-boggling. There was something much more sinister at the heart of these terrible crimes against kids. And I wouldn’t sleep until I found the person responsible.

  12

  She’d kicked and screamed like a petulant child during the entire road trip. While at first he found her fits to be humorous—the woman knew her time in this world was about to end—it had grown tiresome.

  With his radio on full blast, he pulled up to a red light in her car, one of the big boat Buicks from yesteryear. His window was rolled down, as he whistled to an old Elvis tune playing on the AM radio dial, “Don’t Be Cruel.” He even found himself snapping his fingers. Life was good, even if he had to put up with the tied-up woman making a ruckus in the trunk.

  A muted shriek somehow pierced through the rubber and steel…and the soulful voice of the King.

  He stopped whistling and looked over to the passenger seat where he’d left the tire iron. He’d already gone a couple of rounds with her. “Some people just never learn.” A quick look in all directions of the downtown intersection proved the roads to be desolate. Of course it was, at three in the morning. He threw the gear into park, gripped the tire iron, and pulled the handle on his door.

  A motorcycle cop drove up just as he put a foot on the road.

  He nearly shit himself. “Evening, Officer,” he yelled over the rumble of the motorcycle engine. With a forced smile on his face, he slowly shut the door.

  The cop’s eyes gave the outside of the car a once-over, then craned his neck to look inside. The man dropped the tire iron on the floorboard at his feet. He was almost certain the cop hadn’t seen it. Or had he?

  “Sir, why were you getting out of your car?”

  “It’s really nothing,” he said with a fake chuckle, his brain flooded with possible justifications. “I’m headed to my second job—I work as an orderly at Children’s Hospital off Santa Rosa—and I have some leftover July Fourth decorations that I wanted to bring in to work. The sick kids love to be surprised.”

  The cop didn’t say anything, although his eyes scanned the wheelbase. Was he thinking the car was rigged with some type of explosive?

  Then it hit the man. The cop must have thought he was some type of drug runner. San Antonio was the first major city on this side of the border. He’d read countless stories where routine traffic stops had unexpectedly netted law enforcement authorities a huge windfall of drugs, everything from cocaine to heroin to meth.

  He could feel the sweat invade the stretched pores at his hairline and sting the skin on his cheeks. The doctors had done a masterful job of changing his identity through nineteen different procedures or surgeries. But it came with severe repercussions. Throbbing pain in about two dozen places, some with the intensity of a jackhammer. Other points of pain were more acute, as if his skin were being sliced with steel thread.

  He had a plethora of pain medications and often doubled up the regular dosage to keep the pain at bay. One doctor, a man who essentially served as his personal pain doctor, was nothing more than a prescription writer. “You must stay on top of the pain,” the doctor often told him, trying to get him to back off the painkillers. The man always responded with, “I pay, you write, then I take the meds. That’s the process. Don’t fuck it up, or I’ll find a way to come back and kill everyone in your family.”

  He didn’t have the luxury of being that direct with the officer, even if his gushing blood flow signaled that he was ravenous for a kill. It had been too long, and killing the woman in the trunk would barely whet his appetite. No…on this night, like so many others before it, he needed to demonstrate his prodigious skills of persuasion. Kill him with kindness, so to speak.

  He continued his fabricated story. “I can be a bit forgetful, and it just hit me when I was sitting here at the light that all of those party favors and decorations were in my trunk. So, I wanted to grab them and put them in my front seat before I forgot.”

  The cop scowled. “You can’t just get out of your vehicle in the middle of the road. You should pull to the curb or into a parking lot.”

  Nervous laughter. “I really wasn’t thinking, since this nightly trip is usually so lonesome. I almost feel like I’m the only person left in the city. He-he.”

  The officer didn’t laugh.

  “My apologies, Officer. It won’t happen again.” He put his hand on the column gear shift.

  “Hold on a second.” The cop flipped a switch, and red flashing lights illuminated the area. Then he then stepped off his motorcycle, placed his helmet on the seat.

  Crap! The man’s heart pounded his rib cage.

  He casually used his foot to slide the tire iron under the front seat as the cop walked up to the window. “License and proof of insurance.” The cop’s hands were anchored on the window opening. A tattoo of a red serpent ran down one of his forearms. His triceps rippled every time he moved his hands. “Did you hear me? I need your license and proof of insurance.”

  The cop wasn’t bullshitting around.

  “Oh, sure. I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m running late for work. And they’ll dock me two hours of pay if I’m even five minutes late. I know it’s illegal, but what’s a man to do?”

  The cop stuck out his jaw. He wasn’t going to bend.

  “Hold on one second. I think all of that is stuffed in my glove box.” The man leaned to his right, played with the button on the compartment, using up another few seconds.

  “Waiting,” the cop said with a huff.

