Shame ON You (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 4) (Redemption Thriller Series 16)

by John W. Mefford

  Ivy tried to confirm a couple of facts. “You said that she was supposed to stay for three nights and that she called you each of those three nights.”

  A single nod, but no verbal response.

  “Do you want me to tell them, Marilyn?” Adam asked.

  Marilyn held up her hand. She had gentle-looking hands. Hands made for a mother.

  “We got a call from school officials the next morning, the morning she was supposed to leave, that she was not in her room and they couldn’t find her.”

  “But what about her roommate?” Ivy asked. “She did have a roommate for orientation, didn’t she?”

  “A sweet girl named Lisa. From Lufkin.”

  “And?”

  Ivy’s blunt questioning reminded me of my dad in a courtroom. When he felt the witness was weak, he showed them no mercy. I shifted my feet, hoping she’d look at me and chill out a bit. But she never glanced my way.

  “Oh, Lisa wasn’t in the room. She’d fallen asleep in their neighbor’s room.”

  I asked, “Did she leave the door unlocked? Or did they look at who else had keys to her room?”

  “It was nothing like that. Everyone knew they had a midnight curfew. After that, RAs were on patrol. The window was open. She’d tied a bunch of sheets together and scaled the side of the dorm.”

  “What floor was she on?” Ivy asked before I could.

  “The second. But even if she’d been on the third or fourth floor, if Ally wanted it badly enough, she would have done it.”

  “So she left on her own volition, and she didn’t tell anyone?”

  “Everyone, including us, looked to Lisa for answers. The police questioned her a bunch. We even talked to her and her parents on more than one occasion. That girl felt horrible for not being in the room. She feels partly responsible, I think.”

  “And no one spotted her leaving or being on campus?” I asked.

  “Nope. No one.”

  “No cameras picked her up?”

  “There weren’t that many around, but they checked every one a dozen times over.”

  “Her car. Was it still in the same parking spot?”

  “Exact same one, according to Lisa and a few other girls.”

  I scratched my chin.

  “I know what you’re thinking. How can a girl just vanish into thin air? We’ve wondered the same thing for ten years,” Marilyn said.

  I looked at the pictures on the wall. So many smiles. I wondered if, under her cheerful exterior, there was another person, a darker side. Maybe someone who might need a little boost to get her up. It was possible, though, that I was unfairly connecting her to her sister’s destructive behavior and psychological makeup.

  “I appreciate you sharing that with us,” I said.

  “But there was a reason you wanted to know all the details, right?” Adam asked, rocking left and right on his feet.

  I licked my lips, wondering if I’d choose the path of least resistance or push forward with a necessary line of questioning.

  I opened my lips, but Ivy came right out and said, “From what you’ve told us, Ally was a good girl. Did things the right way.”

  They both nodded.

  “Did she ever drink or do any drugs?”

  “In other words, you’re wondering if she was a junkie, just like Chantel.”

  “Adam!” Marilyn gave him the eye.

  He turned his palms to the ceiling, acting as though he couldn’t catch a break from her. On some levels, I could see it. But I hadn’t experienced what they had. The daily anxiety had to be off the charts.

  “I don’t mean to upset you, and I’m not really implying anything. But the more information we know can only help us.”

  Marilyn picked at her tissue some and said, “Ally admitted to me that she drank a few times. Got really drunk on one occasion, so much so she didn’t remember what had happened the night before. She told me she’d never drink again, at least not until she was twenty-one. And that when she did drink, she would drink in moderation. I was so relieved and thankful she’d shared that with me.”

  “I’m sure that only made you closer,” Ivy said.

  “We had lot of those moments,” Marilyn said.

  I looked at Adam while she spoke. He had no facial expression one way or the other—just a blank look. I wondered about his relationship with Ally, his step-daughter. If there were any demons there, now wasn’t the time to raise them to the surface.

  “So, no drugs that you were aware of?” Ivy asked.

