Dying for Love (A Slaughter Creek Novel)

by Herron, Rita

  Dark, stormy, mesmerizing eyes.

  She had sketches of him all over her studio. For some reason, he kept reappearing as if he was someone important to her.

  But he wasn’t real . . .

  Just like the baby in her dream wasn’t real. She’d never given birth.

  Maybe she was experiencing some kind of twin jealousy because Sadie was pregnant and due any day.

  That had to be the reason. She’d always had a connection with Sadie.

  Her phone trilled.

  Something had to be wrong.

  She raced to answer it. When Sadie’s name appeared on the caller ID, her hand began to shake.

  “Hello.”

  “Amelia, it’s Jake. Sadie and I are at the hospital. The baby’s coming now.”

  John eased through the kitchen, glancing sideways into the bedroom to his left. He’d considered waiting for more backup, but decided to strike during the night, hoping to catch the kidnapper off guard.

  It was dark inside, but he spotted a rusted metal bed with a quilt thrown over it. A pair of men’s work boots. Overalls on the floor.

  No Darby.

  Dammit.

  Coulter was waiting on him so he moved swiftly into the hall and checked the second room. A twin bed, blue comforter on top.

  Shit. A bed for a little boy.

  But he didn’t see Darby inside.

  Heart racing, he crept to the edge of the living room and spotted a big guy on the couch, sprawled out, arms dangling to the side. He looked scruffy, a patchy beard growing in, a gut overflowing his pants.

  A rancid odor hit him. Sweat. Beer. Body odor like the man hadn’t bathed in days.

  His snores punctuated the air, almost deafening.

  But a shotgun sat propped by the couch within a finger’s reach of the man’s right hand.

  Coulter acknowledged that he saw John in the doorway, raised his fingers in a one-two-three count, then kicked the door open with a bang.

  “TBI!” Coulter shouted, his gun aimed at the man.

  The meathead on the couch jolted upright and reached for his gun.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” John said in a lethal tone.

  The suspect jerked his head around, and John pointed the barrel of his Sig Sauer in his face. “Where’s Darby?”

  “Get the hell out of my house,” the man snarled.

  Coulter took a step closer, closing in. “Tell us where he is, and I won’t put a bullet in your brain.”

  The bastard was just stupid enough to ignore the warning and lunge for his shotgun.

  John and Coulter fired at the same time. Coulter’s bullet hit the man between the eyes while John’s pierced his heart.

  The bastard collapsed, blood and brain matter splattering.

  Dammit, they’d done what they had to do. Still, rage ripped through John. If little Darby wasn’t in the house, they might never find him.

  Amelia hated hospitals. The machines beeping, the strong odor of alcohol and antiseptic, the nauseating whites of the uniforms, footsteps shuffling, coming closer with the medicine carts, the blinding lights from the ceiling . . .

  All a terrifying part of her imprisonment at the sanitarium.

  But worry for Sadie forced her to fight her fears.

  She inhaled sharply, stepped inside, and walked to the waiting-room area of the maternity wing. Even though it wasn’t morning yet, the waiting room was half-packed.

  Ayla, Jake’s daughter, lay sleeping against her nanny, Gigi, who was like a grandmother to Ayla.

  A soul-deep ache seized Amelia. She’d give anything to have the kind of love Sadie and Jake shared. To have a family and a future to look forward to.

  Jake suddenly stepped into the hallway, his face glowing. “It’s a boy.”

  Amelia breathed out. Her dream had to have been just twin stuff, nothing more.

  Ayla stirred from her sleep and jumped up, looking tired but excited. “Can I see him, Daddy? Please, please, please . . . ”

  Jake swung Ayla around, and Gigi gave him a hug. “Of course you can. But remember, Sadie’s tummy might be a little sore so we have to be gentle when we hug her.”

  “Is Sadie okay?” Amelia asked.

  Jake grinned, eyes glittering with pride. “She’s great. Come on and meet our son.”

