I touched my face and felt bumps and bruising, then I reached for my hair. It was all gone. That lunatic had chopped off all my hair. I took in a full breath, and I let out a high-pitched groan. I felt a hundred stabbing pains in my stomach and back. The cutting of my flesh…I couldn’t forget that. I became more focused.
“Can we help you get to a shelter so you’re not spending the night out in the cold park?” the nice man asked.
I looked around and realized I was in the park across from my apartment complex—under the exact same tree from which I was taken.
“Can I borrow your phone?” I croaked.
“Sure,” the man said, fishing his phone from his North Face jacket.
“She might steal it.”
“Oh hush, Marilyn,” he said, handing me his phone.
My fingers were red and sensitive, as if they’d been burned.
“Do you need help dialing?”
“She’s drunk. I told you,” Marylyn said.
He turned and gave her a look.
I could see why she thought I’d been drinking. My hands shook. I gave him back the phone. I couldn’t dial.
“Do you have a relative we can call, or maybe a close friend?” he said with his finger ready to punch in a number.
I thought about my options and who could best handle my emergence from captivity. “Just dial nine-one-one and ask for Detective Stan Radowski.”
A few seconds later, the man handed me the phone, and I said, “It’s me, Ivy. I’m safe, I guess. Help me…please.”
He yelled so loudly I held the phone away from my ear. It was the oddest combination, a man with a thick Brooklyn accent whooping like an cowboy on a Texas ranch. But it sounded so good it brought tears to my eyes.
43
I was first put through the standard examination to determine if I’d been raped. The results were as expected—I had not been sexually assaulted. Humiliated and tortured, yes, but not raped. They ran a bunch of tests, treated my wounds—at least the physical ones—and deemed me fit to leave the hospital before the sun rose.
A few hours later, I was finishing up a Q&A session with Stan and a host of detectives while I ate the meal of my choice: a basket of greasy fries and a double-meat cheeseburger from Candy’s Old Fashion in downtown.
I had answered a bazillion questions, but detective Omar Moreno said he had one more before I left.
“From what you described throughout this ordeal, this man obviously knows you. It sounds like he wanted to get back at you for something.” He scratched his spiked goatee, his last word lingering in the air.
With a mouth full of hamburger, I said, “Was that supposed to be a question?” Stan’s face drew a look of disgust. “What? How many times have I watched you devour food like it would be your last meal for a month?”
He shrugged. “Sorry.”
“In fact, if you had asked me halfway through my ordeal… By the way, how long was I gone?”
“Almost three days.”
I nodded. “A day into my nightmare, I wasn’t sure I’d ever eat again.”
“You thought you were going to die, right there in… Where did you say you were?” Moreno asked.
I stopped chewing, glanced at Stan, then back at Moreno. “I didn’t. I had no clue where I was. How could I?” I could feel my forehead fold like an accordion. “What’s going on here? You think I’m hiding something from you?”
“Didn’t mean to offend you, Ivy,” Moreno said, flipping a page in a manila folder. “Back to my original question—do you have any idea why someone would have such resentment against you? Anyone you can think of who would want to harm you?”
I tossed another fry in my mouth to keep me from firing off a zinger. Then I took a pull on a Diet Coke and scrubbed my hands with a napkin. “No,” I said, turning my sights to Stan, signifying my desire to end this session before another felony was committed.
“I’m sure you’re tired and just want to get some sleep,” Stan said. “I know a few folks who would like to see you.” He put his hand on the doorknob as Moreno made one more comment.
“We’ll reach out to you in a few days as we gather clues. I’m sure we’ll have more questions. Hopefully, we can catch this bastard.”
“Hopefully.” I felt almost certain they would have no such luck. I climbed out of my chair like a woman three times my age, but Stan stopped me before I got to the door.
“Look, I know you’ve been to hell and back and have your own stuff to work through, but I wanted to let you know that Miguel has been released from custody, turned over to his aunt.”
Some good news to focus on. “Thank you, Stan, for helping make this happen. I just…” I pressed my lips together.
“I talked to him before he was released and asked him why he’d said he killed Tommy.”
“That’s what I was going to ask. And?” I reached for Stan’s arm.
“He said that once he started talking to you about all of the fun things he and his dad shared, it made him realize that he didn’t want people to think about his dad in a bad way. So, he took the blame, hoping that would somehow help his dad.”
“That kid is amazing.”
“And courageous too.” Stan gave me a careful hug, then opened the door. Before I had time to toss my trash in the wastebasket, Zahera plowed into me. I grunted, but she didn’t seem to hear me.
“Thank God you’re okay,” she said, my bruised face pressed against her chest. It hurt like hell, but I didn’t push back. I tried to let the feelings of love permeate my battered body and soul.
She gently held me at arms’ length for a second, her eyes inspecting my face. She touched the side of my head. “You going to be okay?”
I nodded and shuffled over to Cristina, who held out her hand. I extended mine, she took it, and then brought me in for a quick hug.
“I heard about your manhunt,” I said, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye.
“Didn’t help find you, but I guess we got one pervert off the street.”