  She was a bulldog, but her follow-up was warranted.

  “I guess a mother can never be certain. But I never saw any signs. Adam?”

  “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head.

  We finished our conversation and walked toward the front of the house.

  “I’m sorry for not offering you a drink or a snack. I actually made some homemade lemonade.”

  “That’s okay,” Ivy said, a hand on the door.

  “No worries. That’s the least I can do.”

  Marilyn hurried off to the kitchen. I could see that she needed to help someone.

  Silence fell over our space. After a moment, Adam looked at me and said, “There’s not a day that goes by when we don’t think about Ally. She may not be my blood daughter, but she was a great girl. Of course, since Chantel ran off and got herself into whatever, those thoughts of Ally’s disappearance have been replaced. It’s almost as though our lives have been cursed. Like someone up above wants us to suffer.”

  “I’m sure it’s been difficult for both of you,” Ivy said. “Ozzie and I will head back to Austin and continue to keep you updated if…when we find anything of substance.”

  “Austin. I could take it or leave it,” he said.

  “Not a fan of the big city?” I asked.

  “Well, not really.” He nudged his head to the kitchen. “Her mother, Jean, lives there in an assisted-care facility. We’ve kind of had this running feud. She’s a thorn in our sides.”

  “How so?”

  “Always so needy, always asking for money. But we kind of had it out a year or so ago. She and Marilyn haven’t talked since.”

  “How about Chantel? Was she close to her?” Ivy asked.

  “Yeah, maybe, when she was younger, before she started going down the wrong path. Called her GT.”

  Ivy tilted her head, a question on her face.

  “She couldn’t say ‘Grandmother Torres.’ Torres is Marilyn’s maiden name. Chantel came up with that name on her own. GT. Son of a gun— I can recall a funny moment.”

  Marilyn returned with two large cups of lemonade. They had tops and straws.

  “Thank you, Marilyn. For everything.” I took a pull from the straw. “The best I’ve ever had.”

  Her face lit up, and I knew it was the right time to leave.

  15

  The whimpers were undeniable, but he refused to yield to the pressure. He had his process, and he would follow it, no matter how pissed she was, or how uncomfortable she might be. He’d spent too much of his adult life consoling those who were broken. But all it had done was break him.

  He knew he had to stay strong, even with this flirtation from the past.

  Rain whipped against his bedroom window; he flipped on his bedside lamp. He made his way to the closet and got undressed. He’d been dying to get out of the sweaty clothes all day long. He curled his toes into the plush carpet. He’d recently had the entire home refinished. His renewed focus on his career had paid off. And now, he had the kind of home one might expect of a chief administrator. “High end” was the term he’d used when the interior decorator had asked him six months earlier how he envisioned the next version of his home. She had shown him countless numbers of color palettes, materials, and carpet samples, as well as measured out all the rooms for new furniture, light fixtures, and appliances. The remodelers even gave him a new bathroom. There was only one small room she hadn’t been allowed to touch—or even know about.

  He’
d be down there shortly.

  He glanced through the blinds and saw the wind swells bending tree limbs, but that only added to his sense of safety and comfort. He had everything he needed right here…at least until that inevitable urge hit him.

  He pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind, stuffed them back inside the little box. The one he’d opened about a week earlier for the first time in almost ten years. He was proud of the control he’d exhibited. He’d learned a great deal about self-discipline over the years. Sure, he’d swayed off course a few times, but what did his first and only therapist tell him? “Dare to be average.”

  Well, he was average in some respects, mostly by convincing himself he was just a normal guy. Through that lens, he’d been able to justify a lot of things, like not drowning himself in shame. Yep, that was the key. Don’t dwell on the things you’ve done in the past. You can’t change them. Just figure out a better way of moving forward.

  Dare to be average.

  He stepped into the bathroom and, for a moment, questioned if he’d just heard the shrill of a voice or the squeal of high winds. He shrugged. Whether it was the storm outside or the storm down below, it could wait.

