by Herron, Rita
There were too many unanswered questions in his past. Too many blanks that hadn’t been filled in and might never be.
Not since he’d woken up in the hospital with no memory of who he was, where he lived, or what he’d done with his life.
And not a damn clue as to why he’d been driving a hundred miles an hour on mountain roads, ultimately plunging over a ridge.
Doctors said the head injury had caused amnesia and that he might never regain his memories. Without ID, the police had dubbed him a John Doe.
When he’d been released, one of the nurses had assured him he was strong and would survive, so he’d changed the Doe part to Strong.
Of course he’d searched for information about himself, but he came up with nothing.
A fact that perplexed him even more.
Maybe it was the mystery of his own life that had driven him to join law enforcement. Working cases was where he belonged.
The only place he belonged. Instinctively he knew he’d been a loner before, that he always would be. That he’d done something bad in the past.
Something he didn’t want to remember.
It had taken a multitude of psych reports to clear him to become an agent, but he’d made it. And last year, a missing child case had cemented his decision to focus on other similar cases.
The little girl had been three and missing a week before the mother even reported it. She’d been high and too afraid to call the police.
By the time he’d found the child, she’d died from the elements. Buried in a pile of tree branches that had fallen during a storm.
The breaking news of the Slaughter Creek experiments had played into his decision as well.
Too many innocent kids being hurt and taken advantage of. Someone had to do something.
Maybe helping others would somehow bring salvation for his own lost soul.
He slung his jacket onto the coat stand, removed his weapon, and placed it in the desk in his home office. Articles and photos of the investigation on Slaughter Creek covered his wall.
Why that case intrigued him, he didn’t know. But like the rest of the country, he’d gotten caught up in following the story.
When local reporter Brenda Banks had begun her profiles on each of the subjects, his interest had intensified. The experiments had altered the subjects’ lives drastically. Some of them suffered psychological and emotional problems as well as exhibited violent behavior. Some had become killers themselves.
Others . . . had survived.
Like Amelia Nettleton.
Her story had been plastered everywhere.
When he’d read about her mentally blocking out events from her life, he almost felt a kinship with her.
Why did some victims crumble after trauma, while others thrived and became stronger?
He was determined to be a survivor himself.
One day he would find out who he was and why he’d been in the mountains that fatal night.
The night whoever he was had died and John Strong had been born.
He just wasn’t sure he was ready to face the truth yet.
The man’s ice-cold eyes bore holes in Zack. “Get inside.”
“Please don’t lock me up,” Zack cried.
“You spit on me, you little shit.” The man grabbed his arm with hard fingers and dragged Zack down a long dark hall.
“Stop it, let me go!” Zack beat at the man with his fists. He hated him. Hated everything they wanted him to do.
A sharp hand slapped him across the face. Zack tasted blood, but he refused to cry.
Crying only made the big man madder.
He dragged him through a door that he used a key card to get through. A heavy metal door that slammed shut.
Like a prison.
Zack tried to pull away and run the other way, but the man caught him around the waist and lifted him like he was a sack.
A key jangled as the man unlocked another metal door and tossed Zack inside. He hit the concrete floor with a thud. His shoulder snapped in pain.
“Next time will be worse. You have to learn to obey.”
Zack spit blood at the man. For a second, his eyes spewed fire at Zack. He took a step forward, and Zack thought he was going to hit him again.
But the phone on his belt buzzed. “Lucky for you,” the man snarled.
He clicked his boots together, then marched toward the door. A second later, the heavy metal screeched and slammed shut.
Zack looked up to see where he was. Concrete walls. Cement floor.
It was freezing inside.
No bed or blanket. Nothing inside to fight with or make a weapon.
He rubbed at the blood on his mouth, then crawled to the corner. A small window.
Pushing himself up, he looked outside. He had to find a way to escape.
But the woods were dark. Thick with snow. Tree branches scratched at the window like a witch’s fingernails.
A noise sounded. Faint. Far away. A plane.
He lifted higher, trying to see it above the trees.
If he could get out there, maybe the plane would see him. It would take him far, far away where no one could find him.
He pressed a hand to the glass. It felt like ice. Frost covered it. Would it break if he shoved his hand through it?
He stretched on tiptoes and tried to see where the woods ended. Was there a town nearby? A road where he could hitch a ride?
All he could see were the barbed-wire fences. The sharp razor wires at the top would stab his hands. And then there were the men with guns.
Guns that could shoot and kill people.
Were there more boys here? Sometimes he heard voices. Sometimes he thought he was all alone.
That the only other boy was the one who lived in his head.
Sometimes he knew others were there. But they always kept him separate. Why?
Suddenly lights flickered outside. He saw another boy. Older than him.
He was running.
If he got away, maybe he’d send someone back to help him.
“Go!” Zack whispered. “Run faster!”
A gunshot blasted.
The boy went down. A big man stood over him.
Zack’s throat hurt. “Get up,” he moaned. “Get up and run!”
