The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  “Hmmm,” he said, assessing his next move. “Do you really want to risk your career on a weird hunch?”

  He looked up and down the sidewalk to ensure no one had overheard his one-person conversation. If he was convinced that Jankovich was a psychotic serial killer, then he would have vocalized his theory to Brook, to Moreno, and they would have pulled a warrant and brought an army of cops to both TJ’s Funhouse and the Jankovich residence, a fancy downtown condo.

  But instead, he told no one about his theory. He could only imagine Brook rolling her eyes to the back of her head. A part of him still thought she might be right. Hell, Jankovich had shown nothing but love of mankind since he’d been in San Antonio, volunteering in the arts, offering up a million-dollar ransom to bring back an abducted kid, and creating this funhouse so kids, especially underprivileged kids, could have the time of their lives.

  Yet, something about Jankovich had always seemed a little bit off. At first, Stan felt guilty for even thinking it. Then, as he let Delmar’s statement resonate, his opinion began to take shape. Why had his mind gone there?

  When he finally got away from the crime scene and was able to think for five minutes without being hounded, he realized his reasoning was quite simple: Jankovich was too perfect.

  But how can you convince anyone that someone is too perfect? He’d sound like the jealous little brother. He’d have to find some type of reliable evidence that connected Jankovich to Ivy, or at least show he had a felony on his record.

  “Come on, baby. Give me something I can work with,” he said to his phone as if it had a pulse. He started down the sidewalk.

  He walked around back while he waited for Nick’s phone call—that sonofabitch better call back. If nothing turned up either from Nick or his own snooping mission, then he’d be forced to give up for the night. Maybe he’d actually sleep in his own bed for three or four hours.

  Like that would happen. With Ivy missing, he knew sleep could wait until he was dead.

  45

  Cristina’s long locks flew behind her as she picked up speed on her skateboard. Outside of two homeless guys—both of whom she recognized from her time in a local shelter—the streets were barren. She weaved around street signs, pretending she was snowboarding on a ski slope. It was as if the apocalypse had occurred. Actually, she knew people were so beaten down by the suffocating daytime temperatures, at night they usually stayed inside and stood in front of an air conditioner. If that was too rich for their blood, they’d just open the freezer and stick their heads in. She’d done that on more than one occasion when living with Mom.

  She pushed unpleasant thoughts of her so-called family life to the back of her mind and leaned into a left-hand turn. The wind cooled the sweat at her hairline—a temporary feeling of relief.

  Her mind went right back to her second phone call with Delmar Amaya, the one after he’d spoken with Stan. He shared with her his story about taking the tour at TJ’s Funhouse and seeing the snakes in the aquarium. And then the response from Timothy.

  “What did Stan say?” she’d asked, something instantly nibbling at the back of her mind.

  “He didn’t say much. Just a grunt. So I hung up, went back to reading. But I couldn’t make any headway. I started questioning things.”

  “Like?”

  “Timothy mainly. His demeanor is usually so calm and considerate. But during the tour, he was rushed, sweating a lot, and kind of snippy. He actually made me feel quite uncomfortable.”

  “You didn’t tell all of this to Stan?”

  “At the time I spoke with him, I hadn’t really gone into assessment mode. That was my old life, where it seemed as if I were everyone’s go-to shrink. But honestly, he sounded distracted. He said he was at a crime scene and had to go. Now that I’ve thought about it, I felt like I needed to tell someone. I know you told me how close you are to Ivy, so you were the logical choice.”

  She’d hung up with Delmar and tried to make her own assessment: Stan was a helluva detective. If he’d sniffed any hint of wrongdoing, he would have said something, right? In fact, if he identified any evidence on Ivy, he’d said he would call her. And he hadn’t. If she were to call him now with Delmar’s concerns about Timothy, he’d probably give a big speech, saying that was just one man’s opinion and didn’t show any proof that a crime had been committed. Then, because he’d know how she’d typically respond to something like that, he’d make her promise not to go chasing after Timothy or anyone else without his permission.

