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

by John W. Mefford

  “I knew he’d had multiple affairs.”

  Was she implying that Nicole had…? I couldn’t even think it, not after going through what I already had with her.

  “I confronted him about it, and he tried denying it. I actually believed him the first couple of times.”

  If she’d led with any other phrase than “Mitch killed Nicole,” then I’d calmly listen to her share the details of her relationship with Mitch. Right now, though, I really didn’t give a shit. I opened both palms to the ceiling, which I figured was far better than grabbing her shoulders and shaking her until she explained what was going on.

  “I’m sorry, Oz. This is so difficult. The kids, they, uh….” She teared up, put a hand to her face, and released a jittery breath. “I asked where you’d gone yesterday. At first, he told me it was none of my business. I kept pressing him. He got mean and nasty, but I was worried about you, Oz, so I pressed him some more.”

  “And?”

  “He finally told me that you were hunting down two possible suspects who lived in Connecticut. But the way he said it, there was something else there. I know Mitch way too well.”

  Something else there. “Like what? What was there?”

  “I didn’t know at the time, but the rest of the day, he was grumpy with me, the kids. Then he said he had work to get done here in the cottage. Real important work, and he couldn’t be bothered.”

  I could believe that last part. “And so?”

  “Last night…actually, just about an hour or so ago, I woke up and came out here. I didn’t trust him, Ozzie.”

  I let that sink in and mix with everything else she’d said. I swallowed back some acid that had slid into the back of my throat.

  “I logged onto his computer and nosed around. I didn’t find anything. Then again, I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, either.” She turned her gaze to the bedroom door. I swung the chair around and then swung it back to face her.

  “What is it, Cassie?”

  “Something told me to look at his precious darkroom.”

  The locked door. “That’s a darkroom?”

  “Well, it used to be. Before digital pictures became all the rage, the previous owners of the home had a darkroom to develop photographs. Mitch was into that sort of thing, so when we moved in, he used it for that purpose. But in the last few years, as he opened his own firm, I knew he didn’t have time for it, but he still kept it locked. And when I’d ask him about it, he never had the key. More secrets,” she said.

  I could feel an ache deep in my chest, as if some foreign object had taken root and was expanding, destroying every organ in its wake. I couldn’t speak, so I motioned for her to keep talking.

  “I grabbed a crowbar and wedged it inside the door, tore off most of the frame, but I pulled that fucking door open,” she said, extending an arm to the bedroom. She started shaking her head. “I found photos, large ones, and that laptop computer.”

  Both of us turned our sights to the laptop on the desk. I pointed at it, and she nodded.

  “I guessed his log-in password—he’s so predictable that way—and got into the machine. It was already logged into an email account. One I’d never seen before.”

  “Holy shit,” I quietly muttered.

  “He was using an alias, someone called Harvey Reese.”

  I shot straight up. “That’s one of the two suspects I just checked out. I found a girl in some secret room in his house. She was tied up. He’d raped her. He had pictures of a bunch of other girls, including Nicole. I thought he’d killed Nicole.”

  She shook her head as her eyes produced more tears. “No, it was Mitch.”

  “Dammit, why are you saying that? How do you know?” Tears welled in my own eyes.

  “The photos gave me the first clue. There were probably a dozen or more, of Nicole, of you two together in some park, and even of your daughter.”

  “What?” I could hear the quaver of my voice, but the surge of emotion brought with it an anger I didn’t recognize. I pushed folders and papers on the desk and found a photo, one that showed Mackenzie, Nicole, and me walking the dogs at Lady Bird Park by the lake. I looked up at her. “He took these?”

  She shook her head. “I looked through his emails, Ozzie. I found this thread of him going back and forth with some guy. They plotted to kill Nicole. And to set you up.”

  My mind was spinning, and I wasn’t sure I could get it to stop.

  “I know you’re freaking out.”

  “Is that everything?” I barked, my eyes looking straight ahead at nothing. I couldn’t believe this. It just couldn’t be true. Then, I wondered if there was any way that Harvey Reese could have set up Mitch.