  He waved for them to follow him, and Amelia’s nerves settled slightly. A baby was a happy occasion.

  This hospital visit was nothing like her others.

  As they entered Sadie’s room, she saw her twin propped against several pillows, a tiny bundle wrapped in a blue blanket cradled in her arms.

  Amelia’s heart stuttered at the sight. Déjà vu hit her again, immobilizing her—and she saw herself holding her own infant.

  Then a scream reverberated in her ears as someone took her son away.

  Ayla and Gigi raced over to dote on the child, and Jake lifted Ayla onto the bed. Sadie wrapped her arm around Ayla and whispered low to her, smiling as Ayla examined her little brother’s fingers.

  “Congratulations, Sis,” Amelia said, striving to banish the nagging voice of worry.

  Sadie stroked the newborn’s head, a smile on her face. “We’re going to name him Ben.”

  Amelia swallowed hard. Ben, after their father. They’d lost him along with their mother when they were only two. “He’s beautiful, Sis.”

  Amelia backed toward the door. “Jake, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Jake gave her a curious look, but nodded. “We’ll be right back, Sadie.”

  As soon as they stepped into the hallway and the door was closed, Amelia clutched Jake’s arm.

  “Jake, I’m scared.”

  “What’s going on?” Jake asked.

  “I’ve been having these bad dreams, nightmares about having a baby, then someone takes him away. I think the Commander is there, that he’s behind it.”

  Jake heaved a weary breath. “Amelia, the Commander is dead. We found his signet ring and finger. The DNA proves it was his. Maybe you should talk to your therapist—”

  Amelia twisted her hands together. “You’re right. Maybe I’m making something out of nothing, but Sadie and I have always had a connection. I’m afraid the dream is about Sadie.” Her heart hammered. “That it’s some kind of sign that Ben is in danger.”

  Chapter Two

  Amelia, please don’t go worrying Sadie with statements about something bad happening to the baby.”

  Amelia’s dream flashed back. It was so real. Was it a premonition? “I love Sadie,” Amelia said, “and I just want Ben to be safe.”

  Regret deepened Jake’s voice. “Listen, Amelia, I know you’ve had a terrible time, and that my father was responsible for it. You have no idea how sorry I am. But I . . . I want to move past what he did to us all and be happy.”

  So did she, more than anything.

  But all her life she’d been tormented by residents of Slaughter Creek staring at her as if she were insane.

  Because she’d suffered from dissociative identity disorder.

  God knows she’d tried so hard this last year in therapy to get well. She’d managed to merge her different alters and felt stronger than she’d ever felt.

  But would it ever be enough? Would people always see her as the psychotic twin?

  Would Sadie always have to be embarrassed by her? “I’m sorry, Jake, you’re right. Go back inside and enjoy your family.”

  His gaze met hers. “Amelia—”

  “Go.” She gave him a gentle shove toward the door. “Tell Sadie I’ll see her and the baby later.”

  Hating that she’d tainted the day for Jake, she turned and fled down the hallway, tears clogging her throat.

  John swept the house while Cal called in the shooting and requested the medical examiner and CSI team.
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br />   He checked the man’s bedroom first, glancing at the tangled sheets in disgust. The stench of his body odor permeated the room. A ratty duffel bag sat in the corner, empty.

  But thankfully there was no blood or signs that the child had been there. He searched beneath the bed, then in the closet, but found nothing but work boots, worn clothing, and a few empty liquor bottles.

  A shoebox on the top shelf of the closet held photos of Darby in the park with his foster mother, in the schoolyard with a friend, and one shot of him sleeping in bed.

  Sick creep. He’d obviously been stalking the child before the abduction.

  Satisfied Darby wasn’t in the room, he hurried to the second bedroom. Dust motes floated in the air by the window.

  A twin mattress lay on the floor. Sheets rumpled. Pieces of rope on the mattress. His mind traveled to a dark place as he imagined what kind of demented games the pervert had intended for the child.