  Why go to the hassle of being dissed by Stan? She knew she was a capable investigator. She’d been in scraps with some pretty scary dudes and survived. Hell, she’d kicked their asses. Since she hated sitting around waiting for the phone to ring, she had to do something to keep occupied. She made the decision to head to TJ’s Funhouse and see if anything turned up. It was only logical.

  She dipped the back of her board, scraping the concrete until she stopped in front of TJ’s Funhouse. She snapped her fingers. A memory popped up in her head. Back in the spring, she’d spent time in this building, when it was abandoned. The shelters had been extra crowded. She’d found a nice quiet spot in the back part of the building and called that home for about a week.

  Funny how things connected in life.

  She rattled the doors—of course they were locked. A quick peek through the front windows revealed a large, empty room. Then she remembered something unique about the building. There used to be a large safe in the back office. The back of it actually opened to the alley right behind a dumpster. She figured the former owner had been paranoid or trying to fool people into thinking he was keeping money in the safe, when in actuality he was likely coming back at night and taking it out the back door of the safe. It was devious, but also genius.

  Was it possible that when they started refurbishing the building, the construction people decided not to touch the safe? The damn thing probably weighed more than four hundred pounds. If it was still there, she might have a way to get inside, find those snakes, or better yet, see if Delmar’s gut instinct about Timothy just might lead to a clue on Ivy’s whereabouts.

  In her mind, it was a low-risk, high-reward activity.

  She let her skateboard drop to the ground, and then she pushed away, heading toward the alley.

  46

  The snakes punctured my skin by the dozens, but I just kept running, hoping that I’d find safety somewhere in the darkness. Each bite felt like an animal trap clamping into my skin. How I remained conscious from the venom and the white-hot pain I had no idea. Somehow I produced tears, which felt cold against my skin.

  I could hear the shrill of a panicking scream. It had to be me. With my hands in front of me desperately searching for a way out, I could feel my feet crushing snakes with each step. Some would instantly bite me; others were either stunned or died. Who knew? My heart didn’t just beat out of control—each ping seemed like a nail to my chest.

  Suddenly I took a step into air, and I tumbled helplessly until I slammed into a floor. I thought I heard the snap of a bone somewhere in my chest.

  Opening my eyes, I saw myself, or a warped version of me. I wiped my eyes, but screamed from using my arm. I touched my collarbone. It had buckled—broken.

  Something caught my eye above me. I looked up just in time to see snakes falling from a ledge. That had to be from where I’d dropped. One landed just in front of my face. It hissed, then spit something into my face.

  Yelping, I rolled away from the snake as fast I could. The pain from my broken clavicle hit me like a hammer at every revolution. After about ten rolls, I got to my knees and looked back. My vision was blurred, my eyes on fire.

  It was venom.

  I rubbed my eyes, looked around. More mirrors. Up to my feet, I kept rubbing at my eyes, but it only got worse. As if someone had just pulled a plug, I lost sight in my left eye. My balance was off. I fell backward, rammed into the mirrored glass. I put my hand on the back of my head and felt shards of glass embedd
ed there, blood seeping out. Fear pulsated throughout my body. Fear that I’d lose my eyesight. Fear that I’d never find a way out. Fear that I’d die in this house of horrors with no one knowing.

  I tried to move my legs, but I fell to the ground. Did someone tilt the floor? With a hand against the wall—just more mirrors—I got to my feet and trudged forward. The vision in my right eye was closing in at the edges. And what I could see was blurred and moving back and forth. A queasiness washed over me as my heart thumped like it was dancing on hot coals, yet at the same time, my chest felt heavy. Was it the venom? Was I having a heart attack?

  Three stumbling steps and I ran smack into a mirror. I bounced back, tried to focus. It was the end of the hallway. There had to be a door somewhere. I felt around, then I heard something mechanical. I turned to see the open hall behind me disappear as another mirrored wall dropped in place.

  I was enclosed.

