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

by John W. Mefford

  “Hmmm,” he said, sounding more and more like a dog with a digestion issue. “Did you turn over all the names of the other kids who had skipped school for this trip down the Guadalupe?”

  “Yep, to the Texas Ranger, a local cop up in New Braunfels, and one of your guys. Don’t recall his name.”

  “Cool. I’ll take a look in the case file.”

  Her phone beeped. It was Zahera.

  “Can you hold for a second, Stan?”

  “Do I have a—”

  She cut over to the other line. “Do you have Ivy with you?”

  “Hello and no,” Zahera said. “I guess she hasn’t shown up?”

  She said “no,” then connected the calls.

  “We’re all on the phone together now,” Cristina said.

  “I’m not on long,” Stan said. “Hi, Zahera.”

  “Hey.”

  “I was trying to tell you, Cristina, that after I review Claude’s case file, I’ll get word out to all parties that we need to put more focus on the other kids in the group.”

  “Okay. Sounds like a plan. Who knows if it will go anywhere?”

  “Hey, Zahera, do you have any idea where your friend is?”

  “You’re the detective. I only pull babies out of their mamas,” she said with a giggle.

  “Funny. I don’t have time to keep track of Ivy Nash, on top of all the other murder and mayhem these days.”

  He caught her up on the two kidnappers who’d been found with lethal gunshots to the head.

  “That’s crazy, Stan. Ivy might have a hundred questions, but she’d want to be in the middle of it. More than anything, she’d want to ensure the other Cooper boys are still safe.”

  “Nothing to worry about there. I sent two officers to each boy’s house. I’m done with these kidnappings and killings. I can’t take much more crap. Any reason you got us on this conference line, Cristina?”

  Cristina’s phone buzzed. Without interrupting the call, she swiped her screen to see a text from Danny.

  We got the office space, but Ivy needs to sign today or they will give it to next bidder.

  Christina then said on the phone, “Maybe. Zahera, did you just call to ask me about Ivy? Because I think we’re all asking the same thing. Danny the realtor just sent me a note. We’ve got the office space if she’ll sign the papers today.”

  No immediate response.

  “Zahera?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “About?”

  “What happened last night.”

  Stan jumped in. “It was gut-wrenching to see William break down like that, and the boys too. I didn’t want to do it that way, but he insisted. Hardest damn thing I’ve ever done.”

  “It’s not that,” Zahera said. “You two probably don’t know, but that witch, Pearl Griffin, wrote yet another blog post about Ivy.”

  “Isn’t that her second in the last few days? What’s up with her?” Cristina asked.

  “We’d all like to find out. Ivy was extra pissed because she had some not-so-nice things to say about you, Cristina.”

  “Me? Who gives two shits about me?”

  She heard a sigh on the line.

  “You can tell me. I realize they’re only words. Sticks and stones and all that.”

  “Oh boy. Well, she happened to mention something along the lines that you and Ivy were the same kind of person, in that death followed you.”

  “Claude’s death?”

  “Yep.”

  “Bitch. She really went there? Bitch.” There was a moment of silence. Then she heard booming voices, most likely from Stan’s line. “If you told Ivy last night, how did this woman even know about what had happened in the Hill Country?” Cristina asked.

  Stan started. “I’m guessing she has contacts—”

  Zahera jumped in with, “You mean more like moles.”

  “You could probably go even lower than that. But, yeah, she must have someone she knows on the inside of the SAPD, or some law enforcement agency.”

  “Are you guys going to start an internal investigation?” The moment Cristina asked the question, she realized it was ludicrous.

  “With this many dead people and unsolved cases, we might get to that in about twelve years.”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

  Another sigh.

  “What’s wrong, Zahera?”

  “No one’s heard from Ivy, right? I’m getting worried. Maybe I shouldn’t be, but given her history…”

  “Look,” Stan said, “I’m sure Ivy is off doing something. We’ve all got calls into her. Hell, if anything, I’m pissed that she hasn’t returned my call. People are dying out there, and we have no idea why. I think she could help us.”