  Dammit, where was he? He shouted his name. “Darby, you’re safe now. I’m with the police. Tell me where you are.”

  He paused, listening, straining, and hoping to hear the child’s voice.

  Instead the sound of mice skittering greeted him. Then the kind of quiet that made his gut knot. Had the bastard killed him?

  Or maybe he’d handed him off to another party.

  “Darby! If you can hear me, make some noise!” He strode through the room again, checking the closet for a secret door. Nothing.

  The hall was dark, but he spotted a bare lightbulb dangling from the ceiling and pulled the string. The light was just enough for him to see the cord to the attic.

  Outside, a siren wailed, and he assumed Coulter rushed to greet the CSI team and the ME.

  John yanked on the cord to pull down the stairs, shaking off the dust and cobwebs that rained down on him as he settled the bottom of the ladder onto the floor. Slowly he inched up the steps, listening again. More mice skittering. A furnace groaning.

  Breath tight, he lowered his voice so as not to frighten Darby if he was hiding.

  “Darby, I’m here to help you,” he said softly. “I want to take you home.”

  He peered through the dark interior with his flashlight, and spotted several boxes filled with junk and old clothes. A trunk and an old wardrobe were pushed against the far wall. Dust motes swirled in the moonlight. A dank, musty odor hit him. He used his flashlight to light a path and crossed the room, the wood floor squeaking beneath his boots.

  “Darby, are you up here? The bad man is gone. I’m here to take you home.”

  He paused to listen again, and heard a soft tapping sound. It was so light it was barely discernible. But it was coming from the corner where the trunk and wardrobe sat.

  “Darby, make some noise,” he said. “Let me know where you are.”

  Another tapping sound, a little stronger this time.

  Adrenaline surged through him, and he raced to the wardrobe. The lock required an old-fashioned key to open it, but he removed a lock-picking tool from his pocket and jammed the tip inside.

  “Hang on. I’ll get you out of there in a minute.” He jiggled the tool until the lock clicked open.

  He yanked open the door, his heart pounding when he spotted the dark-haired child hovering inside, his knees drawn to his chest, eyes bulging with fear.

  But he was alive.

  “You’re safe now,” he whispered as he knelt and held out his hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Tears trickled down the boy’s cheeks, a sob escaping him as he launched himself into John’s arms.

  Dawn cracked the sky as Amelia drove back to the condo where she’d lived while undergoing therapy. Sadie had helped her make a painting studio out of the front room, her safe haven from the world.

  She shivered as the bitter wind swirled around her, hazy white clouding the air as more snow flurries seeped from the dark clouds. Icicles clung to the awning and windows of her studio like jagged knives. Occasionally one cracked, the brittle ice tapping against the glass as it snapped off in the wind.

  She flexed her fingers, which were numb from the cold. As she entered, the scent of her paints gave her comfort, although the dark images of the body parts on the canvas disturbed her.

  She shoved that one in her closet.

  The paintings of the handsome, strange man from her dreams were less creepy, although perplexing, and made her wonder about her sanity.

  Why did she keep dreaming about the same man? Had she seen him somewhere or known him at one time?

  Or was he simply a fantasy her mind had fabricated because she was alone and always would be?

  And why had she dreamed she’d given birth to a child?

  She’d had a male alter before—Skid, a teenage boy who’d protected her when things had gone wrong.

  Was this man in her dreams another alter trying to emerge?

  Terrified at that thought, she brewed a pot of coffee, poured herself a cup to warm her hands, then flipped on the television to listen to while she started another painting.

  This time she’d capture something happy—Sadie and her newborn son.

  Another recap of the Slaughter Creek Sanitarium scandal was airing. Brenda Banks, a local reporter and Amelia’s friend, had covered the CHIMES, Children in Mind Experiments, story since it broke, revealing the frightening details of the project orchestrated by Commander Arthur Blackwood. An experiment that had used her and several other children. They had been assigned numbers to replace their names. She was Three.

