The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 4-6 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set Book 2)

by John W. Mefford

  But he was alive. And for now, that was all that mattered. And it was all because of Aunt Kitty.

  The door to his room creaked open. “So Rip Van Winkle decided to wake up finally.” Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with a black kitten on it, Aunt Kitty waltzed in with a warm smile on her face and a tray in her hands. “How did you sleep?”

  “Best few hours of sleep I’ve ever had. Thank you.” Kyle used his arms to push himself up in the bed, but his shoulder gave out and he dropped back to the mattress. “Crap. I hardly have any strength in my entire arm.” He tried lifting it in front of him, and it went about six inches before he winced and the limb collapsed.

  “Not unexpected given the horror you went through. Let me help you.” She placed the pewter tray on the marble-top chest and moved to his side. She probably didn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds, and he was concerned about her ability to help in the strength department.

  She crouched lower, curled her arm inside his armpit, and locked it on the other side. “You ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  She counted to three and then used her legs to pull him up a good couple of feet. Then, before letting go, she gingerly tucked pillows behind his back. He cried out.

  “Sorry about that. I know you have some rather bad welts, but there was no other option. Either lay you on your front or your back, unless you know how to suspend yourself in the air.” She winked at him, and for the first time, he noticed piercing, blue eyes. Sure, she had a head full of silver hair and more lines on her face than he could count, but he could see that a few years ago she had been beautiful…radiant even. And when mixed with her compassion and remarkable kindness, she scored a ten in his book.

  “I’m good. Thanks for the help. Do you have a little breakfast there?” He nodded at the tray and rubbed his hands together as his stomach growled loudly. “Sorry, I think I’m still trying to replenish my body.”

  She pulled a rolling tray from the corner and moved it in front of Kyle, then placed his food on top, just as if he were at a hospital. “By the looks of how your clothes hang off your frame, it’s a wonder you can sit up or even walk. You’re one lucky guy, Kyle Spencer.”

  He smiled, then bit into a piece of bacon, savoring every chew like it was a gifted treasure. Something gnawed at the back of his mind and he couldn’t place it. Was it something she had just said, or the way she said it?

  He didn’t have the brainpower to figure it out. He used a spoon to scoop up scrambled eggs and ate three bites before breathing. “Cheese?” he asked.

  “Of course. They’re better that way.”

  She milled about the room, then pulled out a pair of blue rubber gloves and wedged her fingers inside before picking up the remnants of the triage scene from earlier. He was shocked to see so many bloody gauze pads, rags, and towels. She placed all the painful reminders of his captivity into a clear, plastic bag and tied it up. She tossed it in the hallway. “I’ll take that outside later. But it’s good to put that in your rearview mirror, I bet.”

  He was in the middle of gulping down a full glass of orange juice. “Uh, yeah,” he said, wiping his forearm across his face.” He stared at his bandaged fingers and recalled the splinters digging under his fingernails. He knew it was self-induced pain, and it had been necessary. Still, it stung.

  “Do you think I need antibiotics? Actually, a tetanus shot might be required. I don’t know. Are we going to the doctor soon?”

  “Oh, one thing at a time, Kyle. Sleep and food are the best healers in the world. Well, except when you pull or strain a muscle, and then ice is best.”

  He nodded and strained to listen for other voices out in the hall or beyond. “Is anyone else staying here at your bed and breakfast right now?”

  “Just had two couples leave yesterday. Expecting a small family and two more couples tomorrow though. Why do you ask?” She continued tidying up the room, ensuring every last item was placed in the right spot. She adjusted a mirror a couple of inches to the right, moved two hardbacks to an upright position to rest against a small grandfather clock, and then she checked each of the drawers. He couldn’t figure what that was all about.

  “Just wondering if anyone was around. I don’t want to pull you away from your paying customers.”

  She swatted a hand in front of her face. “Ah, it’s nothing. I tend to jump in and help those in need. Part of my DNA, I suppose.”

