The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  I hoped for death.

  IN Pursuit

  An Ivy Nash Thriller

  Book 2

  Redemption Thriller Series - 8

  (Includes Alex Troutt Thrillers, Ivy Nash Thrillers,

  and Ozzie Novak Thrillers)

  By

  John W. Mefford

  1

  A swirling funnel of dirt and debris smacked Eileen Tadlock in the face—she nearly dropped her phone. Raising a hand to block the dust, she peered out the far end of the parking garage. Angry skies boiled like a cauldron, with fists of gray clouds emitting grumbles of thunder. An early spring thunderstorm was about to unleash its fury on San Antonio. A transplant from Pocatello, Idaho, Eileen had heard stories ever since she moved to Texas a couple of months back: beware of the spring storms.

  Turning back to her phone, she bit her upper lip, and with wide eyes and a hand to the side of her face, feigned a frightened appearance. She took a quick picture and then posted it on her social media site of choice, adding the message:

  Eileen in #shitstorm in San Antonio. Save me

  A sudden clap of thunder made her jump and yell out at the same time.

  “Stop it already,” she said to Mother Nature while opening her purse. Before she dropped her phone in, her curiosity got the better of her—she wanted to see if anyone had already responded to her post. She kept the phone gripped in her hand as she walked in the direction of her car.

  She craved validation of everything she did and thought—she’d finally admitted as much when she made her transition down to Texas. But you can’t change a tiger’s stripes, right? So she’d learned to roll with it. Actually, she was rowdy, loud, and proud, as some hick cowboy had told her a couple of weeks back, after about eight beers.

  The echo of her heels on the concrete came louder and faster as she picked up her pace. Her charcoal-colored pencil skirt had drawn plenty of envious eyes from her peers at the seminar she’d just attended. But the tight fit forced her to take mini-steps.

  A sneeze.

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder. Besides a few random cars and one pickup with tires nearly as tall as she was, there wasn’t a soul in sight. Of course there isn’t—most everyone has the sense to stay put when a mega-storm is about to hit. Everyone but her.

  She snickered at her wild imagination as the atmosphere hissed and roiled. The sounds of the storm seemed like part of some dramatic play. It was over the top, and frankly, she didn’t have time to deal with it. She was already late for happy hour with two of her newest friends. She could practically taste the tangy, sweet salt on the side of her swirl margarita.

  A jingling sound stopped her cold. Movement to her right. She flipped her head in that direction.

  “Fucking fucker,” she muttered nonsensically, putting a hand to her chest. She was staring at her own reflection in the back of a minivan window.

  Huffing out a relieved breath, she forced her shoulders to relax as she resumed her walk. A flurry of papers and dirt blew into the garage. The wind did a number on her hair, and she could feel the grit between her teeth. Another howling gust hit her from the side, knocking her off balance—she nearly turned her ankle in her black, four-inch heels.

  “I’m not dealing with this shit now,” she said as she lifted each foot and unstrapped her Jimmy Choos. Tucking her heels under her arm, she thought she saw the rear bumper of her white Maxima and made a beeline for it. She’d bought it two months ago from a used car lot. She’d just had to have it—mostly because the guy with the tightest Wranglers she’d ever seen hopped out of the trailer and promised she wouldn’t walk off that lot without getting what she wanted.

  She sighed, knowing her little made-up fantasy hadn’t come true. It was for the better, she kept telling herself. He was probably one of those guys who was easy on the eyes but had a dungeon full of dead bodies. That reminded her of the seminar she’d just sat through—one of those women’s lib things, where they talked about self-empowerment, not letting society define her role, and personal safety. What was the safety phrase that one chick kept repeating? Predict your setting, be assertive, and mostly…

  “Hmm. What was the last part?” she asked out loud, touching the edge of the phone to her chin. But she still couldn’t pull the phrase from the depths of her memory. Hell, she must have been distracted by a text or a funny post on her phone at that time. Her teachers always said she had attention-span issues. Shit happens.

