Dying for Love (A Slaughter Creek Novel)

by Herron, Rita

  “Is it true that the kidnapper is targeting single-parent households or children in foster homes?”

  “At this point, I can’t make that conclusion.” He took Terri’s elbow. “Again, please call the police with any information regarding the case.”

  His phone was buzzing as he hurried Terri away from the cameras.

  “What do we do now?” Terri asked.

  He checked the number on his phone. It was Helen Gray, the social worker Liz was supposed to contact. “We hope the BOLO and this public plea turn up something, and that a witness comes forward. This man must have been rattled at Ronnie’s asthma attack. Taking him to a doctor wasn’t in his plan. That means he’s probably panicked and off his game right now. Hopefully he’ll make a mistake and we’ll catch him when he does.”

  Fresh snow and ice nearly blinded Amelia as she drove along the winding road, night sounds echoing from the woods as she delved deeper and deeper into the mountains. Thick, tall trees crowded together, creating a dark, sinister feel, making her struggle against her phobia of the dark.

  So many days and nights she’d lived in darkness, trapped by her own mind, imprisoned by Blackwood’s staff and what he’d done to her, that now she slept with a light on.

  Devious eyes and sounds warred with the peacefulness others found in the isolated areas, the sharp ridges and drop-offs an invitation to death.

  She veered down a gravel road leading to the gorge, the miles of river flowing through the hills and rippling over jagged rocks. The place had been dubbed Fox Hole Gorge after a folk legend that claimed a pack of foxes lived in the gorge and were known to attack humans, tearing them apart with their bare teeth.

  Campers reported that at midnight they’d heard the ghosts of the dead screaming to be saved.

  Why had the person who’d called wanted to meet at the gorge?

  Were they familiar with the legend?

  John’s warning about not meeting anyone in an isolated area echoed in her head. He wouldn’t approve of her driving Fox Hole alone.

  But she didn’t need his approval. This meeting might lead her to her son.

  Still, she wasn’t naive. She’d grabbed her grandfather’s shotgun and brought it with her.

  She wound around a curve, then rumbled down the road, scanning the woods for life. Ahead she spotted another turn and veered onto it. It led to a clearing in the gorge where the foxhole was supposed to be.

  She parked beside a cluster of rocks along the riverbank, her nerves on edge as she looked around. Suddenly wondering if she had been setup and why Sister Grace would have deceived her, she gripped the shotgun and scanned the area. It was pitch dark, an eerie creepiness engulfing the area.

  She strained for sounds of the rumored foxes, startling when leaves crunched outside and the door to the passenger side of her car opened.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  “Sister Grace sent me,” a low voice said. “Please, put the gun away.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just nervous.” Amelia placed the shotgun on the backseat. She couldn’t totally discern the woman’s face, but thought she saw a scar along her jaw. She was slight, a hooded jacket shadowing her face.

  “You have to understand how dangerous it is for me to meet you,” the woman said. “Women’s and children’s lives depend on our discretion and cautionary tactics.”

  “I promise you no one will know we ever met,” Amelia said. “Did Sister Grace explain what I wanted?”

  “Yes.” The woman dug her hands in the pockets of her hoodie, and Amelia wondered if she carried a weapon for protection. “I know who you are and what you want. But looking for your baby could be dangerous.”

  “I don’t care,” Amelia said firmly. “I’ve lost so much already. I don’t want my little boy to think I didn’t love or want him.”

  “Sister Grace told you a woman dropped him off?”

  “Yes.”

  “Our network doesn’t keep records. But there’s a chance your son was taken to The Gateway House.” She slipped a folded scrap of paper into Amelia’s hand. “It’s outside Slaughter Creek. I don’t know what happened to him from there.”

  Amelia clutched the paper in her hand, her pulse pounding. “Thank you.”

  The woman slid from the car and disappeared into the darkness.

  She heard a car door slam shut and realized her contact had been parked in the dark beneath a bed of trees, hiding as she’d waited for her to arrive. A second later, a sound exploded into the night.

  Amelia froze, terrified when she realized the popping sound had been a gun.

  Zack rolled over in the darkness, footsteps shuffling outside the door. He balled his hands into fists, wishing he was as strong and powerful as the super creatures he’d read about online when he was supposed to be working.

  They seemed to think he was some kind of wizard brain.

  He’d failed them time after time. Soon they would realize he was just a normal kid. Then maybe they’d leave him alone.

  Or they’d get rid of him like they had the others.

  He pictured them digging his grave and shuddered.

  The footsteps paused by his door. Something rattled. Then voices.

  “He’s not working out. We have to move him now.”

  “Where to?”

  “Don’t ask. Just do as they say.”

  Zack’s stomach twisted, and he grabbed the nail from the floor and slid it between his fingers. He had to be ready. He had to fight.

  Metal rattled. The door squeaked.

  A faint light spilled through the gray room. Heavy boots pounded in time with the rapid beating of his heart.

  He started drumming his fingers on his leg. The nail dug in. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  They reached for him, and he jabbed the nail at the big one’s eyes. The guy cursed, and flung him against the wall.