  She twisted her head around and looked at his empty plate. “Looks like you’ve already finished your breakfast. I’m guessing you’d like seconds,” she said, lifting his tray from the stand.

  Kyle couldn’t hide his smile, then he tried to inch up. “What can I say? You’re a great cook, just like my mom. At least when I was younger.”

  She stopped halfway to the door and turned around with a serious, caring look on her face. “Did something happen to your mom?”

  “Well…” He mulled over how to word this, then a cough escaped his lips. “My dad played the corporate bullshit game—I mean, corporate brown-nosing game—and moved his way up to CEO. As they got more money, they became more distant. Yep, they’re actually pretty loaded. I guess most people would say they’re pretty lucky.”

  She raised a single eyebrow. “Yes, lucky them.”

  “That reminds me, I’d love to give them a call, and let them know how I’m doing. Maybe they’ll let me charter a plane to get back home. Do you have a phone I can borrow?”

  “All in due time, Kyle. I’m not a great multitasker. How about we work on breakfast first, then figure out our next steps?”

  He didn’t fully understand how this was some type of complex event. She could toss him the phone from the doorway. But she was being nice and helpful, so he went with it. “I’m cool. Just enjoying every minute right now.”

  She winked again and left the room, closing the door behind her. A moment later, he heard pots and pans clanking and the sound of rushing water. It didn’t take long for him to get the urge to pee. He tried using his one half-good arm to push himself upward, but it wasn’t very effective, and all he did was end up moving his pillow out from behind his neck, rubbing against some of his wounds.

  “Dammit,” he said, then he recalled his vow to not cuss. He couldn’t move his feet much, if at all, anyway, so he’d probably need some help getting to the bathroom. Using the thumb and forefinger of his good hand, he fidgeted with the tag from his coverlet, anything to take his mind off peeing.

  He glanced at the grandfather clock and quickly realized that while the pendulum was swinging, the time wasn’t changing. He wasn’t certain how much time had ticked by, but it seemed like an hour. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to get to the bathroom.

  He peeled back the covers and noticed he was not wearing his own clothes. He’d forgotten that he had changed. The shorts looked like something his dad might have worn thirty years ago, and the T-shirt had a faded logo on the front. He tried to ignore the unsightly vision of his mauled legs. Using his arm for support, he gingerly brought one of his legs to the side of the bed. It took several seconds, and when he had finished just that small task, he could feel a line of perspiration down the center of his back.

  “This might take a while,” he mumbled.

  He huffed out a couple of breaths, pulling from his energy reserves, then grabbed hold of his other leg.

  The door swung open.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Aunt Kitty said, eyeing him up and down.

  “The bathroom. I need to pee. Bad.” He gave her a toothy grin.

  She released a high-pitched cackle. “That’s a good sign. Internal injuries are probably minor if you can still poop and pee, I’ve always said.”

  He was prepared for her to walk to his side and help him off the bed, but she stopped at his dangling leg, picked it up with both hands, and placed it back on the mattress. “There. Need to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. Too soon to be up and around. Way too soon, as a matter of fact.”

&nb
sp; He could feel the skin between his eyes scrunch together. “What? I know it won’t be easy, but I’ve got to pee. Seriously.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “Seriously? You think I’m not taking this seriously?”

  For the first time he felt…what was it? Her resentment, or that he owed her something in return?

  “No, you’re taking it the wrong way. I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me. It’s something I’ll never forget, Aunt Kitty. But I know this isn’t easy on you. As soon as we reach my parents, they can pay you a nice bonus for being my savior.” He smiled to emphasize his sincerity.

  Her lips drew a straight line, then she turned back to the door, muttering something under her breath. He turned his head, thinking he might have heard her say something like, “We’ll see just how big of a bonus we get.”

  He decided to ask her. “Did you say something to me?”

  “Let me get your breakfast,” she said just before the door slammed behind her.

  Kyle felt his chest tighten, and he did everything he could to keep his pulse from racing out of control. He knew his fear radar was overly sensitive right now. Everyone had a quirk or two, and Aunt Kitty wasn’t any different, he suspected.

