Dying for Love (A Slaughter Creek Novel)

by Herron, Rita

  The bomb squad raced over to dismantle the homemade device. John stood by while the team worked, and within minutes, they’d removed the dynamite from the boy.

  John zeroed in on the tattoo on the boy’s wrist—a string of B’s. What did it mean?

  Nick joined them, his expression full of rage.

  The kid looked up at them, dazed and confused, blood seeping from his shoulder. “You aren’t going to kill anyone today,” John said.

  “There are others to carry on the mission.”

  John dug his hands into the boy’s arm. “What mission?”

  “I am a loyal soldier,” the boy said, a deadness to his eyes.

  “You’re not a soldier,” Nick said. “And the people here are not terrorists.”

  “Everyone needs to take notice. We are important. Changes have to be made.”

  John shook the young guy. “Killing innocent people is not the way to make change.”

  “But we have to make people wake up, make them see the breakdown of the family. Teenagers having babies, hookers getting pregnant, families throwing their kids out on the street.”

  John growled in disgust. “You may think you’re delivering a message, but you aren’t saving families. You’re murdering kids and innocents.”

  “We had to get attention. No one cares about family anymore. The whole government needs to be burned down.”

  It was useless to argue with him.

  Nick gripped him by the collar. “Who sent you?”

  “Our father. He saved us and now we will save others.” Then the boy clamped his mouth together as if he’d said all he was going to say.

  John cursed again. When he looked up, he saw Coulter approaching, shoving the other young man toward them. He was handcuffed and secure, his eyes flaring with the same kind of dead look the other boy had.

  “He was a diversion,” Coulter said in disgust.

  Dammit. How many more were there?

  Nick shook the kid again. “Where are the others? Where’s your leader?”

  The boy jerked his head up, eyes spitting rage. “We will never betray him.”

  John and Coulter pushed the boys toward the police van. Except for a few curious stragglers, the area had cleared. “I’ll take him in and interrogate him,” Nick said. “He’ll break.”

  But John spotted an older man in the group, watching, his face grim, his features hidden by a hat. Something about the man struck John as familiar.

  Maybe his military stance.

  “Put them in separate cars,” John told one of the officers. “And separate them when we get to the station.”

  The officer nodded, and John released the kid to him, then sprinted toward the man in the crowd.

  Their gazes met, and a sinister smile creased the man’s face as if he were sending a message that he’d enjoyed the mass chaos. The suspect broke into a run, but his limp slowed him down.

  John picked up his pace, but the suspect darted around a building. Adrenaline surged through John, and he elbowed his way through the onlookers in pursuit.

  John spoke into his mic, alerting security and locals that he was chasing another suspect. “I think I may be onto the leader. White male, forties, dark-gray trench coat, a limp.”

  John lost sight of him, and climbed the steps to one of the campus buildings for a better look. He scanned the area, and spotted the suspect duck into the dining hall. The man’s limp grew more pronounced as he picked up his pace.

  John took a shortcut through a walkway to a clearing, then entered the building. He rushed through a maze of hallways, then to the central cafeteria. Anger slammed into him when he saw the man in a low conversation with another teenage boy. The kid looked nervous and was fiddling with his fleece jacket as if he might also be wired. A tattoo encircled his wrist, a row of several B’s connected together. The other teen had had one, too.

  John gripped his gun at the ready as he approached from behind.

  “Watts and Samuels failed,” the man said to the kid. “It’s your turn to step up, Bluster.”

  “Yes, Father,” the boy said.

  John spoke into his mic again. “Request backup in the dining hall asap. We have another bomber. Repeat: We have another bomber.”

  He inched up behind the older man and shoved his Sig Sauer into his back. “It’s over. Tell the kid to call it off.”

  A sinister laugh rumbled from the man’s chest. “It will never be over.”

  The kid tensed, eyes wide with fear as he realized they’d been caught.

  “Yes, it will,” John snarled. “You’re going to stop it now.”

  He dug the barrel of his weapon deeper into the man’s back. Instead of complying, the man motioned for the boy to trip the bomb. The teenager slid one hand inside his jacket, and John spotted the dynamite strapped around him.

  Coulter and one of the bomb experts approached slowly from behind.

  “Do it,” the man ordered.

  Coulter attacked the kid from behind, sliding his arm around the boy’s throat in a choke, immobilizing him. Seconds later, Coulter yanked the teen’s arms behind him and snapped handcuffs around his wrists.

  John searched the dining hall for an accomplice, but the room was empty.

  The bomb expert hurried to dismantle the bomb while John handcuffed the man with the limp and dragged him outside to another police car.

  At the station, he would get some answers. Between this bastard and the three teens, one of them had to talk.

  Amelia found another disturbing canvas when she entered the guesthouse. Anger suffused her. She hadn’t even been gone long this time.

  And that security system was supposed to be foolproof. But obviously it had failed.

  This painting depicted a small grave with a teddy bear in it.

  More vile words had been written on the wall in red paint. Whore. Tramp. Lunatic.