  Brenda continued, “Police now know there were ten subjects instead of seven. Subject Six was recently arrested as the Dissector, the serial killer who murdered several women in Slaughter Creek.”

  Amelia shivered. Six had reappeared in her life a few months before, and they’d shared a torrid affair. She touched her belly, the dream disturbing her.

  Was the image of her delivering a baby an omen of the future? That she might be pregnant with Six’s child?

  No, impossible. If she was pregnant, she’d know it by now.

  It had been months since his arrest.

  “Commander Arthur Blackwood and former Secretary of Defense Carl Mallard spearheaded the project years ago. But police and TBI agents tracked them to a hospital, where they tried to flee the country.” A photo showed a picture of a helicopter exploding in midair, then another image appeared of the carnage scattered across the trees and mountains—charred, smoldering metal along with rescue workers and a body bag. “Both men died in the explosion.”

  Amelia shuddered as the Commander’s photo flashed next. He had the coldest eyes, eyes that seared you as if you’d been burned.

  But Jake was right. There was no way anyone inside that chopper had survived.

  Sadie and her baby were safe.

  She was safe.

  “This late-breaking story,” the newscaster broke in. “On the heels of the bombing at the women’s clinic in Knoxville, we have a success story to report. Yesterday an Amber Alert was issued for six-year-old Darby Wesley, who was abducted from his foster family.”

  Amelia paused with her paintbrush in midair and angled her head to see the photograph of the boy. He had brown hair and big brown eyes, and was wearing a red T-shirt and jeans.

  “Today TBI agents John Strong and Cal Coulter rescued Darby Wesley from his abductor.” The reporter turned toward the two agents and pushed the microphone toward them.

  “Special Agent Strong, how did you find Darby Wesley?”

  The camera zoomed in on his face and Amelia gasped.

  Agent Strong was the man she’d been painting from her dreams.

  John despised the camera. Despised the media attention.

  Hell, he did not want to do that interview at all.

  He was nobody’s hero, just a man who hated child predators and would die trying to get justice
for kids who were too little to take up for themselves.

  But the story was too public for him not to give a statement, so he’d agreed to meet the press on the front steps of the courthouse. “We received reports that the van the perpetrator was driving when he kidnapped Darby Wesley was seen at a gas station, and we used our helicopters to track down the vehicle from there. Special Agent Coulter and I approached the house and found the suspect inside, passed out on the couch.

  “We identified ourselves as agents, but the perpetrator reached for his gun, and we were forced to fire. He died at the scene. While Agent Coulter called an ambulance and crime team, I searched the house and discovered the boy locked in a wardrobe in the attic.”

  “Do you have any idea why the man abducted the child?”

  John gritted his teeth. He could speculate but refused to go there. Only the psychiatrist who was evaluating Darby at that very moment could tell them if the child had been hurt.

  Agent Coulter stepped up. “At this point, all we know is that the kidnapper was a man named Curtis Billingsly. He had no priors, so it’s possible this may have been a crime of opportunity.”

  “Did the family receive a ransom note?” the reporter pressed.

  Coulter shook his head. “No, they did not.”

  Which meant the perpetrator’s intentions had not been good. All the ugly possibilities ran through John’s mind, from abuse to child trafficking . . .

  And the one detail they had decided to keep quiet—the crime team had found a large duffel bag of cash hidden in Billingsly’s van.

  Enough money to draw suspicion that he’d been paid to kidnap the little boy.

  He listened to the news report about the Wesley kid’s rescue in disgust as he drove by the next house on his list.

  Fresh snow nearly blinded him, making him slow to a crawl. The damn weather would make it harder to snag the kid when he was outside.

  And he’d have to cover his tracks. Leave no footprints behind.

  Fucking foster families didn’t want other people’s leftovers, didn’t love them, treated them like they were nothing.