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

by John W. Mefford

  “That’s a nice sum of money,” Terri said.

  He shook his head. “Let me clarify. Fifty thousand a year for twenty years.”

  My eyes didn’t blink, and for the first time in our conversation, his lips turned up at the edges. Just as quickly, his look turned serious.

  “Listen, you can think what you like, but Susan and us, we talked it out. I truly feel like she was forced to…you know. In the end, does it make much difference? Probably not, because prosecutors said they’d never be able to prove anything above statutory rape. But I looked in that man’s eyes at the trial, and what I saw wasn’t noble or innocent. He was out to rape my child, and I knew he’d do the same to any other young girl out there. It’s just a damn shame they let him out after serving only two years. The justice system is…don’t get me started.”

  “Can you tell us where we—”

  I put a hand on Terri’s arm and gave her the signal that Mr. Miller had endured enough. His chest was heaving, and he looked like he’d aged ten years during our fifteen-minute discussion.

  “What we meant to say was that we’re sorry for dredging up old memories. We appreciate your candor and your time.”

  Once outside of the airport, Terri said. “I realize I don’t know when to stop sometimes. Thanks for jumping in.”

  “Sure. You’re like a dog on a bone.”

  She giggled. “Remember, it’s been a while since a guy has even held my hand. You shouldn’t go there.”

  We both laughed this time, then my phone buzzed as we reached my car. I pulled it from my purse. A text from Erin.

  School project???? Did u forget about picking me up from school????

  “Crap.”

  I explained my predicament to Terri, and she insisted on taking Uber back to police headquarters. We agreed to talk later tonight, compare notes. I switched into mom mode and clawed my way through traffic to make my way up to Salem High School.

  12

  Twenty years ago

  Sitting in the university president’s office, the twenty-year-old young man gazed out across the stately buildings and tree-covered campus. Shades of orange, yellow, vibrant red, and even aqua blue made up the spectrum of colors as far as the eye could see. It was a sight to behold, a scene that could have been captured on the cover of an esteemed magazine or even in an art gallery. He could envision the name above the watercolor: Shades of an American Campus. The picturesque sight reminded him of some of the portraits he’d painted, a new passion that he’d recently taken up. Like most other new things that he tried, he had shown a natural gift. He wasn’t surprised. So many things came easy to him.

  He checked his watch, remembering that the secretary had said the president was running a bit late, but that he had some very important news to share with him. He had an idea what all the fuss was about. Not only was he certain he had made the dean’s list, but he thought this would be the formal announcement that he had been awarded the prestigious Rhode’s Scholarship. He had worked long and hard—albeit not in the traditional manner—to achieve this goal, and he looked forward to studying at the University of Oxford. Then again, when had he ever followed the same predetermined path as everyone else? The sheep mentality at every level of the American society or academia had turned the country into a blind herd of idiots, plain and simple.

  His vision drifted back to the expansive office, a virtual gallery of impressive artwork, mahogany furniture, and collectibles encased in glass. Above that was a wall filled with framed honors and degrees. The university president, who had held the office for a good ten years, was obviously quite proud of his accomplishments. The young man could relate, although he wasn’t afforded the opportunity to publicize the methods, and possibly the madness, of his brilliance. His extra-credit project that had led to this proud moment had actually infused him with an energy and vigor to succeed he had rarely experienced—at least the kind that he was willing to openly admit to the rest of the world. There were other parts of his life, of his temperament, that were manifested in ways that couldn’t be labeled as normal behavior. It had taken a while, but he had finally come to terms with the kind of person he truly was. It was all a matter of steering his energy to causes that had meaning, minimizing his extracurricular activities to when the urge couldn’t be contained. And that rarely happened.

  An image slowly came into focus in his mind: a sheet smeared with blood, his valuable tools piled on the side, and in the plastic container nestled in an ice chest, the precious pair of—

  The office door clicked open, and his breath caught in the back of his throat. He swallowed and then exhaled, allowing him to relax. It was the president. Wearing his typical blue blazer with his gut bulging out from under the buttoned coat, the half-bald university official looked straight ahead as he attempted to rub the back of his own neck. The college senior stood up, his chest bowing out slightly, but it seemed like President Furley purposely avoided eye contact. A second later, another man walked through the door. He was younger, more athletic, and wore a long-sleeve polo shirt with the red and white university logo embroidered on the upper left side. As the young man began to turn his sights toward President Furley, who was moving to the other side of his desk, he picked up the click of a familiar sound. Heels worn by his…Mother, he mouthed. And in she walked, wearing the same beige heels she wore every time she attempted to dress up.

  “What?” he whispered to her. His heart dropped into his gut, his brain doused with possible theories regarding her presence. But it was as if he were being sprayed with a firehose, unable to breathe or comprehend any logical understanding as to why she had driven two hundred miles to campus.

  “Junior, not now,” she murmured between her teeth. She quickly found a seat on the opposite side of the room, her knuckles white as they clutched her frayed purse.

  Junior began to sit.

  “You can remain standing.” President Furley momentarily picked up his reading glasses and read a note on his desk. His voice seemed stressed.

