Dying for Love (A Slaughter Creek Novel)

by Herron, Rita

  Finally the van stopped, and the man hauled him outside. He dragged him toward a long dock where a small boat was waiting. The dock rocked back and forth below him. Wind tossed and beat at the boat.

  The man hurled Zack onto the deck, then tossed him down some steps into a hole.

  A motor fired up. The boat began to rock.

  Zack clawed at the floor. Where was he taking him? Out into the ocean to kill him and dump his body where no one would find him?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A trucker passed John, slinging muddy sludge against his SUV as it passed him on the mountain road.

  Amelia was resting her head against the seat and had closed her eyes, but she startled when he jerked the wheel to the right. The guardrail neared his side, but he managed to right the vehicle just in time to keep from hitting it, and slowed on the black ice.

  By the time they reached Amelia’s, more clouds had rolled in. Amelia dropped her purse on the table by the door, and his gaze was drawn to a painting in the studio. A beautiful painting of her holding a baby boy.

  “Did you paint that from your memories?”

  Amelia folded her hands together. “No, that’s my twin sister Sadie and her newborn.”

  John studied the painting again. The features of the woman looked so much like Amelia that it was startling. Yet on closer examination, he saw the differences. Subtle but there.

  Sadie looked content, relaxed, happy.

  Amelia looked restless, tormented, sad, as if she was searching for a way to find the love and peace her sister had found.

  He wished he could give it to her. But the only thing he had to offer was more questions and secrets.

  “Your sister’s baby . . . that’s when your dreams started?”

  Annoyance flashed in Amelia’s eyes. “Yes. And before you say anything, at first I thought my dream meant I was envious. That’s the reason I went to the doctor and the prison to see Ms. Lettie before I came to you.”

  Amelia rubbed at her forehead.

  “Headache?”

  She nodded.

  “Lie down, Amelia. You need to rest.”

  “But we still don’t know where the Baylers are, or where the Ellingtons took the other kids at The Gateway House.”

  “We’re doing everything we can to find them,” he said gently. “If something comes up, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

  “Thank you for bringing me home.”

  She looked so vulnerable and lost that John wanted to solve all her problems. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Not with a head injury. And not after what happened.”

  “I’m fine, John. That’s not necessary.”

  Her stubborn independence both annoyed him and tugged at his heart. He couldn’t resist. He reached up and stroked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Someone attacked you earlier. And someone has been inside, you know that. Someone who obviously doesn’t want us digging into the past.”

  “I won’t give up. I have to know what happened to my son.”

  “I know.” He trailed his fingers down her cheek, her lips beckoning him to kiss her.

  “John?”

  Her soft whispery voice made him forget any reservations. Amelia had suffered so much. He wanted to take away that pain.

  Her lips parted on a sigh, a sound filled with need and loneliness.

  A loneliness that he felt deep in his own soul.

  And he lowered his head and claimed her mouth with his.

  Amelia sank into the kiss, savoring the comfort of John’s strong arms as he slid them around her. The trembling she’d struggled to control subsided in his embrace, yet another kind of trembling rippled through her.

  He teased her lips open with his tongue, and probed her mouth with his, eliciting a moan from her. She closed her eyes, images of the two of them entwined in bed together titillating.

  She wanted him in her bed now.

  Passion and need drove her to pull him closer. She threaded her fingers in his dark hair and stroked his calf with her foot. He groaned, tugging her against him so she felt his thick sex pressed against her belly.

  Erotic sensations flooded her. His touch felt gentle yet commanding. Hungry yet tentative.

  Raw, passionate.

  Nothing like Six’s.

  It felt so wonderful that she coaxed him toward her bedroom. John’s fingers trailed down her shoulders to her back and to her waist, then he slowly lifted her blouse and pulled it over her head. His hungry gaze met hers, fire flashing in the depths of his eyes.

  A fiery passion that made her tug at the buttons of his shirt until she raked it over his shoulders, and he tossed it off with a grunt. Hers fell beside his, and he kissed her again, walking her backward toward her bed.

  She kissed him greedily, tracing her hands over his back, then down to his belt.

  He reached for his belt and shucked it off, but instead of stripping his jeans, he slipped her skirt down over her legs and dropped it to the floor.

  Cool air brushed her nipples, the tips hardening as his gaze raked over her. She felt naked and wanton in her bra and lacy panties.

  She’d had raw sex with other men, allowed Six to treat her roughly, and no telling what Viola had done with men. She shuddered to think about it.

  But this was different. Instinctively, she knew that John’s big body would somehow complete her. That it wasn’t simply about sex.

  They were making love.

  Her breath caught at the thought, and she tore at his jeans. He yanked them off, then crawled above her in his boxers, his hard length teasing the sensitive area between her thighs.

  She parted her legs, welcoming him, wanting him desperately, urging him to join his body with hers.

  His beard stubble tickled her neck as he kissed her behind the ear and planted sweet tongue lashes along her throat. She moaned and thrust her hips upward, splaying her hands on his bare back.

