Twenty yards from the backstop, she found herself smiling. A bug flew into her mouth, and she jump-stopped and spit out the bug. “Nasty.”
Looking up, she saw a light flicker from the opening in the woods. She remembered there was a path in that area that led to the high school on the other side of the woods.
Breathing like a panting dog, she walked toward the opening in the woods. Did she see the figure of a person? Her mom? She was too far away to be sure of anything at this point. The thump of her heart quickened with each step, as nervous anticipation mixed with a sense of…dread.
But why?
She didn’t stop to think about it. In fact, she tried to push the feeling out of her mind. Swinging her arms, she moved quickly in the direction where she’d seen the light on the other side of the backstop. She nearly ran into a set of metal bleachers. Only three rows high, they were overgrown with weeds. She shifted around the stands and made her way to the dip in the tree line.
She stopped, peering into the woods. “Mom?” Her voice was so soft it cracked from a lack of conviction. She wondered if her mother had passed out somewhere in the thicket of trees, a used crack pipe cupped in her hand.
She cleared her throat. “Mom.” This time the sound of her own voice made her body stiffen.
There was no answer. No sound. It was as if all forms of life in the forest had been exterminated. It was surreal, unnerving. Sweat trickled down her spine. She fought the urge to flip around and run away. But could she let her mom die in the middle of a desolate forest, where no one would find her until her body had decomposed upon a bed of leaves?
Shuffling forward with reluctance, any stream of positive thinking had been erased. Cristina braced herself for the worst—finding her mom clinging to life. She would be responsible for bringing her back from the dead. But she didn’t want that responsibility. She was tired of being the adult. That was her mom’s job, wasn’t it?
Out of the corner of her eye, a light flicked on. She jerked her head to see a man’s bare chest glowing from a lighter. He wore an open black leather vest, skintight Wranglers, and boots.
It was Jesse. “Funny to run into you, Cristina. We’ve got some catching up to do.”
Her entire body went cold.
8
The orange embers of Jesse’s cigarette glowed in the dark as he trampled through weeds and brush to move onto the wide dirt path. Cristina’s brain fired off a flurry of mixed messages: run like hell, attack this animal and beat the shit out of him, or…
“Cat got your tongue, or are you just so excited to see me that you don’t know how to express your feelings?”
His hick accent felt like her raw nerves were being scraped across a cheese grater. As he sucked on his cigarette, the cherry illuminated his weathered face. She could just make out the scar under his left eye. Many people hated Jesse, but only a few had the guts to make it physical. She glanced around, looking for something she could use as a weapon. But she had worse problems; her feet seemed like they had been sealed in a slab of concrete.
“What are you doing here? Where’s Mom?” She realized her hand was gripping a thin tree. Her fingers dug into the bark until she could feel it wedge under her nails.
“She’s probably finishing up her shopping trip about now. She’s looking for maternity clothes.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “What the fuck did you just say?”
He chuckled, nodding. “Can you believe that old hag? She actually got pregnant. We’re kind of going on the assumption that the baby’s mine. Who knows, given how some of our parties go. You remember those, don’t you, Cristina?”
Her jittery hand wiped sweat off her upper lip. “You’re a fucking liar. Always have been. How did you know to meet me here?”
“To be honest, I missed you. Well, I missed the smell of you.”
He was trying to bait her. It was almost like he wanted her to go ballistic. But why? It didn’t matter. She just knew his intentions were always demented. And in the middle of a dark forest, he probably had the worst of intentions.
“Jesse, I don’t have time to play your silly mind games. I only came here to meet Mom. If she’s busy, then I’m outta here.” But only her upper body moved, began to turn and start the leaving process; her feet were still immobile—out of sheer shock. And maybe some curiosity too. About this baby thing.
“You thought she wanted to mend your broken relationship.”
She flipped her head to face him, but no words crossed her lips.
“She hasn’t mentioned your name in months. She doesn’t give a shit about you. She only cares about that next high.”
Even though she’s pregnant? It didn’t make sense, but she couldn’t decipher his bullshit right now. She could feel a tremble inside her chest, a tornado of emotion building strength with each passing second.
“But we all know your mom has her issues. She’s never been able to hold her liquor, and she’s pretty mentally unstable. But enough about her. Ever since you left, I haven’t been able to get my mind off you. I’m ready to ride the fresh, young horse again.”
“You’re sick!” She took a step forward and blew a wad of spit at his face.
“Whoa there, Cristina,” he said, jumping back. “An exchange of bodily fluids is a serious step. But if you want to go there, I can go there.”
He was on top of her before she could blink. He flipped her around, one arm around her stomach, the other gripping her long hair, his hot breath pulsating against her neck. It made her want to puke.
“Let me go, asshole.”
“Do you really think you’re in a position to tell me what to do?” He tugged her ponytail even harder. “Then again, like daughter like mother. She never stops yapping, bitching, and moaning about everything. I need a fucking break. And that’s where you come in.”
