Dying for Love (A Slaughter Creek Novel)

by Herron, Rita

  A noise sounded. The floor squeaked. Amelia turned to see if someone was in the house and thought she saw a woman. Mrs. Bayler?

  Then something hard slammed against the back of her head, and she collapsed.

  He removed the prosthetic leg, cursing at the throbbing that constantly gnawed at him. Phantom limb syndrome, that’s what they called it.

  Damn fools. It felt real as hell to him. Not like a phantom limb.

  He’d lost it years ago. Lost it to that fucking beating.

  “You good-for-nothing lowlife. You have to be taught a lesson.”

  Gut-wrenching pain had riddled his maimed body, and an endless sea of blood had pooled around him.

  He had been the same age as the boys he was training.

  Danny watched him from the corner, his eyes glued to the mangled leftovers of his leg, but he showed no reaction.

  The kid was a real trooper. Hadn’t complained or whined. Hadn’t asked any questions. Had accepted his fate and the promise of becoming someone important.

  Maybe because he was so small and the other children picked on him.

  Yes, he’d chosen well this time.

  Danny wasn’t sick like the Tillman kid. He would thrive where he was taking him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The sound of computers and voices echoed through the halls as John entered the forensics lab.

  Coulter was already there, waiting on him, eyebrows furrowed. “What’s this about?”

  “I think these kidnappings may be related to another investigation. Agent Blackwood faxed photos he found on surveillance cameras of the most recent bomber as well as a picture someone snapped on their cell phone of the first bomber.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve got a hunch.”

  Arianna tapped her tablet. “I pulled up that list you wanted.”

  John gave her a quick thanks. “Let’s see if the pics of these bombers match.”

  Coulter propped his hip against a nearby desk while Arianna went to work. John watched the computer system scroll through pictures searching for a match. Five minutes later when they hadn’t found one, John drummed his fingers on the desk.

  “Arianna, let’s use facial recognition software with age progression and compare the images.”

  “Can you narrow the parameters?”

  “Focus on boys who disappeared from foster homes, The Gateway House, or single-parent homes.”

  “Okay.” She tapped a few keys, and the computer program began to run, flashing photo after photo on the screen, comparing them.

  “You really think this kidnapper has something to do with these bombings?” Coulter asked.

  “Think about it. He could have kidnapped these two boys, held them for years, and brainwashed them to become suicide bombers.”

  John explained that The Gateway House had burned down, and that the Ellingtons were missing along with the children who’d been living with them. “There are unaccounted-for adoptions of children who passed through The Gateway House. It could be a front for trafficking kids or—”

  “Or for someone building their own terrorist group.” Coulter’s eyes lit up at the possibility of connecting the cases.

  John nodded. “Commander Blackwood tried something similar, except he was working on perfecting soldiers, not terrorists. And he drew kids from a free clinic. It also would explain the reason the abductor released Ronnie Tillman. He wanted strong boys who he could shape into what he wanted.”

  The computer program beeped that it had a match. “Look,” Arianna said. “Your first bomber’s name is Allen Crone. He disappeared from a government-funded daycare center in Nashville when he was five. Mother lived in the projects. Teacher said one minute he was on the playground, and the next he was just gone.”

  “Did the police have any leads?” Coulter asked.

  Arianna accessed the file. “They suspected the stepfather because of abuse allegations. But he had an alibi, and so did the mother. The police questioned neighbors, other teachers and workers at the daycare, even the children, but came up with nothing. The case eventually went cold.”

  Except that missing children’s cases were never closed.

  A dinging sound, and the program found the latest bomber. “His name is Larry Romberg. Lived in Cleveland, Tennessee, with an ailing grandmother after his mother abandoned him. Apparently she was a drug addict. Larry disappeared from a Laundromat where the grandmother forgot him. Later she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.”

  Another boy who had no one to push the police to find him.

  John looked over Arianna’s shoulder as she scrolled through the police reports and photos of the crime scenes.

  “Wait,” John said. He pointed to a picture of a snowy playground where Ronnie Tillman had gone missing. “Enlarge that photo.”

  She tapped some keys and enhanced the picture.

  John narrowed his eyes. “Looks like odd foot impressions. One is heavier than the other. It could mean he wears a special shoe of some kind. Or that he has a handicap.”

  “And that you’re right. We have a serial kidnapper on our hands.”

  John grimaced. “Nick discovered a website that Blackwood’s followers frequent. That’s how he found Roper.”

  “I’ll look at it again,” Coulter said. “Maybe there’s something that will lead us to this unsub.”

  John’s phone buzzed. Helen Gray. “I need to take this.” He stepped outside Arianna’s office and connected the call. “Agent Strong.”

  “Are you with Miss Nettleton?”

  “No, why?”

  A second passed. “We met with two of the families who adopted from The Gateway House, but one couple refused to come in. I stepped out of my office for a moment, then Amelia left in a hurry. I think she may have stolen some information from my computer about the other couple. I’m afraid she might have gone to see them. I don’t have to tell you that I could get in trouble for this—”

  “You won’t,” John assured her. “Just give me that address. I’ll find Miss Nettleton and make certain to smooth things over with the couple.”