  Her fingers touched something jagged, puckered skin. A scar.

  He stiffened, and looked into her eyes. “It’s ugly.”

  “We all have scars,” she whispered. God knows hers were on the inside, but they were there.

  “But most people know how they got theirs.” He dropped his head forward.

  “What do you mean, John?”

  He hesitated, stroked her hair. “I don’t want to talk about it now, but there are things I’ve done that I’m not proud of.”

  He looked as if he wanted to say more, but she pressed her finger to his lips.

  “I don’t care what you did or who you were, only that you’re here now,” she whispered.

  Indecision played in his eyes, but his hunger must have snuffed out the voice telling him no, and he kissed her again. Need and desire built between them as he fused his mouth with hers, then he ripped it away and licked his way to her breasts. He laved one, then the other, suckling her so hard that sensations rippled through her, building to the brink of an orgasm.

  Just when she thought she might explode with pleasure, he dropped his head lower and trailed kisses down to her inner thighs. With one quick yank, he peeled off her panties. She groaned as he nudged her legs apart and teased her clit with his tongue.

  Her body quivered, lost in the sensation of his mouth on her and the urgent stroke of his tongue against her flesh. She clawed at the bed covers, trembling as her release splintered through her.

  She cried out his name as pleasure consumed her. Images of John thrusting inside her, filling her as he moaned her name, flooded her.

  The sweetness and hunger in Amelia’s lovemaking made John’s body rage with need. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted another woman.

  But other disturbing images bombarded him. Images of him holding a gun. Fighting. A woman screaming. She w
as hurt and he needed to help her.

  But he didn’t . . . he couldn’t . . .

  He’d failed . . . what had happened to her? Had he caused her pain? Her death?

  Conflicting emotions pummeled him, and he looked into Amelia’s eyes. Hers glazed with passion and raw desire.

  But a sliver of fear also shined, dark and unforgiving.

  He’d seen snippets in his mind over the last few months, moments where he was almost certain he’d been a soldier. That maybe the scar on his back had come from combat. He had another one on his abdomen and a long jagged one on his upper thigh. All consistent with military injuries—or his accident . . .

  “John?” Amelia said softly. “What’s wrong?”

  Self-recriminations shouted in his head. He wanted to assuage the uncertainty in Amelia’s voice.

  But what kind of bastard was he? He was taking advantage of her vulnerable state.

  Another voice whispered to him. Maybe he had been a terrible man, had been responsible for a woman’s death.

  But he wasn’t that person anymore.

  He grabbed his jeans and yanked them on. How could he be sure he wasn’t that man? That he hadn’t killed that woman? “You need to rest.”

  Amelia crawled toward him, her breasts swaying, drawing his gaze to her naked body. God, he wanted to thrust his cock inside her.

  Amelia took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “But I want to be with you.”

  He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “I shouldn’t have touched you, Amelia. You have a head injury.”

  “My head is fine,” Amelia said. “But I don’t understand why you’re pulling away.”

  Hating himself for starting something he should have never started, he shook off her hand. “Go to sleep.”

  He grabbed his shirt and shoes and strode from the room. When he reached the studio, he glanced at the picture of Sadie and her baby, and knew Amelia wanted that in her life.

  But he wasn’t the man to give her that love or happily-ever-after.

  Not when he didn’t know who he was or what he’d done in his past. If she knew the truth, she wouldn’t want to be with him.

  Amelia tossed and turned for hours, willing John to return to her bed. But he’d made his decision and stayed away all night, leaving her alone and aching for his arms again.

  John had just proven what she’d thought all along. That he couldn’t love her. That she wasn’t worthy of anyone’s love.

  Eventually she fell into an exhausted sleep, but instead of dreaming about him, she dreamed a baby was crying in the house.

  Then a child’s voice called to her for help.

  She jerked awake, disoriented and wondering about that child’s voice.

  Should she consult her therapist and confide that she was hearing voices again?

  If she did, the doctor would medicate her . . .

  The medication numbed her, made her feel disoriented, dazed, and confused.

  She needed a clear head in case she found her son.

  No . . . when she found him. She wouldn’t stop until she did.

  The strong scent of coffee wafted toward her. She dragged on her robe and tiptoed into the kitchen. The room was empty, but she looked through the front window and saw John sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee in one hand, his phone in the other.

  Fresh snow dotted his hair, the dark strands beckoning her fingers to embed themselves in the thick depths.

  Needing to be near him, she dragged on her coat, poured herself a mug of coffee, and walked outside. Just the sight of him made her heart stutter and her body ache again.

  John glanced up, turmoil on his face. His eyes were slightly bloodshot as if he hadn’t slept either. His hair stood in disarray as if he’d raked his hand through it a dozen times, and he needed a shave.

  But that dark beard stubble and his unkempt look only made him sexier.

  “Thanks. I’ll meet you there.”

  He ended the call and stood. “How’s your head this morning?”