His laughter filled the silent nighttime air, mentally stabbing at her, wounding her. With her arms pinned to her side, she had no way to grab or punch him. But maybe this was another one of his infamous teases, where he’d toy with her, scare the crap out of her, and then walk away before he took it too far. If he was telling the truth—and she knew that was hardly a foregone conclusion—in a few months she would have a half-sibling, and he was the father.
“Jesse, think about this, dude. You’re going to be a father.” She wiggled her sweaty arms and could feel some give in his grip. “You might have your issues with Mom, even me, but once you have a kid, it’s a game-changer. That’s what I’ve heard anyway.”
A quick laugh turned into a hacking cough. The smell of his putrid smoker’s breath pumped into her face. “A kid,” he finally said. “You know how many whores I’ve knocked up? I could probably field a football team by now. But I’ve never heard from or seen any of them. That’s not my job. That’s the woman’s job.”
She had to think of another angle, something to shock his mind.
“I just started my period.”
“What the fuck?” He immediately pushed her away as if she had a contagious disease.
Now was her chance. She bolted out of her stance, but because she was heading into the woods she could hardly see five feet in any direction. Her speed slowed as she moved more cautiously, though her breathing kept up its rapid pace. She shuffled her feet with her hands in front of her, moving from tree to tree.
A raging growl from behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see his gnarled teeth framed by a twisted scowl. He was midair and quickly pounced on top of her. They tumbled into the brush, his weight momentarily deflating her lungs.
He must have become disoriented, because he paused for a second. She caught her breath, jumped to her knees, and scrambled deeper into the forest. But thoughts of escape were nothing more than a figment of her imagination. He sprang to his feet and drove his shoulder into her back. Face-planting into a bed of thorns, she screamed.
“You’re going to wish you weren’t on your period,” he said, grabbing her arm, twisting it behind her
back. “I can’t leave here without having a little fun, so I guess we’ll skip the sex.”
She felt a pop in her shoulder joint, then the throbbing pain in her upper arm. He dug his nails into her back. Her shirt began to rip as he snarled like an angry dog. She grabbed at the ground, trying to pull herself away, but it was useless. She was under his control.
He flipped her over, straddling her torso. “Oh, this is going to be fun, Cristina. Oh so fun.” He backhanded her across the face, and she tasted blood. She realized her hands were finally free, and she slapped and clawed at him. He swatted her arms as if he were some type of karate expert, and she could feel a desperation wash over her body. She had no way to fend him off.
He punched her two, three, four times, connecting with her jaw, her nose, her eye, each punch feeling like a sledgehammer. The smell of her own blood loomed in the air. He was going to beat her to death.
He paused a second, wiping sweat from his forehead. She spit out a mouthful of bloody saliva, spraying it across his face
“Nasty bitch.” He grabbed her wrists, pinned her arms on the ground. Sweat dripped onto her face, stinging her open wounds. She thrashed her body, desperate to pull herself out from his grip. But it was useless. He was too strong, too committed to hurting her.
Would he actually kill her?
He started to seethe, and then moved his hands to her throat and squeezed. She gagged, unable to push air through her throat. She squirmed, but his fingers lodged deeper into her throat, the pain unrelenting. She tried to pull his hands off, digging what little fingernails she had into his hands, but it only seemed to give him more strength.
She could hear him chuckle as her eyes went blurry. He was enjoying every moment, like a kid on a roller coaster.
Her energy plummeted with each passing second. Her brain told her body to fight back, but the message was nothing more than vapor. She had nothing left. Tears poured down her cheek, and she wondered if her last visual in life would be of this maniac.
She couldn’t die at the hands of this animal. She couldn’t give him the satisfaction. But death was inevitable. Her arms fell limply above her head, her eyes closing.
Her palm felt the rough edges of a stick—a gift from above? She gripped the stick, hurled her arm forward. It plunged into Jesse’s eye. He yelled liked a wounded animal and fell backward.
She rolled to her side, choking out breath after breath. Relief.
A yelp drew her attention behind her. Lying on his back, Jesse yanked the stick out of his eye. cussing and screaming wildly. He wasn’t defeated. He might come after her again, right now or even later. She couldn’t take that chance.
Cristina scrambled through the leaves and brush and found a rock the size of a softball. She crawled over to Jesse, who was still writhing in pain, both hands covering his bloody face. Looking to cause the greatest amount of pain, she smashed the rock directly against his head, focusing on the side with the wounded eye. He shrieked, rolling around wildly.
She pummeled his face and head with that rock. With each connecting blow, she felt stronger. His grunts faded, and his limbs dropped to the ground, barely moving now.
“Please…” he garbled, his face a swollen, bloody mess. “Please stop.”
She paused, holding the rock with both hands high above her head, ready to thrust her arms downward with everything she had. To end her torment of the last year or so. To end her mother’s torment of so many years. To end his life.
The world will be a better place. Do it. Kill this motherfucker.
Channeling all of her energy, she closed her eyes and did what she had to do.
And then she walked away.