  One of her shoes dropped to the surface. As she leaned down to pick it up, another gust of wind washed over her body.

  “Dear God,” she said, pinching her nose. But it didn’t help. A stench of vinegar and onions invaded her senses. She stood upright and started to walk again as her stomach flip-flopped. Without slowing her pace, she did a quick three-sixty spin. One part of the gray sky had a pink hue, while the garage had become much darker in the last few minutes. It might as well be midnight, she thought.

  A zap of lightning only a few feet away, followed by a crack of thunder. Her heart exploded from her chest. She bumped into a car, then put a hand on the trunk to gather herself. Swallowing a dry patch in her throat, she forced herself to breathe as her pulse pinged the side of her neck like a drum roll.

  “Get a fucking grip, Eileen,” she told herself. Closing her eyes, her mind cut to a visual of her slurping in a mouthful of margarita and laughing at a joke from one of her friends. Her heart rate slowed, and oxygen began to reach her brain again. She giggled at how she could flip her mindset just like that.

  Something still nibbled at the back of her mind. The howling, fuming storm was surreal, especially for a girl from Idaho. And yet the garage of empty cars made her feel like the last person on Earth. Or maybe one of the last people.

  She snapped her fingers, recalling the Dystopian series that she’d binge-watched the night before. That end-of-world shit was mind-blowing and had led to a nightmare. She knew it was nothing but pure fiction, but corralling her thoughts was an elusive endeavor.

  With a smile on her face, she turned and walked straight into a wall of hairy flesh. She bounced backward. Before her mind could process what had happened, she was pushed up against the side of an SUV. She lifted her sights to see a pair of gray, stone-cold eyes peering down at her from under a straw hat.

  “What do you want? I have money.” She tried to pull her purse around, but his arms were in the way.

  Opening his lips, he grunted out a chuckle, but he didn’t smile. She took in his face—a legion of pockmarks—and the scraggly whiskers running down his neck into his shirt. The top two buttons were unfastened. A mound of wild hair poured out, so close it almost touched her nose. And that god-awful smell had returned with a vengeance, pulling up bile from the depths of her stomach.

  “Please, just let me go.” Her voice quivered as his breath coated her face, his eyes unblinking. A couple of beats. He didn’t move, but his glare bored holes into her. Was he catatonic? She couldn’t shift her eyes, afraid that it might invoke a violent response. But she also couldn’t stand there and wait for him to snap out of it.

  She dropped downward, hoping to slip under his arms. Halfway down, his hand clamped around her neck and pulled her up as if she weighed no more than a bottle of tequila. She gasped for air, smacking his tree-trunk-sized arm with everything she had. It had no effect. He just stared at her with eyes that had no life.

  A small pocket of air squeezed through, and she released a tiny yelp. But that was all she could muster. The veins in her head felt like they might explode, her eyes on the verge of popping out. Her flailing hands finally hit his face, and she dug her nails into skin—it didn’t feel human. It was crusty and calloused. If she hadn’t been fighting for her life, she would have let go.

  But she was fighting for her life.

  At that moment, he released her neck. Air—precious air—finally reached her brain. Even with wobbly legs, she knew now was the time to strike. She thrust her knee upward, aiming for his groin. He simpl
y swatted her leg away as if it were a pesky fly.

  Another grunting chuckle, and his eyes didn’t blink. What is this guy?

  Before she could process another thought, he grabbed her neck again with both hairy mitts. His hands were wet and cold, like something fished out of a pond. She kicked and swung her arms, unleashing a fury she didn’t know existed.

  Then again, no one had ever tried to kill her before.

  Her furious rampage lasted for maybe ten seconds, and then the plug was pulled—she was completely drained. The pressure on her larynx increased slowly but steadily with every passing second. Tears flooded her face. She knew the end was near. Looking away from the grisly beast, she saw the storm in full force. Sheets of rain whooshed into the garage as lightning illuminated a menacing sky.

