ON The Run (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 6) (Redemption Thriller Series 18)

by John W. Mefford

  Damn, I miss that girl.

  I followed the sidewalk up to the small brick porch. I’d already decided to go with the direct approach with Harvey. Direct and, if necessary, in his face. I had full control of my emotions, but I could sense that the levee was bowing from the internal pressure. If I got pushed, or any push-back, I wasn’t certain I could keep the swell of anger behind the damn.

  I pressed the doorbell and took one step backward, my head on a swivel. My deficient hearing was at least partially responsible for Elsa’s brothers getting the jump on me. I was taking no chances this time around. A few seconds passed, and I rang the bell again. More time passed, so I knocked three times. The door was solid. That was when I noticed a small sign—square, of course—just above the door. It read: Solicitors are not allowed on my property.

  “You’re one of those guys, huh?” I said to myself.

  I knocked again and waited a good minute. No one was home.

  Or “no one” wanted me to believe he wasn’t home.

  I walked backward another five steps and checked the windows in the front. No lights on that I could see.

  I headed around back. No cars in the driveway. As I glanced up to notice the clouds clearing out to reveal a full moon, I almost ran into a tall wooden fence. I took out my phone and used the glow to find the gate lever. It didn’t budge. It had to be locked from the inside with a padlock of some kind.

  Harvey was keeping his world very closed off.

  I glanced around me just to make sure I was alone. Visibility wasn’t great, but if someone was there, the moonlight would have allowed me to see at least the outline of a figure.

  All clear, so I grabbed hold of the top of the fence and jumped up until my waist was right at my hands. I swung a foot onto the top and let my body drop to the ground. I stuck the landing. A perfect ten.

  Something was moving in the yard. I went still. Rapid footsteps. “Hello?” I said, hunkering down, readying myself for a confrontation. I squinted, lowered my center of gravity even more. Is that a…?

  Just when I realized it was a dog, it started coming at me in long, loping strides. While I couldn’t tell the breed, I could sense its strength as it quickly drew closer.

  “Who’s a good puppy?” I said.

  I picked up a growling sound when he was ten feet away. This was no puppy. The size of his white teeth told me he had to be a good eighty pounds. I ran back to the fence but realized I wouldn’t be able to clear it before the dog had the chance to chew off my foot.

  Food. I still had some peanut-butter crackers in my backpack. The dog leaped at me, and I used my forearm to push its paws away. The dog backed away and began barking. Wonderful.

  I quickly unzipped my backpack and felt around for the crackers, just as the dog came at me again. I jumped back and shuffled to my left. I felt like a boxer doing the rope-a-dope, dodging the opponent to bide time.

  Where are those fricking crackers?

  The dog quickly recovered and cut off my path to the left. For a moment, I felt boxed in with the corner of the fence right behind me. But I didn’t stop moving. I was now in the middle of the yard and not moving fast enough. The dog stayed with me—too close for comfort. Just then, my fingers grabbed hold of the crackers. I whipped the package out of my bag and broke it open.

  “Doggy want a—”

  Before I could utter another word, I went airborne—I’d tripped over a bench. As my back hit the ground, I saw the dog’s undercarriage leaping over my legs. A male. Was he circling around so he could clamp his jaws on my face? No, he wasn’t. He was chomping at something in the grass. It had to be the crackers.

  No time to waste. I jumped to my feet and ran as I fast as I could go. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping the dog wasn’t finished with his treat. I didn’t see him, but I also didn’t see the raised brick. I tumbled head over heels. When I finally stopped moving, I realized two things: my hip felt like it had been displaced into my shoulder, and I was sitting on a brick patio right in front of a large doggie door. I pushed one hand against the rubber door and peeked inside. No lights were on, but anything beat being outside with one of the attractions from Jurassic Park. I snaked my body through the opening, found the plastic insert above the opening, and dropped it, just as the dog’s head rammed into it.

  I let out a breath. Safe for now.

  I got to my feet and looked around the kitchen space, which was illuminated slightly by the turquoise glow from the clocks on the oven and microwave. It was small but clean. Everything put away. No messes. Obviously, no one was home, and no alarms had sounded. The great protector of the dwelling was outside, nursing his headache.

  I began to search through the home, using the glow of my phone to guide me, looking for anything that might connect Harvey to Nicole. Well, not just Nicole, but to her murder. I already knew that Mitch had seen them fighting. But that was last year, Oz. This year, Mitch had noticed Harvey lurking from a distance. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Maybe Harvey was less aggressive at the conference two weeks ago because he knew that the plan to kill Nicole and frame me had already been put in place.

  But what would Harvey gain from it? I hadn’t thought about it up until now, but given where I was standing—in the middle of his living room next to a bookcase full of science-fiction novels—the question didn’t fade.

  Think about it, Oz. Revenge. Harvey had been rebuked, embarrassed even, by the woman he lusted after. If she didn’t want him, then he would end her life. It was one of the oldest motivations of mankind. And why not set up Nicole’s real love of her life for her murder, allowing him to get his jollies from exacting the ultimate punishment?