  With my vision rapidly fading away, I quickly felt my way around the room. It was a square, each side about eight feet in length, all covered in glass. I looked in one direction and saw a fat version of myself; I turned and then saw my head the size of a pea. I rubbed my eyes until they were raw, but it didn’t help. Everything was skewed.

  Another wave of nausea; bile crept to the back of my throat. I dropped to the floor, curled up into a ball, wondering if the agony would go away or if this would be the pain I’d feel until I took my last breath.

  “Do you want to live, Ivy?”

  A voice. Imagined?

  “Yes.” My weakened response sounded more like a question. But the sound of a human voice sent my breathing cadence into overdrive.

  “You only have another seven or eight minutes before you’re permanently blind. Did you know that?”

  I pawed at the mirror, wondering if my delusions had taken over my mind. Something about the voice, though, sounded eerily familiar.

  “The proteolytic venom dismantles the molecular structure of the area around your bites.”

  “Huh?” My dizziness was worsened by the overabundance of oxygen reaching my brain. I couldn’t stop panting. I clawed at my chest, where it felt like spikes were being driven deeper into my chest.

  The calm voice continued. “The hemotoxic venom impacts both the heart and the cardiovascular system. There are two other types of venom. Would you like to know more?”

  “No!” I banged a fist against the glass. “Help me, dammit! You said you’d help me, didn’t you?”

  A soft chuckle. “I only said how much time you had before you lost your eyesight. Beyond that, you’ll probably suffer another ten or fifteen minutes before you have a cardiac arrest. Your veins will feel like they’re exploding under your skin.”

  “Okay. Whatever. Just help me. Please.” My voice cracked as my head fell to the floor. I was on my back now, writhing from the malady of afflictions all over my body. “I’ll do anything. Just help me, goddammit!”

  Another mechanical sound, and the wall I’d run into lifted like a garage door. I heard grunting. I twisted, trying to focus on the objects in front of me. A man stood in between two large crates, darkness surrounding him.

  I craned my neck. “Timothy?”

  “Oh how you wish.” His voice was so quiet I could barely make out what he was saying.

  “I thought they killed—wait, what did you say?” I only saw the outline of a person. He was tall, out of shape, with a white coat and pants. Dark shoes, but his face was a blur.

  “Time is ticking very quickly, Ivy. You have a decision to make.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to process what was happening. This wasn’t Floppy Hair or Muscle Man.

  “What did you do with Timothy?”

  He chuckled. “I guess you believed everything you saw. Kudos to myself.”

  “What?”

  “Things aren’t always as they seem, Ivy. You’re twenty-eight years old. You shouldn’t have to be reminded of that. Shame on you.”

  “Fuck you. Who are you?”

  “Oh, how I wish I hadn’t taken your eyesight.”

  “What?”

  “You might want to crawl a little closer.” He tapped something on the side of the crate to his right, and it slowly opened.

  A large man was bound to a chair, his right arm fully extended. “Stan?” He grunted. He had a gag in his mouth. “How did you—” I couldn’t complete my thought. There was something above him. An anvil?

  I looked toward the man in the middle of the crates, my brain grinding through a thick blanket of confusion and fatigue.

  “And who do we have in door number two?” The man seemed jovial as he tapped the second crate.

  A female squirmed while lying horizontally. Under her was some type of buzzing aquarium, with green pointed spears sticking up. A memory cut through the mental haze.

  The video. Eight methods of torture.

  “These are the two winners. Or losers. Kind of depends on how you look at it,” the man said.

  I crawled closer to the girl. “Cristina?”

  A higher-pitched squeal.

  “Now, Ivy, here’s the challenge.”

  “Who are you?”

  A pause.

  “My, you are a little slow today. But I can understand why.” I could see his hands move to his head, and he pulled off his hair—a toupee. Then he tugged on his bushy eyebrows until they popped off.

  I blinked, but didn’t say a word. He began to tug at the edges of his face.