  “But Stan, you’re not getting my point. Milton Weber—you remember that lunatic? He was never found. He could be back. He could have her.”

  Cristina could hear strain in Zahera’s voice. She felt the same unease.

  “Are we saying we think Ivy is officially missing? Kidnapped? Because I’d bet my left nut that Milton is dead. On the off chance he’s still breathing, he’s probably on the other side of the world preying on some other poor soul.”

  “What does it take to make it official?” Zahera asked.

  Stan snorted. “You really want to go there, a missing-persons report?”

  “Stan, we’re her friends” Cristina said, feeling a touch of emotion in the back of her throat. “We’ve got this feeling that something is up. I hope it’s nothing. I’m trying to think positive, but…I don’t know.”

  She heard a sigh from Stan, but this one was at a much lower octave. “So we’re basing this on your sixth sense. I get it. I’m just so wrapped up in all of this other crap that I can’t see beyond the end of my nose at this point. But if you want me to open a formal investigation, I can try to get one of my junior detectives to get the wheels in motion.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence. Perhaps everyone was waiting on the other to officially pull the alarm. The rain had picked up, and Cristina was now pacing through wet grass.

  “Should I take the silence as a no go? Maybe get through the night, and then we’ll see if Ivy turns up? Hell, maybe she’s with pretty boy Saul. Have we reached out to him?”

  “I traded messages with Saul a while ago. He’s called and texted her. No response from Ivy, just like us,” Cristina said.

  “Guys.” It was Zahera, and she sounded like her mind was elsewhere.

  “What?”

  “There’s this man, and—” She stopped short.

  “What is it, Zahera?” Cristina asked.

  “Twice in the last three days he’s been around Ivy. Each time, he’s glared at her like he’s obsessed with her. And not in a good way.”

  “You’ve seen this?” Stan asked.

  “First time was at the Air Bar. He was actually talking to Timothy in between his glaring episodes. Then again last night at the community party at TJ’s Funhouse. He finds her and then he won’t stop looking at her. He’s beyond creepy. I’ve seen him around a couple of times, and I know he has a reputation for being odd, but this seemed over the top.”

  “You think he’s stalking her?”

  “It weird—he’s an executive at an insurance company in town—but he looks like the poster child for a stalker.”

  “So you’re telling me you think this guy might have lived out his fantasy and taken Ivy to his creepy cave?”

  “It sounds crazy to say out loud. But it’s the only thing that stands out recently. And I can’t get him off my mind.”

  Stan asked for his name.

  “Delmar Amaya.”

  Cristina stopped moving. She then quickly described to Stan and Zahera the Delmart Amaya she’d learned of from Leo. The two personas, in her mind, didn’t sound like the same guy.

  “We’ll try to track him down,” Stan said. “Anything else before I go?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe means yes,” Cristina said.
/>   “Dammit, I thought this Delmar creep was the only thing that got your attention, Zahera.” Stan sounded annoyed.

  “I’m not trying to be a pain in your ass, Stan.”

  “Sorry. I know you only care. What is it?”

  “It’s Pearl Griffin. At the end of her last blog post, she said that Ivy better watch her back.”

  “Seriously?” Cristina’s temperature quickly spiked.

  “I couldn’t make this up. Ivy was fricking pissed.”

  “So now you’re suggesting that this blogger has done something nefarious to Ivy?” Stan’s voice went so high she thought he really had lost his left nut.

  “It’s not that, Stan,” Cristina said, stopping in her tracks. “Zahera, you’re wondering if Ivy might have tried to confront Pearl.”

  “It’s crossed my mind. That’s actually why I called you, Cristina. I wanted to get your opinion.”

  “That’s Ivy,” Cristina said. “Stan, if you don’t reach out to Pearl Griffin, then I’m going to show up at her front door, wherever that is.”