  Another pause riddled with anxiety.

  “I promise I’ll use discretion,” John said.

  “I’m texting you their name and address now.”

  John disconnected, explained to Coulter and Arianna he needed to go, and headed down the hall to the elevator as he read the text. Five minutes later his tires squealed, grinding the sand the snowplows had poured on the roads as he raced from the parking lot.

  He tried Amelia’s cell, but she didn’t answer. Damn.

  As he pulled down the Baylers’ street, he saw Amelia’s Mini Cooper parked in front of the Victorian house. Icicles dripped from the roof, and crystals of ice were plastered to the windowpanes, giving them the appearance of broken glass.

  He screeched to a stop, threw his SUV into park, jogged up the steps, and pounded on the door.

  When no one answered, his instincts kicked in. He peered through the front window. The house looked as if it had been torn apart.

  His instincts roared to life, and he pulled out his gun and crept around the outside of the house, checking the windows and perimeter in case someone was lurking around.

  But the house was eerily quiet. Dark. No movement inside.

  Palms sweating, he made it to the back door. The fact that it was ajar made him grip his gun tighter. He stepped inside, sweeping the kitchen, then hallway and living room, for Amelia.

  Or someone lying in wait.

  But he didn’t see or hear anyone. Instead, silence cloaked the rooms. The only sounds were his breathing and the squeaking of the wood floors as he climbed the stairs.

  The first room on the right, a child’s, was empty, although toys and clothes were scattered as if someone had left in a hurry.

  The
wind outside whistled, rattling windowpanes, and he rushed to the next room. Dark. He paused, watching for an intruder waiting to attack.

  The curtains fluttered by the window, drawing his gaze to the corner. Dammit.

  Amelia was lying on the floor, unconscious.

  Amelia roused from unconsciousness, her head spinning, the world a blur. What had happened?

  She’d come in looking for the Baylers. She’d thought she saw Mrs. Bayler . . . then someone had hit her.

  “Lie still,” a voice murmured. “I’ve called an ambulance.”

  The man’s voice registered, gruff and soothing. His hand stroked the hair from her face so gently that tears burned her eyes as she struggled to look at him.

  John was there. Saving her. Always saving her.

  She lifted one hand and pressed it against his cheek. “John?”

  “I’m here,” he said. “What happened?”

  A barrage of other images pummeled her. She was in the hospital, drugged, disoriented. White coats rushed by in a blur. Some strong chemical odor permeated the air. Machines beeped, shrill and loud. The orderlies were holding her down, injecting her with yet another narcotic.

  Locking her in that room.

  A guard stood at the door, armed. He would shoot if she tried to escape.

  John’s chest constricted at the sudden sliver of fear in Amelia’s eyes. For a second, she looked as if she was afraid of him.

  He had seen that look before.

  The realization made his anxiety mount. How could he have seen it when he’d only known her a few days?

  Another memory teased at his subconscious. A woman looked up at him with trusting eyes. Needy eyes.

  Her lips whispered his name . . . his body heated. He wanted to touch her, but doing so was forbidden.

  The image quickly disappeared, leaving him confused and with more questions. Who was the woman? Someone he’d been involved with before he’d met Amelia? Someone waiting for him to come back?

  The truth was buried somewhere in his lost past.

  Secrets that would confirm he hadn’t been a good guy before his accident.

  Secrets he would have to face before he could be whole again, to maybe have a real life. A life that involved more than chasing kidnappers and predators and going to bed alone at night.

  The siren wailed closer, jerking him back to the moment. “The ambulance is almost here. What happened, Amelia?”

  She clutched his arm. “I came here to talk to the family, but they were gone. At least I thought they were.”

  “You didn’t see anyone when you arrived?”

  “No. The house . . . was empty. But then I thought I saw Mrs. Bayler.”

  John spoke through gritted teeth. “She must have knocked you out to give them time to get away.”

  Amelia tried to sit up, but she swayed, and he caught her.

  “You probably have a concussion,” he said. “Just lie still.”

  She touched the back of her head, wincing. “We have to hurry and find them, John.”

  “We will,” John said.

  The possibilities raced through his mind. Ones he didn’t like. The Ellingtons had disappeared when they’d learned John was investigating The Gateway House, and now this couple had run, too.

  What were they hiding?

  The paramedics arrived, and John hurried to let them in. While they examined Amelia, he searched the house for signs of foul play or that the child was hiding somewhere.

  But he didn’t see blood or signs of violence. He did find the little boy’s room disturbing. Several books on dark, paranormal creatures were jammed in the bookshelf. He flipped through the sketchpad on the kid-sized table and saw sinister outlines of a monster.

  Then a drawing of a boy locked in a tiny room, the narrow window at the top the only light source. More creatures circled the outside as if trying to scratch their way inside the room.

  He searched the closet but found nothing except a few T-shirts and jeans left. Questions needling him, he jogged back to the kitchen, then checked the kitchen desk, but he didn’t find a checkbook or computer. There were no suitcases in the house either, indicating they packed and left willingly.

