“I tried telling you, Ivy, once you’re over about twenty-one or twenty-two, old is old. You don’t have to walk with a cane or have gray hair.”
I didn’t allow myself to get pulled into another pointless discussion about her age discrimination. We stood there for a moment as the sun’s last rays disappeared behind the live oaks. The temperature felt like it had dropped a quick five degrees, but it still wasn’t cold. The park now was mostly void of people, but I was somehow able to keep my demons at bay. I found myself trying to make sense of everything I’d witnessed and heard. The Romeros’ refusal to formally file a missing persons report on their daughter was at least partially understandable. But with every passing hour, it seemed like their anguish was only growing. Would they ever reach a point where they’d give in to their worst fears and file the report? Then again, I knew it wasn’t a given that, once they filed a report, Mia would show up at their doorstep an hour later. And while I welcomed all the help we could get from the SAPD, even the FBI if it was possible, the further away we moved from the time she had walked out of school, the odds of her being found alive and well were getting worse.
Then all of the other data points, visual and otherwise, flooded my mind: Brandon’s who-gives-a-shit attitude, Brandon’s necklace, the video of Mia reaching for what I thought was a necklace, Peterson’s paranoia, finding Mia’s phone in her own locker, Jasmine, who was a member of Mia’s basketball team, failing to reveal anything pertinent about her friend. Oh, and then there was the whole coach-hating thing.
Wait. Brandon had mentioned the same type of thing—issues with his coach.
“You going to see who texted you?”
I looked at Cristina, then lifted my phone. “It’s a text from Stan.”
I blinked a couple of times, but the words never reached my lips.
“What the hell did he say?”
“The dead teenager at Mission San Jose? He was a football player at Mia’s school.”
32
“That’s a notch,” he said, finally releasing her head.
She shrieked as tears poured out, and she put a napkin to her mouth. She didn’t ask what he meant, but he told her anyway,
“Any time you screw up—and I understand, because of your age, you will screw up—I will cut you. We’ll start real small at first. But over time, you’ll begin to see a pattern. If you’re smart, by the time you leave here, you’ll have all of your limbs, your ears, and your nose.”
They were sitting at the dinner table. He had invited her to join him for dinner in his massive dining hall. All she had done was ask why he wasn’t married. It was an innocent question. She trembled with fear and was afraid to make eye contact. “When will that be?”
“I thought you knew that. No?” He sawed off a bite of steak, popped it in his mouth, and then placed the utensils next to his plate. He laced his fingers together and stared at her. Attempting to drown out the piercing sting in her lip, she gave a quick shake of the head, but braced for a violent response.
“You’ll leave when I move on to the next life or when most of the world incinerates itself.”
She was still processing what he’d just relayed when he tapped a button on his cell phone screen then slid it into the front pocket of his sports coat. It looked to be cashmere. It was refined. Like he was. Like she’d thought he was.
The twenty-foot, floor-to-ceiling curtains opened, revealing a breathtaking view. An orange sunset behind the distant hill, and a horse galloping across the open field. A few trees were sprinkled across the setting. She inhaled to steady herself, then glanced around the room. When she’d walked in, she’d seen the fancy chandelier, the finely crafted woodwork of the dining room table, a colorful painting at the far end of the room hanging above a stone fireplace. But now she looked at the Persian rug. There were some frayed edges at the end, and it was a bit discolored. She noticed a thin layer of dust on the chair next to her. This man, who had radiated confidence and charm, was, on one hand, both cultured and sophisticated. He came from money, old Texas money. Yet, after closer examination, she began to feel he was simply playing out some type of fantasy. As if he were nothing more than a squatter on someone else’s abandoned property.
He raised his glass of red wine, which was the sign for her to do the same. Still with her napkin at her lip, she picked up her glass. He swirled the wine in his glass and said, “What do you think?”
She could feel her pulse drumming in her lip, but the rush of blood lit a fuse in her brain. She had been naïve. No, it was far worse than that. She’d been a fucking fool. Ashamed of her clueless lack of good judgment, she found herself wrapping her ankles around the legs of her chair to keep her whole body from shaking. From unmitigated fear and sheer anger. At this man for holding her captive, for treating her like an animal, and at herself for being so self-absorbed that she thought his promises of all the trappings of wealth and travel would sweep all of her pressures and petty high school scandals aside.
They would travel the world, he’d said repeatedly, sail across the aqua waters of the Caribbean, ride elephants on a real African safari, hike across a glacier, take in all the incredible museums and castles and cathedrals across Europe.
But he’d meant none of that. What had she been thinking? She would have bit her lip had she not tasted blood in her mouth from him making his first “notch.”
“Of what?” she responded timidly.
“The wine, the view,” he said, turning in his seat while taking a drink. “This is the life, isn’t it?”
She looked once more at the beautiful scenery and then turned, staring at him. Sal had the kind of perfectly chiseled profile from which they could mint a coin. But, apparently, the man who had a presidential appearance was truly demented. And what could she do about it? Absolutely nothing.
