“I owe my life to Clint. The puke machine came through for me,” she had said earlier as we locked hands.
Knowing the tentacles of this maniac had touched Zahera, my gut twisted into a hundred knots. But at least she was safe and well enough.
Stan had also had a long conversation with head of security at her condo complex. Mel Tapper, a former Army captain, had attended the police academy at the same time as Stan. He learned that the perpetrator had disabled two cameras in Zahera’s hallway, then knocked out a bellman in the staircase, allowing him access to her condo.
According to Stan, Tapper had responded as if his home Army base had been attacked by a legion of terrorists. He brought in an armed private security team to man each entrance and exit, including one on each floor, while a subcontractor fixed the security cameras. They created a system to track the whereabouts of all employees and residents. Visitors would have to register in the lobby before being allowed to visit any of the residents’ condos. Tapper had the authority of the condo board to maintain the heightened security until the killer was found or killed. Stan joked with me that Tapper now had instituted better security than Capitol Hill.
I got to my feet and walked around the bed. Zahera seemed at peace. That much couldn’t be said for the Hamricks. After Anika’s ambush at the construction site, where we all learned that her real dad was some type of criminal deviant, my hope for healing old wounds and bringing a family together was a lost cause. Anika had been taken to the hospital, where she was in stable condition. She would live, her doctors said. Police questioned all of us about the sequence of events, focusing mostly on Cristina’s role in injuring Anika. But with Anika’s fingerprints on the gun, they came to understand it was an act of self-defense. Mona and Dexter, who looked like walking zombies, were taken into protective custody by the FBI. Stan said if Anika agreed to testify against this Sciaffini guy, the Feds might be able to put him behind bars, something he’d avoided his entire adult life.
A yawn escaped my lips. The clock next to Zahera’s bed told me it was approaching eleven o’clock at night. I’d been up for almost thirty-six hours, dealing with lying addicts, a vengeful daughter, cops, doctors, you name it. We’d left Black Beauty in Port Isabel to get repaired and then taken a bus back to San Antonio. My bones were exhausted. Stan had given me strict orders to collect my things and get to Camp Tapper, a.k.a. Zahera’s condo. Cristina was to meet me there.
“Love you, Z,” I said, brushing my fingers along her hand. She stayed asleep. I turned to walk out the door and saw Saul talking to one of the assigned officers.
“She knows me,” he said, pointing my way.
I nodded at the officer, then said to Saul, “I really don’t have—”
“I miss you, Ivy.”
I couldn’t formulate a response.
“I messed up. Bad.”
“It’s not about you, Saul.”
“I’m worried about her,” he said, peering around me. “That’s why I wanted to drop by, see what I could do to help.”
I pressed my lips together, wishing things had worked out differently. Wishing he hadn’t tried to play both sides. But it was too late, in more ways than one. “Z will be okay. She’s got a concussion. Probably another day in the hospital.”
He reached out and touched my elbow. I pulled away.
“You look like you’ve gone to hell and back.”
“Thanks.” Doesn’t he know rule number one with girls? Don’t insinuate that we look haggard, no matter what’s going on.
“I didn’t mean it that way. You want to talk about it?”
“I want to take a bath, crawl into bed, and pretend this day never happened. And then I’m going to wake up and come visit my friend tomorrow.”
He took a step back, as if I’d wounded him.
“I need—”
“I read the blog post,” he said.
“Look, I don’t want to waste one second of my life worrying about what some—”
“She talked about Jake.”
Heat crawled up my neck. Was it anger? Was it embarrassment?
“I don’t want to get into your personal life. That’s your business. But she said something pretty awful and I just wasn’t sure if you’d read it. I guess not, which is probably for the better.”
I cinched my purse over my shoulder and took a step down the hallway, but then stopped and turned to Saul. “What did she say that was so bad?”
He rubbed his face. “She said that death follows you wherever you go. As a kid, as an adult. It didn’t matter.”
