The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 4-6 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set Book 2)

by John W. Mefford

  I got up and paced the room a few times, wondering when the local cops would walk through the door. I knew they’d ask about Carly. I couldn’t hide my suspicions any longer. But could I really trust them? The stories of local officials, maybe a police chief, being tied to the party house had me concerned.

  I peeked through the blinds and scanned the parking lot. I saw two men in suits walking toward the front entrance. I thought I recalled seeing them at the crime scene. I glanced over at Dad, who was snoozing now, then paced to the other side of the room. I wanted to trust these men, supposedly the good guys. But I couldn’t be naïve—it could cost lives. And I’d be damned if my desire to be a team player would put my kids, or Dad, in harm’s way again. I decided to keep to the facts, then touch base with those I trusted: the Boston crew, Raul, and even Archie. The kidnapping, the party house, Carly’s crazy responses to questions and her possible ties to Bolivar…it seemed like the two cases overlapped, but I couldn’t be sure. We had bits and pieces of evidence and very few connecting points.

  Before the detectives could make their way up to the room, I shot off a group text to Brad, Gretchen, and Nick. I couldn’t wait until daylight to convene the brain trust—too much was at stake. If no one responded within the hour, I’d have to make personal wakeup calls. Another glance between the blinds to stare at the mostly barren parking lot. For just a few seconds, I imagined walking into Brad’s bedroom, seeing him asleep with his shirt off, the sheet stopping just below his waistline. And then I slowly slinked into bed, nestled up next to him, and—

  “Excuse me, Alex Troutt?”

  I turned and found one of the two detectives sticking his head in the door.

  “Don’t want to bother your father. Can you step into the hallway for a quick conversation?”

  I was already headed that way. Our introductions were professional, even courteous. We found three chairs by a vending machine, where one of them paid for my coffee.

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling the first hot sip trail down my chest, knowing that within a few minutes I’d feel an infusion of energy and focus.

  The conversation went just as easily as the introductions. If anything, they seemed a little out of their league when discussing drive-by shootings and possible ties to gangs and drug cartels. I could have written the Q&A script, so no surprises on my end. I stayed with the facts and kept my opinions and theories to myself—they didn’t know to press me otherwise.

  Then we got to the one sticky point. “And where is the girlfriend?” the chubby-jowled detective asked. I’d already forgotten his name. “Uh, Carly Irsham.”

  “She left a couple of hours ago.”

  “Do you know why she left and where she went?”

  “She didn’t really say. It’s awfully late, so maybe she needed sleep.”

  The detective looked at his partner, then licked his fingers and flipped the page in his notebook. “Are you and Ms. Irsham on speaking terms, getting along?”

  “I really don’t know her very well. We just met when my family and I came down here for vacation.”

  The pair traded glances and nodded at the exact same time.

  “You’re from this area, aren’t you?”

  “A fighting Tarpon, yes.” I gave a halfhearted effort to hold up my fist, and then I thought about Archie’s version of our mascot. Yep, he was still sixteen.

  “So, as an FBI agent, and someone who’s from this area, do you have any particular insight into why your Dad and his girlfriend have been involved in two drive-by shootings in the last three days? You have to admit, the odds are pretty crazy. We typically don’t have one of these a year.”

  I pressed my lips together and feigned a look of deep thought. “Don’t really have anything that comes to mind. Since it involves my own family, I guess I’m just focused on making sure they’re safe and recovering.”

  I moved to the edge of my seat, eager to check on Dad and see if my Boston team had awakened for our call.

  They read my body language.

  “Well, uh, thank you for the time. We’ll need to talk to your dad when he’s feeling up to it, maybe tomorrow?”

  I nodded.

  “And I guess we need to locate Carly Irsham. We’ll drop by their house and see if she’s at home. We’ll let you go be with your family.”

  We shook hands, and I went back into the room, where Dad was reaching for his cup of melted ice.

  “Let me get that for you, Dad.”