  Satisfied with my logical justification, I trudged onward, looking through cabinets and drawers in every room. Nothing out of the ordinary. The only thing that stood out was the organization of everything—stacks of papers and folders were perfectly aligned; same with the books and magazines. In the master bedroom, I found a picture of a man with a dog—the same dog that wanted a piece of my ass. The man was wearing black-rimmed glasses, had a bushy mustache, and was shaped like a pear. He was smiling, but he didn’t look like he felt comfortable doing it. Awkward. This had to be Harvey.

  I worked my way into the second bedroom, a home office, apparently. Might be something here. After I turned on a reading light on a desk, my eyes went straight to the corkboard that stretched from one wall to the next.

  Every square inch of the board was filled with photographs of women. There had to a hundred pictures, maybe more. I pored over all of them, looking for Nicole, even if she might be in the background.

  When my eyes finally found it, my blood went ice cold. For a few seconds, I didn’t move. I just stared.

  28

  I touched the image of Nicole. She was sitting at a table having a drink with some guy. I could only see his shoulder. It didn’t matter. The close-up was of her. She was smiling, holding a glass of wine, her eyes so alive. She had no idea her picture was being taken. I glanced at the other photos—many of them appeared to have been taken in a similar fashion. In a few of the shots, I could see something blurred in the foreground, maybe the branch of a tree or a partial wall. This guy was a real piece of trash. He was a stalker of many women, not just Nicole.

  If there were a hundred women on the wall, did I believe he’d murdered a hundred women? Of course not. Nicole was only one of a hundred. If I’d walked in and seen a hundred pictures of only Nicole, then I would have been convinced that he’d plotted to kill her. Now I was questioning my judgment—not dismissing it, but just questioning it.

  Harvey was clearly obsessed with these women and felt the need to display them. He couldn’t control himself. He could have an extra-special set hidden in a place that couldn’t be found. Those pictures could be all of Nicole, or maybe of a select few women—those who held a special place in his…gut.

  I couldn’t even think the word “heart.” This guy had no heart. If he did, I’d fucking rip it out
of his body and shove it down his throat.

  Okay, Oz, chill. This is a start, but you need more evidence.

  A computer. That made the most sense. He might have physical copies hidden away, but he probably had hundreds, if not thousands, of digital images on his computer. On top of that, the computer just might show a trail to the bald man who had killed Nicole—and how Harvey had set me up. I had to find the computer.

  It wasn’t sitting on the desk in the room, but there was a monitor and a power cable that looked like it was for a laptop. I looked under three stacks of books—all about photography and arranged with perfect symmetry —but there was no laptop. It had to be around here someplace. I opened drawers but found no laptop. Only office supplies, paperclips, highlighters, pens, pencils, sticky notes. And a red stapler. An image of the character from the comedy classic Office Space popped into my mind—the mumbling, socially awkward person who was obsessed with his red stapler. He looked like he could be Harvey’s cousin.

  Back to the laptop. I considered another possibility. Harvey could have the laptop with him, wherever he was at this time of night. My optimism for finding the evidence to connect Harvey to Nicole’s death dropped like I’d just tripped over another bench.

  Think, Ozzie.

  I put a hand to my chin, tapped my foot, shifted my stance, and then started pacing. A thought finally came to mind. I’d turn off all the lights and sit and wait for Harvey to come home. Once he did, I’d surprise him and physically hold him down until he told me everything about the murder and setup. That was the only way.

  Unless he was gone on some trip for several days. I didn’t have that kind of time on my side—the law-enforcement net would probably drop on me soon. How soon, I had no idea.

  Be positive, Oz. Harvey will show up tonight. If nothing else, he needs to feed his dog, right?

  Buoyed by a more optimistic view, I walked to the desk and reached for the small lamp. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw myself moving. It was my reflection in an oval mirror on the front of a wooden armoire. Wasn’t sure why I didn’t notice it earlier. It was old, about a foot taller than my six-three frame. I ran my hand down the side. It might be an antique. Nicole would know. She had a good eye for things like that.

  The mirror trembled.

  I blinked for a second, wondering if I’d heard a door slamming or something. Had Harvey entered the house? I rushed over to the door and glanced down the hallway. No lights, no movement. I waited a few seconds and then tiptoed into the living room. No Harvey or anyone else. I walked back into the second bedroom and stood in front of the mirror. It was odd looking at myself. The mirror had that old look about it—coated with specs of brown, maybe a stain of some kind.

  I wondered what had caused the mirror to tremble.

  I was perplexed by this. I took in a deep breath. Don’t just stand there, Oz. You might want to open the armoire and look for evidence, knucklehead.

  Just as I took a step closer, the mirror trembled again. This time, it was more obvious.

  What the hell is going on?

  In pier-and-beam homes, shaking floors were common. I knew that much. I stomped my foot to make sure. Yep, the foundation was concrete. I walked to the armoire and felt around the mirror. It was solidly attached to the furniture piece, so the armoire itself had to be shaking as well.

  I grabbed the metal pull and tugged. It was stuck. The beauty of antiques. Lots of character but functionally deficient. To gain some leverage, I placed my opposite hand on the armoire.

  The whole unit shook.