  “Hold on now. We’ll get an address on her, and I’ll figure something out.”

  “Keep me in the loop, Stan. As soon as you know something. Please,” Cristina said.

  “I will. I will. Let me do my job. I’ll be in touch.”

  The line went dead, and the menacing clouds erupted.

  41

  The video wasn’t a fake. It showed real people dying in each of the eight torture methods. With the music blasting my head into oblivion, I couldn’t take my eyes off the wall in front of me. It must have been thirty-feet high and forty-feet wide, every square inch covered with the disturbing images. The video was probably about five minutes long, but it was on some kind of infinite loop. I’d been forced to sit through it thirty, forty times.

  My senses were almost numb. I’d cried out of fear. I’d cried out of empathy for those who’d been killed for the sake of making this video. I’d cried out of hopelessness. A swimming pool wouldn’t have been able to hold all of my tears.

  But I’d finally run out of tears. The music hadn’t let up, but my brain had fallen into some type of safety mode where I only picked up the loud thump of a bass drum. Everything else was just noise. The drum hit me like the drops of water earlier—each thud penetrated my core, making me ache from the inside out.

  The video had just started again. The first method was called the Rack. It showed two hooded men at either end of a primitive wooden frame, the victim’s limbs chained to rollers. Slowly, the hooded men ratcheted up the tension on the rollers until the limbs were ripped from their sockets. The two hooded men then raised their fists in triumph. The first twenty or so times I’d watched it, I cringed so hard I thought my teeth might crack.

  Torture method number two was introduced as the Brazen Bull. It gave architectural credit to some guy named Perillos of Athens. It was a hollowed-out brass bull. Again, two men with their faces covered stuffed some poor soul into the belly of the bull, then they closed the lid. A fire was lit under the bull, and the victim was roasted alive. The guards pulled the remains of the victim out of the bull, and they danced around holding up charred body parts like they were precious works of art. I’d dry-heaved the first dozen times I saw this. Now, I just felt bad because I couldn’t conjure up any sympathy.

  I had no recovery time as the video quickly segued into the next torture method: the Choke Pear. It had become popular during the Middle Ages, but this snippet of video was obviously shot in the last few years. I could tell by the girl’s pixie haircut. It was like watching a horror flick and porn movie all at once. By the time the tool was fully implemented—mutilating her sex organs—the agony on her face made her look like some type of extraterrestrial being.

  Again, I tried to cry, but I couldn’t.

  On and on the video went.

  Scaphism, where the victim was eaten alive by bugs.

  The use of an anvil to chop off limbs.

  The Iron Maiden, where a victim was forced inside an iron sarcophagus that was lined with spikes and knives.

  The finale was Chinese Bamboo Torture. The producers of this clip had consolidated the timeline, but not by much apparently. It said on the screen that certain types of bamboo in China could grow as much as three feet in a single day. To harness that power of growth, the perpetrators first whittled the ends of the bamboo to create a spear. Then they suspended the victim between two poles about six inches above the bamboo. Over time, maybe a few hours, the bamboo punctured through the victim’s skin until it poked through the entire body.

  I squeezed my eyes shut as a wave of nausea passed over me, but the bombardment of noise never stopped. It felt like the edges of my mind had been gnawed off, and slowly my brain was consuming itself. I couldn’t take any more. And then it felt like everything inside locked up.

  My organs were shutting down. My breathing slowed; my heart was barely a murmur. My entire body went cold. The stress had broken me to the point where I couldn’t cling to life any longer.

  I sniffled. Then I heard it, or lack of it.

  The music had stopped.

  I opened my eyes to see a single line of text sprawled on the wall: Which method of torture do you enjoy most?

  I could feel my brain trying to fire back up, to process what that meant.

  Metal clicks echoed in the white space. My legs drooped forward. So did my arms. The restraints had been unlatched.

  It took a moment for the thought to come together, and then I choked out, “I’m free.”

  My mouth was parched, but I was fucking free.

