Mitch.
I’d done everything in my power not to replay the scene with Cassie back in Bristol. It had been draining on so many levels; it was impossible to digest. So, once I got into the car, I had allowed the poor weather and flat tire to distract me from my thoughts. It had worked, for the most part. But now I was idle. My brain in an idle state was not a good place for it to be—not with so much anger built up.
Car headlights drew my attention to the darkening street. It was almost five o’clock. A two-door Toyota that was spewing exhaust like a 1970s industrial plant pulled into Hopper’s driveway. It had one of those cheap plastic signs on its roof that read: Pizza Hut. A kid wearing a short-sleeve, red T-shirt—yes, short sleeves and no jacket with temperatures in the twenties—got out of the car, pizza box in hand. He slipped a couple of times on his way to the front door but didn’t lose the pizza. I grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, straightened my back, and waited for the front door to open.
When it did, a bald man greeted the kid. The distance between us impacted my ability to pick up small features, but his nose seemed larger than normal. He had on a black sweater. If I had to guess, I’d say he was in his late thirties. He disappeared inside with the pizza box, and the kid made his way back to the car, slipping one more time for good measure. He pulled away, leaving a plume of smoke that could have been seen from five miles away, even in the snowy conditions.
Just seeing Hopper’s face made it that much more real. I couldn’t help but put myself back in the lakeside café, hearing the struggling grunts over the phone, seeing Nicole fighting with someone—Hopper—and then seeing her body tumble over the side of the bridge.
It almost left me breathless just to think about it.
I stared at the home. I figured that I would wait until it was dark and then make a visit to the front door. From there…well, I wasn’t going to make any predictions. I only knew that I couldn’t leave Nicole’s death unanswered.
37
There was one more thing I knew I wanted to do, just in case something did happen. I plucked my burner phone from my bag and punched in the number I’d memorized. An automated answering system answered. After being directed to type in the first few letters of the last name of the person I was trying to reach, I heard an actual ringing sound.
“Special Agent Troutt.”
I paused a brief moment, second-guessing my decision. Oh, what the hell. “Hey, Alex.”
“Ozzie? Is that you?”
“It’s me.”
A muffled noise and then, “Do you know that half the free world is looking for you?”
Damn. “Only half?”
She made some type of exasperated sound. “You never lose the sarcasm, do you?”
I sighed. “Seriously, I had no idea. There’s something I need to share with you.”
“Don’t tell me you did it. Please don’t, Oz. I’ve never met Nicole, but I’ve read a lot of data, seen pictures, watched a lot of news stories…and more than anything, I know you. There’s no way, right?”
But she was still asking. I couldn’t blame her. The evidence, I was sure, seemed overwhelmingly convincing—topped off by the fact that I was a fugitive. And the press probably took all that and added their spin to it. “No, Alex. I didn’t murder my wife.”
“Someone set you up…is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
A pause. “You’re calling from a burner phone.”
I almost asked how she knew that, but I’d just called the FBI. “So?”
“If you didn’t do it, then what the hell are you doing running from the law? The evidence will prove you didn’t do it.”
I didn’t want to rehash the entire backstory. “I guess you haven’t heard what happened early this morning in Connecticut.”
“Is that where you are?”
“That’s where I was.”
“Connecticut is a small state, but nothing has shown up in my inbox. Why? Is it connected to Nicole’s death?”
I gave her a brief rundown of what had happened back at the cottage…and in the woods. That led to fifteen more questions. I probably should have just shared the entire backstory—she was an FBI agent, after all.
I finished, and there were a few seconds of silence. I glanced at the phone, wondering if it had disconnected.
“I don’t know what to say. To find out your old friend was behind this… You must be devastated. How are you holding up?”
“I’m talking to you, aren’t I? So, I’m breathing, functioning.”
“Where are you now?”
I sighed again, and the windows fogged up even more. I stared at Hopper’s house as darkness settled in, although the snowflakes seemed to create a muted glow. “I’m in New Hampshire. Little town called Pelham.”
“That’s not far from here. Just on the other side of the Massachusetts border.”
I didn’t respond.
“There’s something you’re not telling me, Oz.”
“I love my daughter, Alex. I love her with all my heart.”
“I know you do. I was there when you two first met, remember?”
“You rescued us, Alex. You saved Mackenzie’s life. And for that, I owe you a lot.”
Another bit of silence. “What are you planning to do, Ozzie?”
A single tear rolled down my face. I wiped it away and clenched my jaw. I couldn’t take my eyes off the house.
“Talk to me, Ozzie.”
“I’m not really sure why I called you. I think—”
“Don’t you dare hang up the phone. Tell me what’s going on. Please, I’m your friend.”
I could feel her sincerity, but she wasn’t in my shoes. She wasn’t feeling what I was feeling. No one could.
“Ozzie, you told me about Mitch, but you never told me the name of the person who actually killed Nicole.”
Damn, she was good. Too good. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Everything. You should tell me everything.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Why not? I thought you trusted me. I thought we were close.”
“I do. We are. I just…” I wasn’t sure what I wanted from Alex. But I knew if I did end up killing Hopper, I didn’t want him to be rescued at the last second. I would be his final judge.
