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

by John W. Mefford

  It had all been about the interpretation, not just of this chant, but in every symbolic gesture created by mankind.

  On he went, speaking of sacrament, and flesh, and blood, and body. Sure, there were other words, but those were the ones that now gripped his heart so tightly he had difficulty breathing. Inhale, exhale.

  He finished the chant uttering the same last words, “…forevermore.”

  A feeling of accomplishment washed over his body. Self-control had been an absolute requirement to complete this activity—it was something he’d worked on a great deal in every phase of his life. At one point, he’d lost his way. The constant pressures from those who controlled his every movement had felt like a tumor growing inside, to the point of choking off his ability to take in oxygen. They had refused to listen to his concerns about society, about how they could combat the issue. In his mind, they had ignored the opportunity to evolve.

  Evolution. Shouldn’t that be of utmost importance to every living being? Flames from two candles flickered off the dusty stone walls, illuminating chisel marks that likely predated anyone currently living on earth.

  Was there irony in that observation? Later, perhaps, he’d contemplate why he’d ended up in this room, on the grounds of this building. It had seemed like the obvious choice. But there had to be a deeper meaning. All actions in the world were, after all, connected—whether people wanted to believe it or not—a symbiotic relationship that linked all mankind to each other. Altering the course of mankind, though, was what took courage and tremendous foresight, something he would try to achieve without the support of the vultures.

  Try? No, that wasn’t the appropriate word, because it wasn’t how his mind processed information any longer. Not when it dealt with issues of this significance. He would achieve his goal. He had to achieve his goal. Too much was riding on it to accept any other possible outcome.

  Lowering his eyes, slim shadows danced across the two objects before him. They were still. They hadn’t moved in the last two hours, in fact. Before then, it was another story. While their struggles had been noteworthy—he’d nearly separated his shoulder when he’d slipped on a pool of sweaty blood while trying to subdue one who’d had thoughts of escape—it was completely expected. What creature on this planet was ever prepared to die? And he felt almost certain that they both had known how they would die.

  The two had been about the same size, but now the corpses matched even more, nearly identical. Their mouths were agape, their eyes partially open. Blood splattered various parts of their bodies.

  He had ensured that they were given a fair chance to live—by divine or some other type of intervention. Once they were secured and could not escape, he had inserted the blade no less than four inches deep in six separate places, ending with the center of the chest. Fate could have intervened. His blade could have somehow missed the prominent arteries or organs. He’d read countless medical articles that chronicled stories of people with near-death experiences. Were they just lucky? Perhaps. He personally believed it wasn’t their time to move on to the next plane, and so they lived. Unlike these two in front of him.

  A damp chill caused his body to quake. Perhaps it was not the chill, but instead another burst of adrenaline. He inhaled and took in the mixture of smells around him. The heavy scent of copper hovered over a sour smell—most likely a result of leaky pipes. Wafts of vanilla floated by his face from the burning candles. The melted wax had hardened down the sides of the candlestick holders. The flames were nearly suffocated.

  This had been a fruitful event, one he would not soon forget. But it was time to pack up his kit and move along.

  He saw his clothes neatly folded off to the side—remaining stain-free had been another requirement he’d given himself. But what he hadn’t expected was this primal feeling of freedom. To be with his subjects in this manner had taken this encounter to a level he couldn’t have predicted.

  And for that, he was very thankful.

  He lifted to his feet, cleaned the knife, and returned it to its sheath. It was then that the man ran his fingers across the carved skin on his chest. The symbol and what it represented had, in his mind, like so many things in his life, gone through a metamorphosis. Whereas before it signified so many utterances of kindness and devotion and turning the other cheek, it now embodied one simple thing: hope.

  Hope that the world would not implode. Hope that he would be the one who created a new understanding of how mankind could thrive.

  5

  In the conference room, the Romeros were still on the phone with school officials. I considered this a positive development. My concern was that they were so fearful of stepping forward to reveal much of anything to any authoritative figure who worked for any level of government, we’d lose the opportunity to gain valuable information. But I had hope that teachers and school administrators cared far more about the safety of their students than anything else.

  “They seem really stressed,” Cristina said into my ear as we watched them from the front office. Raul raked his fingers through his hair for about the umpteenth time in the last hour. At times, Consuela was right at his side, an arm wrapped around his waist; at other times, she was pacing, less engaged. We all had ways to deal with stress and anxiety. I’d seen so many couples tear each other apart during times of stress; in contrast, the Romeros seemed to be holding up rather well, all things considered.

  “At least they’re not ripping into each other. I can see a bond there. They’ll need that if they hope to get through this.” Just then, Consuela looked over her shoulder and caught my eye. It seemed like she wanted to say something. I held her gaze for an extra moment, but the sounds of Raul’s voice moved her attention back in his direction. He was now by our large window, which overlooked a fountain and a patch of grass.

  “Think they’re making any progress?” I asked as much to myself as to Cristina.

  “Who knows?” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the blur of her thumbs moving across her cell phone screen.

  “Catching up on the teenage gossip of the morning?”

