Dying for Love (A Slaughter Creek Novel)

by Herron, Rita

  John felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. He’d had snippets of memories, but not that he’d held her captive.

  Had he worked for Arthur Blackwood?

  “I’m sorry, Amelia, I had a head injury—”

  “Did you help him steal my baby?” Tears tumbled down her cheeks. “What did you do with him, John? Is that the reason you agreed to work with me, to keep me from finding out the truth?”

  “No.” He shook his head in denial, but how could he be certain of anything when the past was a void? When some of his memories didn’t make sense?

  “That’s it, that’s the reason you came to Slaughter Creek, to watch me, to make sure I didn’t find my baby.”

  He reached for her. He had to comfort her, reassure her she was wrong. But she shoved him away, betrayal hardening her eyes.

  “That’s not true, Amelia. Think about it.” He forced a calm to his voice, desperate to convince her, to convince himself. “You came to me, remember? You asked for my help.”

  She paced across the room, tapping that same rhythm on her arm as she gained momentum. “Because I thought you were one of the good guys. But hell, that was probably some show, a setup.” Her voice stung him. “You helped the Commander torture us, didn’t you?”

  “No. I . . . I don’t remember everything from my past. I had an accident six years ago and have amnesia.”

  “How convenient,” Amelia said.

  Jesus, he should have told her sooner. “It’s true. I work for the TBI. I’m investigating the kidnapping case.”

  More than anything, he wanted to defend himself. Assure her he wasn’t the monster she believed him to be.

  She backed away, her eyes wild with panic.

  “But you were there, you held a gun to my face and locked me in that hospital room. I saw you with the Commander.”

  How could he deny it when he’d wondered if he’d done something bad in his previous life?

  “I’m not that person anymore,” he said, his voice hoarse. “When I woke with amnesia, maybe I joined the TBI to atone for what I’d done.”

  Amelia pointed to the door. “Get out. Or does that not fit with your plans? Did you come here to get rid of me once and for all?”

  “Of course not,” John said. “I care about you, Amelia.” More than he should.

  “Care about me?” Her voice bordered on hysteria. “For all I know, you got me in bed so you could kill me in my sleep.”

  “Amelia, no—”

  She threw up a hand to stop him from speaking, then wiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please leave.”

  He reached for her again. He wanted to hold her so badly he ached. “I told you I’m sorry. I may have been that person before—”

  “You are that person.” Anger sharpened her voice. “And I was a fool to fall in bed with you. But I won’t fall for your tricks or lies again.”

  She pointed toward the door, and he decided he should leave. She needed time. Hell, they both did.

  He grabbed his shirt, holster, and gun and strode from the bedroom, self-recriminations beating him up as he left.

  Amelia paced the studio, so overcome she could barely breathe.

  John had lied to her. Betrayed her.

  While all this time, she’d been falling in love with him.

  What was she going to do now?

  Was he trying to find her son or trying to keep her from discovering the truth?

  For all she knew, he could have warned the Baylers to leave . . .

  A hollow emptiness opened up inside her. What a fool she’d been. All her life people had used her. Now, just when she thought she was strong and independent, she’d let John slip under her defenses. She’d thought he even cared, that they might have something special between them.

  She would never trust another man in her life.

  Blinking back tears, she removed the paintings of John from the closet, grabbed a knife, and slashed the drawings she’d done of him. They were filled with emotions, her memory that the two of them had not only been lovers, but that they’d been in love.

  That he was her savior.

  What a lie.

  She had to find her baby herself. But how?

  Brenda. Brenda had befriended her when she’d written those profiles on the CHIMES subjects. She’d been a straight shooter. She wanted the story, but she also respected the subjects and had been sympathetic to their suffering.

  Swiping away her tears, she retrieved her cell phone and pressed Brenda’s number.

  John didn’t want to leave Amelia, especially knowing she hated him. But how could he blame her?

  His phone buzzed. Arianna. He snatched it up. “Yeah?”

  “Agent Strong, the tech team has just picked up something from the buzz on the Internet.”

  “What?”

  “Another bombing is planned. Tonight.”

  John went cold inside. “Where?”

  “UT Knoxville. Apparently there’s a protest rally there this evening.”

  “What kind of protest?”

  “Something about overturning the government, restructuring the social-welfare system.”

  John mentally thumbed through the other target sites. A women’s clinic. A DFACS office.

  “It’s not SFTF,” she said. “Roper was right. They advocate defending the country but are not terrorist oriented. This other group is the opposite. They think making a bold public statement is the only way to be heard and to make changes.”

  “Call ahead and alert the local authorities that Coulter and I are on our way. They need to beef up security for the event.”

  “Done.”

  She hung up, and he phoned Coulter and explained the situation. Coulter agreed to meet him at the TBI headquarters.

  John flipped on his siren and raced through traffic. Coulter was waiting for him outside, and they rushed toward Knoxville. John flew around cars on the interstate while Coulter phoned ahead to the local law enforcement agencies and explained their suspicions. Nick Blackwood was going to meet them there, too.