I walked out of the hospital before I either broke down crying or punched a hole in the wall.
37
I stood on the second-to-last step leading up to my apartment complex, my phone to my ear, waiting for Mona Hamrick to get on the line. Water dripped from my rain-soaked hair to the concrete step. Another storm. The Uber driver had taken me half a block past my complex and then refused to turn around, leaving me to walk that distance in the pouring rain. An FBI agent had called just as I arrived at my complex, saying Mona wouldn’t cooperate with their efforts to put her and Dexter into protective custody until she spoke with me.
I hadn’t moved since the call came in. I couldn’t understand what drove the threatening urgency. I had nothing more to say to Mona, her troubled daughter, or Dexter. I could have said no and just hung up, continued on with my life.
But the agent had said Mona wouldn’t budge until she spoke to me. So I waited, knowing I didn’t want to be the reason she would put their lives at risk.
“Ivy?” Mona sounded broken.
“Yes, Mona. I’m here.”
“I…there’s something I need to tell you.” She spoke like a preschool teacher about to tell her class there would be no recess.
It took everything I had not to snap at her. “Okay…”
A trembling sigh came through the receiver. I pulled the phone from my ear and shook my head. I couldn’t imagine what would elicit another round of emotion.
“What’s on your mind, Mona?”
“Earlier, when I just let everything spill out to Anika about her father, there’s more to that part of my life you should probably know.”
Was I her counselor now? My head was about to explode, which would shoot shrapnel of pain, frustration, disillusionment, and even some fear all around me. I rubbed my face.
“Are you there, Ivy?”
“Yes. Go on.”
Please, just get this shit over with, so I can process it with all of the other bizarre and twisted things people have done to hurt others.
She sniffled. “What I told Anika about her real dad…I was only trying to hurt Anika, I guess. But I didn’t take into account your life.”
My heart pumped faster. “My life?”
“I was nineteen when I got pregnant with Anika. Dexter and I had been dating about six months. We were pretty serious, but just before I left for vacation, we got into a fight. I was jealous over him talking to a girl at work. I was immature and irrational.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand how this impacts my life.”
“I guess you don’t remember this, but I recall meeting you when I went to visit my Aunt Beatrice. In Seguin.”
Where I’d lived with the Webers, my thirteenth foster parents. Frank and Maybelle. Blood flooded my brain, and my brain stuttered, trying to grasp what she’d just said. “She’s from Seguin?”
“That’s where she lived at the time, I think with her second husband. She was your next door neighbor.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to dig through my database of memories, knowing so many doors had been sealed shut to protect my sanity. The lady who had lived next door was known to me only as Mrs. Stokes. Her face didn’t leave a mark on me. I only recalled her wearing one particular outfit, a pair of brown pants and a shirt that had orange and black splotches on it. It was near Halloween.
“I’m sorry Mona, but I don’t recall you or your Aunt Beatrice.�
�
She paused for a moment. “That’s when I got pregnant. I was stupid, impulsive. I think I was just trying to get back at Dexter in my own strange way.”
Still images of my last night at Frank’s house flashed in my mind—his enormous frame standing in the hallway when I’d first gotten home, his secret room in the attic, his fist just before it punched my jaw. The slideshow stopped on the final picture: Frank’s unblinking eyes with his body crumpled in a heap on the floor. I’d pulled him down the stairs, and he’d landed on his head, killing him instantly.
Stop it, Ivy. He was trying to rape you…again. It was an act of self-defense.
“Okay,” I said, pushing out the words as my lungs constricted.
“The boy I had sex with was Frank Weber’s son, Milton. He’s Anika’s father.”
“What?”
“I know it’s messed up. I’ve hated myself for it ever since that night. But somehow I buried it deep inside. When I got back home in Nacogdoches, Dexter and I made up, and then he asked me to marry him. I found out I was pregnant and realized it had to be Milton’s baby, but I kept it to myself. As you probably figured out, I’m pretty good with ignoring reality.”