  He searched for an address book or notepad with information on family or a friend they might have called, but found nothing.

  It was most likely they’d disappeared out of fear that Amelia would press for custody if they’d adopted her child, but they also could be in trouble. Maybe the adoption was illegal? Maybe they knew they had adopted a kidnapped child?

  Maybe they were accomplices in something much bigger . . .

  He phoned Arianna. “I need a search warrant for the Ellingtons’ phone records at The Gateway House and for files at the adoption agency.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Also, run a background check for me on Eugene and Dana Bayler.”

  John drummed his foot on the floor as he heard the keys tapping. A minute later, Arianna returned. “Eugene Bayler is a lawyer. He focuses on adoptions.”

  Dammit, that made sense.

  “Looks like he was financially set.”

  “Probably made his fortune charging hefty fees for private adoptions.”

  “His wife Dana was a stay-at-home mother. Volunteered at the church, at the preschool. No record of any trouble on either one of them.”

  “No complaints against Mr. Bayler?”

  “None that I see. I’ll let you know if I find anything on their phone records.”

  John hung up and found Amelia sitting up, looking flustered and arguing with the EMT.

  “I’m not going to the hospital,” she said firmly. “I’m fine.”

  The young man looked at John. “Her vitals are good, but she could have a concussion. I suggested we hospitalize her overnight for observation.”

  “I can’t be locked up in a hospital again.” Her voice quivered. “I spent half my life in one, John. I’m not going back.”

  Considering her history, he understood her paranoia of hospitals. He couldn’t blame her. “I’ll stay with her and make sure she’s all right tonight.”

  The medics traded concerned looks, then one of them shoved a clipboard toward Amelia. “If you refuse, you have to sign a waiver.”

  Amelia snatched the papers, scribbled her name, and handed them back to the guy.

  He and the other medic grabbed their kits and left. John touched Amelia’s arm.

  “Come on, I’ll drive you back to your place.”

  Amelia jutted her chin into the air. “I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.”

  John frowned. She was both beautiful and stubborn. “You have a head injury, Amelia. I’m driving you. The crime team is on their way. I’ll have one of the patrols drop off your car later.”

  Amelia bit her lip. “Fine.”

  The crime van rolled up seconds later, and John showed them where Amelia had been assaulted.

  “Comb the place for forensics,” John said. “In the boy’s room, look for a hairbrush or toothbrush, something with his DNA. I want it processed and a comparison run to Ms. Nettleton’s.”

  “What’s going on?” Lieutenant Maddison asked.

  “It’s possible the couple ran because they adopted Amelia’s baby.”

  “You think the couple attacked her?”

  John shrugged. “Maybe. They love the child, they don’t want to lose him.” John paused. “And Mr. Bayler is a lawyer who handles adoptions.”

  Understanding registered on Maddison’s face. “Definitely could be a motive.”

  “Yeah.” He handed a photo of the couple to Maddison. “Alert officers to report their location if they spot the couple.”

  Sometimes when Zack closed his eyes at night, he saw things. The monsters. The banshees.

  And some
times he saw himself.

  Only he wasn’t locked up in this place where metal bars banged shut and kept him prisoner.

  He was in a nice warm bed with a mom and a dad who fed him ice cream and didn’t make him do tests. Painful tests.

  They had started a few months ago.

  He had failed them all.

  He closed his eyes and turned toward the concrete wall. The cold swallowed him, and he hunched beneath the scratchy blanket. The image came again.

  His face.

  The boy was in his mind again. Only this time he was wearing different clothes. Jeans and a T-shirt. And he was riding in a car.

  But he was scared.

  Zack couldn’t see his face, but he heard his breathing. Loud, uneven sharp sounds like a death rattle.

  Zack’s heart raced. He could feel the boy’s fear as if it were his own. Hear the boy’s heart pounding just like his own.

  Where were they taking him? What was the boy scared of?

  He struggled to see more. Tall trees rushed by as the car took the boy deeper into the mountains. The car swerved and slid on the ice. Sharp ridges reached out as if to grab the boy.

  Then the boy screamed.

  Footsteps pounded outside his door. Zack jumped. The boy’s face disappeared.

  Men’s harsh voices echoed in the hall. Keys jangled. The metal door screeched open.

  “Stand up,” the man ordered.

  Zack sucked in a breath and faced the man. The shiny buttons on the man’s uniform glinted in the dark.

  “We have to move you again,” the man said, his voice bitter.

  Zack braced himself for a blow. He felt like he might wet his pants.

  And that would mean more punishments.

  Then the man jerked his arm and dragged him from the cell.

  “Where are you taking me?” Zack cried.

  “Shut up,” the man snapped.

  His big, cold fingers cut into Zack’s arm. He dragged him down a long hall. The cold dankness made him shake. He dragged his feet, but the man jerked him harder, then threw him into the back of a van.

  More darkness, then he closed his eyes and let himself go someplace far away. Someplace the banshees couldn’t find him.