  Every muscle in her body went limp, and she slowly dropped to the ground as darkness smothered her. A tick before she went under forever, he let go. She smelled blood. He must have cut her with his nails. She choked up pockets of air, and a sliver of hope came to life. Maybe he had a conscience and had decided to let her go.

  Then she heard a squeak. Her eyes drifted back to the man.

  He dangled a spastic rat by its tail. His other hand held a burlap sack.

  She tried to speak, tried to move away. To no avail.

  Without uttering a word, he dropped the rat in the bag, and then pulled the bag over her head and tied it around her neck.

  Be cautious and aware. That was the last part of the safety phrase she’d been struggling to remember.

  If only she had been a better student.

  2

  I shrugged my shoulders. “What’s the big deal?”

  “There’s more…much more. You need to click the link.”

  My best friend, Zahera, who also happened to be my gynecologist, reached across the table and tapped the gigantic screen of her fancy new cell phone.

  I took a pull from my breakfast smoothie and read the continuation of a blog that, according to Zahera, had drawn no less than two hundred comments.

  It didn’t take me long to understand why.

  “Ivy Nash is no different than one of those marketing whores, willing to sell her soul to the devil in return for positive publicity for her so-called children’s investigation company,” I said, reading from the phone. Glancing up at Zahera, I could already feel my pulse picking up its pace.

  She gave me a straight-lipped smile and pointed at the phone.

  I continued. “Is her joke-of-a-company, ECHO, a non-profit or just some shady operation meant to pad the pockets of Ivy Nash? Might need the IRS to conduct its own investigation.”

  I blew out a frustrated breath, baffled why anyone would have an issue with a small company whose sole mission was to help kids who were in harm’s way, without being handcuffed by CPS or any other government agency. I’d actually worked extremely hard the last couple of months to secure a private investigator’s license, while word-of-mouth had brought in new cases and a decent cash flow. “Who is this person?”

  “It’s at the top of the page—Nothing But The Truth is the name of the blog, run by some lady named Pearl Griffin. You still haven’t hit the best part…well, I guess it’s the worst part.”

  “I really don’t have time for this, Z. She’s just an energy drain.”

  “True, but when you get big and famous, you need to at least be aware of what the public is thinking.”

  “I’m not big and famous. And this is only one person.”

  “She gets over a hundred thousand unique visitors a month.”

  I paused and let that sink in. The door to Smoothies and Stuff dinged opened. A man and his young son walked up to the order line. Under new ownership in the last few weeks, business had recently picked up.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll read it all the way through,” I said, putting the straw to my lips, but then deciding not to take another slurp. I’d been overdosing on smoothies the last two months.

  As I pored over six more paragraphs from Pearl the blogger, heat crawled up my neck. I fanned my face.

  “Deep breaths, Ivy,” Zahera said, motioning her arm upward from her chest.

  I glanced at her for a second. “I’m not one of your expectant mothers.”

  “Sorry. I can tell it’s stressing you out.”

  I held up two fingers and went back to reading the last two paragraphs. Once I finished, I picked up my smoothie and placed its cold, plastic container against my cheek.

  “You see? You’re hot and bothered.”

  “I wish.” We both laughed, breaking the tension.

  I held up the phone. “I know you’ve heard me say people should get licenses before they can have kids.” Zahera nodded slowly, her round, brown eyes staying on me. “I think the same could be said for bloggers—no blogs until you are licensed.” I paused and took a slurp to cool my insides. “She’s probably just another lonely person who gets her jollies by tearing apart people’s lives.”