“Ozzie, Mackenzie needs her father. She needs you. She loves you.”
More tears welled. “I shouldn’t have called.”
“Ozzie, it’s okay. You’re mad. You want to tear this guy apart.”
“I want to fucking kill him, Alex! I want to fucking kill him, do you hear me? Fuuuuck!”
I screamed so loud I heard a ringing in my ear. I just sat there for a moment and breathed. Finally, I said, “I’m sorry, Alex. You didn’t deserve that.”
“It’s okay, Oz,” she said in a caring tone. “I get it. I don’t want to minimize what you’re experiencing right now. I’ve been through some pretty bad shit in my life.”
“Like?”
“My husband was murdered. I didn’t know my mom was alive for thirty years, and then when I finally found her… It’s a long story, but she was killed.”
She knew my grief. She knew my misery and pain. And she probably knew my anger. “I had no idea.”
“I don’t think about it much anymore. But it does come up, still to this day. But I’ve got many blessings in my life. My kids and Brad, for starters.”
I waited to see if her words had impacted my decision. So far, they hadn’t. “I’m happy you’ve been able to move on, Alex.”
Just then, Hopper walked out of the house. He was headed for the side. Was he getting into his car? I had to confront him. Now.
“Alex, I gotta go. If something happens, please do everything you can to help out with Mackenzie.”
“Ozzie, please—”
I hung up the phone and got out of the car.
38
I looked both ways. No cars on the street, which meant no witnesses. If
anyone was watching, they’d probably think I was crazy, since I was not wearing a coat. But I did not feel cold. If anything, I was on fire. I hurried up the street and reached the driveway. Hopper, wearing a black jacket and scarf, was approaching his truck, a Ford F-150. He was carrying a duffle bag. I started up the driveway.
He opened the car and tossed his bag inside.
Dammit, I’m not going to get there in time!
“Hey, excuse me,” I hollered at him.
He stopped inside his car door and looked at me. “What do you want?” His voice had an edge to it. That only made blood pump through my veins even faster.
“Yeah, my car stalled out just down the hill there,” I said, now reaching the bed of the truck. “I think it’s the battery. Do you mind giving me a jump?” I got to within four feet of him, and I stared him down. His eyes were like black marbles. Lifeless. Soulless. I could see my breath pumping out balls of smoke in rapid succession. It was impossible to control my breathing. I balled my hand into a fist and prepped my body to launch a ballistic missile. I was sure I’d break my hand, but I was also certain that his face would be destroyed in one shot.
If it killed him, then it would be fate. Fuck. Him.
Careful not to let him see the punch was coming, I brought my free hand up to my mouth and blew into it. Mr. Casual and all. I turned my shoulders a few inches—only to pick up a little extra leverage—and then I let it rip. Not even halfway there, I saw him pull something out of his jacket. It glittered from the car light.
Is that a—
He jabbed the knife into my gut before I could stop my swing and jump out of the way. I stumbled into the car door like a flopping bird whose feathers had been coated with oil. I dropped to the ground and put a hand on the wound. I could feel the slick residue of blood. It took a second, but that was all it took for the pain to send a shockwave throughout my body. It rippled, each burst lighting a series of fires in my arms, down my legs, along my spine. And then the last explosion was like the sun rupturing, the pain so hot I wasn’t sure I could stay lucid.
“You thought I didn’t see you out there, watching me?” Hopper leaned over. His lips were crusty. Three teeth were capped with gold. More than anything, I picked up his stench. A putrid mix of BO and pizza and tuna. Who eats tuna with pizza?
“I don’t know how you found me, but your life is over, fuckwad. You can just die in my driveway, because I ain’t coming back.” He chuckled, stood up, and then kicked me in the exact same place where the knife had entered.
I screamed and tried to grab his jeans. He kicked my hand away and started to stomp on my arm. I was pretty sure I could feel bones crunching under the soles of his hiking boots.
The pain was unforgiving. But for a moment, my mind detached and went to another place. I’d miscalculated everything. I’d let my anger make decisions that would cost Mackenzie her father. She’d grow up with no parents. Would she rebel, turn to drugs or alcohol or sex to fill the void of parental love? If so, I’d surely burn in hell for allowing that to happen. I was selfish, too wrapped up in my own emotions to recognize the needs of a nine-year-old little girl.
The stomping continued. I tried using my blood-covered hand to push his leg away, but all he did was laugh. It was the kind of laugh that made me think he’d been a bully his whole life. Probably got his jollies out of it.
My mind went back to my daughter. I could see her curly hair, her sassy but cute smile—one tooth still missing—as if she were standing right there. Then, for some reason, I jumped to her best friend Ariel and her father Ervin. They lost a mother, a wife to cancer. What had Ervin shared with me from that experience? He’d said, “Live in the moment. And cherish every one with the people you love.”
Fate had thrown a fastball right at my chin. I couldn’t bring back Nicole. But if there was any way possible to survive, I would spend the rest of my life treasuring my time with Mackenzie.