  Paranormal activity? I didn’t believe in that crap. I yanked on the door, and it finally unstuck and pulled open. The space was large but mostly clear. Hmmm.

  A few shirts on hangers were hanging from a metal rod. I put a foot inside the armoire, pushed the shirts to the right. I began to feel the back panel of the unit. I knocked on it—I wasn’t sure why, but I did. Nothing knocked back, of course. I lowered myself to one knee, wondering if there was a trap door that led to a place through the concrete, like some type of bunker. The home wasn’t that old, but it was possible a previous home on this site could have included a bunker to protect people against a nuclear attack during the Cold War—something like that. I felt around the floor of the unit, looking for a spot where it might open up.

  You could always try to pull the unit out and search that way, genius.

  My internal voice was getting sassy. I got to my feet and…

  A hard thud against the back of the armoire. And it wasn’t my mind playing tricks on me. I quickly ran my hands up and down the back panel of the unit.

  Another bang. I could feel it through my hands.

  Was that a scream?

  “Hello? Is someone there?”

  I thought I heard a muffled response, but I wasn’t certain. I frantically shifted my hands around the back panel. Within seconds, I found a tiny insert in the panel, only big enough for a single finger. I inserted my finger and pulled. Another door—this one made of sheet rock and no more than four feet tall—pulled open at the same time.

  My chest ripped open from the inside. Eyes of fear stared right at me.

  29

  A girl was tied up, her mouth covered with duct tape. She was screaming. I leaned in—the small room was the size of a closet, maybe smaller.

  “It’s okay. I’ll help you,” I said, reaching for the duct tape. Her face was coated in grime and dirt, her brown hair looked as though insects had been living in it. She was wearing a ratty T-shirt that hung to her thighs.

  I slowly pulled the duct tape from her mouth.

  “You’ve got to help me. Please, the guy’s a fucking psychopath.”

  “Are there other women here?” Just as I said that, I realized this was no woman. She was a girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen at most.

  “Just get me out of here!” She tugged at the thick ropes that encircled her wrists and ankles. They were tethered to metal rings that were screwed into the concrete floor.

  “Okay, okay.” I grabbed the rope around one wrist and tried to untangle the knot. I pulled with everything I had.

  “Hurry up! He’ll be back soon!”

  I could feel her panic inside of me. What had he done to her? “I’m trying. I’ll get it. Give me a second.”

  “Try harder, dammit!”

  Channeling all of my strength to my hands, I clawed at the ropes until I broke out in a sweat. I could only get a fingernail inside the knot. I pulled so hard I thought my nail would rip from my finger.

  “Fuck! It won’t budge. He must have used glue or something to seal it. Do you know?”

  “No. I was drugged when he picked me up in his car. I woke up in here, tied up already.” Her head darted from side to side like that of a bird. “Get a pair of scissors or a knife. Something. Please!”

  I flipped around on my heels and nearly rammed my head into the wall. I lowered myself, shot through the opening and into the office. I scanned the desk and opened drawers. No scissors.

  “Are you still there?” she yelled.

  “I’m here, looking for scissors.”

  “Please help me.” She began to cry.

  “It’s okay. Don’t cry. I’ll find something.” I paused a second. “I’ll be back in two seconds. I’m running to the kitchen.”

  She yelled some more as I cut down the hallway and ran into the kitchen. I pulled knives out of a butcher block on the counter until I found a long, serrated knife, one you’d use to carve a turkey. I hoped it could cut through those ropes.

  I ran back into the office and pushed myself into the hidden room.

  “You got a knife?” Her voice had hope, but tears were streaming down her face.

  “Right here.”

  The rope extended about three feet from the metal ring built into the floor. I put the blade in the middle and began to use a sawing motion. She fidgeted, and the knife slipped out of its groove.

  “Don’t move.”

  “Is it working?”


  “Yep, just taking a little time.” I pulled the rope taut with my free hand and continued sawing. “Almost there.” My motion quickened as threads tore apart until the rope finally broke.

  “Oh, dear God. Thank you.”

  “Still have some work left.” I grabbed the rope connected to one of her ankles. My eyes landed on a plastic bowl of water to my right. I took in the whole room. It smelled of urine and mold. She was living like an animal. No, worse. Much worse than anyone would treat an animal.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Ozzie.” The moment I said it, I clenched my jaw. It had just spilled out. I kept sawing and moved on. “What’s your name?”

  “Willow.”

  “How old are you, Willow?”

  “Sixteen. Just had my birthday a month ago.”

  “How long has he had you in this room?”

  “I don’t know. Four, five days. It’s hard to tell. I just know that he comes in here and…” She began to whimper.

  I closed my eyes for a second, wiped sweat off my forehead, and pressed onward with the sawing. “I’m sorry, Willow. I’m sorry this man has been allowed to hurt you and—” I wasn’t sure if or how I should press her for information.

  The rope snapped apart. One leg was free. I grabbed the rope to the other ankle, pulled the rope tight, and started sawing.

  “Willow, I know you’ve been stuck in this room, but just to be sure... You haven’t seen another woman named Nicole? She’s about five-six, wavy brown hair to her shoulders.”