  “Fine.” Amelia reached up to touch his hair, to smooth down the rumpled ends, but he pulled away.

  She dropped her hand. “You didn’t sleep?”

  “I don’t need much sleep.” His gaze met hers, and she saw something there. Need. Lust. His own brand of pain.

  But something else tainted his eyes. Some emotion she couldn’t define. A cold hardness that made her wonder if he wasn’t the man she thought he was.

  He jerked his gaze away first. “I have to go. We have a lead on the suicide bomber case.”

  John parked at the convenience store on the mountain road, noting the signs for the pumpkin farm nearby and others advertising the camp where tourists panned for gold. Too late in the winter for either. Instead, the places were deserted, like a ghost town.

  With every mile he’d driven, he’d regretted bringing Amelia along with him.

  But leaving her alone would have put her at the mercy of the person who’d attacked her two nights before.

  Dammit, he was letting his feelings for her cloud his judgment. Back there when she’d nearly touched him, he’d almost given in. Almost let her.

  But that would have been his undoing.

  Because it had taken every ounce of his restraint and several walks in the cold during the night to keep him away from her bed.

  Amelia opened her car door, not bothering to wait on him, and he quickly followed her, squashing images of her between the sheets with him on top of her. A black pickup was parked in front of the store, a beagle poking his head out the front passenger-side window.

  Signs for fresh produce pointed to a small stand beside the station where steam oozed from a big black cauldron. An old-timer was stirring what he assumed was a pot of boiled peanuts. But the vegetable bins were empty, coated in ice.

  Wind swirled dead leaves around their feet, the sky nothing but black clouds. He held the door open for Amelia, instinctively scanning the store as they entered.

  A rail-thin man in overalls stood at the register to pay for his beer and cigarettes. He gave cash to the cashier, a scruffy-looking man who was as big around as he was tall. The buttons on his shirt looked like they might pop, revealing a wifebeater undershirt, and his jaw bulged with chewing tobacco, his teeth black.

  John waited until the man left, then approached the cashier. “Are you the person who called in the tip about the Ellingtons?”

  The man spit a string of tobacco into a Styrofoam cup. “Yeah. Name’s Wally. You the police?”

  “TBI.” John flashed his ID, then showed the man a picture of the couple. “Is this the man and woman you saw?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were they alone?” John asked.

  “Naw. They had a couple of kids with ’em. Two boys about five or six.”

  Amelia gave him a concerned look.

  “Were the children hurt?”

  “Not that I could tell. They was real quiet. One of ’em had to pee so the man took him to the bathroom while the lady stocked up on snacks.”

  Danny Kritz was the latest to be taken. Could he be with the Ellingtons? Were they working with the kidnapping ring? “Did they call the boys by name?”

  “Didn’t hear it if they did. They weren’t here long, seemed like they were in a hurry, like they were nervous.”

  He supposed they were. “Did they say where they were going?”

  He pulled at his chin with stubby fingers. “The man was looking at a map. Said he was hunting for some campground.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s one about twenty miles from here.”

  “What were they driving?” John asked.

  “An RV.”

  John glanced around the store for security cameras but didn’t see any. “Did you get the license plate?”

 
“Tag was missing. Had one of them handmade signs saying they’d ordered it.”

  “Can you give me directions to that campground?”

  “Sure enough.” The man took a map from the stand by the register, opened it, and drew a line with a red marker outlining the route. “What did these folks do?” the man asked.

  John took Amelia’s elbow to escort her to the door. “They may be involved in a kidnapping ring,” John said over his shoulder.

  The man looked surprised, but John and Amelia hurried to the car. If the Ellingtons were involved in the kidnappings, maybe they would lead him to the person behind the abductions.

  John wound around the mountain, driving deeper into the ridges. The Ellingtons were obviously looking for a place to hide and planned to use the isolation of the woods to cover their whereabouts.

  What did they plan to do with those boys?

  Trees hugged the embankment, making it shadowy and dark as he followed the road along the creek until he spotted the sign for the campground. It was a tourist spot, but off the grid, and this was the off-season. Campers parked and hiked the five miles up to the waterfalls. Here they enjoyed peace and quiet and nature.

  Here they could camp for days or weeks and no one except another tourist or hunter might see them.

  Now it was virtually empty. Desolate-looking with winter and cold.

  He approached the campsite, slowing as he searched the shadows. Even though it was daylight, the heavy, thick trees and storm clouds added a dismal gray cast.

  The perfect place to hide.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  John swung the SUV to the side, parked, and opened his door. An RV was parked at the edge of the creek. An animal moved through the woods, brush crackling. Creek water raced over jagged rocks.

  The area was isolated, no other people or campers around. People usually didn’t come in winter.

  Another indication the couple was running from something.

  Suddenly a man emerged from the RV, holding a shotgun aimed at them. John started to reach for his own weapon, but the man raised the gun higher, his finger on the trigger. “Don’t come any closer, Mister.”