  The glove box opened like a Jack-in-the-box. Shit flew everywhere. He tried not to smile. “Oh crap. I’m sorry, Officer. I know your time is valuable. I’m sure the insurance card is here somewhere.” He riffled through a multitude of papers—receipts, coupons, flyers, and a number of formal-looking papers, which he passed over on purpose. If he handed the cop an insurance card with the woman’s name on it, the cop would definitely start to ask questions. It wouldn’t take long for him to feel like he had probable cause to search the car. Her car.

  What did a famous coach once say? It’s better to be lucky than good. On this night, he needed to channel every bit of luck from the twenty-five percent of his Irish heritage.

  “What’s taking you so long?”

  “I’m just—” He stopped and turned his head toward the cop. “I don’t like using this as an excuse, but I suffer from PTSD. It’s hard for me to focus. I have memory issues, and sometimes…” He brought a jittery hand to his face and forced himself to well up with tears. “Sorry,” he said with a choked gasp.

  “It’s okay, sir. Thank you for sacrificing so much in service to our country.” The cop’s tone ha
d flipped in an instant—he suddenly sounded respectful. “I don’t mean to harass you or anything. I just need to follow protocol. No worries, I’ll make sure you get to work on time.”

  “Thank you, Officer.” He picked up a wad of papers, pulling out one receipt. “Is this it? No, dammit. It’s just a receipt from when I bought a pair of used tires. Got a great deal though. Two tires for forty bucks.” He tossed the crinkled paper to the side.

  “Sir, let me come around and help you.” The officer scooted around the front end of the car.

  A ping at his temples, and he flinched just as the officer stuck his head in the open passenger window.

  “Are you okay?”

  A weak chuckle. “An old war injury. IED explosion on the tank just in front of ours. I was lucky to get out.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” The cop’s tone was almost reverent.

  “Just hearing that people care means a lot.”

  The cop opened the door, crouched to his knees. “You go ahead and sit up. I’ll find the insurance card. Don’t you carry your license in your wallet?”

  “Righty-o,” he said, sitting upright, watching the cop riffle through the gobs of papers. He pulled out his wallet and pretended to search for his license.

  What was the man to do? The cop would soon learn this was not his car. He might even hear the woman thumping around in the back. Once he opened the trunk, it would all be over. All the surgeries, the months of planning would be flushed away in an instant. He’d be hauled off to jail, assigned some dingbat court-appointed attorney, and never see the light of day. In fact, he might get the death penalty.

  He didn’t care about being treated like a piece of garbage. While he wouldn’t enjoy being incarcerated, the idea of it didn’t make him flinch. Even counting down the days until the state administered a lethal concoction to kill him didn’t move his needle all that much.

  As long as Ivy Nash would die by his hands. If that happened, the lack of control over his own life, or death, wouldn’t bother him in the least. He would have everlasting fulfillment, no matter what they did to his physical body.

  “What unit did you serve in?’ the cop asked.

  “Oh…” His mind scrambled for a combination of terms that would make sense. “I served in the 1st Armored Division, 4th Brigade Special Troops Battalion based in Basra.”

  “Damn, you were right in the middle of the shit storm, weren’t you?”

  If the cop only knew. “Hell yes, I was. Just glad to be home in one piece.” He was put together like Humpty Dumpty, but no one could tell the difference.

  The man’s heel bumped the edge of the tire iron. He might be able to grab it off the floorboard and clock the officer on his head. It would assuredly stun him, probably knock him unconscious. Then four or five more good blows to the cranium, and he’d be dead.

  But that would only delay the inevitable. Too many cameras in the damn world. He’d get caught in a matter of hours. Unless he disappeared. He was good at that. But that meant taking a long hiatus, probably a year or more. He could figure out a way to quench his insatiable hunger for killing, but it wouldn’t be the same. Not without Ivy.

  It came down to this: did he have the patience to go on the run, wait it out another year or more to reinvent himself again, and then finally get another shot at Ivy?

  The choice was about to be made for him. He slowly lowered his torso until he fingered the iron pole.

  A radio squawked. The officer lifted to his feet, reached for his shoulder radio receiver, and checked in with the dispatcher. After the initial communication, the cop turned his back to the car. The man couldn’t hear what was being said. He only saw the cop nod a couple of times, then look over his shoulder for a brief second.

  Was there any way the cop had already called in the plates on the Buick? A fleet of police cars could roll up at any second. Perspiration bubbled on the man’s forehead as he looked in his rearview mirror.

  Three thuds pounded behind him. That damn woman was kicking the trunk.

  “Sir.”

  The cop’s voice made him jump in his seat. “Yes, Officer?”

  “Duty calls. A multi-car pileup over on I-35, and no one else is around to work the crash. As they say, next man up.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  The cop glanced at the mess on the floor. “Sorry about all that. I hope the kids enjoy the decorations.”

