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

by John W. Mefford

  “You don’t love me,” she said in a derogatory tone. “You care only about your next high, whether that’s booze, a drug, or gambling. It’s all about feeding your unquenchable, orgasmic desires.”

  “Anika, don’t talk like that,” Mona shot back.

  “Or what?” Anika waved the gun around, and all four of us flinched.

  “We know we haven’t treated you well, Anika,” her dad said, his voice cracking. “We’re so flawed, Anika. We just couldn’t see reality through the haze of our own delirious thoughts. Everything you said about us is true. It took us far too long to grow up, but we have. Finally. And we had hoped that since you were trying to find us that you wanted the same.”

  “Are you finished?” she asked coldly.

  “I love you, Anika. I haven’t told you enough, but I love you with all of my heart.” He began to sob, dropping to his knees.

  “Please stop this, Anika. This isn’t you,” Mona said.

  “You sure about that?” Anika raised the gun and fired a shot just over her mom’s head. Mona screamed, lunging for the shingles.

  When I took my next breath, I’d brought Cristina into my arms again. She was my responsibility. I couldn’t let anything happen to her. I feared for her life, the others as well, but her life especially. “Let me go,” she whispered through gritted teeth. I unclenched my fistful of her shirt, my eyes on Anika.

  “Now that I have everyone’s attention…” Anika walked four steps, then flipped on her heels and marched back to the same spot. She held up both arms and said, “I’m not here to relive old times or try to create a bond with my parents.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Cristina slip her hand into her back pocket. Was she trying to dial 911?

  “You’re angry with us. I can see that,” Mona said, stepping away from the shingles. “It’s okay to be angry, Anika. We can get you help for that. You were never allowed to grieve for your brother. Never.”

  “You can’t even say his fucking name. You’re pathetic.” Anika spit in their direction, although it fell a few feet short.

  “Anika…” Her mom raced toward her daughter.

  “Stop!” Anika put a second hand on the gun, widened her stance, and bent her knees.

  Her mom kept coming.

  “I said stop or I’ll kill you right here and now.”

  “Don’t do it, Anika,” I yelled, taking a couple of steps that way.

  At the last second, Dexter tackled his wife from behind, and I could hear her body smack against the concrete. “I can’t watch you get killed,” he said, as Mona rolled over and groaned.

  Anika shook her head, staring them down.

  “Anika, please…it’s not worth it,” I said.

  “Shut the fuck up, Ivy. You did your part. You found these two losers. It’s now my job to end their lives.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Yes. I. Do.” Each word was emphasized by her shaking the gun in my direction. “None of you get it yet, do you?”

  Mona was now on her knees. “Get what? That you’re mentally ill and that you need help?”

  Anika ran over, grabbed her mom by the neck, and stuck the gun to the side of her head. “I’ll show you mentally ill, bitch.”

  Cries for her to stop, especially from her father, just a few feet away. “Please, Anika, don’t take away my Mona,” he said.

  Cristina crossed in front of me, sliding to her left. She was trying to move out of Anika’s peripheral vision, but I couldn’t tell her to stop, so I shifted the other way ever so slightly, all the while staring at Anika’s trigger finger.

  “I was hired by Vincent Sciaffini to kill you both,” Anika blurted.

  A zap of electricity bit into the base of my skull. I replayed what she’d just said.

  “What on earth has happened to you?” Dexter said, now up on his feet. He was blocking Cristina from Anika. I forced my legs to move, shifting more to my right. I could see Cristina cup something in her hand. What the hell does she think she’s going to do? I realized I might have to run at Anika to force her to focus on me, even if that meant getting shot.

  Anika giggled. “That’s right. It’s time for Anika to get some now.”

  “You…were sent to kill us?” Dexter asked, his voice laced with shock and anxiety.

  It made no sense. Yet, at the same time it made all the sense in the world. She’d used us to get to them.

  The ticket to Chicago.

  “He wants his money, and I want my money.”

