by Herron, Rita
“Mr. Ellington, put the gun down!” John shouted. “I’m with the TBI.”
“How do I know you’re not lying?” Ellington yelled.
John flashed his badge. “I tried to see you at The Gateway House, but when we arrived, it was on fire.”
“Please, we just want to talk to you,” Amelia shouted as she stepped from the passenger side. “Think about the children with you.”
“I’m trying to protect them,” the man said.
“Then talk to us,” John shouted. “We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Seconds stretched into minutes. Mrs. Ellington appeared, looking frightened, and the two of them spoke in low voices. Finally Ellington lowered his shotgun to his side. “All right. We’ll talk.”
John motioned to Amelia to stay behind him as he stepped from behind the SUV. “Put the gun down first,” he ordered.
Ellington laid the shotgun on the ground, and John lowered his own weapon and stowed it into the holster beneath his jacket. Amelia’s sigh of relief mirrored his own.
He approached Ellington slowly, noting that his wife gripped his arm as if she was holding him back.
“Is there a place we can sit down and talk?” John asked.
Mrs. Ellington pointed to some lawn chairs situated by a campfire and led the way to them. John spotted the boys peeking from the camper door. At least they were safe.
“What’s this about?” Mr. Ellington asked.
“I think you know,” John said. “We were coming to talk to you the day The Gateway House burned down. Why did you run?”
“Who said we ran?” Ellington muttered.
“It’s obvious,” John said. “You’re hiding out here now.”
“We had to,” Mrs. Ellington said in a broken voice. “We were scared.”
“Scared of what?”
The couple exchanged worried looks. “Tell him everything,” Mrs. Ellington said to her husband.
The man patted his chest. “First of all, I don’t want me and the wife to get in trouble.”
John’s instincts kicked in. “Why would you be in trouble?”
“It’s about the adoptions,” Mrs. Ellington said. “We think that’s why someone set fire to the house. They wanted to get rid of us so we wouldn’t talk.”
“Then you have to tell us what’s going on,” Amelia cut in.
“What do you have to do with this?” Mr. Ellington asked.
Amelia squared her shoulders. “Commander Arthur Blackwood took my baby when he was born. Then a woman dropped him off at a church. I think he was sent to The Gateway House from there. It would have been around July fourth six years ago.”
Mrs. Ellington pulled a shawl around her shoulders. “We did get a little boy about that time,” she said. “A woman left the infant all bundled up in a blue blanket with a note asking us to find a good home for him.”
Amelia exhaled. “What happened to him?”
“A nice couple adopted him just a couple of days later.”
“Do you remember their names?” John asked.
“Adoptions are confidential,” Mrs. Ellington said. “We have to protect the adopted parents’ rights.”
“What about my rights?” Amelia said. “I didn’t give my son up. He was stolen from me.”
John wanted to comfort her, but he forced himself not to touch her. “She’s right,” John said. “This is a kidnapping case. I can get a subpoena—”
“Our records burned in the fire,” Mr. Ellington said.
“But you remember the name of the couple?” Amelia asked.
Another look of fear passed between the couple. “A nice couple named the Baylers.”
Amelia gasped softly. “That’s the reason the Baylers left town,” Amelia said. “They must have known we were onto them.”
“Do you think they set fire to The Gateway House?” John asked.
Mr. Ellington shook his head. “No. We think it was the man who arranged the adoptions. He called and told us someone was asking questions, and that we’d better not talk to anyone.”
John folded his arms. “Who is he?”
“His name is Axelrod,” Mr. Ellington said. “He has his own agency that places children. He’s found homes for several of the boys who’ve come through The Gateway House.”
John grimaced. “I take it these are private adoptions and he charges a hefty fee.”
The couple nodded.
“And Mr. Bayler handled the legal work?”
Mrs. Ellington tightened the grip on her shawl. “That’s right. But everything was legal.”
“Not if they were selling stolen kids,” John said.
The couple’s eyes widened. “We don’t know anything about that,” Mr. Ellington said. “I swear. We just tried to give the children who needed it a temporary home.”
Sincerity laced his tone, but John reserved his opinion. “Did you follow up on the placement of these children?”
“No,” Mrs. Ellington said. “The adoptions were private.”
“What made you run?” John asked.
Mr. Ellington ran a shaky hand through his white hair. “Like I said, Mr. Axelrod told us not to talk if anyone asked questions. That threw up a red flag. Then we saw the stories about those boys being kidnapped, and we got worried.”
Mr. Ellington talked with his hands, “You see, Axelrod specialized in finding homes for boys around the age of the kidnapped victims.”
John gritted his teeth. It sounded as if he was filling orders. Which could mean child trafficking. Or that he was sending the boys to that group to train them to be suicide bombers.
“You think Axelrod set fire to The Gateway House?” John asked.