  He stood under dual shower heads and let the warm water soothe his body. Steam filled up the bathroom, and he could feel all of the nastiness from Elena, his bitch of an admin, drain off him. He hated the fact that she had as much power as she did. Just because her brother sat on the board of directors.

  He’d made sacrifices to attain his position, but he knew it had been worth every moment, even the ones with Elena. His home was fit for a king.

  Don’t all kings have a few damsels to rescue?

  He wasn’t sure “rescue” was entirely the correct term. But he shook off the thought.

  He took in a lungful of air and opened his eyes. He was looking at the glass wall in the shower—at the letters he’d drawn just last night, when he’d taken his previous shower. He could see the S and the H, but everything after that had been erased by the shooting water.

  He turned off the shower and toweled off. Standing in front of the mirror, he looked at himself. “Do you really know who you are, Doctor?” he said out loud. The words had escaped his lips before he could put a filter on them. He left the bathroom in his robe and padded downstairs. The muted yells and shrieks were unmistakable now.

  All in due time.

  He found the remote and pushed three buttons, turning on the surround-sound stereo. He pushed the volume up to eight and let the relaxing classical music fill his house. He made a snifter of brandy and sat in his favorite chair, his feet propped on an ottoman. He swayed his free arm to the beat of the music, Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.” He swirled his drink and let the alcohol add to his place of peace.

  Once he’d finished the brandy, he considered another snifter. But he held off. It was time to take care of the pet.

  He finally admitted that tonight would be special. He’d been secretly looking forward to this time ever since he’d opened his desk drawer at work, searching for his anxiety pills.

  I believe they call that “fate.”

  He walked over to his briefcase, removed the leather journal, and placed it on the desk that sat directly across from the room under the staircase. He then walked into the kitchen, pulled apart the five-pound bag, and scooped out a cup of Purina’s finest dog food.

  Excited about the upcoming interaction and infused by the music, he did a little pirouette on his way to the storage closet. He punched in the security code—the same four numbers that held special meaning for him when he’d worked at the lockdown area of the psych ward. They would always have special meaning.

  The door popped open. It was dark inside, but he could hear the growls. He flipped on the light switch, lowered himself next to the three-by-five-foot dog pen. He held up the scoop of food. “Curly ready for her dinner? Huh? I know you’re ready for your dinner.”

  She snarled at him.

  “Ah, come on now. Give your daddy some love first.”

  She kicked her feet against the cage so hard he thought it might collapse. Then she banged her head on the top.

  “I realize it can’t be fun living in a cage. But Curly has been a bad girl, haven’t you?”

  Another snarl. He could have sworn he saw spears of red in those light eyes. Stephen King’s Cujo came to mind.

  He tossed the food between the slats of the metal cage, missing the bowl entirely.

  She growled again. He put a hand to his ear. “I’m sorry; I couldn’t quite make that out.”

  He began to chuckle as she struggled to speak behind the gag that was wrapped tightly against her mouth. He looked over this specimen. She was naked, quite attractive, but he detested all the cut marks on her ankles and thighs. With more bones than curves, she looked like she’d just walked out of a Nazi concentration camp. His castle was certainly a step up from wherever she’d been living previously, even if she was in cramped quarters.

  He noticed blood around the edges of her wrist ties. She was her own worst enemy.

  He shook his head, took in a deep breath, and momentarily closed his eyes. She yelled again. This time, he was able to detect what she’d said.

  “‘Fuck you’?” He repeated her words as a question. “That’s not very nice. I give you food and shelter. You’re the best-kept pet on the block.”

  The surge of thoughts drew him over to his desk. He sat down, picked up his favorite pen, and held it just above a blank sheet in his journal. He glanced over his shoulder and then turned and wrote three words.

  Shame on you.