  He tried to situate himself back in bed as he rethought his strategy on getting to the bathroom. The rush of anxiety had temporarily diminished his urge to pee. The door swung open, and his heart jumped a beat. She was carrying a tray, and he immediately felt more at ease. She rounded the bed and set the tray on the table.

  “Seconds, just like you asked,” she said. She pushed the table closer, but not with the detailed care she had used earlier.

  His hunger had subsided, but he wanted to keep her spirits positive. “Uh, thank you.”

  She didn’t say a word in response and walked out the door, this time without shutting it. The last thing he wanted to do was offend her, so he pulled the portable tray closer and took a bite of his toast. She came right back in the room, holding something in her hand.

  “Here, use this if you can’t hold it.” She tossed something rubbery on his lap. He held it up. It looked like a ribbed miniature wine bottle with an elongated neck, a greenish-gray color.

  “What is this?”

  “We call it the Texas catheter.”

  “What the—?”

  “You’re resourceful.” She winked, but it wasn’t nearly as sweet. In fact, it seemed like she was mocking him.

  “What if I need to go number two?”

  “Not fun. But I’ve changed many a set of sheets in my days on the floor. What’s another set?” She tapped his shoulder, then turned to walk away.

  “But can you just help me to the bathroom? And I’d like to go ahead and borrow your phone and make a couple of calls.” He could feel his pulse ticking a little faster, his breathing shallow.

  Turning from the doorway, she approached the bed and grabbed a strap he hadn’t noticed before. Then she went to the other side and pulled up another strap. Before he could comment, query, or object, she had both straps pulled across his thighs and clasped together. Tightly.

  He winced, hissing air through his teeth. “Ouch. That hurts.”

  “Don’t want you falling out of bed.”

  “I think you’re cutting off my blood flow.”

  “Less to clean up afterward,” she said and winked again.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Finish your breakfast,” she said, gliding out of the room, the door partially shut.

  He just sat there, dumbfounded by the turn of events, the turn of Aunt Kitty into a woman with some type of obsession issues. Even with the homey atmosphere, medical attention, and food and water, she was literally trying to keep him here against his will.

  A wave of emotion tugged at him, and he fought to hold back tears…and rage. He’d be damned if anyone was going to hold that kind of power over him again in his life. He tossed the piece of toast on the tray, shoved it to the side, and tried his best to unclasp the metal clip that bit into the straps. He tried for five minutes and nothing budged. Drenching with sweat, he came to the conclusion he had the strength of a four-year-old.

  He wiped his face, and then he looked up to see Aunt Kitty’s face poking just inside the door.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Kyle has a visitor.”

  Suddenly his energy spiked, and a smile stretched across his face. Was it his buddies, Trent and Ryan, maybe his mom or dad?

  “Who, tell me who?”

  She kicked open the door, and in walked the wiry man with the thin goatee, the man who had held a gun to his head, the man who had sent him off to his torturous exile.

  And as the man stood in his room and chuckled, Kyle could only cry like a little boy who knew he’d never see his parents again.

  16

  Damn, I missed Ezzy. That was my simple, yet most prevailing thought as Archie and I sat half a block down from Ricardo Bolivar’s house on the outskirts of Brownsville, a few thin morning clouds giving way to a blue sky and a relentless sun. Since we were farther inland, the highs were again expected to be over a hundred. Couldn’t recall if the forecast said 101 or 105 degrees. It didn’t really matter. At triple digits, counting the notches was pointless.

  Thinking of Ezzy made me smile. She was a salt-of-the-earth kind of gal and had been my rock for as long as I could recall. She represented good, normal people doing the right thing, as opposed to demented screw-ups who demanded my time and attention in my professional life.