“It sure is.” She pretended to sip her wine as she thought more about what he’d said. “Do you think there is going to be a war, or are you aware of some type of meteor hitting the earth, or some other natural catastrophe?”
He lifted from his chair, walked to the windows, sipping his wine. Then he turned and faced her. “Mia, my dear, very few things in this world are as perfect as you.”
There he went with the charm again. For the first time since they’d first met a month earlier, his charm was meaningless, hollow. Hell, he’d cut her lip, threatened to put more “notches” in her every time she didn’t follow his set of rules.
“Thank you,” she said, not wanting to upset him.
“But the rest of the world…it’s really fucked up. People making the decisions are so self-centered and, frankly, crazy. It will lead to the destruction of the world. Some might live, maybe someone young like yourself. But most of us will perish. And it won’t matter how much money any of us have.”
She narrowed her eyes. Was this guy for real? Was he really one of those people who thought the end of the world was not just imminent, but had a clear vision for how it would happen? And because of that, what kind of world had he set up on this so-called estate, which seemed more like a prison? Yes, she was eating, or more like nibbling at, a five-star meal. She drank wine from a bottle of a name she couldn’t pronounce. But that had nothing to do with her. That, somehow, only fed the irrational desires of this man. She was a prisoner. His apocalyptic view of the world was something he’d conjured up to justify his actions. She was sure of it. But what else had he done? Surely, there was more to his plan than kidnapping a high school senior and eating nice meals and sharing a bottle of wine.
What’s on every boy’s mind? S-E-X. Where the hell have you been, Mia?
Her eyes shifted across the table, finally landing on the fork. She picked it up, put her thumb at the end. She glanced in his direction. Could she somehow run at him and stab the fork in his eye before he could react? It may not kill him, but it would give her enough time to figure a way out of this house, off this estate, and find someone, anyone who could help her escape.
He downed the
last of his wine, walked back to the table, and poured another glass. He held the bottle near her glass. “By the way, I’m a black belt in karate. I might be older than you are by a good three decades, but any attempt you make at harming me will not end well. Not for you.”
She placed the fork back on her plate. “I’ll take some more wine, thank you.” He poured it and she took a small sip. A silence draped over their space. Then, a shrill ripped through the air like a reaper’s scythe.
Someone else was in the house? The scream was that of a woman. Where was she? And what had made her scream?
Sal jerked his head to look over his shoulder. “It’s time for you to go back to your room.”
With her senses on high alert, she slowly got to her feet. He ushered her down a series of connected hallways. She now saw three other doors that were shut, all with padlocks on them. Was the screaming woman inside one of those rooms?
When they made it to her room, she turned and said, “Is it possible for me to ride the horse sometime?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. You’ll have to improve your behavior. I have a lot going on. A lot to prepare for. Honestly…” He ran his fingers across her face, then stroked a lock of her hair. “I had hoped we could continue our lovely evening together.” He shuffled in his space. “I need to go take care of something. You’ll get your turn again. Maybe tomorrow.”
Her turn.
She wanted to continue the discussion, to show she was buying into his new world view. “Are you sick? Have you received bad news about your health recently?” To a degree, it was an honest question. If someone were at his death bed, what would he want his last days to be like? Had he created this weird sense of reality to give him some sort of peace before he passed? “I’m in good health. Thank you for asking, Mia.” He touched her face again.
“So, you’re not going to die?”
“I don’t like that word. But eventually, we all shall pass. Between now and then, I plan to live life to its fullest. And I can’t wait to share it with you.” He kissed his fingers and gently touched her lips. Then he shut the door and locked it.
She went to the bathroom and turned on the sink water to tend to her wound. Sal’s words replayed in her head like it was on some type of infinite loop. “You’ll leave when I move on to the next life or when most of the world incinerates itself.”
The sound of the water rushing from the faucet brought her back around, and Mia focused on her face in the mirror. She blinked to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. She didn’t just have the large raccoon eyes and lips like that of a clown. She looked like the star of a horror movie. The star who would ultimately die in the end. The good girl who meant well, but was unable to recognize the real monster until it was too late.
A gasping breath passed through her lips, and she fought off more tears. Her parents had taught her so many things over the years, most of which, she had to admit, never really resonated. She’d heard the basics—watch for cars while crossing a street, don’t chew with your mouth open, and behave like a young lady. She never really understood that last one, and even in the middle of this nightmare, it didn’t make a lot of sense. Were they asking her to be better than everyone else? Smarter? Modestly cute? What else?
Her brain was too scrambled to think through everything she’d screwed up to get to where she was. Somewhere along the way, her parents had probably given her the proper advice. But they were parents. Who really listened to their parents? She certainly hadn’t, not after turning fourteen. She’d been a so-called good girl, but she’d always thought she knew more than they did. And maybe more so because they were immigrants and didn’t really understand how American teens should act, what was socially acceptable.
Damn, she wished she’d listened more, applied their teachings. She would give anything to be back home, safe in her mother’s arms.
She washed her face, but winced when the warm water touched the corner of her lip.