The couple shifted, nervous again. Mrs. Ellington cleared her throat. “He called saying he had placements for the brothers staying with us now. I told him I wanted to know details about the adopting parents. But he went ballistic. Said he was doing these kids a favor, saving them.”
“Saving them?” John asked.
“That’s what he said. He was put on earth to save kids because no one saved him.”
“Do you have a way to contact him?”
Mr. Ellington went to the camper, returned a minute later, and handed John a business card.
The card indicated Axelrod was a social worker with a group named Safe Haven. It was also the same number on the card for Sonny Jones. At least one of the names was phony.
When he punched the number into his phone, a message said the number was out of service.
John called the forensics lab and asked the tech team to trace the number.
Maybe they could narrow down a location where he might have been calling from.
Amelia entwined her fingers to keep from fidgeting. “Tell us more about the baby the Baylers adopted. How did he come to you?”
Mrs. Ellington picked at her fingernails. “Like I said, a woman left a note with the infant.”
“How do you know it was a female?” John asked.
“The handwriting and . . . the things she said. She sounded upset, scared.”
“What exactly did she say?” Amelia asked.
“That she had to leave the baby with us to keep him safe. She swaddled him in a baby blanket and left a rosary with him, and asked us to find him a good loving home.”
“A rosary?” Amelia asked.
Mrs. Ellington nodded. “I figured she was a religious person.”
Amelia’s pulse jumped. The rosary Papaw had left led them to Sister Grace. Was this the same baby? Frustration mushroomed inside her. Sister Grace had disappeared so they couldn’t ask her.
“Did Axelrod place the little boy with the Baylers?” John asked.
Mrs. Ellington fidgeted with her hair. “Yes. I thought it was a little odd since he normally placed older children, bu
t he said he was doing a favor for a friend who couldn’t take care of his baby.”
Amelia’s dream flashed in her mind. What if Mark was her baby? Had the Commander arranged for them to take Mark until he could come for him?
She gestured toward the camper where the two little boys had ducked inside.
“Who are the kids?” Amelia asked.
“They’re brothers. Their parents were killed a couple of months ago in a car accident. Unfortunately they didn’t have any family. And they don’t want to be separated.”
Amelia tugged at her scarf. “Do you have a family who wants to adopt them?”
“Not yet. It’s more difficult to place older children, especially two from the same family.”
Mr. Ellington folded his arms. “We decided to keep them and raise them as our own.”
Amelia pictured them traveling from town to town, always looking over their shoulders, hiding out. “You can’t raise them on the run.”
Tears filled Mrs. Ellington’s eyes. “I know, but after the fire, we’re afraid to back to Slaughter Creek.”
“Do you think Axelrod might contact you about them again?” John asked.
“I don’t know, but he was upset when we said we planned to keep the boys,” Mr. Ellington said. “We think he set fire to The Gateway House to get them. But we managed to escape before he could take them.”
“Can you give a description to a police artist?” John asked.
The couple nodded.
“Good, I’ll set it up.” John paused. “What kind of car was he driving?”
Mr. Ellington pulled his coat up over his ears. “A black sedan once. Another time I believe he was driving a white van.”
Amelia’s heart hammered, as John reached inside his pocket for his phone. “Help us, and we’ll provide protection for you.”
“What about Timmy and Clayton?” Mr. Ellington asked.
John narrowed his eyes. “First, if your story about the boys checks out, we’ll help you get custody and start a new life with them somewhere else.”
Mrs. Ellington clutched her husband’s arm. “What do we need to do?”
“We need to monitor your phone. If Axelrod calls, we can trace his location.”
Mr. Ellington put his arm around his wife. “Is that it?”
“Once we make an arrest, you’ll need to agree to testify against him,” John finished.
Mrs. Ellington looked at her husband, and he gave a small nod.
John agreed. But Amelia was more concerned about finding the Baylers.
Mark just might be her son.
John phoned his chief and made arrangements to put the Ellingtons into protective custody, then collected DNA samples from the boys to verify the couple’s story. He’d learned long ago not to trust anyone.
Coulter met them at the TBI office, where they gave a description to the police artist. He sent it to Brenda Banks as well as national databases for law enforcement authorities, airports, train stations, bus stations, and port authorities.
Coulter escorted the couple to a safe house. Arianna phoned that she’d heard chatter on the social media sites linked to SFTF, suggesting a possible location for the other militia group.
“I’ll drop you off, then go,” he told Amelia.
“That’s ridiculous,” Amelia said. “It would be way out of your way. Besides, I’m not crazy about going home alone, not after what I found at my house the other night.”
She was right. Worse, the attack at the Baylers and the fire at The Gateway House proved that whoever they were dealing with was dangerous.
His stomach tightened. He wasn’t crazy about leaving her alone either. But confronting this group could be dangerous.
“You can ride with me, but you have to stay in the car,” John said.
Amelia agreed, and he drove deeper into the mountains toward the coordinates Arianna had sent him.