  Zack’s body bounced off the cement with a thud. Pain shot through his shoulder. But he pushed up and tried to run. The other one lunged at him, and he ducked and tried to make it under his arm.

  But a fist came out and slammed into his back.

  Zack grunted and went down, face first on the concrete.

  Then the big one hauled him over his shoulder. He tried to fight, pounded on the guy’s back, but something sharp jabbed into his neck.

  A needle.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Amelia grabbed the shotgun and slid from her Mini Cooper, terrified.

  But she had to see if the woman was okay.

  She eased through the edge of the woods toward the woman’s car, tripping over tree limbs, her boots sinking into the snow as she scanned the area.

  An animal howled nearby.

  Were the legends true?

  Leaves rustled. Trees shook sleet down, pelting her. Footsteps crunched the ice.

  She ducked lower, her breathing strained as she rushed to the passenger side of the car. She eased it open.

  “Miss?” Amelia peeked through the door opening. “Are you okay?”

  No answer.

  Her hands shook as she clenched the shotgun. “Talk to me, are you all right?”

  A faint sliver of moonlight shimmered through the window, and Amelia gasped.

  The woman was slumped against the seat, blood running down her forehead. Oh God.

  Panic squeezed the air from her lungs. Footsteps sounded again. Coming closer.

  Amelia bit her tongue to stifle a scream, then raised the shotgun and fired into the woods. She didn’t care if she hit anyone. She just wanted whoever it was to know she was armed.

  Trembling with fear, she jerked to the right and fired again. Another noise sounded like a gun cocking.

  She didn’t wait to find out. She ran for her car, shielding herself as she lunged fro
m tree to tree. When she reached the Mini Cooper, she hurled herself into the front seat.

  A gunshot blasted the air, pinging off the hood of her car.

  She threw the gearshift into drive, pressed the accelerator, and roared down the gravel drive. Another shot rent the air, this time pinging off the rear bumper, and she gunned the engine, skimming bushes and bouncing over ruts and holes as she fled from the gorge.

  She flew down the road, swerving to avoid trees, her heart pounding as she glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was following her. She didn’t see lights, but heard a motor in the distance, and when she reached a fork in the road, another car appeared out of nowhere and barreled toward her.

  Amelia jerked the steering wheel to the right and plowed ahead. The first car raced up behind her, then fired a shot again. This one pinged off the passenger side near the window.

  She screamed and swerved to the left, barely missing nose-diving into a ravine. The second car flew past her and raced on, while the first one behind her lost control and careened over the edge.

  With a migraine hammering at his head, John didn’t sleep. He rarely did. Something about lying down in the dark made the void in his past seem even more hollow.

  What had he done in his life before he’d become John Strong?

  That nagging feeling that he hadn’t always been a good guy haunted him.

  A snippet of the past flashed behind his eyes. He was in the wilderness, his body in camouflage, his face blacked out with paint.

  Get down. The enemy is planning an ambush.

  He hunkered behind the dry bushes, but a bomb exploded in the distance. Bodies flew in the air, parts tossed around like rag dolls. Blood splattered as an arm landed at his feet.

  He clenched his automatic rifle, bracing to fire . . .

  The memory that had come on so quickly left just as fast, and John gripped his handgun with sweaty fingers. He was under his desk, crouched in hiding.

  They were dragging him into a hole. A dark pit. Dumping dirt on top of him and burying him alive.

  Shaking at the vividness of the memory, he crawled from the floor and sank back into his chair. PTSD—was he remembering that he’d been a soldier?

  His head was splitting, pounding as if it might explode. His hand shook as he reached for his pills. He popped one with some water, sank into his desk chair, and forced himself back to work.

  Little Ronnie Tillman didn’t care if he had amnesia or PTSD or a migraine. Ronnie Tillman was fighting for his own life.

  He turned to the wall of pictures of the missing kids, still trying to piece together the facts. His phone buzzed, jolting him, and he tensed. Maybe Ronnie had been found.

  But Amelia Nettleton’s number appeared on the screen. He punched connect. Something had to be wrong.

  “John, it’s Amelia. You have to come now.”

  He automatically reached for his weapon and strode toward the door. “What happened? Where are you?”

  “The woman with the underground group called, and I drove out to meet her, but someone must have followed her. He . . . shot her, John. She’s . . . dead.”

  He silently cursed as he grabbed his coat, and hurried to his vehicle. “Is the shooter still there?”

  “He came after me, but his car went over the ridge.”

  “Tell me where you are. I’ll call for an ambulance on the way.”

  “Fox Hole Gorge,” Amelia said.

  Fear shot through John, making his pulse jump. “Dammit, you went out there by yourself? What were you thinking, Amelia? Do you have a death wish?”

  Perspiration trickled down Amelia’s neck and into her shirt. She was shaking so badly she had to lower her head against the steering wheel and take deep breaths. Seconds ticked into minutes as she waited for John to arrive. Branches and twigs snapped under the weight of the storm, crashing all around her.

  John’s voice reverberated in her ears. He was mad at her.

  But what was she supposed to have done? Ignore the call?