  Junior shuffled a few steps, then put his hands in his pockets. He couldn’t help but let his thoughts run rampant, and his core temperature began to skyrocket.

  “As a four-year attendee of this university, you have accomplished a great deal. In fact, up until today, I would have grouped you with just a handful of students who had truly made a positive mark on this university.”

  President Furley glared at the wall where all of his degrees hung, then he turned his gaze to the young man, who could feel the weight of the world slowly pressing against his chest. He attempted to breathe, but it only made the weight that much more oppressive. For a moment, it seemed like he might hyperventilate, but after a few focused breaths, the feeling subsided.

  “Young man, do I have your attention?”

  Of all the times for his mind to wander, Junior was astonished that he had let the same images from earlier reappear. And for some reason, he fixated on the sheet, as if the streaks of blood were born from some type of creative stroke of the paintbrush. That was it. He’d seen the correlation between his painting and his other passion, as uncontrollable as it was.

  “Young man. Are you even listening? This is your future we are talking about.”

  “Yes. I am listening, President Furley.” He was surprised by how calm and confident his voice sounded. As usual, no one heard the whispers of self-doubt and self-loathing, his innermost demons that had steadily grown from making cameo appearances to now becoming a more regular voice, one that enjoyed sucking him into his other world. With clenched teeth, he did his best to remain still. While it felt like a steel rod had been inserted into his neck, his eyes were pulled toward his mother. She met his gaze; her lips quivered.

  An audible sigh from the headmaster himself. “It has come to my attention that you have broken our code of ethics.”

  “Sir, I can explain. I’m sure it’s not nearly as bad as it might appear.”

  President Furley glanced over at the other man, who still had
not been introduced. He had a poker face, with no emotional response. He was clean shaven and had a definitive part in his hair. With no lines on his face, he looked to be around thirty-five or so. He gave a single nod toward the president. Junior couldn’t determine what the signal actually meant.

  The president replied with a similar bow of the head, and then held up a hand as if he were addressing a congregation, not one young man. “I’m sure you can offer us a bevy of explanations and stories, all of which would probably contain as much fiction as a work by Ernest Hemingway.”

  He cleared his throat and then put on his metal-rimmed glasses. Holding up a single piece of paper, he began to speak. “We have evidence of you breaking into the offices of four of your teachers. Once we followed the trail to see the name of the teachers who had supposedly written a letter of recognition in support of your application for a Rhode’s Scholarship, we were then able to determine that you have committed the act of forgery on a scale of which we have never seen at this university.”

  He could feel the glare of his mother, but he decided not to shame himself further. He remained focused on President Furley; the same, quiet whispers returned, toying with his thoughts.

  Junior swallowed, but chose not to speak up.

  “In addition, we have evidence that you have hacked into the computer system at this university to alter your grades, dating all the way back to your first semester on campus.”

  Another pause and all three of them stared at the college senior. As the searing internal heat made his head feel like it had been put into a microwave, he mentally repeated the phrase “college senior.” And then another, “college graduate,” and this one: “soon-to-be Rhode’s scholar.” That was how he had identified himself. But he knew now the use of those terms was like trying to hold sand in his hands.

  “On top of that, we have worked with our colleagues across the pond and feel strongly that you have also hacked into the computer system at the University of Oxford to include your name in the prestigious list of winners this year.” He removed his glasses. “I could go on further, including breaking and entering, and then there is a list of other things where we have our suspicions.”

  “Dear God, what now?” his mother whimpered behind a bed of tears.

  “Certain objects have gone missing from the Biology Department. Once we picked up your son’s fingerprints from the four teachers’ offices, our head of security, Mr. Steele…” President Furley extended a hand to the silent man standing with his hands clasped behind his back. “…was able to pick up a partial print from two doors in the section where the dead animals are kept—the ones used for experimentation. We can’t be certain, but we have our suspicions.” The president turned his gaze back to the man. “I don’t suppose you want to clear your conscience and tell us the entire true story?”

  The young man’s jaw twitched. “I have nothing to say, sir.”

  “Okay, well. It goes without saying that you are—”

  “Sir.”

  Junior turned to see his mother raising a hand that held a tattered tissue.

  “I can understand how troubled you might feel, in addition to feeling betrayed,” the president said to her. “We all do. This, frankly, is one of the saddest days in our university’s history. But we must move forward. And to do that, justice must be served.”

  She waved her hand. “Might I have a word with you…privately?”

  President Furley glanced at his desk and moved a folder to the other side, then he lifted his eyes. “No one has ever accused me of being a dictator. I wouldn’t want to gain that reputation, even in these unfortunate circumstances.” He looked to Mr. Steele. “Please accompany…him out into the waiting area. This shouldn’t take long.”

  The wait was more like thirty minutes. Junior paced some, looked out a window, even skimmed through a recent edition of the school’s alumni magazine. All it did was remind him of everything he would never be able to accomplish. More than that, he realized how much he had anticipated the idea of sharing his brilliant feats with his peers. He recalled thinking that the school might even raise funds to name a new library after him. That was how much impact he felt he could have on the world. His mom had told him as much ever since he remembered going to school.