  “He’s paying you to kill us?” Dexter didn’t seem to grasp the possibility that this was true.

  “Damn straight he is. A hundred thousand dollars. That will get me into the best music school in the country. When I get out, I’ll be performing in the finest symphony halls in the country. But to be honest, I’m glad this day is here, whether I’m being paid or not.”

  “You’re not a killer!” Mona yelled. “This is insane!”

  “Maybe not directly, but it was a good warm-up.”

  Mona gasped. “What are you talking about?”

  “I had to ask Sara where the hell you were, and she got curious. Too curious. So, when I was in Chicago, I rode along with Sciaffini’s boys and watched them put a bullet in her head. It was quite a rush. But I’m sure it’s nothing like the feeling I’m about to have.” Her giggle was choppy, as if she were forcing herself to find humor in this disturbing plan.

  I now felt my own disbelief growing. “You want to kill your parents that badly?”

  “Shut up, Ivy. Stay out of this.” She wrenched her mom’s neck as if she were about to pull the trigger.

  “I should have known you’d end up being a twisted person,” Mona said.

  Anika glared at her. “What did you say?”

  “Mona, stop it,” Dexter said.

  “Dexter, she’s not your daughter.”

  He gasped.

  “What the fuck are you saying, Mom?” Anika suddenly sounded like the teenager that she was.

  “Your dad isn’t really your dad. I got pregnant when I was younger, from another man, not your father, not Dexter. He turned out to be a bad person. He hurt people, raped a little girl. He’s in prison. Maybe they’ll give you a cell right next to him—your daddy.”

  I couldn’t believe Mona was pushing these buttons in the face of imminent injury, or death.

  Anika wailed like a wounded animal, her entire body trembling. “Why…why?” she screamed, letting go of her mother.

  Dexter wept; Mona sobbed. In my peripheral vision, I saw Cristina move in closer. I couldn’t just stand there any longer. I walked toward Anika. It took her a few seconds, and then she saw me through her tears. “This isn’t over, Ivy. I’m not fucking around. Stop, or I’ll shoot you.”

  I kept walking toward her. “It’s time to end the threats and the hate. Give me the gun.”

  Cristina was now within ten feet of her.

  “You asked for it, bitch.” She raised her gun and fired. I dove to the side, my eyes picking up a glint of shiny metal flying through the air toward Anika. I heard a shriek as I landed on a pile of bricks. A quick scan of my body. I wasn’t shot. I turned to see Anika on her side, blood seeping out of her neck.

  “Call nine-one-one,” I said, running up to see something round embedded in Anika’s neck.

  Cristina was already on her phone. She gave the authorities our address, then hung up. “It’s a Chinese star. It’s one of my new toys I’ve been playing with.”

  I just looked at her, stunned. The next thing I knew, Mona growled and started kicking her daughter, shouting, “You and your fucking dad; you’re both crazy.”

  I had to restrain the woman until the paramedics arrived. Dexter stood on the other side of the slab, staring out into the moonlit waters.

  35

  Huddled behind playground equipment at Concepcion Park as daylight nibbled at the edge of the horizon, the man wiped his face and looked at his hands. They were smeared with blood. Not j
ust his own, but blood from the lady in the slutty little black dress. He didn’t know her, had no idea what her real name was, but he’d already given her a nickname—Rump Roast—for the plump ass she’d been shaking while walking home from a dance club on the north side of town. Once he pulled her into the alley, her ass wasn’t the only thing shaking. She looked into his eyes, trembling like she’d been dunked in a frozen lake.

  Rump Roast had put up a decent fight. There were cuts on his face and neck to prove it. At this point, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the end result. She had died getting a rat facial. Afterward, he had carved five letters into her spine: N-E-V-E-R.

  The feelings of both euphoria and rage whirled in his mind, although it had already subsided. It was a toxic mix, that much he knew. But he wanted more of it. Not just to show Ivy. But to show the world.

