GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  A sudden chill created a quiver. She briefly shut her eyes to erase the putrid thoughts.

  Trudy stared into the corner of the garage, as her mind drifted back to what had been the most oppressive time of her life. In her twenties, the gullible former college cheerleader fell for a dark and handsome young man, who wined her and dined her, literally charming the pants right off her. She was living a fairy tale—up until the time they got married. The wining and dining ended, and the man, with a growing reliance on alcohol, became abusive.

  She closed her eyes and winced, recalling his leather belt lashing her back like she was sub-human. At the time, she felt guilty somehow and hid the abuse for nearly three years.

  Finally, in the midst of one of his alcoholic rages, she noticed his hand leaning on the counter while he took a swig out of the bottle of vodka. She leaped for the butcher-block knife and swung with all her might downward onto the counter. It sliced through two of his fingers, leaving half of his middle finger attached to the blood-soaked blade. Writhing in pain, he threw the bottle at her head, cutting her face. She screamed and fled from the house. She never saw him again. A scar on her right temple, typically covered by her flowing locks, was a reminder of her past. She touched it now.

  Trudy recalled the process in which she'd rebuilt her confidence and her life. She spent a great deal of time with her sister, a fashion designer in Paris, and learned how to carry herself like a self-assured woman and to expect every man, every person, to treat her with respect and decency. Later, her sister helped her open a bookstore in Austin. With her self-esteem firmly in place, she believed she could live out the rest of her life without having to lean on another man.

  Then, Arthur walked in her store one day. He was mature, charming, learned, and full of life. They were married ten months later. Over the last five years, she had developed a few bad habits, most notably being too reliant on their comfortable lifestyle. She vowed to change, become more humble, and remember the things her sister taught her...if she ever got out of this God-forsaken jungle. She longed for home. She longed for Arthur.

  “Hey, little lady.” Luis' eerie voice startled Trudy. She had been deep in thought, and he'd entered without her noticing.

  Wearing a spine-chilling smirk, Luis stared into Trudy's eyes and licked his lips. Gripped with insufferable fear, her heart sprinted. She held up her hands and backed as far away as she could, but there would be no escape. Her head dropped. He began to unzip his shorts.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Why does it take a funeral to bring people together?” I asked Marisa as we parked the car in the church parking lot. "I see all of these people showing up to support Stu and his family. Where were they Sunday night when Courtney was dumped in front of the hospital after shooting up with some bizarre drug mixture?"

  As irrational as my logic sounded once it came out, Marisa could see I was feeling more emotional about this funeral—our fourth in the last three months—because it hit so close to home. It forever changed the life of someone who had become our friend in the last year. Why did this have to happen to another person, another teenager in our community? Marisa held my arm as we walked into the sanctuary, which was filled with bowed heads, either from shame or sheer misery.

  As I'd expected, emotions had begun to spill over in the last few days. A herd of hardcore parents had stormed the school board meeting two nights ago, shouting and holding up signs, demanding the resignation of the superintendent. They believed he solely was to blame for the four teenager overdosing deaths, none of which occurred on any school district campus.

  Rose had spoken with the upset parents and, after some investigation, found out one set of parents had actually gone out of town a couple of months earlier, leaving their teenage son to host a party, which later was busted by the police for underage drinking and pot smoking. As for any drug deals on campuses, Rose couldn't find evidence supporting that theory, yet no one could provide proof that all campuses were drug-free. Essentially, everyone wanted to pass the buck, and no one wanted to take responsibility. And really, who was responsible? Everyone? No one? It was a terribly frustrating situation.

  This service was unlike the three others, at least partially because we were at a different church. The Owens family was devout Catholic. I'd been to a Catholic church only once...a lot of rituals, and not the usual fire-and-brimstone speeches from the pulpit. Given the speech by Minister Luke Watkins just one week prior, Marisa and I, and possibly others, were wondering if we'd hear another poignant lesson today.

  But there was no call to action, no inspirational message. Probably for the best. I surveyed the crowd, and the expressions on the distressed faces showed me that the emotional capacity of the people sitting in the pews and standing in the aisles was nearly drained.

  Near the end of the service, Stu and his family gathered around Courtney's casket. Her brother leaned over and embraced it.

  They say dark holes exist only in outer space. Looking at Stu and his family trying to cope with this heartbreak, it was easy to see this tragedy had destroyed their spirits—the pits of their stomachs aching, acid tearing them apart, leaving the darkest of holes in their cavities, in their hearts. Shrills of pain bounced off the walls of the spiritual chamber, interrupted only by sniffles from those watching and mourning.

  The formal service ended with Courtney's soccer teammates rolling the casket out of the church, Courtney's letter jacket draped over the coffin. I saw her number 10 on a red sleeve, surrounded by other patches. Despite her role in this tragic event, it was apparent she'd touched many lives. Academically, she was an honor student and a member of the Spanish Club. Mostly, she was a daughter, a sister, a niece, and a friend.