Milton Weber. I’d met him a couple of times when he’d come home from college. He had actually tried to hit on me once, but I’d thwarted his advances rather easily. He wasn’t nearly as good at sexual assault as his dad, Nasty Frank.
I thought I heard her say something about Milton and prison as I took in a shaky breath, wondering what all of this meant to me. I finally got my wits about me. “Milton went to prison?”
“That’s what I said, yes. But what I didn’t say is that I learned that he’s now out of prison.”
“How long has he been out?”
“Two, three months. He raped a little girl, Ivy. And I just wondered all this time if he might have hurt you all those years ago.”
I suddenly couldn’t catch my breath, and I leaned on the railing. Supposed unrelated data points comingled in my mind. I compared body frames from fifteen years ago. Milton was pear-shaped, but not as big as his dad. Give him another forty or fifty pounds…then could he be our killer? He had an acne problem all those years ago. And he sneezed a lot, as if allergies were an issue.
Milton must have learned his dad was a child rapist. And Milton had been convicted of the same crime. And he’d been in prison for years. Some were lucky enough to rehabilitate. Others came out worse than when they went in.
I had to admit, the idea of Milton being the serial killer was plausible. Milton had similar physical characteristics and, given how his dad had died, he had motive. He could have easily suspected me since I’d taken off without a word. Would he really go to all of this trouble to exact revenge on me?
“I need to go, Mona.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ivy. You did what you thought was best for me and my family. I just wanted you to know about my past. And I didn’t want to sleep another night until I asked if you were okay.”
I hung up without saying another word.
38
The cop standing outside my apartment was young and helpful. He took the keys from my trembling hands, then unlocked and opened my door for me. “There will be a car to take you to Camp Tapper.” Obviously, word had spread through the ranks of the SAPD.
“I’ll only be a few minutes.” I shut the door and dropped to the floor, my hands pressed against my head. My pulse hadn’t dropped out of the red level. My chest felt heavy and tight. I wondered if I was having a heart attack. I took in a deep breath, trying to relieve the pressure in my chest. I was drained on so many levels. But also fearful. I couldn’t just crawl into my bed and pretend I hadn’t heard what Mona shared.
“Why didn’t you think about this possibility before now?” I pounded the heels of my palms into my head. I was disgusted with myself. It was right there all along, and I didn’t see it. Or I couldn’t see it because I was so worried about delving into my role in Frank’s death.
Lives could have been saved. Zahera would not have been injured.
“Cristina,” I whispered.
I grabbed my purse and dug for my phone. Found it. Just as quickly, it slipped through my fingers and clanged off the floor. I picked it up as Zorro made an appearance. He swooped under my knee and then looked up at me, meowing up a storm. Lifting to my feet, I tapped Cristina’s name from my list of recent contacts. As the line rang, I opened the cabinet door, scooped out a portion of dry cat food and leaned down to drop it in Zorro’s bowl. But he bumped my hand as I was releasing the food, and it scattered all over the floor.
“Way to go, Zorro.” He didn’t care. He went after his food like a cat that hadn’t eaten in almost two days. I refilled his bowl of water and set it down.
The phone still to my ear, I realized it was ringing repeatedly. It then rolled to voicemail. “You know the routine. Leave a message,” Cristina’s voice said.
“It’s me. Where are you? Please call me as soon as you get this.”
I ended the call, strummed my fingers on the counter. Cristina had stopped at the hospital to see Zahera for just a few minutes. Once Stan gave us the orders, she said she needed to pick up some of her stuff, including her guitar, Violet. And she’d insisted on walking.
Fuck.
I couldn’t stop cursing as I threw clothes and toiletries into an overnight bag. I dialed Stan on my way out of the door, nodding politely at the officer as I listened to the line ring. “You leaving soon?” I asked the officer.
