I scanned the top five PALs: Jesse Steele, Alfredo Carson, Kim Wheeler, Leroy Swanson, and Frank Weber. They were abusers, sexual predators, and many times both. It wasn’t easy sorting through the list of scum to settle on just those five. But it seemed like the right exercise to figure out who was the most egregious, who might still want to harm me for whatever warped reason.
Next to that list I had a column labeled “What Ever Happened To?”
I hadn’t seen any of these people since I left their homes. While it had taken some time to make this much progress, something nibbled at the back of my mind that my time was running out. It felt like someone was closing in on me, although I admitted that my runaway thoughts were often nothing more than paranoia. And then there was Eileen Tadlock’s murder, the horrific torture she experienced, and the carved symbol on her back. I’d tried convincing Stan and Zahera that the similarities between her murder and my torture were coincidental, if anything at all. But inside, I had the opposite response—I couldn’t bring myself to break the connection. One had to exist. As Stan himself noted, the idea of having two torturing, kidnapping killers walking around in San Antonio was mindboggling.
I would take the time and find out everything I could about each person on this list.
My eyes gravitated to the right side of the screen, where I’d typed the name Frank—the first person on the PALs list—and drawn a red box around it. Unlike the others, I knew exactly what had happened to him. He was dead. I’d never forget his so-called house rules. He and his wife, Maybelle, had been foster home number thirteen. Lucky number thirteen.
Not.
Quite the opposite, in fact. It took all of a week before he started to charm me, which then led to…
I clenched my jaw. “Stop it,” I warned myself. But I knew why I’d graphically drawn the red box around his name. One night, after he’d punched me in the face and was about to force me to perform unspeakable acts for the umpteenth time, I had killed Frank Weber. It was an act of self-defense. Somehow, I’d found the strength to pull him down the attic stairs. He dropped squarely on his head, snapping his neck. Died instantly. But it took me years to break through the mental scar tissue, to not brand myself as a killer.
Maybe that was one reason I’d originally chosen to pursue a career in child protective services—helping kids find better homes, doing what I could to fix the system one child at a time. Seemed like the right move, and it was, for a while. But a couple of months back, when the system failed yet again and a foster dad had destroyed two lives and killed two others, I knew I couldn’t take it any longer. I had to get out. With legislators, lobbyists, and bean-counters making decisions that were usually at odds with the best interests of a traumatized child, I felt compelled to attempt to change the world on my own terms. Hence, the creation of ECHO.
I loaded the picture off my phone and positioned it under a new section labeled “Possible Connections.”
Moving the pointer back and forth between Frank’s name and the picture, I released the mental reins and allowed myself to think back to that time in my life. I was just thirteen years old. Thirteen. So young, but also so very tormented.
I had known the disgusting things Frank and Maybelle had forced me to do were wrong, yet I did them anyway, albeit reluctantly. Why? Intimidation. Fear of reprisal. Frank, a retired cop collecting disability, had convinced me there wasn’t a cop or judge around who he didn’t have wrapped around his finger.
“How did you survive?” I asked myself in a whisper, as tears bubbled in the corner of my eyes. I swallowed hard, doing everything in my power not to break down.
Frank was dead. And he wasn’t coming back from the dead to haunt me. I had to remind myself that every time I recounted those days.
I’d yet to tell anyone about what had really happened the night Frank died. I’d run out of that house and never looked back. Another twisted freak came to mind from that time of my life. Our next-door neighbor boy, Billy Stokes, who’d enjoyed roasting live squirrels on his outdoor grill. I’d called him on it several times, warning that I’d call the cops if he didn’t stop. He’d threatened me, but nothing ever came of it. “Wonder what ever happened to Billy?” I strummed my fingers on the mouse pad. I added his name as a sub-bullet under Frank’s.
I took another glance at the four other names: Leroy Swanson, Kim Wheeler—the only woman on the list—Alfredo Carlson, and Jesse Steele. Lots of work lay ahead of me. But my intuition told me that one of those names, or someone very close to them, had earmarked me as enemy number one.
Stretching my arms high over my head, I suddenly felt so very alone, desiring the touch of a man, a release—the kind that would make Zahera giggle. But I wasn’t at that juncture. Not yet. Saul, a legal assistant at a downtown law firm, was someone I was fond of. We’d gone out for drinks and met for coffee a handful of times. Just when I thought we were about to take the next steps, he disappeared—gone to Mexico to help take care of his grandmother. After four weeks away, he had just returned in the last few days. We had traded a few text messages, but it was obvious the relationship had cooled off.
Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. “The story of my life…” I began to sing as I stood up and found my running shoes. I stretched on the floor and psyched myself up to take a jog. But as I put my hand on the apartment door, I hesitated. I was too worked up. While I needed a workout, I knew I’d spend the entire time in paranoid mode, constantly twerking my body to make sure I wasn’t being followed, eyeing every person…losing my trust in humanity.