  Marisa and I joined the congregation that lined the steps outside the church to show respect for the grieving family as they walked to their waiting black limousines. It was an odd experience, excruciating, almost unbearable to peer into the depths of agony of another human being—worse, someone I knew. I kept asking myself as I continued to survey the crowd, “Is anyone watching this? Is this going to keep everyone here from sticking a needle in their arm or blow up their nose?” I hoped. I prayed.

  I opened my eyes, and Stu was standing in front of me, weeping. He hugged me, and I reciprocated. His whisper into my ear caught me by surprise.

  “Michael, thank you and Marisa for being here, along with Brandon and everyone from the paper. It means a lot to me.” He took a half step back, keeping one hand on my shoulder. “I want you to promise me something.”

  “Anything,” I said softly.

  His grip tightened around my shoulders, as if he was willing himself to finish his thought.

  “I want you to understand who did this and why. We can't let Courtney's death, like the others, just be forgotten. I mean it, Michael. Promise me that you, personally, will make sure that we get to the bottom of this. I know you're a man of your word. I've seen it.”

  I stared into his red-rimmed eyes, and I saw more pain than I'd ever seen in my life.

  “If everyone at this service isn't immediately impacted, they're not paying attention. We won't let Courtney's death be forgotten. We'll keep her and your family in our thoughts and prayers.”

  The hearse, followed by the family, drove off to a private burial-site ceremony, and mercifully, the service ended.

  As the crowd broke up, various groups huddled together. Some prayed, a few exchanged hugs. Everyone had his own method of healing, I guess. In the distance, I saw the former owner of my old company, William, walking with his wife and youngest son to their car. I wasn't sure of the youngster's name. He looked disheveled. Then again, teenage kids typically had a difficult time cleaning up. They wore black like everyone else.

  Marisa and I slowly approached our car. We hadn't spoken since arriving. We could feel each other's pain, as we both witnessed the despair. She grabbed me and turned me around and buried her face in my chest.

  “I can't imagine, Michael. Burying y
our own child,” she said. “While I've thought about how wonderful it would be to have children of our own, I see the pressure, the enticements. All of this seems so cruel, pointless, and so very painful. I'm not sure I want to expose our child to that.”

  I acknowledged her insight and thoughts. I kissed her forehead, and we both got in the car and headed home.

  “Michael, I know Stu was very emotional, maybe a bit angry, which was completely understandable. But do you think it's possible for you and Brandon and Rose and everyone to get to the bottom of this? Drug use, drug dealing, drug-related crime has gone on in communities like ours for years and years. What can he really expect you to accomplish?”

  I gazed across the road, somewhat in a daze from the emotional drain.

  It wasn't the right time to get into a philosophical discussion on drug use in America. But Stu's emotions resonated, and for good reason. He's a grieving father who only wants to believe that his daughter's death will have some meaning in this crazy, sometimes fucked-up world.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The alarm sounded, and Marisa elbowed my arm. I nudged her back, wanting to delay the start of the day a tad longer. Unfortunately, my brain started churning, which, in turn, pulled me up from the bed. Still yawning as I made my way into the kitchen to start the coffee, I noticed a piece of paper on the counter. It read: I received a call late last night from the hospital, and they need me to fill in for a sick employee. I didn't want to wake you. Hope to see you soon. Love, Mama.

  I hadn't heard a thing all night, so learning Mama Emilia had snuck out during the early-morning hours was almost disturbing. As I thought more about it, there was something about her that was puzzling, almost mysterious. She hadn't said anything noteworthy to make me feel that way. Maybe she wasn't as open and transparent as I thought mothers should be. I showed the note to Marisa.

  “I guess I'm not surprised. Remember, this is the same woman who, with virtually no warning, just picked up and moved into one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in San Antonio.” Marisa sounded a little bitter.

  It was difficult to understand everyone's motives, especially when I was more focused on trying to spearhead the paper's expanding coverage of the drug deaths, as well as counsel Arthur on responding to the direction and threats from his wife's abductors.

  First things first. I ran outside to grab the paper and read the details of the first set of stories from Rose.

  Header: School District to Consider New Drug Policy

  Sub-header: Drug testing, New Awareness Campaign being Debated

  I'd learned from Rose that the school board and superintendent had felt pressure to develop a response from the public outcry of the four drug overdose deaths, and these policy changes appeared to be a start. But as I read Rose's story, I realized that the wheels of change at any level of government—even in the most desperate or obvious conditions—is often met with a stonewalled reaction. She'd been able to meet with a few of the leaders from the opposition groups, all of who planned to speak at the next school board meeting.

  One group of parents was upset the proposed drug testing program would include a number of drugs, instead of focusing only on the more “serious” drugs, like cocaine, methamphetamines, and heroin. The proposed program would also include marijuana and steroids.

  “I don't think we want to waste taxpayer money on testing for drugs that some kid could inhale at a rock concert,” said the opposition leader in the story. “In addition, testing for steroids...this is like Congress throwing in some earmarks on top of another bill. They're hoping we don't read the fine print. Well, we do, and we'll be at the school board meeting in full force.”

  Rose then stated this particular parent had two kids in athletics, including one who was an All-State defensive tackle.

