The music stopped. Or at least it seemed so. The reverberation played tricks with my mind for a few seconds.
Slowly, I felt relief behind my eyeballs and in my chest cavity. I gasped out a breath. Then another. Each breath was precious, and while it sounded like I was choking up water from being submerged against my will, it was satisfying to hear my own body functioning.
I was alive. And that was something to be thankful for. I’d been weakened by the furious, mind-numbing music. I needed food, water. I needed to be freed from this machine so I could move my joints, get my blood flowing better to my limbs. And to my brain. I had to think my way out of this. But to do that, I had to figure out who was behind this and what their motivation was.
Drew’s kidnapper, the one on the phone sending William and me all over San Antonio, seemed tech-savvy but also oddly carefree. Like he might be smoking a joint with his feet kicked up on the desk while playing a video game. He got more serious eventually, but overall the guy didn’t come across like the man in charge.
Muscle Man was just that—all muscles. As I thought back to that scorching-hot day running through El Mercado, a picture of his face came to mind: his eyes were like buttons, round and dark. He had on a tank top, with bulging blue and green veins on his biceps. But as he stood there holding me off the ground, I now recalled a thick vein snaking down the middle of his forehead, his face full of wonderment. He’d been getting his jollies by watching me suffer. It was the type of demented personality that would relish the opportunity to torture another human. To torture me. And it was all for money.
Money.
Again, I wondered if they had Timothy in some type of theatre next door. Was he also being tortured? Maybe our captors were sitting behind a computer, munching on junk food while laughing at me through their monitor.
I knew they weren’t going to unlock the clasps on this contraption, throw my clothes on the floor, and then open a door somewhere in the wall of white and let me stroll out of here. Actually, I’d probably be forced to crawl, given the debilitating effects from the various torture methods.
They had an end game. Something they needed from me. Or, as I’d pondered earlier, maybe they were hoping to coerce information out of Timothy by continuously pushing me closer to the brink of death.
So, was this just a game of attrition? How long could I hold out? Could I outlast their patience? I wasn’t sure how much more I could handle. The sheer thought of enduring another round of insufferable stress to my mind and body nearly brought tears to my eyes.
But if I could somehow hold on, then what? Did I expect them to let me go? To let Timothy go? Or was it more likely they’d dispatch all of the creative methods and simply put a bullet in the back of my head?
Yep, that was probably the go-to plan. But how could I avoid an inevitable death, whether it be by torture or a bullet? There was only one way. I needed face time with the leader—probably Muscle Man or Floppy Hair. Give me five minutes with that guy and I had at least a fighting chance to make it out of this alive.
A brief, albeit logical thought entered my mind. Cristina, Zahera, Saul. One or all of them would eventually wonder where the hell I was. And given my past experiences with crazed lunatics, they’d call Stan and send in the FBI, the Texas Rangers, and even alert the National Guard. My friends didn’t screw around. And that was why I loved them.
The music suddenly came back to life, blasting out my eardrums. My eyes shot open, looking around. In front of me, the wall was illuminated by a video. The title: “Eight Ways to Torture a Person.”
A sob exploded from my lips.
39
A flock of black birds landed on a telephone wire at the edge of the hospital parking lot. With the afternoon sun safely tucked behind a tall bank of menacing clouds, the sweltering heat had taken a break. That was good news for Cristina as she sauntered through the garden space just east of the hospital. A storm was kicking up. She could sense that in the way the dust twirled like mini-twisters. In the garden, where automated sprinklers had obviously been used nonstop, she walked with her shoes off, allowing her toes to sink into the lush grass as she took in smells of lilac and lavender and watched two birds splash each other in the fountain.
She peered more closely at the birds, and then she put a hand to her face. The birds weren’t playing in the water; they were getting it on. Doing the nasty.
Why did her mind instantly shift to Leo?
Hell, she knew why. He was every girl’s dream—every girl between the ages of fifteen and ninety-nine. But almost every other female who had the hots for him probably didn’t know him like she did. Not after their discussion, where he’d poured out his heart and shared everything that he’d bottled up for so long. Was there any more of a turn-on than having a hot guy show that he’s vulnerable? To be able to bare his soul, to reach that tender spot that could either burn him or lift the burden from him. She was sure he probably wouldn’t agree, but to go down that path showed tremendous courage. Something she’d never experienced with a man of any age.
He was twenty-one. She was seventeen. He was making great money working as an actor, where people paid to see his face and body, and watch him act. She made a fair living working for ECHO, a good cause to say the least; it was something she believed in. But no one noticed or cared what she looked like. Half the time, she didn’t either. And that presented the problem, at least the first problem in ever imagining the two of them together.
She laughed out loud, which frightened the birds, and they flew away. She’d actually pictured her and Leo as a couple. It bordered on hysterical. Her, Cristina Tafoya, with Leo the Latin Zac Efron?
Jesus, Cristina, can you fathom anything more nonsensical than Leo dating the likes of you?
She had no high-school education, dealt with occasional acne issues, and wore no makeup. Her clothes were Goodwill specials, and her hair was a thick mop.