  I handed it to him as he electronically raised his bed and sipped from his cup. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had creases from the pillow running down the side of his face.

  “Did you get a little nap?”

  “Can’t really do that when they wake me up every few minutes to verify I haven’t kicked the bucket.” His phlegmy voice and attitude made him sound like an old curmudgeon.

  He used his opposite hand to tug at the IV attached to his hand. He groaned and yanked harder.

  “I can help you there,” I said, untangling the plastic tube from the railing.

  “Thanks,” he said, pushing himself higher in the bed. He looked to the door. “Any sign of Carly?”

  “No,” I said, keeping it brief. “How are you feeling?”

  His eyes suddenly focused on the end of the bed, a cold stare that made me wonder if his concussion had thrown him into some type of withdrawn state of mind.

  “Dad?” I shifted to the end of the bed. He didn’t adjust his glare, so I leaned over and waved a hand. “Dad, do I need to call a nurse?”

  He lifted his head quickly, turned to the window, then threw back his covers. “What time is it?”

  I pulled out my phone and thumbed a button. “Just a few minutes after five. Why?”

  “I’ve got to get to my boat. I’ve got a fishing excursion I need to skipper.”

  He looked left and right—for what, I had no idea. I grabbed his mound of sheets and blankets and began to move them over his legs. “Dad, it’s obvious your head injury is impairing your judgment. I understand what that’s like more than anyone.”

  He shuffled his feet, pushing the covers lower again as he continued scanning the room. He didn’t acknowledge a word I said, let alone try to draw a little father/daughter connection to the severe head injury I’d suffered several months back.

  “Dad, this isn’t something you can fake. The brain takes time to heal. I know you don’t want to hear that. I didn’t want to hear that after my crash either.”

  “Do you see any gauze pads and extra bandaging around? Check in those cabinets in the corner, will you?”

  Just to satisfy his curiosity I walked over and opened the cabinet. “Only blankets and pillows. Oh, and a set of barf bags,” I said, looking over my shoulder.

  He pulled his oxygen out of his nose and unhooked the tubing from around his ears, then swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I knew my voice sounded like I was chiding Luke or Erin for doing something really childish, but it was unavoidable. Dad had lost his marbles, and there was no one else around to play the guardian role.

  “Alex, I don’t want us to have another argument, but you have to realize I have a job to do. I can’t call in sick. People rely on me to take them fishing. It might sound like a leisurely activity, but it’s not on my end.”

  “Dr. Thomas said no physical activity for at least a week or so.”

  “I won’t try to do anything stupid. I’m not a five-year-old kid, Alex.” He began to paw at the tape around his IV.

  “What the hell, Dad? You can’t do that. A nurse needs to take out your IV.”

  “You’ve got to remember some of the stories I told you, back in training, and when I had a few rescue missions that involved me and a bunch of fishing hooks? I peeled ten hooks off my skin, and I didn’t have a nurse around talking nicey-nice.”

  He ripped off one piece of tape.

  “Dad, this is ludicrous. Just wait a few hours until the doct
or does her rounds. She’ll probably release you.”

  “It will be too late then.” He lifted his eyes, and for a brief moment, I saw something different than defiance. He suddenly seemed vulnerable, scared possibly.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Dad, you’ve got to tell me what’s really going on. You can’t keep everything inside.”

  He bit into his lip. “I’m just worried about my little boat, that’s all. The motor’s been acting up lately, and I don’t want to be stranded ten miles out to sea and then have to be towed back into port. It would be embarrassing and cost me a shitload of money.”

  I rubbed the area just under my eyes, and despite the infusion of caffeine, a weary impatience trudged through my veins. And it was mainly targeted at my own father and his girlfriend.

  “Dad, this isn’t going to happen.”

  “It sure as hell is. I’m not ten, and you’re not my mother. I’ve got responsibilities. I can’t let people down.”

  He snapped off another piece of tape. “Now, can you get me my clothes?”

  I started walking to the door. “I’m getting a nurse. Maybe she can talk some sense into you.”