  She actually pulled her eyes away from the screen. “Dude, I’m trying to get started on this investigation.”

  “Okay. By doing what?”

  “Well, Consuela told us earlier that Mia goes to Lee High School. I go to Jefferson. They’re rival schools.”

  “You’re not saying that someone from your high school might have kidnapped Mia because of some silly high school rivalry, are you?”

  She tilted her head and gave me a look.

  “Okay, fine. What’s your plan?”

  “I don’t really have one yet. I’m just reaching out to some of my peeps, asking if they know Mia, or even if they might have heard about any shit going down.”

  “Shit?”

  “It’s a general term for anything bad. Teenagers sometimes don’t like to use formal words like kidnapping; and by using shit, it’s kind of an open term, you know, in case she might have taken off on her own. Or even with someone else.”

  I don’t think she knew I was joking about not getting her use of the term, but having Cristina on my ECHO team had been invaluable. She had a real hunger to pursue the truth, to expose those who were evil. That was what we had in common. And as much as I tried, I couldn’t think like a teenager, not one in the modern era.

  “Keep working your text toy, and let me know if you hear any noise about Mia.’

  “Noise?”

  She knew what I meant. I ignored her question since I just saw Raul end his call. I walked toward him and Consuela. “What did you learn?”

  “They can’t find anyone who’s seen her.” He put a hand to his chest and tried to clear his throat. I looked at Consuela.

  “Raul, are you having another episode?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  She looked back at me. “He’s got a heart condition. Stress is the worst thing for it.”

  “Do we need to call nine-
one-one?”

  “I said I’m fine, dammit.” He pushed out two strained breaths, then dropped into one of our leather chairs that surrounded the large meeting table. “I’m sorry. I know you’re only trying to be helpful. I just don’t like to be treated like a child.”

  Consuela put a hand on his back. She rolled her eyes so that only I could see, which made me smile. They took care of each other.

  “Can we get him some more water?” she asked.

  Cristina volunteered to do that and soon returned with four more bottles, one for each of us, even though I’d barely touched my first.

  “Thank you, Cristina.” Consuela cracked the top and handed the bottle to Raul, who took a drink.

  “I love being the water girl,” Cristina whispered to me.

  “At least you’re not sitting in geometry class.”

  Raul seemed to get his breath. I took a swig of water myself before firing off some additional questions. “The sixth-period teacher, did he mark her as absent?”

  “Mr. Tucker? He was out yesterday. But the sub, yes, she marked Mia absent.”

  Cristina and I traded a quick glance, then she went back to her phone. She was a master multitasker.

  “Did they talk to other kids or teachers who might have seen her leave or maybe heard her talking about leaving school?”

  “That’s why I was on hold so long. They pulled ten, fifteen kids from class and talked to them. So far, no one knows anything.”

  Or no one is saying anything, I thought to myself. “Mia is rather popular, is she not?”

  “That’s not something she really tried to achieve. She wasn’t into all the teenage games where kids are essentially in a class system,” Consuela said.

  “I’m just saying a lot of kids know her, right? She’s a strong student, she plays basketball—”

  “She’s a member of the National Honor Society,” Raul said with a hint of pride.

  “My point is, she’s not one of those kids who sits in the back and no one ever speaks to her. Why wouldn’t someone know where she is?”

  They both shrugged their shoulders.

  “I need you to list every person Mia knows. First name and last name is preferable, but if you just have one or the other, then we’ll go with that.”

  “I’ll do it right now,” Consuela said. Cristina got her a pen and paper.

  “Okay,” I said, noticing Consuela had already written a couple of names, “what about video tapes? Don’t they have cameras on all the main exits of the school?”

  “They treat us like prisoners, so I know they have it. I’ve seen the cameras myself.”

  We all looked at Cristina. Did she have to use the word prisoners? I shook my head and turned back to Raul.

  “I asked about cameras. They said they had them, but it would take a while to review.”

  “But that shouldn’t take long, right? I mean, we have an idea of when she left. She was in fifth period, but not sixth.” I flipped over to Cristina. “What time frame are we looking at?”

  “Uh…” She looked off, then back to her phone. I guess that held all the secrets. “Fifth period ends at one forty-five.”

  “Do you think I need to call back and give them this information?” Raul asked.

  The school officials should know this. Were they dragging their feet? Had they not taken Raul seriously? I really had no way of knowing, since I hadn’t been on the call. Now I was pissed at myself for not listening in. I’d just assumed that the school officials would understand the gravity of the situation. Maybe, without cops showing up at the school, they thought it might be another case of a parent/student argument, and the kid rebelling by walking out of school.

  My mind went back to getting help from the police. I thought about Stan Radowski, a detective with the SAPD, and a dear friend. He’d overcome a great deal in the last few months, losing his arm to a psycho while trying to save me, then his son being kidnapped. We’d found Ethan unharmed, and the Radowski family was intact.

  “I know you guys are very leery about having the police involved, but with your okay, I’d like to reach out to a detective friend of mine. We go back a ways—”

  “You used to be married?” Raul asked.