  “We need plainclothes security teams interspersed through the crowd. Also alert campus security at UT,” Coulter said to the chief of police. “We believe the attack will occur tonight at the protest rally. We also believe the bomber will be an adolescent or teenage boy who’s been brainwashed into believing he’s on a mission for his people. In the last situation, the killer strapped dynamite to his body. In the first instance, he put a pipe bomb in a backpack and set it down. But the bomb exploded before he got too far away, and he died in the explosion.”

  Anxiety knotted John’s shoulders as he drove, but finally they arrived in Knoxville. They went straight to the UT campus and parked near the protest rally. Already hundreds of students had gathered, carrying signs advocating government changes, some shouting that the breakdown of society and the family was the government’s fault.

  A podium was set up for speakers to take turns, and the press roamed the crowd, taking photographs and interviewing individuals. The rally seemed peaceful at the moment, but a group of nonsupporters had gathered at one end and were shouting at the others to go home.

  The peaceful protests could erupt into violence at any second.

  John would be furious when he found out what she was doing.

  But Amelia no longer cared what he thought. Or what anyone else thought, for that matter.

  She’d been a puppet on a string when Arthur Blackwood had experimented on her, and she’d kept her silence afterward because of her therapy, and out of respect for Sadie.

  But her son’s life might depend on her finding him.

  After all, the Commander could have used him as he had her and the others. God knew he’d abused his two sons, Jake and Nick. Sadie had confided in her that he’d subjected them to extreme physical tests
of survival as well as mental tests to turn them into soldiers and the kind of men he deemed soldier worthy.

  Ignoring the warning that another hailstorm was imminent, she met Brenda at the local TV station, and they chatted for a moment, then Brenda directed her cameraman to set up for the interview.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Brenda asked. “The last few months must have been difficult for you.”

  “They have been, yet I feel like I’ve gotten my life back, Brenda. At least my sanity, so if you’re worried I’m going to fall apart on you, don’t. I’m stronger than I’ve ever been.”

  “I never doubted that,” Brenda said with a squeeze to her hand. “And I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been a good friend.” She hadn’t trusted Brenda to begin with, but Brenda had definitely been loyal and treated her with kindness. Brenda had also respected her privacy, and the profile she’d written had painted her in a positive light.

  “Then let’s do this,” Brenda said. “I’ll start with a brief introduction, then prompt you with questions. Also, the station set up a tip line connected to the police department. We’ll give out that number at the end.”

  “Did Jake agree to this?” Amelia asked.

  “Yes. It took some doing, but Sadie convinced him.”

  Of course. Jake would do anything for Sadie.

  She’d started to fantasize that she and John might have that kind of love. Stupid on her part. Six might have been mentally ill, but at least in his own way, he really did love her.

  Before her interview, Brenda gave a recap about the Bayler couple being found dead.

  Then she escorted Amelia to two chairs set up in front of the camera, and they both took seats.

  “We’ve been following the story about the investigation into the Slaughter Creek experiments and the crimes that resulted from them,” Brenda said after introducing herself. “Today, we have one of those subjects with us.” Brenda angled herself toward Amelia. “This is Amelia Nettleton. She suffered at the hands of Commander Blackwood, but Miss Nettleton has undergone therapy and made great strides in recovering from the drug therapy and abuse she endured. That said, there is a new development to the story.” She hesitated. “I’m going to let her tell you why she felt the need to speak up today.”

  Nerves fluttered in Amelia’s stomach, but she’d come too far to back down. There had to be someone in Slaughter Creek who knew something about her baby. Someone who wouldn’t be afraid to come forward now that the Commander was dead.

  “Hi,” Amelia said, forcing a smile at the camera. “Miss Banks is right, I have worked hard in my recovery. The process has also triggered memories that I’d lost years ago.”

  She barely resisted tapping a rhythm on her leg. “In fact, I recently learned that while I was locked in the hospital, I gave birth to a son. It seems impossible, but I have proof that it’s true.” Sorrow and fear clogged her throat, but she swallowed them back. “Commander Arthur Blackwood took my baby away from me at birth. My son would be six years old now.

  “I’ve traced his disappearance to a local church and The Gateway House, but haven’t determined where he is at this moment.”

  “Do you think Arthur Blackwood used him in another project?” Brenda asked.

  “That’s a possibility,” Amelia said, shivering at the horrid thought of her baby being subjected to the same kind of abuse she’d suffered.

  But she latched onto another possibility. “It’s also possible that a couple may have adopted him. That couple, the Baylers, were found dead. But their adopted child was not with them and is missing.” Amelia swallowed hard. “If you have any information about this child, please contact the police. Mark’s life may be in danger.”

  Mark Bayler rocked himself back and forth against the wall of the room where the bad man had locked him.

  Red flashed in front of his eyes. So much red.

  Blood. His mommy’s and daddy’s. A scream sounded in his head. His mama’s. His own . . .