  “He found me, Ozzie. Mitch came in here, right after I found everything. He went ballistic. He slapped me around and tried to choke me.” She touched the side of her neck.

  “Why? What would lead him to do something like this?”

  “He admitted to having a crush on Nicole since college. He apparently tried to put his suave moves on her in New York. She turned him down. He yelled, ‘No one turns down Mitch Durant.’”

  What a fucking ass. And this guy was my friend? I still couldn’t get myself to admit we were talking about the same Mitch Durant. “But we looked through the list together and found two strong suspects.”

  “He said it was all a ruse. He just needed to get you away from here, give him some time to figure out how to get out of all this.”

  I jumped to my feet. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He walked off into the woods. I’m sure he’ll be back soon. But, Ozzie, I have the person’s name, the one he hired. You can get him.”

  “I want both of them.”

  A Pop! sound. I looked at Cassie to make sure she’d heard the same thing. A moment later, a screaming woman ran into the cottage. She had Cassie’s round face and large, round eyes.

  “The gunshot. I looked out the kitchen window. At the edge of the forest…” She jabbed a finger in that direction.

  “What is it, Tara?” Cassie grabbed her sister’s arm.

  “It’s Mitch. I think he just shot himself.”

  35

  Cassie and I raced out of the cottage, while Tara ran inside the house to call 9-1-1 and stay with the kids.

  The purple glow on the eastern horizon illuminated the area just in front of the path into the woods—where Mitch lay motionless, his legs bent behind him at an awkward angle.

  “No, no, no, noooo!” Cassie sprinted toward him. I raced behind her and caught up just as she dropped to her knees next to his body.

  She heaved out a breath, her hands fluttering like the wings of a bird. “Dear God.”

  I got on the ground and looked at him closely. Right away, I saw the gun in his hand. I peeled his hand from the grip and tossed the gun to the side. Blood trickled out of his mouth. I looked for an entry wound. I moved to the other side and saw an enormous opening in the back of his head, a gory mess of blood, dirt, and brain matter. Then I realized he’d stuck the gun in his mouth—the wound at the back of his head was the exit wound.

  Cassie moved to my side. She saw the same thing I did, and she looked up at me for a brief second. The trenches in her face looked like something etched in stone two thousand years ago. The pain was immeasurable.

  She burst into tears and rested her head on Mitch’s chest. Her cries echoed in the early-morning stillness, her breaths forming puffy white clouds in the cool air. I said nothing, my mind whirling with a gamut of emotions. Sadness took over for a moment, the sadness in seeing a woman—our friend—crumbling before my very eyes. The sadness of what had happened to Mitch to cause him to turn into such an evil, disgusting person.

  My breath clicked. That lit a fuse, and in about three seconds, an explosion of anger rocked my core. Somehow, I didn’t scream out loud and tear into Cassie.

  “Dear God, my Luthor and Rex…they’ll have no father. They’ve lost their father forever,” she said through sobs. She du
g her head into his chest. Though I was seething, I hated to see Cassie in this much pain. I put a hand on her shoulder, but she kind of jerked away, so I pulled it off. She cried more, called out the names of her kids over and over again.

  She lifted her body for a second, and then, out of nowhere, she began to pummel Mitch with her fists. She swung at him wildly. No rhythm, no directed punches. It was uncontrollable, as if the violence was the only way she could express her true emotions.

  “Cassie…” I tried pulling her arms back.

  She didn’t even know I was there. I tried again, and a few of her swings hit my arms. “Cassie, you can’t fix it. You can’t bring him back.”

  She jerked to a stop, wrapped a lock of hair around her ear, and then turned and held on to me for dear life. A few seconds passed. I could hear her whimper, “This monster, my fucking husband, just killed my kids’ father.”

  She’d separated the two roles, as if they weren’t part of the same person. I knew it was the only way she could function right now.

  “It’s okay to be mad, Cassie. We all are.”

  She grabbed my face and drew back from me. Her face was swollen to the point of being almost unrecognizable. “I hear the sirens. They’ll show up and start asking questions. We’ll have to tell them everything. We have the evidence to keep you out of jail.”