9
Fifteen minutes of prowling the streets looking for a parking space had finally paid off. I shifted the gear of Black Beauty—my eleven-year-old Honda Civic—into reverse, and for the first time since forever, I executed a nearly perfect parallel park. I opened my car door and saw I was only inches from the curb.
I plucked my purse off the passenger seat and quickly locked the car door behind me. I was fifteen minutes late to a meeting with San Antonio Police Detective Stan Radowski at one of our routine watering holes, Ernesto’s.
Stan, who looked like a grizzly bear and at times ate like one, had become a close friend. When I had worked for CPS, he was my assigned liaison from the SAPD. We both had our moments of defining our space, but he had been one of the few folks in his department who could put up with my obsession to do what was right for the child—a position that ultimately got me fired from CPS. Oh, the irony.
As I slipped the car keys into my bag, I quickly took in my surroundings. I walked past a construction zone on my left. A tall wall with some advertisement painted on a wooden board kept me from seeing how much progress had been made. While I could see the glow of car headlights turning off the street three blocks down, I didn’t see another pedestrian anywhere. A dim, yellow light glowed just enough to keep me from tripping on three metal spikes, remnants of signs that had been torn off about six inches from the concrete. Now that’s certainly a lawsuit waiting to happen.
I took in a breath, thinking about Saul for a brief moment. Seeing him at the Burchfield house had been awkward, at least initially. But with his easy demeanor, I had quickly become comfortable being around him again. Even if he worked for the Grinch, he still had a caring nature about him.
I made it to the corner, turned left, and immediately picked up a foul stench. Had to be a portable bathroom, likely on the other side of the construction wall still on my left.
It had been a while since I’d been out socially. While the atmosphere was warm and sticky, a gentle breeze swept across my face. As I finally passed the cloud of stench, I took in a deep lungful of air, clearing my head. I’d recently allowed my greatest fears to rule my life—and nearly ruin it. Now, I was back in the game, at least taking the first step.
Milton Weber might very well be alive. But I finally admitted to myself that he could just as easily be dead. Following the car crash that had freed me from captivity, he’d had to sever his foot to get away from the scene.
What kind of desperate person would do something like that?
A completely twisted freak, that’s who. But how could he survive something like that?
I’d been exposed to countless deranged people over the years. And what Milton had done…well, it put him right at the top. The loss of blood from cutting off his foot would surely have been catastrophic. And while no one had found a dead body, he could have made it to Lake Buchanan and drowned.
That was how I chose to imagine it, at least for the moment. I made my way to the bar. To have a drink with a friend. Just the sound of it made me feel like I’d dipped my toe back into normal society. Although I did have some work-related questions for Stan, I felt alive again.
A baritone laugh made me flinch. Someone was behind me, maybe eight feet back. Where did he come from? I pulled my purse under my arm.
“Don’t they say blondes have more fun?”
His footfalls were rubbery, and without turning around, I guessed he was slim, a little taller than my five-six frame, and his voice made him sound young. I gritted my teeth, trying to suppress my mixed emotions…a toxic mix of staggering fear with sheer outrage. It isn’t Milton, I tried to remind myself. It isn’t Milton.
“Oh, you’re going to be that way, huh?” he said, now with an attitude. “Too many women in this city think they’re better than everyone else. Well, I’m fucking tired of it. I’m a damn good catch, and it’s time I got some respect.”
A hand touched my shoulder. The next few seconds seemed like they were played out in slow motion. I rammed my elbow into his gut. He doubled over, his curly, black hair flopping forward. In one smooth motion, I slid my hand into my purse and found the comforting grip of my Luger pistol. I twisted around and thrust my knee upward, catching him squarely on the chin.
I heard the clatter of teeth as the man stumbled backward—but he didn’t hi
t the ground. In the few beats it took him to find his balance, I took three running steps in his direction and swung my foot like a soccer player, kicking out his leg that supported most of his weight.
“What the…?” he called out in midair.
He landed with a hard thud on his back, his eyes shutting for a moment. He had on jeans and a gray hoodie. I pumped out a series of breaths, my heart still hammering my chest. He rolled onto his side.
Squinting my eyes, I could see his hand find the pocket of his hoodie. “Don’t you fucking dare!” I screamed as I pounced on top of him, my elbow crushing his back. With his arm trapped under his body, I jabbed the end of my 9mm into the side of his neck.
“You move a muscle, and I’ll blow a hole through your neck.”
No response, and then he stammered something I didn’t understand.
“What did you say?” I managed to ask, my jaw rigid from the rush of adrenaline.
“I…can’t…breathe.”
“Too fucking bad. You were about to assault me.”
The man whimpered.
I pressed my gun harder into his neck. “Admit it, asshole. You probably walk the streets looking for innocent women you can take advantage of. You thought I was one of the weak ones, didn’t you?”
“I…can’t…”
“Didn’t you?” I yelled.
More whimpering.
“Ivy, what the hell is going on?”
I glanced up to see Stan pulling his gun from his side holster.
“I think he’s carrying,” I said. “He tried to attack me.”
“Let me take over. Put your gun away before you hurt someone.”
“But Stan—”
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 53