  “You see,” he said as he picked at his hairline. “The surgeries, all fifteen of them, didn’t go as planned. I guess that’s what I get for insisting they take place over a four-week period.”

  Something plastic fell to the floor in front of me. I reached out and touched it. It felt like wax. Looking up to the man’s face, I saw it was deformed. He was bald, too, with a bowl of stringy hair around the rim.

  My heart exploded.

  “Want me to show you my nice new foot? They actually did a pretty good job on that one.”

  Milton. Fucking Milton!

  “How?” I couldn’t help but cry.

  “When you want something badly enough, it’s like you’re driven by this external force.”

  “You killed Timothy?”

  “I sure did, but not in the video you saw. That was just a hoax, to screw with your mind. Looks like it worked.” He laughed. “Timothy was a pathetic soul. I ran into him at a bar in Cabo San Lucas. I found out he only left his mansion about twice a year. That’s when I saw an opportunity. I killed him, then went through the process of becoming him. A new identity, a new life. Money—his money—really made the wheels turn. I’ve been in pain, but when you essentially have doctors at your beck and call by throwing enough money at them, it can help.”

  “But how did you survive the car crash, losing your foot?”

  “Willpower and a boat. Sometimes it pays to be lucky. I guess that means some higher power is on my side. Enough chatter for now. You need to make a quick decision. Stan or Cristina—which one is more important to you?”

  “Why are you doing this? They didn’t hurt you.”

  “Pfft. Neither did the Cooper boys. But they all had to be part of the plan. Something to get you riled up.”

  “What?” My jaw clenched.

  “You’re a mindless sap. I knew you’d get too involved in finding those brats. Watching you squirm from all the emotional upheaval was worth the pain of all my surgeries right there.”

  I rubbed my eyes again. “Did you kill Claude?”

  “I had him killed, yes.”

  “But their grandfather?”

  “William? He is a desperate, crazy man who actually thought he’d get his grandkids back.”

  Was he suggesting that William was in on this? No way. He couldn’t be.

  “Which one will it be, Ivy? You have about two minutes, but I could be off.”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m not going to choose.”

  Cristina squealed.

  “What
’s happening to her?”

  “The bamboo spears are starting to pierce her skin. And if you don’t choose, then they both die. And after they die, then they’ll join the other three.”

  “What other three?”

  He clapped his hands twice, and a spotlight illuminated three people hanging from meat hooks. Their eyes were open, but their flesh was discolored, tongues hanging out. “Who?” I whispered.

  “Two are meddling construction workers. They won’t be missed. The third is one of my most prized pupils.”

  “You think you’re a teacher?”

  “She was kicked out of the military for insubordination, but she can shoot better than any man I’ve seen. Too bad it all had to come to an end for her. But she did her duty in killing Claude. Was that a blow to you and Cristina? How about watching William get crushed? Did it feel like your insides were being devoured?”

  I said nothing. I only looked toward Cristina. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I heard her sniffling.

  “Do you feel better now, Milton? You’ll go down in history as one the most prolific killers in history. That’s all you really wanted, right?” I was doing my best to stroke his ego, hoping he’d just walk away.

  He turned toward Stan and then back to Cristina, but he said nothing. Was it working?

  “Milton, just walk out of this building. You have enough money to go anywhere you want. No one will ever find you. Just leave.”

  He sighed. “I’d rather saw off my other leg before I did that, Ivy. You just don’t know me, do you?” He extended his hands out to the side. “Which will it be? Stan would only lose his right arm. Cristina would die a painful death as each of her vital organs shut down.”

  I couldn’t choose. I wouldn’t choose. I slowly put my feet under me, leaning on my hands, like a runner in the starting blocks. Channeling every last morsel of energy and focus, I lurched forward like a tiger pouncing on its prey. I screamed, thrashed my arms. Milton stumbled, falling backward. With my vision way off, I flew over him. When I turned to grab him, I saw him smack the sides of both crates. Then he started crawling away. I lunged and grabbed his foot. He kicked at me, but I wasn’t going to let go.