I decided to keep the workout indoors. I got out my free weights and went through six exercises, completing three reps in each. Then I did some push-ups and sit-ups and finished with more stretching. I’d worked up a good sweat and pushed my pulse to over one-fifty. In the back of my mind, I could hear Zahera saying, “There are better ways to get your heart rate up, girlfriend.” She was right, but this also came from the woman who worked out like she was training for the Olympics. She would have won a gold medal if they were judging on best bikini body. With the thought of Saul still on my mind—wondering what he was doing, why we’d grown apart before it ever really took off—I waltzed into the bathroom and turned on the water. It was time to clear my mind for good.
8
After a quick shower, I decided to take a bath, bubbles and all. Not usually a bubble-bath girl, I changed my mind when I saw a book I’d been reading on my bedside table—a biography of Maya Angelou. I knew I’d found my outlet to a short period of peace.
Thirty pages later, my body was pruned from the neck down, but my mind was in a better place. The soak had worked. Zorro even had the guts to roam into the bathroom and sprawl out on the rug. He was probably envious of my serenity.
I flipped the page of my book just as Zorro jerked his head up, his eyes looking out the bathroom door.
I stopped moving.
My ears strained to pick up any sound, but Zorro hadn’t unlocked his eyes from the door. He could have heard a thud from the apartment above mine, or a honking horn from outside, or even a chirping bird.
Or a person breaking in.
I couldn’t rationally figure out how someone could have gotten past three door locks without me hearing them. Even my windows had locks on them, but I rarely checked those to make sure the locks were fastened. Setting my book on the floor, I lifted from the tub, the ripples of water sounding as loud as a roaring wave. My whole body was abuzz, alert, as I stepped onto the rug next to Zorro and wrapped myself in a towel. That was when I realized I’d left my clothes on the bed. I didn’t have time to mess with putting them on.
I tiptoed to the edge of the open door and peered out. The afternoon sun spilled in through the far window, but all was still, nothing out of place.
Suddenly I sensed movement.
I whipped around to see Zorro sashaying across the room in my direction. I grabbed my chest and inhaled-exhaled. “A lot of help you are,” I hissed. He just stood there, staring at me.
Reaching the edge of my bedroom door, I could feel my pulse clock faster. Part of me didn’t want to look, afraid that I’d turn to see the monster from my recent past. But anger quickly surpassed fear. Anger at the asshole who believed he could make me jump with every little sound. Anger at myself for letting him.
Blowing out a breath through my nose, I took a bold step into the living room. It was empty. The windows were shut. I padded to the front door, my eyes scanning every inch of the apartment, ensuring no one was about to jump out from behind the curtains or the couch. The locks were secure on the front door. I exhaled again, and my shoulders relaxed. I took a quick glance through the peephole.
“What the hell?”
Unlatching the locks, I opened the door and glanced both ways before leaning down to pick up the vase of roses. I slipped back inside, locked the door behind me, and set the flowers on the kitchen table, my hands planted on my hips.
I spotted the card, but I paused before plucking it from the holder. I wanted to believe the dozen roses surrounded by baby’s breath were an act of kindness—maybe from Saul. But I was in a state of wariness and my mind went to the man monster. What better way to mess with my mind than to send me roses and include some sick note, like “I’m watching you.” Or worse, maybe an “I love you; you are mine”—to really send me over the edge. The mere thought made me want to throw up.
It was as if I had my own personal terrorist cell hawking me.
“Stop it already,” I said, taking the card and pulling it from the small envelope.
“Just thinking of you. I’m ready for the next step. Saul.”
Relieved, I plopped down on the kitchen chair, my legs feeling like noodles. I smiled as I read the message again.
A moment later my cell phone rang. I found it on my desk next to my computer and answered the call.
“You almost gave me a heart attack,” I said to Saul.
“Is that a good thing?”
“It is now. But don’t do that again. At least not until we can find this sick asshole who kidnapped me.”
“Good point. I hadn’t thought about that.”
We made a date for drinks. And this time I would let him pick me up.
9
Using his fingernail to pick Corned Beef Hash potato chips from his molars, the man watched Ivy Nash walk back into her bedroom. Her blue bath towel dropped to the rug once she crossed the threshold. He got a quick peek of her backside before she disappeared out of view from one of two cameras he’d recently installed in her place.
He thoroughly enjoyed watching her go through her daily routines. The best part was always her de-robing to take a shower. Today, with her opting to lounge in the tub while reading a book, he’d been able to get a pretty good look at her body through the diminishing suds.
It made him tingle inside—as much as humanly possible, given his medical limitations.
He sucked salt off his fingertips and grasped the sides of his thirty-six-inch monitor. He came close to giggling like a school girl. He couldn’t believe how much fun he was having watching this wench squirm like a worm on the end of a hook.
Yeah, that was a perfect analogy. He was the one holding the fishing rod, making the bait bob at just the right time. She was so freaked out by imaginary shadows jumping out of every corner that she was slowly losing her grip on any kind of normal life.
A life that he held in the palm of his hand. A life that he could crush whenever he had the urge. And his urges were, without a doubt, mind-blowing.
Just ask Eileen Tadlock.