Stan had informed me they ended up finding photos of a little girl in Stephen Schaffer’s car. Apparently, he’d been stalking her. But he wasn’t the perpetrator of the crimes against me.
Just over Cristina’s shoulder, I noticed Saul shuffling his feet, looking in every direction except me.
“You’re allowed to give me a hug too,” I said. Unable to hide his smile, he came over and gently hugged me, as if he knew to be careful. “I understand you were stalking me the other night. You might feel differently after seeing me like this.”
“You’re beautiful, Ivy. I’m just glad you’re okay,” he said.
“More like a booty call, if you ask me,” Cristina said under her breath.
He showed his teeth. “I’m not fond of that phrase. How about I was genuinely interested in getting to know you better, and I was eager to have your company again.”
“My military dad would love to hear a guy talk like that,” Zahera said, with an arm around me and Saul. “But you’re laying it on pretty thick, don’t you think?”
“You should see the car Saul drives. It might make you run the other way,” Cristina said.
We all laughed, the feeling of positive energy doing wonders for my psyche. “The only place I’m running to is bed, curled up with a good book and my Zorro.”
Zahera shook her head at the same time she wagged her finger. “No way, girlfriend. You’re staying at my place tonight. I’ve got security, a Doberman Pinscher, and a Walther 9mm.”
I actually considered the offer. But when she told me she’d already had my locks changed, that made my decision. “Thanks, Z, but my bones are tired. I need to sleep in my own bed. Maybe something to consider after I sleep twenty-four hours straight.”
My entourage escorted me home, and then I said goodbye, eager to have a night of peace and quiet.
44
With Zorro curled up at my feet and the patter of rain against my bedroom window, I read no more than four pages of
my latest book before I was out. Five minutes later I was staring at the cracks in the ceiling. I tossed and turned the rest of the night, my mind serving up flashbacks of my hellish time in captivity. I rose for good as the sun came up, and knowing I wasn’t in any shape to do my sit-ups, I opened my laptop instead. A mug of black coffee served as my mental-awareness crutch. I was curious about a lot of things I’d experienced, but one had tugged at my mind all night long.
I typed out a description of the freaky, smiling mask worn by the man who’d kidnapped me into the search engine, and then I hit enter. I clicked the top result.
“Sonofabitch,” I said, looking at the image and a brief description next to it.
In modern times, it’s been called the “V for Vendetta” mask. Originally, it was a depiction of a British citizen who intended to blow up the House of Lords in 1605 to restore a Catholic head of state. As I read more, I learned the mask became a symbol for the online hackers group, Anonymous, the Occupy movements around the globe, and generally anything that was anti-government or anti-establishment. A book was written in the 1980s, followed by a film twenty years later.
V for Vendetta. The monster knew me, that much was obvious. But was he actually avenging something from my past, his past? Or was he just plain crazy?
I released a ponderous sigh as various memories from my past comingled with what I’d experienced at the hands of the monster and what my gut was telling me. But now that I’d read about the broader meaning behind the mask, I questioned everything, including my instinct.
Still sleepy-eyed, I padded to the bathroom and took a long shower. I kept the water on cool to not further agitate my wounds, which had been treated at the hospital. As I toweled off, I finally forced myself to look in the mirror. I looked like I’d been in a gang fight, right after going through a gang initiation. After a quick inspection of my cuts, burns, and contusions, I unhooked my towel, peeled off the bandages, and stared at my stomach through the reflection. I quickly glanced down at my torso and saw skin that was puffy and red. I realized that he’d written a note—backwards. The letters were inverted so that it could be read when looking in a mirror. I was his audience. Looking into the mirror, I read:
I will kill you when I am ready
A breath caught in my throat, my mind recounting the sound of flesh peeling open. And the gut-wrenching pain.
I leaned down and splashed water on my face, knowing he was trying to intimidate me after the fact. Taking in a shallow breath, I turned around to see if he had carved a similar message on my lower back.
This is my space
I shuddered, then flipped off the light and walked out of the bathroom. I had to get ready for my first visit with my new psychologist.
45
Two Weeks Later
My cell phone rang, but I didn’t move a muscle. I was lying on the couch, my eyes focused on the TV screen, where a crocodile was lurking just beneath the surface of some river in the Amazon. The croc’s enormous jaws opened and chomped down on an unsuspecting calf wading in shallow water. I didn’t look away. My pulse didn’t move.
I grew bored with the show and clicked the remote for about the hundredth time in the last three hours, ever since I got home from the fifth visit to my shrink.
Dr. Richard Cowlishaw was a gentle man, easy to talk to. I had no qualms with him. It was the asshole who had kidnapped me that had a death grip on my life. As much as I tried, I couldn’t get past it. I tried every method, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of inadequacy, of feeling subhuman. Logically, I knew that made no sense, but I was angry at myself for letting my guard down, not having the strength or skills to fight off my kidnapper. I’d cried a lot, punched my pillow more times than I could count. I went through periods when I exercised for an hour straight in my apartment, and then other times I’d have the energy of a lazy cat, and I would sit around and do nothing but stare at the TV, my emotions at times raw and uncontrollable, and at other times nonexistent.