  She grabbed a knife from the counter and ripped the canvas into pieces. Shaking with rage, she took the strongest cleaner she could find and began to scrub the walls. The red paint faded and spread like blood.

  Someone wanted her to think she was going crazy, but she wasn’t. She remembered the truth now—she had delivered a child and John had been there, but not to calm her and love her as her partner. He might have even taken her child and given him to someone else.

  Because she knew for sure that he’d held her hostage for Arthur Blackwood.

  Pain shot through her. How could she have let down her guard and trusted him? How could she have taken him to bed?

  A knock sounded, and she wiped her hands on her smock, then tossed the cleaning rag into the sink and hurried to answer it.

  Hoping it was Sadie with little Ben and Ayla, she swung open the door. But Helen Gray stood on the other side, her features strained as she shivered in the wind.

  “Helen, come in out of the cold.”

  The wind swept the woman’s hair around her face, and she brushed it back. “Thank you, we need to talk.”

  Amelia’s heart picked up a beat. “Of course. Do you have more news for me?” She waved her in and offered her tea. Helen accepted, her gaze sweeping the studio and lingering on the painting of Sadie and Ben.

  A frown marred her face when she noticed the smeared red paint on the wall.

  “What happened?”

  Amelia ushered her toward the kitchen, away from the mess. “Someone broke into my house and left a crude message on the wall.”

  Helen’s face paled. “Has it happened before?”

  Amelia nodded. “Ever since I started looking for my baby, I’ve had break-ins and threats.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Helen said, sympathy in her eyes.

  Amelia put the teakettle on, then turned to her while the water heated. “But no one is going to deter me.”

  Helen c
laimed a seat and folded her hands on the table. “That’s the reason I’m here.”

  Amelia studied her for a moment, wondering what she meant. She gathered tea cups, sugar, and milk and set them on the table.

  The woman looked nervous. Did she have bad news for her?

  The teakettle whistled, and Amelia grabbed it and poured them both tea. Her heart hammered as she joined her guest.

  “What is it, Helen? You have news?”

  “Not exactly. I saw you on the news pleading for the little Bayler boy.” She traced a finger along the edge of her cup while she blew on the hot tea. “I should have spoken up sooner, but I wasn’t sure about him and I was afraid.”

  Amelia sipped her tea. “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re going to hate me when I tell you who I am, and what I’ve done, but it’s time.” She fiddled with the sugar packet, then ripped it open and dumped it in her cup.

  “Please, just tell me, Helen. Do you know where Mark is?”

  Helen shook her head, a sadness flickering in her eyes. “No, but I am afraid for him.”

  Amelia folded a napkin on the table. “Go on.”

  Helen inhaled a shaky breath. “I . . . was at the hospital when you gave birth.”

  Amelia gasped. “Why were you there?”

  She hesitated. “Because I knew Arthur Blackwood. I’d become suspicious about what was happening at the hospital. Little things just didn’t add up.

  “One day I was snooping around Arthur’s office and found a file. It was about the CHIMES project.” Her voice cracked. “I was so shocked, I wanted to tell someone. But he found me with the file. I told him I was going to go to the police. But he threatened me and my son.”

  Amelia frowned, trying to follow her. “So you stayed quiet.”

  “Yes. You have to understand. I didn’t care if he killed me, but I didn’t want my child to suffer.”

  “You said you were there when I gave birth?

  She nodded. “Arthur wanted to put your baby in an experiment, but I took him from one of the nurses and ran.”

  Shock squeezed the air from Amelia’s lungs. “You took my baby? Who did you give him to? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know where he is,” Helen said. “That’s the reason I joined the social services agency. I’ve been looking for him myself.”

  The boat rocked and swayed, making Zack so dizzy he could barely see. Zack heard the other boy’s voice in his head again. He was scared.

  “It’s time you think about whether you want to live or die.”

  “I don’t want to die,” the boy cried.

  Who was the boy talking to him? And where was he?

  Was he on the boat, too?

  Zack dragged himself up. He gripped the windowsill and stood on tiptoe to see out the tiny window. Surely the boat would stop soon. They had to get to wherever they were going.

  But all he could see was water. Miles and miles of ocean. Waves crashing. Sleet slashing down from the sky.

  He’d heard one of the guards say they were going to an island. One nobody knew about.

  A place where no one would ever find him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  John spread the photos of the missing children across the table in the interrogation room, watching Axelrod’s face for a reaction. Axelrod and Sonny James were one and the same. The man who’d worked with the Ellingtons, the one who’d called the school and dental office with phony information so he could snag Danny Kritz.

  Axelrod had the audacity to smile. “They were lost, but I saved them.”

  “Is that what you really think?” John asked, struggling not to slam his fist into the man’s head and beat him senseless.

  Axelrod lifted his head, the scar above his right eye distorted with his grin. “Yes. Those kids were stuck in homes where they were neglected. Tossed around like sacks of garbage. No one loved them or really cared about them.” He rubbed his bad leg and gestured toward it. “I know. I’ve been there.”