But the guard picked him up and threw him over his shoulder.
The boy wasn’t moving.
A sob caught in his throat. The boy couldn’t help him now.
Chapter Four
The ticking of the clock echoed in Amelia’s head as she emerged from the hypnotic state. The sweet scent of strawberries filled the air, relaxing and comforting, reminding her of the jam Gran used to make.
But she wasn’t at home or with her grandmother.
It was the candle burning on the table. Part of Dr. Clover’s relaxation techniques, along with soothing music.
“What happened?” she asked Dr. Clover.
Dr. Clover frowned slightly. “You described giving birth. Then you became agitated when someone took the baby from you before you could hold him.”
“That’s my recurring dream,” Amelia said.
“You described it as if it were actually happening,” Dr. Clover said. “It’s possible you either experienced this or were with someone who did, and you’re projecting those memories into your own psyche as if it happened to you, as if you gave birth to a child.”
“So you think I am delusional?” Amelia asked, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach.
“That’s not what I said,” Dr. Clover replied.
Amelia jumped up from the sofa and began to pace. “Did you meet another alter?”
Dr. Clover shook her head. “No, in fact your voice inflection never changed. Neither did your mannerisms, as they did when you slipped into a fugue
state.”
Amelia paused, contemplating the doctor’s comment. “So it was just me?”
A soft smile curved the doctor’s mouth. “Yes, I believe so.”
“Then you think I’m just jealous of Sadie?”
“Are you jealous of her?”
“No,” Amelia said. “At least not in a bad way. I mean I’m happy for her. Sadie sacrificed a lot for me.”
“But she’s not the one who suffered in the experiment.”
“She did suffer though,” Amelia said. “And I’m happy she found Jake again and that they’re married.” Although it was hard not to be bitter. Not at Sadie but at what life had done to her.
“But you want that for yourself?”
“Doesn’t everyone want that?” Amelia said, her voice brittle. “Isn’t that normal?”
Another smile from the doctor. “Yes, Amelia, wanting love and a family is very normal.”
Her words registered, offering some comfort. But part of her knew she would never find love. That she didn’t deserve it. Not after the things Skid and Viola had done. “So I’m dreaming about a family, but the baby is taken away because I’m afraid if I find love, it won’t last? That someone will take it away from me again?”
“That’s one explanation,” Dr. Clover said. “Have you discussed this with your medical doctor?”
“No.”
Amelia placed a hand over her abdomen. If she had given birth, workers at the sanitarium would have known. Ms. Lettie could have drugged her to make her forget. And Dr. Tynsdale . . . he’d believed she was delusional and would have protected her from the traumatic memory. He might have even decided that putting the baby up for adoption was better for the child.
Better than being raised by a mother suffering serious psychiatric problems. “Thanks, Dr. Clover. I’m going to make an appointment today with my ob-gyn.”
Darby Wesley’s face haunted John.
Although the man who’d kidnapped Darby was dead, someone had paid for the boy, and John was damn well going to find out who.
Anxiety needled him with every passing minute they had no answers. Whoever had wanted the boy would be looking for a replacement.
Which meant another child might be abducted any minute.
He accessed the files of children who’d disappeared in the state over the past year and attached them to the whiteboard, noting the dates of the disappearances, places the children had been abducted, and their family circumstances.
Finding commonalities, if they existed, would help them track down any unidentified subjects, or unsubs, as the team called them.
Child predators typically stuck to a pattern—they chose victims of a certain age and gender. But child traffickers sought all types, especially if they had orders to fill.
Slaughter Creek wasn’t far from Atlanta, Georgia, a hub for human trafficking. The unsub could easily hide out in the mountains, then drive to Atlanta to meet with a broker or buyer.
It could have been what Billingsly was planning to do with Darby.
Amelia stared at the ob-gyn in shock. It had taken all her nerve to go to the appointment. But she had to have answers. “You’re saying I’ve given birth?”
“Yes.” The doctor looked at her over his bifocals. “I can confirm that.”
The sterile white walls swirled around her. The scent of a cleaning chemical was so strong, she had to exhale to keep from being nauseated.
“I understand you were given a variety of drugs while you were in the sanitarium. Do you remember anything about being pregnant?”
Frustration made fresh tears well in Amelia’s eyes. “No. Just the dream of the delivery. What about the narcotics they gave me?”
A sick feeling clawed at her. Maybe that was the reason the baby had been taken away. Because it had been deformed or stillborn.
No, she’d heard the infant’s cry . . .
Hadn’t she?
Or was the dream her subconscious forcing her to face another brutal truth?
“It’s difficult for me to say at this point,” the ob-gyn said. “Is it possible the doctor who held you captive stopped the drug regime during the pregnancy?”
“I don’t know,” Amelia said. But someone would know.
Dr. Tynsdale was dead. But there was Ms. Lettie. The woman she’d trusted. The woman who’d deceived her by working for Arthur Blackwood.