  I took in a breath, unsure what to think, how to respond. My barometer was off—way off.

  “But you want to catch the guy who actually killed Nicole, don’t you?”

  I nodded as another swell of anger consumed my being. “What’s his name, Cassie?”

  “Bruno. Bruno…something.” She tapped her forehead, unable to connect thoughts. “Wait, I think it’s Harper, or maybe Hopper. I’m not sure how to spell the last name. It’s on the computer. The email address on the laptop.”

  I jumped out of my stance and sprinted toward the cottage. I raced inside, circled the desk, and touched the mouse pad. The laptop wasn’t locked—no password needed. I found the browser and clicked on an email from Harvey Reese—a.k.a. Mitch. I swallowed about a dozen times, trying to somehow keep my pulse under two hundred.

  It finally opened. Mitch had written:

  I wish I could be the one to kill her. But you get the honors…and a lot of my money.

  I nearly vomited. Who was this person? My throat started to close. I had to focus. To find the name of the killer.

  There it was, in the “To” field. Bruno Hopper. H-O-P-P-E-R. Hopper.

  I quickly clicked to open another tab in the browser and then typed in the URL for the Tracers Info PI website. At this point, I didn’t care if anyone was watching my web activity. I’d find this fucker before law enforcement got to me, and then I’d…I wasn’t sure what I’d do. I just knew that rage consumed me, and I had to take it out on the person who’d caused it. Bruno Hopper.

  “Come on, come on, come on.” I hopped up and down like a little kid who needed to use the restroom. Finally, the home page flashed before me. I did a search on Bruno Hopper.

  Poor user interface. The print was tiny, the information bundles in huge blocks. I hated this fucking website. But I knew it had also been a lifesaver in previous cases. And I hoped it would come through for me on this one.

  I grunted at the same time I spotted his home address: Pelham, New Hampshire. I opened a map application, typed in the address, and clicked enter. Total time: two hours, twenty minutes. I looked at the directions and put them to memory. No way I’d forget this route.

  Wondering about my next step, I thought for a quick second. But that’s all I gave myself. I wished I had my old phone with the contacts in there. Nothing I could do about it now. I opened another tab in the browser and searched for the phone number for the Boston FBI office. For some reason, I thought I might need to call my friend, Alex Troutt. I wasn’t sure what she could do for me now, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to let anyone stop me from doing what I had to do—whatever that would be. I scanned the ten-digit number and, again, knew I’d be able to recall it. I just wasn’t sure if I’d use it or not.

  I walked over, picked up my backpack, and headed toward the door, realizing at the last minute that I had no car. Mutt Three had likely been confiscated by the New Haven police. Who knew how many police departments were searching for me? Maybe Cassie could help clear my name, but how quickly? Especially given her mental state. I wasn’t going to stick around and waste hours, if not days, and I definitely didn’t want Hopper to get away in the process.

  I had a few hundred dollars left. I’d hitch a ride. Or maybe try to take a bus or even a taxi. I’d walk the hundred-plus miles if I had to. I marched out of the cottage—and nearly slammed into Cassie.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, giving her some space.

  “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Her voice sounded pinched from all the crying.

  I nodded. “I know where he lives. And no one—you or anyone else—is going to stop me from going there and—” I stopped and shrugged. I didn’t really know what I wanted to convey. I just wanted to go.

  “I get that. I’m not sure it’s the best thing to do, Ozzie. Don’t forget—you have a daughter.” She used a tissue to dab her eyes. “My kids just lost their father. What he did was despicable. I can’t explain how he ever got there. I’m not sure I’ll ever know. But, eventually, I’ll have to explain it to Luthor and Rex. It won’t be easy. I know you’ll never get over Nicole, but don’t let that anger or resentment ruin your relationship with your daughter. Promise me that, will you? I need something good to come from this. And I was just hoping that you’d find a way to move on and—”

  “I hear you, Cassie. I can’t make any promises, but, yes, I love Mackenzie. She’s my world. Thank you for the reminder. It helps.” I looked toward the back yard. “I just wish all this shit had never happened…for you and for me.”