  The other group was led by a parent who happened to be a lawyer. She, apparently, had conducted research on drug testing at other public school districts across the country. She said there was evidence that the results were not reliable, and at times, the drug-testing firms did not affectively protect the anonymity of the students being tested.

  Finally, a third group of parents fell back in time about forty years, claiming the school district shouldn't be in the business of educating kids on drug awareness.

  “We believe that churches and our families should be the only educators of our children on these important topics,” the concerned parent said.

  Rose's story pointed out this parent also led an effort two years prior, to try to outlaw some of this country's most cherished classic novels, including The Grapes of Wrath.

  “There you go, Rose. Let the facts show that they are speaking out of both sides of their mouths,” I said out loud.

  Before I showered for the day, I needed to check out one more printed story.

  Editorial Headline: Drug Overdose Hurts Most When Close to Home

  Driving home from the funeral, I debated about what to do with my pent-up emotions. Not certain where it would take me, I sat down to try to summarize my thoughts. I decided to focus on the specific events of the funeral service, initially describing the facts as if it was a regular news story. Then, I made my comparison to how people felt after 9/11—sadness, vulnerability, anger, and even retribution. I made the point that for us, as a community, to curb drug use and to reduce—hopefully eliminate—overdoses and deaths, it would take the entire village to be mindful and engaged in kids' lives. I read the last couple of paragraphs again.

  “Look in the mirror. Look across your dinner table. I'm assuming you see another human being...someone you love. But inside all of us, some more than others, is the source of this issue. We can, and should, try to find the drug dealer and drug trafficker, but the underlying problem is our own uncontrollable desire for the drugs and what it does for us.”

  “We can blame others, but the drug pipeline into this community can be greatly reduced by shrinking the demand. Teenagers, as well as lawyers, teachers, doctors, athletes, and every other group take drugs for many reasons. But it all starts with each of us taking an honest look at every person we love. Could they be users? Or worse, addicts? Are they headed that way? How can we impact their lives to get them help, improve their self-esteem, change their direction? No one is exempt. We all must stand up and take ownership of this issue before we fall into a crevice so deep we won't escape. Do it for yourself. Do it for the ones you love, even if they resent you for it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Having survived a freakish windstorm on my way into work, I brushed sand and dirt off my clothes as I stood in my office. Grit wedged between my teeth, granules of sand were in my hair, and some of the filth had even invaded my sealed computer bag. Spirals of dust and gravel had swirled across the roads and landscape like mini-tornadoes. Muted car headlights shone in the middle of the day, and drivers slowed to a fraction of their normal speed. Four delivery-type vehicles had been toppled, creating multiple pile-ups and related onlooker crashes.

  Squeezed into the side of my bag was today's paper, turned inside out. I removed it and opened it up. Marisa had taken a red marker and drawn a heart around my editorial, with the words “I Love You” in the middle. I looked up to see if anyone was walking by my office, thinking Marisa's overture was a bit corny. I glanced over at her metal framed picture on my desk. I swear she has the most authentic, personable smile in the world. I realized this was Marisa's way of telling me she respected my opinions, my way of communicating those thoughts, and simply loved me for who I was. What else can a man ask for? Warmth permeated throughout my body.

  “Hey, boss, nice job on the editorial.” Brandon quickly stuck his head in my office, then waved and kept walking down the hallway.

  Minutes later, I caught up with my editor, who in the short time he'd been out of my sight had already grabbed a reporter and photographer and given them instructions on a new feature he'd like to see in the Sunday paper. They left his bustling office as I entered.

  “Have you seen
Rose this morning? I need to congratulate her for diving into our drug story coverage and stirring it up a bit.” I opened the paper and took another glance at the strong work.

  “Yep, she was in here bright and early this morning,” Brandon remarked. “We need to build her confidence so she can continue moving out of her comfort zone. It's rather obvious that parents in this community speak with the loudest voices, don't you think?”

  I heard Brandon's words but was drawn to something else. My eyes had fixated on the photo page Hector had put together from the funeral service. I'd forgotten to review the photos earlier at home. The overall layout was well put together, just the right combination of large photos, smaller ones, and white space. But I couldn't take my eyes off one shot. It stood out from all the other photos taken that day. As the attendees lined the staircase outside of the church, and the casket and family went by, all heads were watching the proceeding. All except one. A teenage boy was facing forward; his face was blank, his eyes staring off into the gray sky. In some respects, he was void of emotion, yet he was stoic, which emitted its own sense of emotion. He was surrounded by other grief-stricken people, yet he was alone. As if no one even noticed him. No one except Hector.

  “My God, Brandon. I'm sure you saw this pic. He looks almost lonely, but it's also ominous.” I stared at the page, at that one shot.

  “Yeah, creepy is the word that comes to my mind,” said Brandon, who'd begun to review a story on his computer.

  “You like the page, Mr. Doyle?” Hector took two steps into Brandon's office and broke out a proud smile.

  “First off, don't call me Mr. Doyle. That's my Pop's name.” I smirked and wondered how much I'd aged in the last year. “Secondly, you've done some good work here, Hector. I'm mesmerized by this one shot. Any tricks of the trade you'd like to share on this one?”