Dying for Love (A Slaughter Creek Novel)

by Herron, Rita

  In spite of the cold and snow, two little girls with stringy brown hair and big doe-like eyes climbed a metal jungle gym, the tire swing next to them creaking as a redheaded little boy of about six pushed it back and forth.

  At least the kids wore coats and gloves.

  The kid pushing the swing looked the same age as Ronnie Tillman, the boy who was taken. Why take one boy and not both? Why had he left the redheaded kid behind?

  So far the unsub hadn’t discriminated by hair color. And the boy was the right age and gender.

  Coulter was already on the scene, standing with a woman in a brown coat and faded jeans at the edge of the playground. She appeared to be visibly shaken, one hand clutching a wad of tissues as she held a baby on her hip.

  John analyzed the scene with a critical eye. Since the house sat on the corner of two streets, the playground was visible from the street, easy access for a predator.

  One of the little girls dangled her legs from the top of the jungle gym. “You a cop?”

  He nodded and flashed his badge. She shrugged, and he decided she’d probably dealt with police before.

  “One of the boys who stays here is missing?” he asked.

  She twirled the fringe on the end of her snow hat. “That’s what Ms. Terri said. The kids were playing hide-and-seek. But we looked everywhere and can’t find him.”

  John ground his teeth at the wariness in the little girl’s face. Foster kids usually came with baggage. They were distrustful, had attachment issues, had experienced domestic abuse, were angry from being moved from one home to the next. “Has he ever run away?”

  She shook her head. “Ronnie ain’t been here long. Just a couple of days.”

  “What do you know about his family?”

  The little girl rocked back and forth, sending snow falling from the metal bars. “His mama’s a meth addict. Got locked up for it.”

  Yeah, this kid was already world-weary. “And his father?”

  “Shot and killed himself.”

  Good Lord. Poor kid.

  “If he ran away, where would he go?”

  The little girl shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t like the cold or to play outside so we looked in all the closets. But he ain’t in there.”

  The foster mother approached, tugging her hood over her ears. She looked a little rough about the edges, her skin milky pale and dry, her eyes tired. “I’m Terri Eckerton. Ronnie didn’t run away.”

  “You’re sure about that?” John asked.

  She nodded, jiggling the baby. “He’s not that kind of kid. Not adventurous or the kind to wander off.”

  Coulter walked over to question the girls. Maybe he’d glean some information John hadn’t. Sometimes witnesses or family members offered different stories, or added details they might have forgotten.

  John directed his comment toward Terri. “So Ronnie was happy about being here?”

  “None of the kids are happy about being here,” Terri said with a note of sad acceptance in her tone. “They all miss their mamas and daddies. But I do the best I can to make it a decent place for them.”

  That wasn’t John’s experience, and he’d grown cynical.

  “Besides, Ronnie has asthma and knows he can’t be without his inhaler.” She gestured toward an army-green backpack on the ground by the fence. “It’s in there, along with the picture of his mother he keeps. He wouldn’t leave that behind.”

  John couldn’t argue with that logic.

  The baby whimpered, and she stuck a pacifier in his mouth.

  The redheaded kid pushing the tire swing ran over and pulled at her arm.

  Terri used sign language with the boy, speaking as she did. “What is it, Toby?”

  He responded with his hands, and John adjusted his opinion of the woman. She might not be financially well off, but she seemed to care about the children under her charge. “Go on to the bathroom. I’ll check on you in a minute.”

  “When did you first realize Ronnie was missing?”

  “We had lunch, and I was cleaning up, but the kids were going stir crazy so I told them they could play outside for a few minutes. I put the baby down for a nap, then checked on the others. That’s when I saw the backpack on the ground.”

  John narrowed his eyes. “The kids were left unattended outside?”

  Anger flashed in the woman’s eyes. “The yard is fenced in. I can see it from the window in the kitchen.”

  “But not from the baby’s room?” John guessed.

  She patted the baby’s back as he started to fuss again. “No. But it only took a minute to put him down.”

  John grimaced. “A minute is all it takes for something to go terribly wrong.”

  Amelia had to talk to someone. And she didn’t want to bother Sadie with her troubles. She’d been a burden to her sister all her life.

  So she left Sadie and the baby and drove straight to see her therapist. She parked on the side of the road in front of the office, but just as she stepped out, a pickup raced by, swerving toward her.

  Amelia screamed and jumped behind her car to avoid being hit. Icy sludge and snow splattered all over her.

  Shivering, she wiped at the mess as the truck raced away.

  She watched it disappear into the fog ahead, her heart pounding. The truck had nearly run her over.

  She started trembling from the inside out. Had he done it intentionally?

  Or was she being paranoid again?

  Shaken, she turned and rushed up to the doctor’s office. She glanced over her shoulder before she entered, searching to see if the truck had come back. But the street was quiet, almost deserted.

  Inside, she greeted the receptionist, then knocked on Dr. Clover’s door.

  Dr. Clover arched a brow when she entered. “I didn’t realize we had an appointment.”

  “We didn’t. But I need to talk.” She was desperate. And paranoid someone had just tried to kill her.