  The flames from the car shot into the darkness, smoke curling upward and creating a cloudy haze above the gorge.

  She scanned the area, half expecting to see the Fox Hole ghosts floating in the haze.

  Or to see the second car coming back for her. But the road was deserted.

  A siren rent the air, the engine rumbling as it chugged over the icy road. She flashed her lights to alert John to her presence, relief filling her when he pulled up beside her and climbed out.

  Oblivious to the cold, she threw the car door open, and stood on wobbly legs. John’s jaw snapped tight as he strode over to her. His gaze shot to the ravine below, at the billowing smoke and flames, then back to her. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, but she wasn’t all right at all. Someone had tried to kill her.

  “That poor woman,” she whispered brokenly. “She was murdered because she talked to me.”

  Guilt overcame her, making her voice sound as shaky as she felt.

  John looked furious, but suddenly he drew her into his arms. “God, Amelia, you could have died out here.”

  Amelia collapsed against him, her legs buckling. His powerful muscles made her feel safe for the first time in her life, as if nothing could harm her as long as she was in his embrace.

  “It’s not your fault,” John murmured against her ear.

  “Yes it is,” she whispered. “If I hadn’t pushed Sister Grace to help me, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  John stroked her back, soothing her, his voice so low and gruff that she clung to him. He was a savior for children, and she didn’t deserve his comfort.

  But she couldn’t let go of him or pull away either.

  “We can’t be sure she died because you were asking questions,” he said. “Remember, this woman worked with a network of others saving battered women and children. Someone from one of those cases could have been watching her.”

  True. But she didn’t believe it, and neither did he.

  He cupped her face in his big hands. “In fact, he could have tried to kill you just so he wouldn’t leave any witnesses behind.”

  Another siren wailed in the distance, and John pulled away, then tilted her chin up with his thumb. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I will be,” she said, gathering her courage. “But I wish I could have saved that woman.”

  “We can’t save everyone,” he said. “She knew what she was doing was dangerous, Amelia.”

  Amelia still saw blood and closed her eyes, struggling for control.

  “Did she tell you anything before she died?”

  Amelia’s chest tightened. In the wake of the shooting and explosion, she’d forgotten. She pulled the slip of paper from her pocket. “She gave me the name of a children’s home where she thinks my baby might have been placed. It’s called The Gateway House.”

  John introduced Lieutenant Marc Maddison and the CSI team to Amelia, and she explained the details of the shooting.

  “Trouble follows you, doesn’t it, Miss Nettleton?”

  Amelia jutted up her chin. “Yes, it seems that way.”

  “What happened?”

  “I met with this woman to get information about my little boy.”

  John explained about the underground network, and Maddison grimaced.

  “This is the crime scene?” Lieutenant Maddison asked.

  “There are two,” John gestured toward the burning vehicle, then over his shoulder toward Fox Hole Gorge. “Amelia met the victim at the gorge, but someone shot and killed her. Amelia tried to escape in her car, but the shooter came after her.”

  “He lost control and went over the edge,” Amelia explained.

  “Did you see the shooter’s face?” Maddison asked.

  “No, it was too dark.” Amelia twisted her hands together.
“After I heard the shot, I ran to the woman’s car to check on her and found her dead. Then he started shooting at me so I fired back.”

  Lieutenant Maddison raised a brow. “You have a weapon?”

  “My grandfather’s shotgun,” Amelia said. “It’s in my car.”

  “Did you hit the shooter?”

  “No. I couldn’t really see him, so I fired into the woods to scare him off.”

  “Who was the female victim?”

  “I don’t know her name.”

  “But you came out here in the middle of the night to meet her?” Lieutenant Maddison asked.

  Amelia fidgeted under his scrutiny. “I talked to a nun earlier, and she told her to call me.”

  Lieutenant Maddison motioned toward one of the CSIs. “Stay here and call another team to process that vehicle when it stops burning.”

  The CSI nodded, and Maddison and the other two men followed John and Amelia to the clearing.

  The woman’s small black Toyota was hidden in the edge of the woods.

  Flashlights shimmered as the CSI team began to comb the area.

  “Stay here,” John told Amelia. She’d already seen too much violence that night. Her look of gratitude made him realize just how rattled she really was.

  He grabbed his flashlight and approached the car slowly in case the shooter hadn’t been alone. Maddison directed his team to begin photographing the scene.

  “Collect bullets and shotgun shells,” Lieutenant Maddison said. “We’ll need to compare them to the bullets from Miss Nettleton’s gun.”

  The driver’s door stood ajar, and John leaned in, frowning at the sight of the bullet hole in the woman’s head. She’d been shot between the eyes. Clean. To the point. Immediate death.

  Then the shooter had gone after Amelia . . .

  His gut instinct suggested the murder was a professional hit, not the work of a raging, out-of-control ex-spouse or stalker.

  Which meant he could have been targeting Amelia.

  The dirt stuck to Zack’s skin. Cold ate at his bones and toes where he had been stuffed below the ground. Water dripped from above, through the dirt. Cold. Icy. Making a puddle where he sat.