Tall pines and oaks surrounded them. The road was deserted, the night sounds echoing in the air, adding to the eerie feeling that they were heading into trouble.
He turned onto a narrow dirt road that literally cut through the forest, the trees obliterating any remaining daylight.
Questions ticked through his mind—had the Ellingtons told the truth? Or had they sold the children to Axelrod for a profit?
And if they had, did they know where the man was hiding? Had they known he was grooming boys to be suicide bombers?
If so, they had to pay for their crimes.
“Look, I see a light down there,” Amelia said as he maneuvered through the dense woods.
He spotted it, too. A run-down shack, a couple of outbuildings, another shack out back.
Desolate, surrounded by the mountains. Dark. Off the grid.
He slowed, searching for vehicles, but he didn’t see any. The place looked deserted.
Dammit, had someone warned the group that the police were looking for them?
“They’re gone,” he said as he shifted into park.
“You think they knew we were coming?”
“Either someone warned them, or they picked up enough on the Internet chatter to know we were closing in on them. Stay here. I’m going to look around.”
“I can help,” Amelia said.
“I said to stay here,” John said. “They may have left someone behind to ambush us.”
Fear flicked in Amelia’s eyes. “Be careful, John.”
He gave a clipped nod, then pulled himself from the SUV. Dirt and leaves crunched beneath his boots as he walked toward the building. Instincts on alert, he removed his gun from his holster and clutched it at the ready.
He scanned left and right, searching the darkness, half expecting an army to be hiding at the edge of the woods. But nothing moved. Not even the air.
In fact, it seemed strangely silent. His senses kicked in.
The quiet before the storm.
Shoulders tense, he slowly approached the front door, then decided to look inside the window instead. He pulled his flashlight from his pocket and shined it into the dust-coated window.
Bare minimum furniture. Except . . . there were chains dangling from chairs. Chains connected to several twin-size metal beds lined in a row like a barracks—or a prison. A rancid odor seeped through a broken windowpane. Raccoons skittered across the floor.
Fury railed inside him, and he walked back to the door and turned the knob. A click sounded, and he realized too late that the door was wired.
He turned to run just as a bomb exploded.
The boat rocked Zack back and forth, back and forth, the wind beating at the sides. His head felt funny and his stomach hurt. The air smelled yucky, too. He wished the rocking would stop . . .
He crawled through the darkness and pulled himself up to look out the tiny window. But all he could see was water. Icy gray waves that chopped up and down.
The voice in his head started again. He’d heard it before.
A boy’s voice. It sounded like it was coming from him.
What was wrong with him? Sometimes it was the banshees. Sometimes the other boy.
No, it was him.
The boy who came to him in his dreams. The one with the mommy and daddy. The one who lived in the house with a swing set out back. And he had baseball bats and a soccer goal and normal stuff . . .
Not like the place where he and the other boys lived.
But this time the boy was crying. Great big wails that sounded like he was dying.
Where was he?
He closed his eyes trying to see. The mountains. Somewhere. Trees and weeds rushed past.
He wasn’t with his mommy and daddy anymore.
This time he was in a bad place, too. A place that was just as dark as the place where Zack stayed most of the time.
He wanted to go back and help
the boy.
But the boat was taking him farther and farther away. He could swim a little but not enough to make it across the ocean. Besides, if he jumped in, the sharks would eat him.
He thought about yelling for help, but no one would hear him.
No one ever heard him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Amelia watched in horror as the building exploded. Wood splintered and popped, pieces flying, flames bursting from the structure shooting against the gray sky like orange spikes. Fire crackled and shot upward, thick smoke clouding the air.
Where was John?
She jumped from the SUV and screamed his name, searching the flames and rubble as she ran toward it. Her boots dug through the snowy ice, but heat seared her as she neared the outer edges of the blaze, smoke clogging her lungs.
Seconds later, she spotted John lying on the ground, face down. Wood from the building lay in fiery patches around him.
He wasn’t moving.
Dear God, he couldn’t be dead.
She wove to the right to avoid a burning patch of debris and knelt beside him. “John?” She gently turned him over to see if he was breathing. Relief filled her when she felt his chest rise and fall.
He had a couple of cuts on his face from the wood and glass, and a nasty-looking bruise on his cheek.
But he was still the most handsome man she’d ever known.
“John?” A wave of intense heat scorched her side from the flames, but she ignored it and stroked his cheek. “John, please talk to me.”
He moaned, then slowly opened his eyes, disoriented.
“I’m calling an ambulance.” She scanned the burning debris, wondering what had caused the explosion.
“No, I’m fine. It just knocked the wind out of me.”
She touched his forehead. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.” He pushed her hand away from his forehead and tried to get up but swayed. “What happened?”
Amelia caught him. “You went up to the door and the whole place exploded.”
“Hell. A bomb.” John gripped her hand and allowed her to help him up, although his eyes still seemed blurry. He looked around at the patches of flames and debris surrounding them. “Come on, let’s get away from the heat.”