  The ticking of the clock echoed in the silence, making her even more edgy.

  Dr. Clover motioned for her to sit. “What’s wrong, Amelia?”

  Amelia sank onto the couch she’d grown to hate and love at the same time. The heater whirred, the blinds rattling.

  “Outside a truck nearly ran me over.”

  Alarm sharpened Dr. Clover’s features. “What?”

  “When I parked and got out, a truck barreled by and nearly hit me.”

  “My God, some drivers are so careless.”

  “I’m not sure it was an accident,” Amelia admitted as she shrugged off her wet coat.

  “You think someone intentionally tried to hurt you?”

  “I don’t know,” Amelia said, starting to doubt herself. The roads were icy. The driver could have hit a slick patch. “But I have felt like someone is following me lately.”

  “Are you taking your meds?”

  Amelia startled, debating whether to tell the truth. She wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. Finally, she sighed and shook her head. The doctor had insisted on honesty, saying it was the only way she could help Amelia. “I stopped the antidepressants. I couldn’t paint while I was on them.”

  Dr. Clover made a low sound in her throat. “Is that why you came to see me? Because you think someone is following you?”

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “No. In short, my ob-gyn confirmed I gave birth. Then I talked to Ms. Lettie, the nurse who took care of me at the sanitarium, and she admitted I had a son.”

  Dr. Clover normally showed no reaction, but her eyes widened. “That must have been a shock.”

  “Yes, it was.” Amelia fidgeted, wiping at a drop of mud on her coat. “There’s more. Ms. Lettie said my baby was buried next to the Commander’s daughter, but since he lied about that, I thought he might have lied about my baby, too.”

  Worry darke
ned Dr. Clover’s eyes. “You had the grave exhumed?”

  Amelia nodded, the image of the bear haunting her. “Yes, I went to Special Agent John Strong with the TBI, and he arranged it. But the grave was empty.”

  “Empty?”

  “Yes. That is . . . except for a teddy bear like the one I had as a child.” She picked at another piece of dirt caught in the fibers of her coat. “I mean, that Bessie had.”

  Dr. Clover crossed one leg over the other. “Why did you go to John Strong?”

  Amelia bit back the truth about seeing John in her dreams. She didn’t want to confess she was having strange dreams that she thought might be prophetic. The doctor might decide she was delusional again and force her back on the medication. Or worse, send her back to the sanitarium.

  “I didn’t want to worry my family right now. Besides, I saw him on the news. He’s apparently one of the best when it comes to solving missing persons cases, especially involving children.”

  A heartbeat passed, and for some reason, Amelia sensed the doctor’s disapproval.

  “Agent Strong sent the stuffed animal and coffin to the lab to process it for evidence.” Amelia shifted. “I have to know what happened to my child. If the Commander sent him somewhere to be in another one of his crazy experiments.”

  Dr. Clover studied Amelia for a long moment. “I’m not sure what to say, Amelia. The uncertainty has to be terrifying for you.”

  Amelia rubbed her arms to warm herself. The thought of her son suffering like she had chilled her to the bone. “It is.”

  She stood and paced. “Ms. Lettie said they stopped giving me the drugs when I was pregnant, but who knows what kind of long-term effects could have been caused by the years I did take them.”

  “So you’re worried your baby might not be normal?”

  “That’s a possibility I have to consider,” Amelia said.

  Understanding flared in her eyes. She stood and gathered Amelia’s hands in her own. “There is one technique we haven’t tried that might help you recover memories of that time.”

  Hope budded inside Amelia’s chest. “What technique?”

  “It’s called RMT, Recovered Memory Therapy. But . . . ” Worry knitted her brow. “It could be dangerous, Amelia. It involves re-creating the circumstances in which the traumatic event occurred.”

  A cold sweat broke out across Amelia’s neck. “You mean giving me the drugs again?”

  Dr. Clover nodded. “Yes, and conducting the therapy in the sanitarium.”

  Amelia shook her head, fear seizing her. She’d do anything to find the truth.

  Anything but that.

  “I realize it only takes a minute for a child to disappear,” Terri said sharply. “But we were at home and it was during the daytime.”

  “Child predators strike at all hours of the day and night.”

  “Listen, Agent Strong, I feel bad enough about this without you reprimanding me.” Her shoulders sagged, and she suddenly looked exhausted, older than her age, which he’d have guessed was early thirties. “But I am honestly trying to help these kids, and I care about them. I grew up in foster care. I know what some of the homes are like.”

  The creak of the swing made John look across the yard. But the swing was empty, the wind pushing it back and forth as if a ghost was sitting on it.

  “Have you noticed anyone watching the children?” John asked. “A strange car nearby or someone new in the neighborhood?”

  The baby began to fuss, and she jiggled him up and down, trying to soothe him. “No.”

  “How about a car driving by often? Or maybe someone walking their dog? Oftentimes predators use animals or candy to lure children to come closer.”

  She rubbed at her temple with nails that had probably never seen a manicure. “I’m sorry. I can’t think of anyone.”

  Coulter walked over, his dark eyes troubled. “The little girl said she saw a white van drive by after lunch. Said she noticed it because she thought it was an ice-cream truck.”