Dr. Cowlishaw told me to not be so hard on myself, to give it time and eventually my mind would work through the kinks.
My phone finally dinged, which meant someone had left a really long voicemail. The thought of listening to it induced a long, heavy sigh from the core of my being.
“What’s for dinner, Zorro?” I asked as he hopped on the couch and meowed right in my face. That was his code for “Feed me or I’m going to wreak havoc.”
“Okay, okay.” I got to my feet and scratched the back of my head. My hair had begun to grow back, although I looked like I’d just been taken out of the dryer—frizzies were everywhere. I fed Zorro a can of tuna, then picked up my phone. Didn’t recognize the number. I tapped the voicemail button as my butt plopped on the couch.
It was a woman, with an urgent, desperate tone, saying someone at CPS had given her my cell phone number. I sat up straight and listened intently. Then I called her back.
“My son, Ash, has been missing for almost two years now. The police have turned up only a few leads, but recently told me they had to move it to their cold-case unit. I haven’t been able to sleep ever since they delivered that message. My husband and I have split, my two other kids have dropped out of school. We can’t move on until we find Ash…or at least know what happened.”
“I’m so sorry. I wish I could help you, but I’ve just been through—”
“I know. I know everything about you. It’s all over the media, the blogs. I know how you helped that little boy, Miguel, and how you took down that disgusting pervert, Russell Gideon, and how you survived the kidnapping.
My body tensed. I had no words.
The woman continued. “I must find my precious Ash. Will you help me?”
I scratched my lumpy head. “I’m just not sure I can do much for you. Maybe contact the FBI, or even a professional private investigator,” I said, now up and pacing.
“Screw that!” she said. I could hear two deep breaths. “I’m sorry. I’m not normally like this.”
“I get it. I understand.”
“I can pay you. My husband might have left, but we have money.”
“I don’t think I’m qualified.”
“But you truly care about kids, that much is obvious. I believe you’re the best and only person to help us. The question is, will you?”
46
I crunched through a beef taco as Cristina, Zahera, and Stan all laughed at me for being such a sloppy eater. “I couldn’t resist.”
“Get back to your story, about the lady who called you,” Zahera said, nibbling at a salad.
“Amelia Benson. She’s crushed to pieces about her missing son.”
The group pinged me with questions for the next fifteen minutes.
“I don’t have the answers,” I said. “But I do have a question.”
They all had perplexed looks.
“Before Vendetta Man kidnapped me, I had this idea, but ever since I returned, I only focused on how I could get past the memories. It’s been all about me.” I paused and took another bite of my taco. “When Amelia called and told me about her son, it reminded me how many kids need our help. They’re either in a bad home, or they’re missing, or in a gang, or hooked on drugs, or working for some pimp. We need to help them.”
The three of them traded looks at each other, then Stan said, “It’s a great cause, and I would love to help out any charitable organization that focused on this type of thing. But you said ‘we.’”
I smiled. “I want to start a new business that focuses on helping kids in trouble, the ones who really need our help.”
“Who’s going to pay for that?”
“Have you seen how many kids go missing every year? And there’s Amelia Benson. After that, we’ll use word of mouth. She sought me out, not vice versa. Once people know we’re authentic, I think we’ll have more clients than we know what to do with.” I looked at each person at the table. “Z, Stan, I know you have gigs you can’t give up. I guess I’m asking for your support more than any
thing.”
“You’ve got it, Ivy. And I’ll even help you work cases when I have some spare time. And if I get paid, my wife will love you forever.”
I winked at Stan. “Thank you.”
“I love you like a sister,” Zahera said. “Of course I’ll be there for you, with you. But I don’t think you could afford to support my lifestyle.”
“Maybe not,” I said with a chuckle, noticing her fresh manicure.
“Seriously, Ivy, I don’t want you doing this alone. I’ll help when I can, but I don’t want you out there hunting down perverts.”
“She won’t be.” Cristina set down her cup of soda. “I need a job for my resume,” she said with a snicker. “Actually, it would be great to crack a few skulls.”
“I’m not endorsing that,” I said.
She opened her lips, and I knew she was about to mention our session with Russell. I pressed my lips together, and she got my sign: now was not the setting to discuss the topic. Then I said, “You’re young, Cristina. I don’t want to endanger you any more than I wanted Miguel to be endangered.”
She smacked a hand on the table. “Enough about this age discrimination. I’m seventeen, not seven. I know more about this world than most college kids. Would you let a twenty-one-year-old work for you?”
“Maybe.”
“Consider it done. When do we start?”
“Tomorrow. By the way, we’re calling our little firm ECHO – Every Child’s Health Organization.”
“ECHO. I like it,” Cristina said.
“Good, because you had no choice,” I said with a grin.
We ate more tacos and drank more soda, laughing and teasing each other for another hour. While it gave me a sense of comfort, I knew it filled a void. I needed a distraction. Many distractions.
The haunting memories of my captivity were still fresh in my mind. And now that I’d finally awakened out of my trance, I knew I’d do anything to hunt down the man responsible. I would never be at peace until he was either locked up or dead.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 24