  “The what?”

  “The decorations you have in the back of your car.”

  “Oh, right. My memory. It’s just not worth a shit.”

  The officer took another glance in the back seat.

  Had he heard the woman banging against the trunk?

  The officer then stood at attention and gave the man a salute. “Thank you again for fighting for our country, sir. Have a good evening.” He walked around the car, hopped on his motorcycle, and took off in a flash.

  The man, released a long, deep breath. He could hear the woman squealing like a pubescent teenage boy. He threw the gear into drive, cranked the radio, and whistled like it was just another steamy July night in San Antonio.

  13

  I took a sharp punch of bourbon to my nose the moment I stepped into the space near William P. Cooper. He was talking to an officer under a canopy in the front yard with his back to me, but I could still smell alcohol on his breath. Or was his bloodstream so full of booze that it was oozing through the pores of his skin?

  A moment later, he turned around and saw me and, within seconds, collapsed on my shoulder.

  “I’m not sure I can deal with this, Ivy.”

  I slowly brought my hand up, patted his back, while searching for Stan amongst the crowd of law enforcement officials. “It’s okay, William.”

  He lifted his head, wiped his scruffy face. His eyes were more red than white. I had to force myself not to pinch my nose from the pungent odor he was emitting. He started mumbling while pointing at the house and then down the street. The neighborhood wasn’t bad. No cars up on blocks, most yards had some green in the grass, and I hadn’t seen any foreclosure signs. Most foster kids would view the area as upscale compared to many of the places they stayed.

  “William, I can’t understand you. Can you repeat that?”

  He pointed again, turning his head. The combination of the alcohol, his extreme emotional state, and his directional speaking made it impossible to hear him. My frustration was interrupted when Stan walked up from the other side of the tent.

  “Any reason you have this command post set up outside?” I asked.

  Stan gave me a signal to step to the side. William was now lost in a trance, staring down the road while holding the brim of his fishing hat.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  Stan was chewing on something, but I didn’t want to take the time to inquire further. He said, “The family is real upset, and William showing up drunk just made it worse. So, we set up out here and told him he should stay close by.”

  I glanced at William, who looked like he might be talking to himself. The idea of him suffering from dementia seemed more realistic the longer I was around him.

  “If you guys are here, this tells me you have credible evidence that Drew was kidnapped.”

  “Mostly credible.”

  I tilted my head at his comment, then noticed a woman ambling out the front door. She was heavyset and wore a robe so large it could have covered our canopy.

  Back to Stan, who said, “Here’s what we know. Drew was told this afternoon by his foster mom about what happened to his brother, Billy. He got real upset, tossed some things around in his room, then stormed out of the house.”

  “I’m confused. He knows that we found Billy and that Billy is okay, right?”

  “If the foster mom is telling the truth, yes.”

  “What makes you think she isn’t?”

  “Nothing. You know how it goes—no one is assumed innocent until we find evidence to support that.” He swallowed whatever he was chewing, the
n reached for his front pocket. He spotted my eyes following his move, and he dropped his hand.

  “Wait. How old is this kid?”

  “Twelve.”

  “So, twelve-year-old Drew stormed out, and they didn’t go after him?”

  “Apparently, he and his two foster siblings—girls, ages seven and ten—run around the area all the time. It’s supposedly a pretty close-knit neighborhood.”

  A few possible scenarios came to mind, but I kept my mouth shut while Stan continued.

  “A kid about four blocks from here thought he saw Drew get into a car”

  “Does it match the car that Billy had been in?”

  An officer ran up and handed Stan a sheet of paper. It was a flyer with a little boy’s photo on it. I assumed it was Drew. I could see the similarity to Billy, mainly a small nose and freckles on his cheeks. “You okay with us distributing this around the neighborhood?” the officer asked Stan.

  “Every home and business,” Stan said, popping a beefy finger off the paper. “And post them on street signs, telephone poles, whatever. Get on it, now.” The officer ran off as Stan turned, wiping his face. The spotlights positioned around the canopy picked up a few dark crumbs in his mustache. I was pretty sure he’d just devoured a candy bar, and likely not the first one that day. He wasn’t fond of me pointing out his eating habits, so I stayed mute on that topic.

  “The car?” I reminded him.

  He shook his head. “We don’t think it’s a match. Billy gave a vague description of what sounded like a black, old-model Cadillac Seville. But he’s just ten. Kids don’t always get things like that right.”

  I could hear a woman sobbing and yelling. I looked to the edge of the yard and spotted the heavyset woman holding her hands to her face. She was surrounded by officers, two little girls, and two other women.

  “Is that the foster mom?”

  “Yep. She’s pretty torn up.”

  “And you don’t think she’s faking it?”