She shut off the water, tied her hair back into a tight ponytail, and forced herself to remove the heavy blanket of fear for just a few moments. She had not heard another scream, she realized. But she would not soon forget the terror in that one scream.
She prayed the cops would find her. Her parents were probably worried sick. An image of her brother, Daniel, came to mind. Again, her perception had been skewed as to how her actions could impact others. Sure, she’d lost her brother a year ago, but her parents had also lost a son. And now, they might lose their daughter too.
Guilt wrapped her body like a strait jacket. She’d been selfish, on top of being clueless.
She had to figure out something before Sal returned and forced himself on her.
She jumped in bed and tried to formulate a plan.
33
After stopping by Saul’s apartment and sharing some late-night sushi, I told him I’d be back later, probably after he’d fallen asleep. I had some late-night surveillance to do.
The outdoor light on the corner house flicked off. At just after midnight, it was the final home in the neighborhood to go dark. The only visible light came from a single street lamp two blocks away, which illuminated the light rain falling from the dark sky. My black Civic blended in with the night, just as I’d hoped. I checked my rearview one more time to ensure the street was barren, just as it was in front of me. It was. I slid out of my car, shut the door with a quiet click, and then hopped onto the sidewalk and began the two-block trek to Lee High School. I’d initially considered doing some surveillance at one of the three remaining mission churches—Mission San Juan, Mission Espada, and the most famous of them all, the Alamo. But Stan had let me know the SAPD brass had posted armed guards around the clock at all the missions—the two where the murders had been committed and the three others. So that left me with an easy decision, Lee High School. We knew there was a common element between the homicides at the two missions and the animal sacrifice inside the field house: the use of Satanic symbols. Did that mean the same person committed all the crimes? As Stan and I had conferred following the gathering at the park—just before he was about to take off for his evening jog—it seemed highly unlikely, but not impossible. He said he’d once worked a case where the felon had purposely committed a similar crime several miles away. Once he was caught, he admitted that he’d done it to try to make it look like a copycat crime, to add more confusion to the investigation.
The key difference in these crimes was how the Satanic symbols were used. The first two crime scenes included the symbol most closely associated with human and animal sacrifices—the circle with the letter A inside of it. So, the usage of the symbol made sense. In the killing at Mission Concepcion, the killer had carved the symbol into the flesh of both girls, while the field house crime scene had the symbol burned into the artificial turf. At Mission San Jose, however, the killer had used a different symbol, the hexagram. It was carved into the victim’s back with the arrow shot right through the middle. In addition, the victim of the third crime, a teenage boy, had his junk cut off and stuffed in his mouth. The level of violence alone made it seem like there were two different perpetrators, Stan had surmised.
I tended to agree, but I was still curious to learn more about this unknown world of devil worshipping. I’d spent a good couple of hours researching the topic, and what I learned surprised me. Satanists were mostly spiritualists who worshipped Satan as a deity. Some believed that Satan, also known as Lucifer, was the creator of humanity. The Church of Satan was established in 1966 by a guy named Anton LaVey, who made it clear that the church did not believe in the devil, and considered that more of a notion created by Christians and Muslims. While LaVey was the author of what is considered to be the Satanic Bible, it was actually nothing more than a collection of essays, rituals, observations. I found a record of him saying, however, that there were many people who smeared the name of Satanism, usually to only further their own cause, to shock their community, or to justify their own demented actions.
I’d also p
erused the web looking for more information on the Satanic symbols. When I found a site that provided definitions for each of the symbols, two things captured my attention very quickly. First, the symbol that looked like the Star of David, also known as the hexagram, and sometimes referred to as the Seal of Solomon, was the most powerful symbol used by occultists. Second, the sacrifice symbol, the one that had an A in the middle of a circle, apparently stood for anarchy.
Who are the biggest rebels in society? Teenage kids.
The homes in this middle-class neighborhood were as cookie-cutter as they could get, and so were the lots. One-story, brick, three windows across the front, a standard outdoor light, two thin trees in the front yard sitting on a lot that would barely fit my Civic. I saw a sign in about every third yard showing that a kid in that home was associated with Lee High School. Some were band members, a few used the term “orch dork” to show their affiliation with the orchestra, a handful were either cheerleaders or drill team members, and there were a good number of athletes—basketball, football, soccer, volleyball, just to name a few.
I crossed the street and heard a dog barking. Sounded like it came from one of the backyards. I wondered if the homeowner had a lock on the gate. And I also wondered if that would stop someone who was motivated to kill an innocent animal. Probably not. But was sacrificing animals the real purpose of what went down at the field house?
I knew I was questioning everything. This wasn’t a quality born from running ECHO; it was my survival instinct growing up as a system kid, where I’d logged time at seventeen different foster homes. I trusted very few people.
My Spidey sense nibbled at the back of my mind after hearing both Brandon and, through Cristina, the girls at the park, bitterly complaining about the coaches at the school. What better way to get even than to desecrate their precious field house with the remains of a dead animal all in the name of Satan? I could practically see the worst element of the teenage community laughing hysterically, fist-bumping each other, after pulling off such a feat.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 66