  She clenched her jaw as more tears exploded from her eyes.

  “I gotta go.”

  She clumsily pushed something against my chest. “You need this.”

  I took a key fob from her hand. “Mitch’s car?”

  “I don’t need it, don’t want it. But you need a car to get to wherever you’re going.”

  “And you won’t report it as stolen?”

  “Hell no. They might ask, but it will be a while.”

  “What are you going to tell them about me?”

  “I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry—I won’t tell them where you’re headed. Now go.”

  I gave her a quick hug and then drove off in a brand-new Mercedes.

  36

  Traffic, a flat tire—on a Mercedes, no less—and more traffic, partially due to worsening weather conditions, had tripled the travel time to Pelham, New Hampshire. A freaky early-spring snowstorm had hit, and drivers were acting like it was the first time they’d ever driven on slick roads. I thought people in the north were supposed to have this type of activity built into their DNA, along with shoveling snow. I was almost hit a dozen times as cars sped by me like it was a dry summer day, oblivious to the risks they were taking. Or maybe they were just overly confident.

  I blew warm air into my hands as I sat in the Mercedes, about half a block down the hill from the home of Bruno Hopper. It was a mostly rural area, homes separated by acres, not a few feet, like it was in suburbia Texas. Flakes as big as butterflies were falling from the gray sky. The precipitation had fallen in several forms during my trip—a frozen mist, a hard rain, a wet, silky sleet, and snow. Roads were dicey, especially bridges. I’d purposely avoided overpasses.

  I used my elbow to rub the fog off my window and eyed Hopper’s home. It was dirty white with black shutters. There was a bunch of junk on one side. I thought I spotted a washer and dryer, but I wasn’t sure. Everything was covered in snow. A sloped driveway led to two vehicles: a red pickup truck and an old-model Corvette.

  I didn’t know much about Bruno Hopper. I wished I’d taken a little time to do research, but instead I’d rushed
out of Bristol with a single-minded goal: get to this home and confront the man who’d killed Nicole.

  I’d been sitting here about thirty minutes, pondering my next move. Or no move at all. I had no real game plan. On the drive from Bristol, Cassie’s words played over in my mind hundreds of times: “Don’t let that anger or resentment ruin your relationship with your daughter.”

  I had needed to hear those words. I knew that I could destroy my relationship with Mackenzie in at least two ways: by dying at the hands of a maniac killer, or by killing this person who’d murdered Nicole, which would give me a ticket to life in prison.

  Neither route passed my internal litmus test, which told me I still had at least a small degree of normal brain activity. At times over the last few days, I hadn’t been so sure. And when I thought about my daughter and all the adorable ways she lit up my life, it was impossible not to feel an enduring bond with her. And with that bond came responsibility, not just to feed and clothe her, but to protect her from harm, physical, mental, and even emotional.

  A lump formed in my throat.

  So, what were my options? I knew I couldn’t just drive away, find the nearest airport, and fly back to Austin. Even if I could somehow fool myself into thinking that this need to confront Bruno Hopper was a senseless vendetta, once I got home, the near-constant reminders of Nicole would hit me like a fully automatic machine gun. I’d either lose it on someone who didn’t deserve my ridicule, or implode. While I might not end up in prison, my disposition and state of mind would be completely altered.

  Poor Mackenzie. I was a wreck.

  Maybe I could go up to his door, wait for him to open it, and then give him one solid punch to the nose, enough to inflict some serious damage, but not enough to kill the bastard. And then I’d walk away, call the cops, and make sure they knew where to find him. Part of that seemed too quick, too easy for him.

  On the other hand, I could figure out ways to really screw with his brain. Leave notes for him that described the way I would kill him, and then haunt him in the night. Break into his house, throw rocks through his window, fuck up his precious Corvette. Anything and everything to make him afraid of his own shadow. Again, though, that would take me down a dark tunnel. I would essentially become a different version of him and Mitch.