  Terri made a low sound of worry. “The ice-cream truck only comes to our neighborhood on Saturdays and not in the winter.”

  John silently cursed. “What else did she see?”

  Coulter shook his head. “There was no snow cone on the side, but the van played music.”

  Fear and regret washed over Dr. Clover as she looked through the window and watched Amelia run to her car. Amelia kept looking over her shoulder, obviously terrified someone was after her.

  She had good reason to be terrified.

  Her phone buzzed, and she startled. Her hand shook as she picked up the receiver.

  “She was just there?”

  She closed her eyes, hating his voice. Hating what he made her do. “Yes.”

  “She’s starting to remember things?”

  “Yes. She knows about the baby.”

  Dr. Clover massaged the knot at the base of her neck. A stress headache beat against her temple. The nausea would follow.

  She popped an antacid.

  “Then do something,” he snarled.

  Dr. Clover closed her eyes, a war raging in her mind. She had always followed the code. Done as he’d ordered.

  She couldn’t refuse him now.

  “June, you have to finish this.”

  Yes, she did. Her reputation depended on it.

  Hell, her life depended on it.

  She did not want to die.

  Amelia wasn’t paranoid. Someone was following her. She’d suggested RMT to Amelia, knowing it could help her recover the holes in her past.

  But if she remembered everything, the memories could get her killed.

  Chapter Eight

  Amelia fretted about the doctor’s suggestion of RMT as she drove back to her condo. If she agreed to it, it meant facing her demons again.

  She’d barely survived once. Could she survive again?

  If it meant finding out what happened to her baby . . .

  No, not yet. She’d save RMT as a last resort. John would investigate and find answers just as he’d found Darby Wesley.

  Besides, if the Commander or someone else at the hospital had taken her son immediately after his birth, and they drugged her afterward, she might not know anything more than what she already remembered.

  Tugging her scarf around her, she climbed out of her car, her boots sinking into the icy snow as she trudged up to her condo.

  But the moment she opened the door, she froze. Someone had been inside. What was that strange smell? A man’s cologne?

  She grabbed the umbrella in the stand by the door, pausing to listen for an intruder. But only the sound of the wind whistling echoed back.

  The wind blowing through the open window in the kitchen.

  She hadn’t left it open.

  Cold air engulfed her as she rushed to close it. But the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

  She glanced at her studio and saw her paints on the tray where she kept them. Except a new canvas stood in the easel, one splattered with dark lines of reds, grays, and blacks. She gaped at the vicious swirls and strokes, emotions pouring through the bleak colors and bold lines.

  She hadn’t painted that canvas.

  Had she?

  Her stomach quivered with nerves as fear washed over her. Could she possibly have blacked out and painted it? Had a new alter emerged?

  The furnace squealed, and she startled, then remembered the open window and scent of the man’s cologne. Gripping the umbrella in case she needed a weapon, she walked toward her bedroom.

  Ting. Ting. Ting. The wind chimes tinkled outside.

  Ticktock. The clock’s noise sounded ominous, as if it were amplified.

  Amelia fought the haunting memories the noises evoked, but when she saw the teddy bear, her legs buckled.

  That was Bessie
’s bear.

  Amelia clutched the wall for support. She hadn’t seen that bear in months. She’d left it at Papaw’s farmhouse and thought it burned in the fire.

  Adrenaline surged through Amelia as she drove her Mini Cooper toward the old farmhouse where she’d spent her childhood.

  She had to get away from the condo. Someone had been there.

  She needed to go home, someplace safe. Back to Papaw’s land, to the guesthouse he’d built as a studio for her when she was younger. It was her sanctuary.

  The road curved and wound sharply around the mountain, the ridges jutting out like spikes, the bare tree branches stark against the gray sky. Dead leaves swirled across the road, the wind whistling shrilly as the last remnants of winter screamed that spring would have to wait.

  When she’d been locked away in the sanitarium, she had missed the seasons, missed the spring blossoms bursting to life on the trees, the dogwoods and magnolias scenting the air with life and color, the wildflowers shooting up from the ground, damp with rain, and dancing in the breeze. She’d missed the blazing colors in the fall as the foliage changed, the summer sun clinging to the sky as summer bled into autumn.

  Her hospital room had been sterile and cold, all white and metal, virtually a prison, chaining her to the dark loneliness.

  She veered onto the dirt and gravel road leading to the farm, a sense of loss overwhelming her at the sight of the charred remains of her family home. The guesthouse remained, but the farmhouse lay in ruins.

  Memories of her and Sadie running through the fields, riding horses, and climbing trees floated back into her mind.

  Although the memories were peppered with the lost days of her youth, with the alters taking over, with the nowhere nights.

  Her therapist had encouraged her to keep journals. The alters had destroyed them, though.

  Something niggled at the back of her mind. Had they destroyed all of them? Could she have hidden some of them in a place the alters might not look?

  She’d search again.

  Hopefully she’d written something about her pregnancy in an entry. Something about the father of her baby.

  She pulled to a stop in front of the guesthouse that had doubled as her studio, then sat and stared at the wind chimes swinging and clanging in the wind.