“I’m on duty until the next officer arrives.”
Didn’t make sense if I wasn’t going to be at home, but… whatever. “Okay. Thanks for being here.” I flipped around and walked down the hall. Maybe Stan thought the killer would show up at my apartment. Who knew?
His line finally rolled to voicemail. After the beep, I said, “Stan, I got a call from Mona down in South Padre. It’s a long story, but I think I know the killer’s name. It’s too complex to explain in a voicemail. Plus, I’m worried about Cristina. Call me please.”
I punched the line dead as I walked down the stairs. With everything going on, Stan probably hadn’t slept in his bed for two days. I wondered how many candy bars he’d consumed in that amount of time. By the time I hit the last step, I couldn’t help myself—I dialed Cristina again. No sound for a few seconds. I looked at the screen and realized it was still connecting as I walked out the front door and into a driving rain. I put my purse over my head, searching for the police car. Through the downpour, I saw someone waving, standing next to a car, and I jogged in that direction. Cristina’s line kept ringing until it finally went to voicemail again. The officer held open the back door to one of those unmarked police cars, what looked like a Crown Victoria.
I left another message for Cristina as I slid into the back seat. “Cristina, where the hell are you, girl? I’m headed to Zahera’s. You better be there. Call me.”
The doors of the car shut, muting the noise of the pounding rain. I could still hear drops pinging the rooftop, but it was far less threatening. I took a breath, then stared at my phone.
“Everything okay, Ms. Nash?” The officer had a rhythmic, country lilt to his voice. He kept his eyes on the road as we slowly pulled out of the parking lot, heading north.
“Fine. Well, okay, I guess.” I set the phone on the seat and twisted my ponytail to wring the water from my hair. Why didn’t I think about grabbing an umbrella?
A few minutes passed and the storm grew worse. I picked up my phone and punched in a text to Cristina:
Not sure why ur not answering ur phone. On way to Z’s. Break out the ice cream.
I tapped send and released another breath.
“You still good back there?” the officer asked, having to yell over the pounding rain. His southern drawl made him sound like a NASCAR driver trying to speak over the roar of engines.
I looked back at my phone. There were no bars. “Crap, no service.”
“Your cell pho
ne not working?”
“Hell no.”
“I can try to call for you.”
“That would be cool. Actually, can you call ahead to the condo and see if a Cristina Tafoya has checked in?”
“No problem.” He put a cell phone to his ear as he executed a turn in the rain. I was a little worried about the multitasking, but he was a professional. I heard him talking, but the pelting rain drowned out the specific words. He put the phone to his side.
“Any word?” I asked.
“No one by that name has checked in, according to the security person I spoke with. I gave him my number and asked him to call once she arrived.”
“Thanks. How much longer in this weather?”
“Given this storm…” He leaned forward until the brim of his hat tapped the ceiling. “Probably a good thirty minutes.”
The officer was steady and calm behind the wheel, which allowed me to let the rain serve as white noise. My pulse finally slowed, and I leaned my head back. I closed my eyes for a few minutes.
Think positive, I told myself. Cristina probably just got hung up talking to one of her friends on the street. Or maybe she’d let her cell phone battery die. She would be okay. If anyone was a survivor, it was her.
The drum of the tires rolling over metal lifted my head. I looked around and noticed we were on a highway, moving at good clip, the rain more of a drizzle. The roar of an airplane drew my eyes to look out the window. It was landing off to my right. Was that the airport?
Then I saw a green sign. I scooted forward, put my hands on the front seat. “Johnson City is forty-eight miles away. I think we passed the exit for Zahera’s condo.”
He turned his head to look out the driver’s-side window. But he didn’t respond.
That was when I realized that my fingers were touching metal. There was a cage separating the front and back seats.
That’s normal. It’s a fricking police car.
I then looked at the locks. They were recessed into the door.
Still, very normal for this kind of car.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 47