John’s head throbbed, but he refused to give in to the pain. He had to find this unsub.
The list of missing children mocked him from the whiteboard. What was the connection?
Devon Ruggins—seven, Caucasian, abducted from the neighborhood park after a youth softball game. The mother had turned her back for a moment to talk to her boyfriend. Other parents had said she’d yelled at Devon for missing the ball, and twice she’d forgotten to pick him up, leaving him to wait for an hour or more. No one had seen or heard anything the night he went missing, though. Not a scream or a panicked cry. Zilch.
Next Regan Ludson—six, Caucasian, abducted from the sidewalk as he walked home from school. Another kid living with a single mother, who worked the graveyard shift at a local factory. An elderly grandmother kept the child at night, although Social Services had been called because a neighbor was concerned the grandmother suffered from dementia and often wandered off, leaving the boy alone. Neighbors claimed they saw a white van in the neighborhood during the days before the kidnapping, although no one witnessed the boy’s abduction or saw the driver of the van.
And last, Corey Olson, nine. Slightly older than the other victims, but he was small for his age. If the perp had been looking for a younger boy, Corey could have looked the part.
He lived with his father and was a latchkey kid.
The crime team had the photographs from the box found at Billingsly’s place and were comparing them to the database for NCMEC, National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. CSI had also scoured Billingsly’s property in search of graves or bodies, but had come up empty.
A relief. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t kidnapped others and handed them off to his contact.
It was still anyone’s guess where they had gone from there.
Amelia gulped in a big breath as the prison guard escorted her to the visitor’s room. It was cold. Empty. The table where she sat was scarred with crude words.
She knotted her hands on top of it, studying her wrists where, at one time, she’d slashed them in an attempt to end her own misery.
So much of her life had been wasted because of Arthur Blackwood and this woman.
She hadn’t seen or spoken to Ms. Lettie since the woman’s arrest. She was the one person Amelia had trusted, the one she thought was protecting her from the Commander.
Instead, Ms. Lettie had protected the Commander and the secrecy of the project by keeping Amelia drugged. As long as her mind was too foggy to remember the truth, her behavior was too disturbed and erratic for anyone to believe her.
Amelia had been shocked to learn the truth about her caretaker.
Sadie had suggested that it might be cathartic for her to confront Ms. Lettie, but the thought of facing the woman who’d betrayed her had hurt too much.
Now she had no choice.
The door squeaked open, and Ms. Lettie shuffled in, shackles around her bony ankles, her wrinkled hands cuffed. She’d aged drastically since Amelia had last seen her.
The orange prison uniform hung on her thin shoulders. Her hair had grayed and was pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck, accentuating the sagging skin of her neck and chin.
Her skin looked pale, liver spotted, and held a yellowish cast, and dark circles made her eyes look sunken and weak, like she was hollowed out.
When she looked up at Amelia, a spark of anger flared. “I figured you’d eventually come.”
In spite of her anger, Ms. Lettie
’s voice sounded worn and defeated, old as if she might be ill.
Amelia summoned her courage. “You owe me some answers.”
Ms. Lettie studied her for a moment, then dropped into the metal chair opposite her, cuffs jangling. The guard looked at Amelia, and she gestured that she was okay. The guard nodded, then assumed his position beside the door.
“Funny, you know,” Ms. Lettie said with a harrumph. “He thinks an old lady like me could fight him.”
Despite the fact that the woman had betrayed her, Amelia’s heart ached with grief. For years, she’d considered Ms. Lettie a friend.
That anguish surfaced now. “How could you have done that to me, Ms. Lettie? I loved you. I trusted you.”
Ms. Lettie looked down at her arthritic hands, her fingers gnarled as she curled them into her palms. “I had my orders.”
“So I was just an assignment to you? I thought we were family.”
Ms. Lettie sighed, her false teeth clacking. “I thought it was best you not remember, Amelia. The drugs kept you calm, kept the bad stuff at bay.”
“The drugs made me crazy,” Amelia said, disgusted. “They made me dissociate so I could never have any kind of normal relationship. Or life.”
“I’m sorry,” Ms. Lettie said. “I . . . there was nothing I could do.”
“That’s your excuse?”
Ms. Lettie looked up at her with sad eyes. “What do you want from me, Amelia?”
She wanted to know that she was sorry. But everything about the woman had been a lie. Maybe the Commander had brainwashed or threatened Ms. Lettie as he had the subjects.
Amelia would never understand her logic or motives.
“I’ve been undergoing hypnosis and remembering details from the past. I know I had a child.”
“Amelia—”
“Don’t lie to me again,” Amelia said. “I saw an ob-gyn, who confirmed I gave birth.”
A long minute passed, the handcuffs jangling as Ms. Lettie shifted. “Have you ever considered that it might be a blessing you forgot things? That you didn’t know everything that was happening to you?”
Amelia shook her head. “No, because those moments were stolen from me. And how can I move forward if I don’t know all that happened in the past?”