  Focusing on our suspect’s neighborhood, it was decent enough, but certainly nothing fancy. Unlike three other areas we had passed while traveling west on Highway 48—where countless front yards had been turned into long-term mechanic stations for the ancient trucks put up on blocks—Bolivar’s neighborhood must have one of those oppressive homeowner’s associations. Everything was uniform, including the structures, all fitting into one of four layouts and one of four brick colors, as well as each having a lawn of mostly grass and at least a single tree and a handful of shrubs. Water shortage was a way of life in the Valley, yet these postcard views included greenery in the front.

  Bolivar’s rusted Monte Carlo sat in the front drive, flanked by two plastic garbage bins, one for trash, one for recyclables. Very standard, very responsible.

  Nudging an inch to my right to avoid the sun cutting across the bucket seat in Archie’s car, I sipped my not-so-delicious morning coffee. We had been in a hurry and could find nothing better than a gas station where the clerk offered us two choices of so-called fresh coffee. I probably should have opted for my college caffeine selection—straight-up soda.

  Archie had an earbud in one ear and was grooving to some type of 1970s disco tune—Earth, Wind and Fire possibly? Was this a new morning ritual for Archie? Disco? I hadn’t seen this part of him before. Whatever. He could have been practicing Zen meditation, for all I cared. I just felt lucky to have a few moments of peace, given the roller coaster I’d been on over the last twelve hours.

  Three houses down from Bolivar’s house, a man with a computer bag draped over his shoulder walked out his front door, tossed the morning paper onto the front porch, and then got into his car, a five- or six-year-old Nissan, blue. As he pulled out of the driveway and approached our location in ultra-low speed, he lowered his visor to block the sun’s rays. I noticed a baby tire on the front right side.

  “Not exactly a hot spot of action,” I said, forgetting for a second that Archie had yet to start his typical Archie-isms. He held up a finger, and then went back to shaking his head and grooving.

  I released a yawn and attempted to get the kinks out of my shoulder by pulling an arm over my head and leaning to my right. The Camaro’s restrictive space didn’t allow for a full stretch, but I did the best I could. Unfortunately, my best hadn’t been good enough to keep Dad in the hospital or to get him and Carly to open up about what the hell was going on.

  But Dad’s last words before he finished his hospital esc
ape earlier had sent shivers up my spine. He had finally admitted, or at least hinted, to being in a situation that was stressful. While still defiantly proud, his eyes gave a hint of vulnerability and even fright when he spoke: “I got myself into this mess, and I’ll get myself out, Alex. Don’t worry. I’m a proud man. I can’t rely on my daughter to rescue me every time I get into trouble.”

  For sixty seconds after he had pulled away, I had paced the sidewalk outside of the hospital, trying desperately to reach Dad on his cell. With each call that rolled to voicemail, I could feel my emotions boiling, my tense jaw almost quivering from intense pressure, and tears pooling in my eyes. People treating me like I wasn’t there was a sore spot with me, which only added to my frustrations.

  After considering throwing my phone out into the barren parking lot, I leaned on my knees and took in a few deep breaths. I knew nothing would be accomplished if I didn’t calm down and logically assess my next steps. I noticed I hadn’t received a text message from the Boston team, so I called each personally to join a conference line. Surprisingly, Nick was the only one awake and, in fact, had just come back inside after an early-morning workout. I was shocked, considering the extra weight he had been carrying around, thanks to his bad knee. He sounded alert and full of energy.

  Finally the others joined the call. The moment I heard Brad’s voice, I wanted to let it all out, to share everything I was feeling, and not just the facts of this case. Even more, I wanted to feel his embrace against my body, to know I wasn’t alone in the world. But I couldn’t. Nick and Gretchen were already hurling question after question at me.

  “I don’t know the simplest way to answer your questions. That’s why I’m calling you guys.”

  Nick took the lead. “So, start with how this second drive-by shooting unfolded. I need to hear all the details.”

  My partner sounded like I usually did when investigating a case—on point and determined. It was just what I needed. Someone pressing to get to the details without being as emotionally invested, or drained, as I was. I started to describe the moment when I leaped over the bushes and found Carly just standing next to the shot-up car and Dad lying in a pool of blood.