But the heart wants what the heart wants, right? It was unrealistic to picture her and Leo dating like a normal couple for more than a dozen reasons, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want it. And want it in a very bad way.
“Okay, you admitted it. Get over it, will ya?” she said to no one.
Thunder rumbled from the horizon. She looked over and saw the black birds still perched on the telephone wire, an orange haze glowing in the darkening background. The picture was eerie.
She had to get her mind off Leo and his six-pack.
Her phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her pocket. “What’s up, Danny?”
“The stock market? Hell if I know.” He was talking under his breath.
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. I’m just busy. What can I do for you?”
“I left you a voicemail, remember? I was wondering if Ivy was with you, signing the papers for that new office space.”
“What? No.” More background talk that she couldn’t understand.
“Okay. I just know that Ivy was really eager to put in an offer and take that next step.”
“Sorry. I put in the offer, but I haven’t heard squat back from my counterpart at TJ Development Corp.”
She huffed out a breath.
“What’s got your panties in a wad?”
She wanted to say the same thing back, but she resisted the urge. “Nothing. When you see Ivy, just let her know I’m looking for her.”
“I’m hoping to hear back from my building contact before the day’s out. And we’re getting pretty close to the end of the day right now. Gotta run. They need me.”
She heard a click before she could touch her phone screen. She rolled her eyes, wishing he could see her do it.
Another rumble of thunder brought her attention to the western sky. She could now see lightning flashing in the tall clouds.
Her eyes shifted back to the phone. She’d called Ivy another four times since she’d been outside. Each time it had rolled straight to voicemail. She’d also left messages for Zahera, Stan, and Saul, eve
n one at his fancy law office. Someone was bound to call back any minute, most likely with Ivy jabbering in the background. She put her money on Danny—yes, she’d just spoken with him, but knowing Ivy, she was probably stalking him outside of his office just waiting for a call-back to say the office space was hers.
She grinned, admitting to herself that she mostly wanted to talk to Ivy about her interaction with Leo. The butterflies had been fluttering inside ever since they’d sat down and opened up their souls to each other. On one hand, she was a little concerned that Ivy would give a grandma response: he’s too old for you; you can’t trust anyone working in Hollywood; don’t trust a man who’s grieving; you’re too young to understand what love really is so just wait a few years and it will find you at the right time. Blah, blah, blah.
But she knew that Ivy, beyond all of her rigid, protective instincts, was a woman who could look at life as more of a series of spontaneous events. Under all of those safeguarded layers, Cristina had seen the Ivy who would encourage people to follow their dreams and go for it.
Cristina hoped that was what she would hear from someone she respected. Don’t worry about society norms; follow your heart and see what happens. If you get rejected the minute after relaying your feelings, then so be it.
For the first time in a while, she felt the urge to express herself through her music. Maybe there was a song inside of her just waiting to come out, waiting for that special someone to acknowledge the existence of the chemistry she felt.
The wind was kicking up now. The serenity of the outdoor garden felt threatened by the looming storm that scooted closer to the hospital. She walked to the fountain and stuck her finger in the spouting water, then lifted her hair to let the breeze cool the back of her neck. The temperature felt like it had dropped ten degrees since she’d been outside.
The wind swirled a pebble against the gutters overhead, causing her to flinch. She felt an unease wash over her as her thoughts flipped straight to the day before—in the dusty hills when the gunshot cut through the humid air. At first, she had no idea what had happened. It took an extra second before blood seeped through Claude’s T-shirt. Claude had stood over his brew of Brown Sugar, guarding it with his life. His didn’t appear to be a promising life, but that didn’t make it any less tragic, especially for his brothers and grandfather.
Even at the age of seventeen, she’d noticed that when people died, every close family member and friend of the deceased seemed to come down with a case of amnesia. All sins were swept under the rug. Every sin, regardless of how disgusting or hurtful, was forgotten. Occasionally, folks would create little whimsical stories, told with a chuckle and a wink, to explain how the dead person’s issues were actually just a harmless, if not funny, part of who they were. Made them unique. Special.
“Ah, old Uncle Bobby, he told that cop to go straight to hell. You should have seen it. It was classic.” That was what a distant cousin had once said of her uncle after he’d died from kidney failure. But she’d learned later, Uncle Bobby had a history of getting drunk, slapping around women, and then when cops showed up, he’d attempt to manipulate his way out of the incident. But as he got older and times changed, cops didn’t just tell him to sleep it off and apologize in the morning. They arrested him, even if he put up a two-year-old temper tantrum. And apparently one time he’d uttered those prophetic words that had elevated him to legendary status: “Go straight to hell.”
She wondered how Claude would be remembered. Below his obnoxious and careless exterior, she had seen something good there. He seemed to care about his brothers. Maybe the separation from his siblings, along with his mom’s drug issues, had really impacted him. With no one watching over him, he probably looked for something to comfort his pain. Experimenting with drugs was almost too easy a choice as a teenager—a way to deal with all the hurt and loneliness was the internal justification. But if you tried the wrong drug, closing that door was next to impossible. She knew first-hand that the hooks of addiction didn’t discriminate.