  He yelled a string of curse words as I tore down the hall, searching for our nurse. Just beyond the nurse’s station, where four women with wide hips scarfed down brownies, I spotted Nurse Angie. I gave her a quick recap of what Dad was trying to do, and she practically raced me back to his room.

  She opened the door and both of us saw an empty bed. I moved closer and found a huge stain of blood on the sheet.

  “He took out his fucking IV. That—”

  Just then, I heard a murmur of an echoing voice. The nurse raised a finger and ceased movement as both of our heads turned to the bathroom. A minute later, the toilet flushed and Dad came out of the bathroom with his street clothes on and his hand wrapped in what appeared to be a pillowcase. He was pushing his cell phone into his pocket, when he paused, looking at both of us. The nurse took the lead.

  “Mr. Troutt, where do you think you’re going? Don’t answer that, because I’ll tell you where you’re going. You’re going to put your gown back on and get your ass back in that bed. And then I’m going to put that IV back in you, probably on the other hand, and then continue the medication and fluids prescribed by Dr. Thomas. No questions asked.” She pointed at the bed, her chin lifting a couple of inches.

  I wanted to pump my fist, relieved that someone else was finally trying to rein in his foolishness.

  He just shook his head and smiled. “Are you going to taser me or cuff me, Alex? Is that what this has come to now? I’m a grown man. I can do any damn thing I please.”

  “Frankly, if I had my cuffs on me, I probably would. But I don’t, so it’s going to take you acting like an adult.”

  He scratched the back of his head, then looked at me and started to say something.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, Alex. I need to go.” He took a step for the door, and the nurse shuffled to her right, blocking his path.

  “I can’t let you do that, Mr. Troutt. You haven’t been released, and you’re in no condition to be moving around.”

  He sighed, and I could see he was debating to shove her out of the way. The door suddenly opened.

  “Nurse’s aide here to take your breakfast order,” a woman with a pleasant voice said. The door clipped the back of Nurse Angie’s shoe, and she fell forward. The aide saw her colleague fall to the ground and quickly bent down to help her.

  “I’m so sorry. How clumsy of me. I had no idea you were behind the door, Angie.”

  Using the chaos as his opportunity for escape, Dad scooted around the two ladies and out the door.

  “I’ll be damned, I think I might have torn my Achilles tendon, and its hurts like a motherfucker,” Nurse Angie said.

  I paused where she was sprawled out on the floor, her face etched with intense anguish. “I’m sorry. Let me get help,” I said on my way out the door.

  Straight ahead, I could see Dad pushing through the double doors heading to the waiting area. He was actually leaving! I yelled over to the group of nurses munching on food at their station. “Your colleague, Angie, might have torn her Achilles. She needs help.”

  They dropped what they were eating and scrambled into action, while I made a beeline for the double doors. Halfway there, my walk turned into a jog, and I could feel eyes on me. I didn’t give a shit. I burst through the doors. The only person I saw was a man with a thick, gray mustache reading the newspaper. He yawned and looked at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Dad walking through a second set of sliding glass doors. The exit.

  He had no car, so unless he expected to walk to his house or all the way to where his boat was docked, he had reached the end of the line. Damn, he was stubborn.

  Out through both sets of doors I went. Dad was by the curb under the portico, pacing back and forth, the blood-soaked pillowcase still wrapped around his hand and his head bandaged up. He looked a mess.

  “Dad, this is taking everything too far. Come back inside, and let’s talk this out.”

  “Dammit, don’t you know how to listen, Alex? I’m not going back into that hospital.” He kept pacing with surprising strength.

  “This is it, Dad. Tell me what’s going on, or I’m out of here. I’m taking the kids and we’re going back to Boston and you won’t hear from us. I can’t put their lives at risk because you and Carly are too blind or obstinate to help yourselves.” I crossed my arms and tapped my shoe off the ground. He stopped pacing and looked me in the eye. His glare wasn’t mean or spiteful. Instead, it was full of sadness, and I could feel a swell of emotion in my gut.