  He felt the fabric of the bandage that wrapped his upper arm, a result of the bullet that had sliced through the first few layers of his skin—only inches away from the gunshot from that slut, Jake. Both shots had missed major arteries, which only proved this entire plan was meant to be.

  He couldn’t see very well, but the stench of blood hung in the outdoor air. He was lucky he hadn’t lost the entire limb. After fucking up the attempt to murder that little rich princess, Zahera, he knew he couldn’t stop until his night’s mission was accomplished.

  One down, one to go.

  He turned his head to where the path came around the tree line, looking for joggers to make their trek down the path. Not just any joggers, but a woman, around Ivy’s age. He couldn’t wait any longer to pick his victims carefully, then study their habits and find the right place and time to impose his will on them—to kill them. He’d run out of patience. And that meant taking risks. He knew he needed to find a calmer place, possibly think about retreating. It would allow him to blend in with normal society while he regained his discipline, refocused his priorities, and laid out a perfect implementation plan.

  But that would have to wait. The rush of adrenaline he felt right that moment had surpassed anything he’d ever experienced, and he couldn’t stop that high even if he wanted to. It would be like taking a hit of acid, and then allowing the feeling to wash away in a couple of hours. Why not take a second hit, a third hit?

  Just make it last forever.

  He’d thought he’d have his dad around forever—until that night when he’d gotten home and found him dead in the hallway. A single picture flashed in his mind, one that would never leave him: flies had been buzzing around his dad’s carcass. To this day, he could still hear their buzzing.

  He had found the secret room upstairs, pictures of Ivy, but not Ivy herself. He had put two and two together and realized she had taken it too far. His dad was twisted, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t a killer.

  Ivy was the killer. And because of her, his dad was no more.

  He hadn’t been especially close to his dad; their bond was more at the bleeding edge, sharing tips on how to do people the most harm, how to trap girls. The more he thought about their relationship, he was able to view his dad as a mentor. And what higher honor could be given to a parent than that of mentor, regardless of the type of knowledge that was transferred?

  His breath stuck in his chest. He picked up the slightest sound of music and, a second a later, saw a woman jogging around the bend. He raised his head like a panther ready to pounce on an unsuspecting sheep.

  She jogged at a fairly slow pace, deliberate in her movements, her arms swinging in rhythm with each step. It was if she’d studied the perfect form for jogging but still wasn’t in great cardio shape. As more light peered above the still tree line, he spotted her brunette ponytail shaking at the same beat as the music. Damn, she must have the volume turned up to maximum. Even though she wore earbuds, he could tell the song was upbeat, with a strong, repetitive bass. As she moved closer, he could hear the lead singer belting out the lyrics in falsetto. Sounded familiar.

  He took a quick glance over his shoulder to the small clearing about twenty feet behind the cluster of shrubs and wild grass in which he hid. Greg the Rat circled in his cage, then he stopped, clawed the metal wire and sniffed. Greg could smell death, just like the man could. It was intoxicating to just think about.

  Turning back around, he saw the woman had followed the path as it dipped closer to the woods. He could now hear her feeble attempt at singing. She was terribly off key, but her words were distinct:

  When I’m without you

  I’m something weak

  You got me begging, begging

  I’m on my knees

  As she swooped by his spot on the path, he thought about simply sticking out his arm or leg and tripping her. She would fall straight down, cracking her chin on the concrete. Nah. He wasn’t that mean.

  He watched her take three more strides, then he lurched out of his hiding place and jogged up behind her. No more than a foot away, he hesitated for a second. She was still jamming to her song, her hips showing more swagger with each step. She was into it. It was clear to him that she was all about living life to its fullest, finding that happy place, and making the most out of it.

  Too bad her happy place didn’t match his.