While she could identify with all of that, she also knew that Claude wasn’t a kindergartner. He was old enough to know better. She recalled that same cousin once saying, “They don’t give you any mulligans when you hit it in the death trap.” He was a golfer. Go figure.
40
Cristina felt a few raindrops against her face and then a pitter-patter against the gutters. Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Zahera.
Is this really Cristina?
She thumbed back a reply.
Yes. Did u and Ivy sneak out to go to a movie?
Zahera: Movie? Not unless you’d call it 3 men and a baby; lol.
Cristina: LMAO – Not! Ivy???
Zahera: Ur such a buzzkill. Not seen Ivy since late last night at TJ’s.
Cristina: K.
She glanced at the rumbling sky when her phone buzzed again.
Zahera: Sad what happened to Claude. William was a mess last night. R u handling it ok?
Cristina: I’m good. Later.
Before she had a chance to slide her phone back into her pocket, another text came in. “Doesn’t she know when to give up?” But it wasn’t from Zahera. It was Saul this time.
Been buried in legal briefs by Ross. Never ends. Tried calling Ivy during break, but rolled to voicemail. Let me know when u find her. She and I have date to make up…and then some.
Cristina: Oooh, gross. TMI dude!
Saul: I knew that would get u!
“Screw you,” she said as a smile crossed her face. Just beyond her feet in the grass, she saw what looked like an egg shell. Careful not to tweak her ribs, she leaned over, cupped it in her hand. It was cracked pretty good. The branches of a nearby Live Oak rustled from a gust of wind. The egg must have dropped from a nest in the tree. Without the mother around, there was no hope. She set the shell back on the grass. The irony hit her quickly: her earlier thoughts of Claude not having his mother or grandfather around to look after him and what had led to his untimely death.
She curled her toes in the grass, knowing she had only a couple of minutes before the clouds would burst with rain. Her mind went back to the scene that played out with Nikki and Claude. Not to the yelling and screaming over saving his precious batch of Brown Sugar. Not to the beating she took from Nikki, who she knew was an emotional basket case. It was before everything fell apart: the red flash. Claude had seen it as well. Later, as she went over the details of the shooting with the cops, there was an assumption everyone had made—and they had made it based upon her assertion that the flash of red was actually a person, and that the person who’d shot Claude was the same red flash she and Claude had seen earlier.
But what if the killer wasn’t the same person in red? Hell, what if her eyes had played tricks on her?
Then another new thought crossed her mind: was there any way that one of their tubing friends—possibly one who might have a similar addiction issue—had circled back and shot Claude to get to the heroin?
The odds seemed unlikely, but she didn’t want to take the chance of blowing off a possible theory. She had to call Stan. She scrolled through her numbers, found Stan and…
Her phone rang before she punched his number. It was, ironically, Stan.
“Stan, I was about to call you. Hey, I’ve got—”
“Sorry to interrupt, but I need Ivy. Can you get her for me?”
She held the phone away from her ear, then said, “I’m not her mother. I don’t know what she’s doing. I thought she might be with you or that redhead—”
“Brook.”
“Yeah, her. Anyway, you sound urgent. What’s going on?”
“We have two more murders to add to the mix. While we’re still getting exact IDs on the bodies, we’re pretty sure we found the two gentlemen who abducted Drew Cooper and held him for ransom.”
“The muscle guy and…”
“Ivy called him Floppy Hair. Yeah, a homeless guy found them behind a dumpster at a construction site. Both had a bullet betwe
en their eyes.”
She gasped as her mind replayed Claude’s death once again.
“Are you still there?”
Her lungs hadn’t filled back up yet, so her voice wasn’t strong. “I’m okay. I think Ivy would be in shock right now.”
“I know. But Brook and I wanted to get her take, given the fact that all parties involved in the kidnapping of the Cooper boys are now dead.”
“You’ll have ballistics on the bullet, right?”
“Maybe, as long as the bullets aren’t damaged. I guess we might get lucky with surveillance cameras in the area where the bodies were found. Or, for the first time in forever, maybe someone actually saw something with their own eyes.”
“You don’t sound very convincing.”
He mumbled what sounded like a string of four-letter words, then said, “You were about to call me, right? Don’t tell me; it’s not been twenty-four hours and you’re betting we found the person who killed Claude.”
“Hoping, I guess, is a better word.”
“Nothing from my contact with the Texas Rangers. I’ve been too busy counting dead bodies to follow up. Brook and I are…I don’t know.” He actually growled.
“Frustrated. Confused. Fucking pissed.”
“Okay, trash mouth, I get it.”
“Just sayin’,” Cristina said.
“Hey, there’s a bunch of yelling going on in the war room right now. Which probably means someone is chewing out my ass and I’m not even in there to enjoy it.”
She didn’t say a word.
“That’s cop humor.”
She released a sarcastic “Ha.” Then she remembered why she’d started dialing his number, and she explained her latest theory on the shooter.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 21