  And it was all gone. He’d been outed…just as he was about to begin the final leg of his journey, as fake as it was.

  Two female students walked into the area and spoke to President Furley’s secretary. One glanced at Junior out of the corner of her eye. The hem of her skirt had a nice long slit, the buttons on her cardigan sweater bulging from the size of her breasts. She gave him the once-over, then ran her tongue along her lips. He was intrigued, but repulsed at the same time. It was a familiar feeling. Deep within his body, his psyche possibly, he could feel an urge begin to take root—even at this defining juncture of his life, on the precipice of watching it all implode into vapor.

  The urge would never go away, not until he did something about it.

  The door to the office opened, and his mother walked out with President Furley right on her heels. She gave Junior a slight wink, then turned around and gave the school president a firm handshake.

  “We’ll take care of all the details. I think this is best for everyone involved,” he said.

  “I appreciate your willingness to meet me halfway.” His mother flipped on her ancient heels and headed for the exit. “Junior, let’s go home.”

  He glanced at President Furley on his way out. He shook his head with his lips pressed together, and then he caught up to his mother.

  “What happened?”

  “I wrote President Furley a check. A contribution to the university.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because.” She stopped in the hallway and put a hand on her son’s broad shoulder, a hesitation in her voice. “You’re a very smart young man. But you still have lessons to learn.”

  Later that night, Junior took one of his trophies he had confiscated from the Biology Department, laid a white sheet under his temporary workstation behind the garage, and used his tools with remarkable precision. When it was all over, he had one prevalent thought.

  Playing with animals no longer fulfilled his desires. It was time to up his game. It was the only way.

  13

  Erin barely said a word on our drive to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. She either stared blankly out the window or was pounding away on her phone, no doubt sharing her thoughts with her friends. I got it. She was pissed, thinking I had forgotten about her and her art history project.

  It was only temporary amnesia, but it felt like I’d committed a felony.

  “Okay, let’s get started,” I said with a good amount of energy.

  Without saying a word, she walked timidly into the first gallery, her eyes wide with… What was it exactly? Fear, excitement?

  “What is it, sweetie?” I asked as I sidled up next to a golden statue of a notable figure from the Chinese Song Dynasty.

  She threw up her hands and then slapped them against her jeans. “I have no frickin’ clue what I’m doing, what I should focus on. It’s overwhelming.”

  I gently put an arm over her shoulder and led her around a throng of onlookers marveling at the ancient artifacts. “Does any of this interest you?” I asked.

  “Not really, Mom. I guess it’s cool that someone was able to recover this stuff and preserve it, but I don’t really relate to any of it.”

  Nearing the end of a small wing, we found ourselves right in front of another sculpture, but this one stood out. It appeared to be a woman with long hair and two large hoops piercing her nipples. We slowly turned our heads toward each other, blank stares on both of our faces. The stare-down lasted about five seconds before Erin burst out laughing, and I snorted out a guffaw a moment later. Erin laughed so hard she started crying. And then so did I.

  “I…I think I might have just peed my pants,” I said, resting a hand on her shoulder.

  “Oh, Mom.”
She was overcome with another round of laughter before she could utter a word, her neck and chest bright red from the exertion.

  “Just wait until you have kids, Erin,” I said, finally able to breathe without losing it. “I think I have a better idea of why you don’t really relate to any of this.” I pointed at the sculpture again. “You don’t have any plans to get nipple rings, do you?”

  “Mom, you just said nipple in front of me.”

  “You’re older; we can joke around, right?”

  “Sure, Mom, it’s just strange to hear you saying…nipple.” We both cracked up like a couple of little kids.

  We started walking back to the center of the first floor, gazing at different works of art, when I felt Erin hook her arm inside mine. She smiled, resting her head against my shoulder. She was getting much taller now, maybe just a couple of inches shorter than my five-six frame. And I could feel the muscles in her arm and hand. She’d begun to excel in tennis, although she didn’t like to talk about her tennis life, not to me anyway.

  Erin looked at me again and batted her eyelashes. They were like mine, thin and not very long. She was a cute tomboy, sweet and innocent, and that was how I hoped she would stay until she was about thirty years old.

  “Mom,” she said, her cheeks glowing from grinning so hard.

  I’d almost forgotten I was walking with teen Erin, not my little girl when she would just appreciate our little moment of mother-daughter time.

  “I know that look. What do you want?”

  “Well, I’m not really asking for anything; it’s more about what I’d like to do…with your permission, of course.”

  She batted her eyelashes again and stretched her grin even wider.

  I knew her question had nothing to do with boys or dating. Or did it? Was she about to ask if she could start dating some gangly, snot-nosed kid? Wait…what was I thinking? She was all about Teen Wolf and Zac Efron this and Zac Efron that. Hmm. She might have drawn the eye of the starting quarterback of the football team, and she wanted to warm me up to the idea before Mr. Charisma showed up at the house to take her out on some innocent date.