  “So you took it on yourself to rescue them?”

  “That’s right. I turned them into men, into people who’d make a difference. Now their names will be remembered.”

  “But innocent people died in those bombings.”

  “No one is innocent, not if they stand by and just let it happen. If they don’t do something to make the system work better. To stop teenage girls and hookers from having unwanted kids and stop the system from putting them in terrible homes where they starve and get beat.”

  John’s head reeled. This guy was so warped that he really believed he was saving these kids and that he’d bring attention to his cause by using them as suicide bombers.

  “There are right and wrong ways to go about making changes,” John said bluntly. “Using kids as killers sure as hell is not one of the right ways.” He gestured toward the string of B’s tattooed around the man’s wrist. “What does that stand for?”

  “The Brotherhood,” Axelrod said. “We’ve bonded and created our own family.”

  “Who are you working for?” John asked.

  The man’s beady eyes flashed with an evil warning. “I’m not working for anyone. I’m the leader.”

  “But you had help in the abductions?”

  “I hired that buffoon Billingsly, but he was a moron. So I figured I’d best be on my own.”

  John tapped the pictures one by one. “Where are the other boys?”

  “That I will never tell you.”

  “Then you have someone else working for you?”

  Another sly grin slanted the man’s mouth, but he refused to speak.

  John gripped the bastard by his shirt, choking him. “Tell me where the kids are. Where are you holding them?”

  “They’re somewhere safe,” he growled. “Just waiting to take their turn for the cause. And when we finish and burn everything down, we’ll take over as leaders and everything will be different.”

  This man needed psychiatric care. He was totally demented. “So you think beating boys into doing what you want is better than foster care?”

  “I taught them to be strong, to be men, just as my mother taught me.”

  John knew that abuse victims often became abusers. The cycle continued.

  But this man was a killer, too. He shook him hard. “Do you have a little boy who belonged to Amelia Nettleton?”

  “That crazy bitch from the sanitarium?”

  John’s protective instincts roared to life. “She’s not crazy. Arthur Blackwood abducted her son. Do you have him?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Axelrod massaged his leg, leaning back in the chair with another chilling smile.

  The bastard still thought he was winning. Playing a game and teaching the world a lesson.

  John stood and exited the room before he shoved the barrel of his gun into the man’s mouth and made him eat it.

  Ten minutes later, John texted photos of each of the perpetrators in the UT bombings to Arianna. Thanks to facial recognition software using age progression, she sent back their names and details about their abductions within half an hour.

  The three they had in custody were—

  Leonard Watts, the boy John had shot.

  Jim Bluster, the teen with the bomb in the dining hall.

  And Bailey Samuels, the boy Coulter had subdued.

  “Find their families if they have any,” John said. Although judging from the victimology he didn’t expect much. “The young men have been brainwashed to obey orders and protect the group’s secrecy. Maybe someone from their past can reach them and convince them to talk.”

  “I’m on it,” Arianna said.

  Watts was in surgery to remove the bullet John had put in his shoulder. Coulter was interrogating Samuels, and Bluster was in a holding cell.

  Joh
n studied the information on the last boy, hoping time in a cell would pressure him to talk, although the kid had probably endured worse.

  A memory struck him, and he saw himself in the military, marching, saluting his Commander, raising his weapon to fire.

  Holding someone in a cell.

  Amelia.

  God . . . was she right?

  He saw the Commander’s face as if it were yesterday. “Do as I say, son,” Blackwood said. “Do not disobey me or you’ll regret it.”

  His pulse spiked. Could it be true?

  No wonder he’d blocked out his past. No wonder he’d felt uncomfortable in church, as if he needed to pay penance. The Commander had been a monster, and so had he.

  Nausea rolled through him.

  Somehow he had to make things right for Amelia.

  Finding out where the boys were being held might lead him to Amelia’s son.

  She might hate him now, but if he found her little boy, at least she could have the family she wanted. The one she deserved.

  He studied the file. Jim Bluster was seventeen now, but he’d been seven when he was kidnapped. Ten years he’d been missing, at the mercy of a madman. Ten years that madman had had to warp his mind.

  No telling what he’d told the boy. Or what he’d done to him. Physical and psychological abuse. Possibly drug therapy or torture.

  He read further. Jim used to like baseball. He’d played on a little-league team, and had been a leader. He hated spelling and English, but he’d liked math.

  Of course that was in first grade. Probably wouldn’t help much now.

  His phone buzzed. Arianna. “Yeah?”

  “Mrs. Bluster is on her way. She’s ecstatic that we found her son. Oh, and I told her to bring some family photographs, I thought you might want them to jog his memory.”

  “That’s great, Arianna. Thanks. Did you tell her where we found him?”

  “No, I thought I’d let you handle that.”

  “How about the others?”

  “The kid you shot, Leonard Watts, is an orphan. His parents were killed before he was abducted. He went through that home for kids, The Gateway House.”