  Part of the wall opened, in the shape of a rectangle. I squinted. Was that a jug of water sitting at the threshold? I climbed out of the stirrups and collapsed to the floor. It was cold, but strangely soothing.

  My legs didn’t feel like a part of me, as if they’d been unhinged at my hips. I moaned, but looked up to make sure the water wasn’t a hallucination. It was still there. I couldn’t help but lick my lips as I willed myself to all fours.

  A slow crawl on the hard surface made my knees throb. At one point, I stopped. It seemed like I’d moved twenty feet or so, but the water wasn’t any closer. I looked around the room, wondering if someone was playing another trick on me. Were the two eggheads giggling like school children while watching me on their monitor?

  I tried not to think the worst, and I trudged forward. My hands smacked the floor with each step. I looked up and saw the jug there, half full. That meant there were thirty-two ounces of beautiful water just waiting to be consumed. At five feet away, I knew the jug was as real as my own hand. On the floor on the other side of the dark doorway, I saw a fluorescent yellow arrow pointed inward, but for the moment I focused squarely on the jug. Reaching for it, my hand jittered like I had Parkinson’s.

  Once it was in my grips, I dropped to my butt, pulled open the plastic tab, put the jug to my lips.

  Something made me stop.

  This had to be drugged, right? They’d just reamed my brain until it was Silly Putty. And now they wanted me to follow the yellow arrow? Maybe they were teasing me, giving me a bit of hope when, in the end, all they planned to do was kill me. But how? And then I remembered the message on the wall: Which method of torture do you enjoy most?

  Were they going to force me to choose how I would die?

  My eyes looked down into the jug. I had to drink the water, yet I knew that I’d been drugged at least once during this ordeal, maybe twice.

  Timothy.

  I’d toyed with the idea off and on during my slumber. Was that nice man actually behind all of this? He was the only live person I’d seen in the last several hours. He’d promised to help me. I’d killed Pearl Griffin for writing those horrible things about Cristina and Stan. I’d picked up a large knife and stabbed her repeatedly. I had no specific recollection of the bloody event, yet I knew I carried a grudge against her.

  And then, after another prick on the shoulder, I’d awoken in this place.
>
  My thoughts made no sense. What reasoning would Timothy have to hold me against my will and slowly destroy every ounce of desire I had to live?

  There was none. I was grasping for any clue on how I got here and what they intended to do to me. Maybe Timothy was being held captive in this building somewhere, as I’d thought earlier. If so, would they lead me to him? And then what?

  I couldn’t think straight. I tipped the jug and guzzled the water until I swallowed the very last drop. I wiped my mouth, threw the jug to the side, and got to my feet, leaning against the threshold. I put my foot on the yellow arrow and started walking.

  42

  Stan and Brook circled the weed-infested property. While the rain had dialed back its intensity, the storm had left deep puddles every few feet, some barely visible by a single street light. Stan’s old shoes were soaked, as were his socks, but he got over it. Brook, on the other hand, seemed a bit more upset about her two-inch heels.

  Another reason it sucked to be a woman, he figured. No one cared that he looked like a stuffed walrus.

  The Griffin property didn’t seem inhabited. Every window in the one-story brown brick home was covered. Someone was either hiding something or was just a complete recluse. A rusted car sat on blocks. There was a rusty washing machine propped against a slumping, lifeless tree. He found clips on a clothes wire, but no clothes. They checked the unattached garage and found an inch of dust on top of an old-model Subaru.

  Satisfied that no one was on the property, they knocked on the front door. No one answered. They went through the routine another four times.

  “Technically, we need to leave now,” Brook said, arching a shapely eyebrow.

  “Ivy doesn’t fall off the grid like this.”

  “You know her better than I do.”

  Stan tried to find a crack in the white paper that covered the front windows, but there was none. He stood in front of the door, and scratched his scruff. How long had it been since he’d shaved?

  “You’re looking for cause to break down the door,” Brook said.

  “Did you say break down the door?”