  Cristina snorted out a guffaw. I shifted my eyes to her for a quick second, then said to Raul, “Stan and his wife, Bev, are both good friends. And they have a son, Ethan. I believe Stan is someone we can confide in without him turning this into an official investigation.”

  “If you trust him, then I guess it’s okay,” Consuela said.

  Raul closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded. “If you must, then so be it.”

  “Just to warn you a bit, he’s likely going to push me to have you guys file a missing persons report. If not now, then by tomorrow…if she’s not found before then.”

  Consuela bit down on her fist as new tears welled in her eyes. Raul reached over and touched her arm.

  I gave them a moment and took another sip of water. “Consuela, Raul, time is very important right now. So, just another question or two.”

  “Anything,” Consuela said.

  “Have you been getting along with Mia recently?”

  “Of course,” Raul said. “Hard to remember a time when we had a cross word for Mia. I mean, she’s a normal teen and has her moods, but she respects us. She knows that we love her.”

  I looked to Consuela for some type of validation of what Raul had said. She blinked a few times. I had to ask her straight out. “Would you agree?”

  She spoke calmly. “I would agree with what Raul said.”

  I closed the doors to the meeting room and let them get to work on the friends list. My mind was swirling with possible theories. And one had me thinking the worst: that Mia might already be dead and there was some type of cover-up going on.

  6

  I left Cristina with the Romeros at the office and started walking down the sidewalk. A chilly, swirling wind bit into my face. I buried my hands in my jeans pockets and hurried along, already regretting that I hadn’t worn a jacket over my untucked button-down. I watched a few other pedestrians across the street scurrying between office buildings. No one in San Antonio was used to wind-chill temperatures in the forties. Not in early November.

  I used to think that coats were for wimps. Having lived my entire life in South Central Texas, that was easy for me to say. Even as I felt a shiver up my spine, I still believed it—sort of. I would be loving a coat right now. How long would I be outside? Hopefully, no more than five minutes if I hurried. I was on my way to the local community center. I’d texted Stan, hoping to get some time with him to discuss Mia’s disappearance. It turned out he had taken the morning off and was just four blocks away with his son and wife at the Mandy Amaya Community Center. A personal conversation would make all the difference in the world with Stan.

  The ECHO office was on the south side of San Antonio’s downtown, in an area that had long been neglected…well, until recently. The community center had really brightened up the area. On the block where our ECHO office was, three other businesses had recently rented space. I approached the end of the block and glanced inside the window of the business at the corner. No sign was up, but I saw two contractors rolling out carpet and the owner of said business with his sleeves rolled up, looking at a blueprint. I poked my head in and whistled at Saul, the kind of whistle that said, What’s up, sexy?

  A smile cracked his lips as he walked over and pulled me inside what would soon be the office of Saul Modesto, Attorney at Law.

  “Still opposed to wearing a coat?” He dropped the blueprints and wrapped his fingers around both of my arms, then leaned in and hugged me.

  “Then what would I use you for?”

  “Oh, I can think of a few things.”

  “Shh, the guys over there will hear you.”

  He looked at me. “Did you know the blue in your shirt matches your eyes?”

  “You know me. It’s all about color coordination.” I blinked my eyes
a few times—Miss Prim and Proper—and he laughed.

  Saul, who had been working as a legal aid at one of the city’s most prestigious law firms when I first met him, was what most would call a serious boyfriend. Fortunately, he wasn’t into labels. We just went with “significant other,” if ever asked.

  He grabbed me by the hips and drew me closer. He was about to lay one on me when I noticed one of the contractors looking in our direction. I pulled back to a respectable distance. “I just realized you’re wearing a suit.”

  He twisted his lips.

  “I thought you quit your job at Wilson, Mendoza, and Ross two weeks ago?”

  He shook his head, not saying a word.

  “Did you put in your notice a week ago?”

  A slower shake of the head.

  I didn’t want to point out that he’d lied to me, but…he’d lied to me.

  “You’re thinking I lied to you, aren’t you?”

  “I wasn’t going to say it exactly like that. It isn’t like you were under oath.” One of my eyebrows inched upward.

  “I’m sorry. I just chickened out. Ross is going to be pissed. He’s going to be even more pissed when he finds out I’m opening a firm of my own.”

  “Babe, what are you so afraid of?”

  “Oh, that he’ll pick up the phone and order a hit on me.”

  “Funny,” I said, patting his chest.

  “I know, it’s ridiculous. Every time I’m about to walk into his office, I start visualizing his response. I see it playing out in two ways: he either throws a stapler at me and cusses me out, or he laughs at me.”

  “Hope for the first. Then you can sue him. He could be your first big legal victory.” I made my voice sound like I was the host of a kids’ TV program.

  His response was less than enthusiastic.

  “I didn’t mean to demean what you do. I’m just trying to show that it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. People quit their jobs all the time.”

  He nodded, then glanced over his shoulder at the guys putting down the carpet. “You’re right. I just need to man up and do it. Gotta say, though, I’m a bit nervous.”