  The bad man had shot them in the back of the head. Killed them for no reason.

  Then tossed them over the mountain like rag dolls.

  Now they were gone forever.

  Mark stared down at his ragged nails. He’d tried to scratch the bad man and make him stop. But it hadn’t done any good.

  The man slapped him so hard he’d flung him across the floor.

  Tears leaked from his eyes and ran down his chin. Snot bubbled in his nose. His throat hurt from screaming for help.

  But no one had heard him.

  He wanted to go home. Wanted his parents back. Wanted to make the bad man go away forever.

  The door screeched open. A scraping noise sounded. The man walking.

  He was half dragging his leg like something was wrong with it.

  Mark looked at the gun. It was shiny and big. That gun had killed his parents.

  If he could grab it, he’d make the bad man die, too.

  The man knelt in front of him and held up the gun. “You want to shoot me like I shot your mother and father, don’t you?”

  Even his voice sounded mean. And his smile was evil like the monsters he’d seen on TV.

  The man pressed the gun to Mark’s temple. Mark tried to be still, but his legs were jumpy.

  “You do, don’t you?” That nasty smile again. “You want to blow my brains out.”

  Mark hated him so much that he nodded.

  “Good,” the man said with a laugh. “You’re going to be perfect.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  John and Coulter slipped through the crowd, studying the faces in search of a potential bomber. Nick had gone to the roof of a nearby building to get a better view.

  A gloomy gray settled over the area, shadows plaguing the sidewalks and streets from the storm clouds while the wind roared around them.

  Unfortunately the rally was composed mostly of young people, hundreds of college students, which made picking out a teenage boy even more difficult. John recognized campus security and the numerous local police, but there were supposed to be dozens of undercover cops and security teams working the scene as well.

  Groups of protestors shouted that the government needed to be changed, that new leaders needed to be put in place.

  An argument erupted somewhere in the crowd, and John saw Coulter move closer to check it out. One of the local police noted an abandoned backpack, and John’s breath hitched as he watched the officer kneel and slowly unzip the bag.

  Seconds later, the officer gestured that the bag was clear.

  A young man with shaggy brown hair wearing a denim jacket walked up to the podium. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, and his hand trembled as he reached for the microphone.

  John inched forward in the crowd, eyes glued to the podium.

  To the left, a popping sound erupted. John spotted a scruffy young guy in a denim jacket aiming a gun into the crowd.

  Coulter jumped the guy from behind. They dropped to the ground in a fight, and several cops rushed to surround them.

  John jerked his gaze back to the podium, his pulse stuttering when he saw the young man on stage lift his hand and push his coat to the side. A maniacal smile curved his mouth.

  Dynamite was strapped to his chest.

  Damn. The boy was going to blow himself up onstage. Judging the distance between him and the crowd, he’d take several lives with him.

  John spoke low into his mic, his voice crackling in the wind. “Suspect on stage has a bomb. Clear the area immediately.”

  The boy’s eyes suddenly latched onto John.

  A black emptiness hollowed out the boy’s face, yet his gaze didn’t waver as he slid his hand toward the inside of his jacket.

  “Don’t,” John mouthed.

  “Bomb!” someone shouted.

&nb
sp; Panic ensued, and students began running in all directions, screaming and pushing and shoving in their haste to escape.

  The last thing John wanted was to kill this kid. He’d probably been brainwashed for years.

  But he couldn’t let him take out the crowd.

  He aimed the gun at the boy’s head. “I said don’t do it.”

  For a brief second conflicting emotions flashed on the young man’s face, but another heartbeat and his fingers touched something that looked like the trigger.

  John had no choice. He gripped his gun and fired.

  Everything was unraveling. All the lies and secrets . . .

  Except John still hadn’t figured it out.

  Helen Gray sat outside Amelia Nettleton’s house, her heart in her throat. The storm outside raged violently just as the one inside her took root and built in intensity. All those years ago, she’d done what she had to do.

  More than anything she’d wanted to fight Arthur Blackwood. But that had been impossible. He had been too strong, had too much authority.

  He was ruthless.

  He was dead though, and it was time for her to tell the truth. To come out of hiding.

  Sister Grace had contacted her, frightened, saying Amelia was asking questions. Then she herself had run out of fear.

  Amelia’s heartfelt plea on the news had torn Helen up inside. The poor girl had suffered unbearable torture at the hands of the Commander, yet she’d survived.

  And she was still suffering.

  Helen was a mother herself. She knew exactly how it felt to lose a child. To have the baby ripped from her arms, because Arthur Blackwood had done the same thing to her. He’d taken her son from her and destroyed her life.

  Amelia was begging for help, and she had to step up, even if it got her killed.

  Mass pandemonium reigned as the crowd raced for cover, and campus security and local police worked to clear the area.

  John ran up to the podium and caught the young man before he collapsed onto the floor of the stage. He’d shot the kid in the shoulder, just enough to take him down. Quickly he secured and handcuffed him before the teen could trigger the explosive.