  “Dad?” A puff of warm air blew hair into my face, but otherwise there was silence.

  I repeated myself. “Dad, are you going to respond?”

  A whirring engine caught my attention and a miniature lime green car sped up to the curb. Before I could take a step, Dad had folded himself into the back seat.

  I looked at the driver. He was young with an overgrown beard. He had in his earbuds, rocking to some type of beat.

  Dad lowered the window a few inches. “I got myself into this mess, and I’ll get myself out, Alex. Don’t worry. I’m a proud man. I can’t rely on my daughter to rescue me every time I get into trouble.”

  A breath caught in the back of my throat. “Dad!”

  He rolled up the window and tapped the driver on the shoulder. It zipped away from the curb before I woke out of my trance to check out the license plate number, then it disappeared out of the parking lot in seconds. I wondered if I’d ever see my dad alive again.

  15

  Soft cotton sheets brushed against his fingertips. The scent of hickory-smoked bacon lingered in the air as a few pots and pans clanged together in Mom’s kitchen. For a moment, Kyle Spencer literally thought he was back home in Boston—he was twelve or thirteen years old, lying in the most comfortable bed in the world. His bed.

  He swallowed but immediately coughed, waking himself up from his slumber. Opening his eyes, he realized it had been a dream. But it also was the best sleep since he thought his life had ended. He shifted under the covers, and a jolt of pain shot up his leg, ending with a pop at the base of his back. The bottom of his foot throbbed, although it had subsided some since he had dozed off a few hours earlier—after Aunt Kitty took care of his wounds, hydrated him, and gave him food. Her chicken noodle soup had been otherworldly. He’d have to get the recipe so his mom, or one of the many cooks she employed, could try to mimic the special brew.

  Looking around the room, the walls were painted a deep burgundy, the texture so prominent it almost seemed like they were padded. He felt like he’d been thrown back to the early 1900s. There was an antique chest with a marble top and a taller chest of drawers made out of cherry wood with a collection of cut crystal on top. An old-fashioned baby’s bed was off to his left. The lamps on either side of the four-post bed had lace hanging from the white shades. Two patchwork
quilts hung from rods on two of the walls.

  Yes, it was like he’d been sent back in time. He took in another breath and tried to allow his body to relax, the memories of the endless torture still prickling his mind. And what about his escape? It was an absolute miracle he’d escaped during the shootout, with hardly an ounce of energy or willpower left in his battered body. Collapsing right outside the back door of Aunt Kitty’s Bed & Breakfast was a sign from above. An angel had descended, taken him into her wings, and blessed him with the gift of life. Actually, it felt more like a rebirth. A new opportunity for Kyle Spencer to turn his life around, to be one of the truly good guys, not just one who pretended to be that way when it was politically correct or when he wanted to score with a woman. When he got back home, he’d go to church, vow to never smoke another joint, sniff another line of coke, or even have a beer. He would live a pure life and be an example to everyone, be that person who finally saw the writing on the wall.

  He listened to his calming heartbeat and his intake of lung-filling breaths, appreciating the freedom to stretch his limbs, do whatever he wanted without the fear of unstoppable retribution or being caged in a closed box for hours, days at a time.

  Life was good.

  But he knew today would be a big day. The day when he would finally share his horrific story with law enforcement, to help them find the perpetrators and make those fuckers pay for what they did to him. Okay, he wouldn’t use the F word. He had issues to work through. He knew he would probably require a shrink visit or two…or maybe two hundred. He was open to it. He was open to anything that involved living and having the chance to improve his life and the lives of those around him, which only gave him more of an eagerness to get the party started.

  He scratched his lower leg and felt his fingernail burrow into a deep wound, albeit one that was covered by one of Aunt Kitty’s bandages. His injuries weren’t close to healing, and his weakness was palpable. Looking at his frame, he guessed he had lost fifty or sixty pounds, maybe more. He was a mere skeleton of what he used to be.