  He reached around her body with both arms, one across her chest, locking her arms. His other hand jammed a rag coated with ether into her mouth. As expected, she fought back. Elbows swung wildly, feet stomping, head shaking. She thrashed with the best of them, but her sheer muscle strength was almost disappointing. As she slowly succumbed to the effects of the drug, he got a close-up of her face. Her pale complexion was as pure as a lily petal, although a burgundy color poured into her cheeks as she struggled to stay conscious. He’d been prepared for a war, but all he got was a slight physical confrontation. She wasn’t nearly the fighter Zahera had proven to be.

  He let her body fall to the ground, then he grabbed her by the ponytail and towed her into the woods. For a moment, he felt like a prehistoric caveman, dragging his woman back to their home so she could fulfill her womanly duties.

  Actually, she wouldn’t have to lift a finger.

  Through the thicket of brush, he pulled her up next to the cage. Her eyes flickered for a moment, and her extremities twitched. Just like with Rump Roast, he needed the full experience. He placed his hands around her neck and slowly applied pressure. Her eyes popped open as if they were attached to a string. A sudden burst of energy brought her arms to life, and she began to claw at his mouth and nose, a look of utter terror on her face.

  Goose bumps formed on his arms and spread throughout his body. Her face turned grayish-blue as her bloodshot eyes bulged out of their sockets. And just like that, she faded into oblivion. He quickly let go and put two fingers on her neck. A faint pulse. He grabbed the scalpel and paused before cutting into her body.

  Where to open the door for Greg to enter? he pondered.

  He stared at her for another moment and came to the conclusion she might be the ugliest of all his victims. He used his thin blade to make a circular cut around her eye. Apparently, that hit a nerve or two—she shook her head and even had enough strength to take another swat at him.

  He never felt a thing.

  Still riding on cloud nine, he took hold of the burlap sack and pulled Greg out of the cage. He held him by the tail for a second. “Let the feast begin.” And then he dropped him into the sack and quickly tied it securely around her neck.

  As Greg enjoyed the buffet of his life, the man turned over Miss Ponytail and crafted a message into her spine that might as well have been painted across the sky. Everyone would soon know his intentions.

  And they weren’t pure.

  36

  I sat with my arms on my knees in Zahera’s hospital room. I’d just found the last text message I’d received from her:

  Pearl’s at it again; wrote hateful blog post. Sorry. I’m only the messenger.

  I swiped my phone off. The last thing I cared about right now was reading a blog post
by someone who was trying to bring me down.

  Zahera’s eyes were closed. Machines beeped on the other side of the bed. We’d spoken briefly when I arrived an hour earlier, the same time her doctor had stopped in for a visit. Thankfully, my best friend would be fine. She had suffered a concussion after falling on her kitchen floor, the result being a golf-ball sized contusion on the back of her head.

  A nurse entered the room and nodded at me. She checked Zahera’s vitals, documented them on a tablet, and then whispered, “Let us know if she needs anything. Although we’re monitoring her at the station non-stop. She’s one of our favorites.” She brought a hand to her chest and then walked off.

  Zahera was a popular gal in this hospital—the one where she delivered most of her babies—and everyone seemed to adore her. I felt comforted knowing she was receiving the white-glove treatment. And that didn’t just extend to the hospital staff. Stan got permission to assign two uniformed officers to stand guard outside her hospital room until they caught the bastard who put her here.

  I huffed out a breath and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. According to Stan, the hunt for Ryan Erickson had been a complete goose chase. He said that when they arrived at the house and kicked the door down, all they found was a server—a computer used to make it seem like Ryan Erickson lived in the home in the rocky hills outside Boerne. The IT guys were then able to map a new destination IP for the person interacting with Joanna through the dating website. They traced it to a person named “Ryan,” who actually lived in Mumbai, India. While the details were still coming in, this man had apparently hacked into the county tax system and put his name as the owner of the dwelling. Stan guessed that this “Ryan” fellow probably did these sorts of things for a living…hacking into various computer systems, scamming women and men alike, to either extort money from them or simply just screw with their lives.

  The end result was deflating—Stan’s team did not capture the serial killer. In fact, while they were on the hunt, Zahera had been fighting for her life.