As he continued stomping my arm like it was a venomous snake, I found energy from some source I didn’t know existed. I torqued myself up on my shoulder, allowing me to whip my leg around. It clocked the bastard right in the nose.
He screamed and covered his nose with both hands.
I felt certain that I’d broken it. Score one for the good guys.
“You fucking piece of shit,” he said.
I lifted my broken arm and placed it across my chest, ignoring the pain. I wasn’t done yet. I pulled my knee up to my chin and thrust my leg forward. It connected with his knee cap—and I kept pushing against it until I could see his leg hyperextend. Basically, the joint went in the opposite direction.
Another scream. Actually, this one was more like a wailing cry.
It only infused me with energy. I readied my foot for another shot, but I saw him raise his knife.
“Hey, what’s going on up there?”
We both whipped our heads toward the street. It was a man with a woman, walking their dog, some type of huskie. In this weather? Well, we were in the north.
“Nothing to worry about, sir. Just me and my brother-in-law screwing around,” Hopper said, dropping the knife to his side.
“You sure?” The man’s eyes seemed to be looking at me.
“Call the cops. Now!” I said.
Hopper tried to stab me again, but I turned just before the blade could puncture my shoulder—he whiffed, and the blade hit snow and ice instead. While he was still at my level, I threw a right jab into his mess of a nose. He cried out, and the knife flew away somewhere.
I looked down the driveway at the dog-walkers. The man’s jaw had dropped open. “I’m serious, call the cops! Tell them Bruno Hopper killed a woman, Nicole Novak.”
The man stumbled back and fell into his wife. They ran off. I had no idea if they were going to call the cops or just run home and lock the doors.
A second later, Hopper pushed off me, slipped into the truck, and shut the door. He started the engine and started backing out of his driveway.
What had he said earlier? I ain’t coming back.
He was escaping. No way. I couldn’t let that happen. I got to my knees and somehow made it to my feet as the truck pulled onto the snow-covered road.
With my broken arm tucked to my chest and the opposite hand pressed against my knife wound, I started shuffling down the driveway—each bit of movement zapped my body with a round of white-hot pain. The truck spun its wheels and then caught a grip on the surface and surged forward. I looked down and saw blood seeping between my fingers, leaving a red trail across the white snow.
I could bleed out right here. Maybe I’d lose consciousness and die of frostbite first.
I planned on neither, not until I made sure that Bruno Hopper would not get away. I picked up speed and allowed my shoes to scoot down the hill to the Mercedes. I slipped inside and started the car, smearing blood all over the interior. As I slipped the gear into drive, I saw the truck’s brake lights go bright at the bottom of the hill. He turned left.
He wouldn’t get away.
39
As I fishtailed around the turn and somehow stayed on the road, I quickly realized how much that type of activity required me to use my stomach muscles. And it was apparent that at least one of mine was shredded, courtesy of Hopper’s knife. I pounded the steering wheel to fight back the pain. But despite the pain, I was riding a high. I saw his taillights, and I was gaining ground.
Snow-covered trees lined the narrow, two-lane road. No other cars in sight—just me in the Mercedes and Hopper in his truck. I wished we were standing face to face, maybe in one of those cages used in UFC fights. That way, he couldn’t slither out.
I tried to dial back my intensity as we hit a straightaway. If the conditions had been dry, I would have punched the gas—I was sure this puppy had at least four hundred horsepower under the hood. But the roads were far from dry. I eased my speed past thirty-five miles per hour. I could see I was gaining ground, but every little bump over black ice made me wince from a shot of pain.
Another glance at my gut wound—it was beginning to feel like my insides were oozing out.
The road curved right. Hopper had dropped his speed—I could tell, because I gained another fifty yards on him in the blink of an eye. I soon learned why. I hit the bottom of the hill, and the back of the Mercedes spun out. “Shiiiiit!” I yelled for a good five seconds as I took my foot off the gas and tried turning the wheel in the direction the front of the car was moving—counterclockwise. The car split the middle of the road and swung back the other way. My tactics weren’t working.
Then, headlights.
An eighteen-wheeler was headed right for me. He wasn’t slowing down—probably couldn’t without jackknifing the truck. Still sliding all over the road, I spun the steering wheel left, then right again, hoping my tires would find their grip.
The truck was barreling down on me—maybe fifty feet. I jerked the car to the right one last time—the wheels took hold just as the truck passed on my left. I could hear the truck’s blaring horn—loud and clear.
I gasped out a breath as drops of sweat fell from my face into the pool of blood in my lap. Salt with your tomato soup, Mr. Novak?
I really needed a psychiatrist.
And a doctor. How much longer could I last with all the blood that was pouring out of me?
I’d lost sight of Hopper’s truck during my near-death driving experience. I eased my way up the hill at a moderate fifteen miles per hour, still determined to find him. Once at the top, I could see him heading around another bend. It seemed like he was pulling away. He knew these roads—he knew when to brake and when to speed up. He had the home-field advantage, so to speak.
I had no other choice but to increase my speed. I got up to thirty, then forty miles per hour. Within a minute, I’d cut the distance in half. Meanwhile, my brain warred with itself.
ON The Run (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 6) (Redemption Thriller Series 18) Page 18