  He wrote the same words on the next line. And the next. And the one after that. He didn’t stop until he’d filled twenty pages. Then he shut the journal and ran his fingertips along the leather.

  After dismissing one particular thought several times over, he admitted this was only the first step of the process. The next step was simply unavoidable.

  And it would allow him to relieve the stress he’d held inside for far too long.

  16

  On our way back to Austin, Ivy and I recited everything we’d seen or heard during our visit with Adam and Marilyn Gibson.

  “They’re both devastated. That was pretty obvious,” Ivy said.

  There was a moment of silence as we drank our to-go drinks. “Damn, this really might be the best lemonade I’ve ever had,” I said, setting it in the cup holder.

  “So, you were telling the truth earlier.”

  I gave Ivy a quick glance. “Marilyn needed to hear it, even if the lemonade tasted like gasoline.”

  She nodded and looked out the passenger-side window. “Sometimes I wonder why I take on these types of cases. Seeing so many people almost paralyzed by grief. Marilyn’s a different woman now.”

  I let that one sit for a second, but not much longer. “It’s pretty obvious why you try to find girls like Chantel.”

  “Why do you think?”

  I was surprised by her open-ended question. She was either loosening up or feeling a lack of confidence.

  “You do it to make a difference. You do it because no one else will take up the cause. When no one else cares about the life of a girl or boy, or, in this case, a young lady—especially someone who’s experienced trauma—you care. And you fight to find them, protect them.”

  She sighed. “It’s just hard sometimes. It doesn’t always turn out well. And that wears on me a bit.”

  I could see that. “You’re a passionate person, Ivy. But you ought to give yourself a break now and then. When’s the last time you took a vacation? Maybe you and Saul could get away on a cruise.”

  A quick chuckle. “I’m not a cruise kind of girl.”

  “So, it has been a while since you’ve taken some time off?”

  “I just don’t think in those terms.”

  “Maybe you should. The world doesn’t stop spinning if you go recharge your mental batteries, you know.”

  “Yeah, but—”

&nb
sp; “Ah, the ‘but’ answer. That just means, ‘Here comes the excuse.’ When we find Chantel—I know at this moment it seems difficult to imagine, but we’ll figure this out—I want you to promise me that you’ll take some time off.”

  “Eh.”

  “You sound like Mrs. Scrooge.”

  “I didn’t say, ‘Bah, humbug!’ I just said, ‘Eh.’ That’s my way of mulling it over.”

  “Why don’t you mull it over with Saul? He might actually get excited to hear that his girlfriend wants to get away. Make a little magic happen.”

  She reached over and smacked my leg, lifting a playful eyebrow at me. “We don’t have to go anywhere to create magic.”

  “TMI, Ivy. TMI.”

  “Hey, you asked.”

  “Not really.”

  We turned our attention back to what we’d witnessed with the Gibsons. We realized that we’d learned more about Ally’s disappearance than Chantel’s.

  Ivy said, “Last night, you mentioned there might be a connection between the girls’ disappearances. Do you still think so? Same person, or maybe a copycat?”

  I rocked my head left and right. “I could go both ways on that.”

  She snorted out a laugh. “Didn’t know that about you, Oz.”

  It took me a second to get her joke. “I guess I stepped into that one.”

  “Yeah. You kind of did.”

  I sipped down another swig of lemonade and then wiped my mouth with my sleeve. “I guess I look at it this way. Is it possible for the same person to have kidnapped both girls? Theoretically, yes. So, in my mind, that door remains open, but not by much. For now, we don’t even know for sure that Chantel has been kidnapped. She could be in El Paso, turning tricks, just to get her hands on her next fix. With Ally, it’s rather obvious that she was kidnapped and likely killed.”

  “Yeah, Ally seemed to have so much to look forward to. I can’t imagine her sneaking out of her dorm in the middle of orientation as if she had some master plan to run away.”

  I tapped a finger against the steering wheel.

  “What are you thinking?” Ivy asked.