  “Did you read that one part where—”

  “I read everything, but I know which part you’re talking about.” I tilted the phone so I could read it out loud. “It appears that Ivy Nash faked her own kidnapping, probably harming herself in the process, just to get some attention. That’s nothing less than narcissistic. And once she realized it had worked, she kept the ball rolling by starting up ECHO and solving a couple of so-called missing child cases in just a few weeks. Guess what? Those cases were no more real than her kidnapping—a bizarre fantasy pulled out of that crazy mind of hers. The only business she’s suited to start is the business of fiction. Maybe with a little work, she could learn to write fantasy novels. I’m right here, Ivy, if you need a few pointers (wink, wink). And rest assured, my darling readers, we’re just getting started on uncovering the dirt on this con lady. Signing off from Nothing But The Truth.”

  I slid the phone over to Zahera, who said, “It’s so much worse when you read it out loud.”

  “Thanks. Just what I needed.”

  She leaned over and touched my arm. “You know I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I know, Z. It’s just amazing that I’m being put on trial in front of the whole world because of what some freak did to me two months ago.”

  The mental filter that plugged my memories from three days of capture opened briefly, sending a flurry of images and sensations to my frontal lobe. The strobe light that had sent me into a mental breakdown. The water that had pelted my skin, not only drowning me but also ripping my skin apart. The electric shock. My body being cut up like tree bark.

  “You still with me?”

  I scratched the scars on my stomach. “I’m here, just daydreaming.”

  “I’m sorry for bringing this up,” she said, putting her phone in her black designer purse. “It was really insensitive of me.”

  “Z, I said I’m fine.” The words came out stronger than I’d intended.

  The door dinged again, and a lady in black yoga pants walked in. Not Stan. “I guess Stan got pulled away by something important,” I muttered.

  He might have been late meeting me at my bartered office—a deal I’d made with the new owner of Smoothies and Stuff—but Stan Radowksi was one of the good guys. A detective on the San Antonio Police Force, he used to be my liaison when I worked for Child Protective Services. And while I was sure he considered me to be a thorn in his side, he’d actually stuck around longer than the previous two liaisons combined. When I got fired from CPS and decided to start ECHO, he’d been one of my strongest supporters. Even now he continued to offer insight and occasional assistance on some of our cases.

  Zahera scooted out of the booth as my phone rang. “My first appointment is in thirty minutes. Dr. Z can’t be late.”

  I fished the phone out of my purse and saw it was Stan. “Does this mean you’re buying the next round of smoothies?” I asked him.

  “Zahera there with you?”

  “Hello to you too.”

  “Sorry, it’s business.”
<
br />   I could hear voices in the background. “She’s right here. Want to talk to her?”

  Zahera waved a hand in front of my face and whispered, “Don’t have time.”

  “Tell her she’ll have to make time. There’s been a murder, and the two of you are connected.”

  Stan gave me the address. I hung up the phone as I stood and said, “Z, I think you need to call your office so they can tell your expectant mom you’ll need to reschedule.”

  Zahera opened her mouth to speak, but I was out the door before she could say a word.

  3

  An endless blue sky served as the backdrop in the parking garage just off Navaro, which bordered the River Walk, San Antonio’s biggest tourist attraction outside of the Alamo. Strangely, I’d parked my car in the same garage last night, two levels lower, to attend a personal-safety forum sponsored by the Greater San Antonio Professional Women’s Organization. Thanks to Zahera’s connections, I was asked to participate as a speaker.

  I wondered when the crime had occurred. Had I been in the garage when this person was murdered?

  The morning sun cut across the shoulder of the young officer standing guard to ensure no one without a badge crossed beyond the yellow tape. Zahera and I were positioned next to the elevators, while Stan was on the other side of the tape, speaking with one of the technicians.

  “Morning, ladies.”

  I turned to see another detective, Omar Moreno, walking by. He swooped his lanky body under the yellow tape and winked at Zahera. He and I had a bit of a history, so I knew he wasn’t winking at me.

  “What a cheeseball,” I said.

  Zahera raised an eyebrow. “He’s actually kind of cute.”

  “He’s married, first of all.”