He dug his hand into the crinkled bag of chips and shoved a handful into his mouth. Crumbs sprinkled onto his workstation and the linoleum flooring. It blended in with the rest of the garbage littering his latest abode—a sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment just three blocks from Ivy’s place in southeast San Antonio. But he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. His focus was zeroed in on one thing only: making Ivy Nash’s existence a living hell—until he delivered her straight to hell.
“Substance over style,” he said to himself as he wiped his hands on the front of his gray jumpsuit.
Just then, Ivy exited the bedroom wearing jeans and a bra. Her chest was on the smaller side, but her breasts were perky. Her shoulders had nice definition, and her torso cut at a nice angle into her hips. He attempted to direct his blood flow to one part of his body, but as usual, there wasn’t much response.
He released a sigh, frustrated that he couldn’t enjoy this moment to its fullest extent. But that was usually the case—ever since the incident in prison. His success rate hovered in the two-percent range—he actually kept a spreadsheet just so he could understand the trend. As of late, the trend was heading south.
Ivy moved into the kitchen, out of sight from his second camera positioned in the living room, and his mind went back to the bag of chips. Damn, they tasted good.
All was not lost. He’d devoured every inch of this bitch two months ago. He had taken her to the brink of death on at least three occasions, each one feeling more powerful, more euphoric than the last. He had taken pictures of those three exhilarating days. So many pictures that now served as his round-the-clock eye candy.
Lifting his eyes from the monitor, he twirled around in his chair and took in all of the photos that covered the walls of his apartment. So many special memories. He pointed at one where he’d taken a selfie in his ridiculous smiling mask, huddled just next to Ivy’s face. She was unconscious, her hair a knotted mess and her face coated with bruises. A line of blood trailed out of her nose.
Twisting another quarter turn in his chair, he pointed to the right side of the wall, where he knew there were twenty-four photos—one for each letter he’d carved into her stomach. He licked his lips as he thought about the sound his X-Acto blade made when slicing through her skin.
“A still picture stands the test of time, even more so than video,” he said, in awe of how the memories of those days flooded his mind by simply staring at the photos.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned back to the monitor. Ivy was slipping a black T-shirt over her head. Pausing in the living room—mid-screen on his monitor—she pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail. He quickly looked up, scanning the apartment walls for the photo he’d captured just after he’d taken her clothes off and held her lock of hair like the reins of a horse. He’d envisioned himself as one of the great race horses sent out to stud. Secretariat, Seattle Slew. Even better, Man O’ War.
Another sigh as his dreams of mounting her like the great Man O’ War would likely never happen. And why? All because he was shanked in the groin during his stint in prison. Three guys had surrounded him, each holding a rusted shiv, saying they resented his nasty looks every day they went through the breakfast line. He’d used his size advantage to the best of his ability, and he smashed two of the guys into each other like bowling pins. But the third one thrashed his blade hand like a wild man, slashing him directly in the nut sack. He lost one testicle and the other was barely functional. The assault also mangled his penis.
And it was all Ivy’s fault.
Bitch!
He realized he’d been pulling on his stringy hair. He quickly let go, gulped down some of his soda, and watched Ivy lean over her laptop computer. She’d been spending more and more time in front of her laptop, at times clicking and typing, at other times just staring at the screen, as if she were studying for a test.
He had a feeling she was on the hunt—for him—researching every derelict she had ever come across in her pathetic life. She was persistent as hell, that much he knew. Stubborn even. And it might pay off eventually.
Serendipity. That was how he saw everything coming together. It was all meant to be. Part of his plan.
She scooped up her purse and left her apartment. He could follow her just to fuck with her mind. But not now. Maybe later.
Wrinkling his nose, he was drawn to the pungent odor from the two cages sitting in the kitc
hen. He shuffled over to the wobbly table, grabbed an open plastic bag, and poured its contents into one of the cages. The rats scurried after the food until every last morsel had been eaten. Then one of them began gnawing on the metal wiring.
The man crouched lower. “Hiya, Peter,” he said. “You look like you’re still hungry.”
The rodent kept gnawing.
“Keep those teeth sharp. I’ve got big plans for you, Peter. Big, I say. Huge.”
Using a claw instrument with two-foot extension, he plucked Peter out of the crowded cage and dropped him into the empty cage.
It was time to begin Peter’s fasting diet.
“Don’t worry, big guy, you’ll get the chance to have a face buffet soon enough.”
10
Under the crescent moon, two pickups tore around the corner and zipped down the lazy suburban street, far exceeding the speed limit. Boys and girls wearing sheets around their bodies—toga style—screamed from the back of both trucks. From behind a brick wall, I turned back around to Anika and Cristina, and ran right into both of them. They were inches from me, and I hadn’t realized it.
“Fuck, I think I poked myself with the lock pick,” Cristina said in a hushed tone.
“Sorry. You okay?” I could barely detect the outline of her body as she sucked blood off her finger.
“I’ll live,” she said, stepping around me just in time to see two dudes from the second truck hurl cans of beer at a mailbox. Fortunately, both missed their target.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 28
