Dying for Love (A Slaughter Creek Novel)

by Herron, Rita

  Terror ran through him. His inhaler—where was it?

  In his backpack.

  He heaved for a breath again. But that was in the yard.

  Not in the van with him.

  He gasped, leaning over on his hands and knees. It was his asthma. It was getting worse.

  The truck bounced over a pothole, and he collapsed on the cold steel bed. He crawled toward the back door and hunted for a latch to open it from the inside. But it was too high and he couldn’t reach it.

  The asthma was getting worse. No air . . . no air . . .

  He fell back onto the floor, straining for a breath. But he couldn’t take one . . .

  Chapter Ten

  Amelia had thought about her grandfather’s letter all night and had to talk to John.

  She studied the slick stones of the rosary beads, then traced her fingers over the wooden cross as she battled her way through the sludge to his building.

  She didn’t know much about the Catholic religion, only that the beads symbolized a counting of prayers.

  And that her grandfather had left them as a clue.

  Gathering her composure, she hurried inside to his office, shaking snow off her hair. When she knocked, he called for her to come in.

  He looked rumpled and tired as if he hadn’t slept much the night before.

  “Amelia,” he said with an eyebrow raised. “What brings you here?”

  Photographs of several boys were tacked on a whiteboard to the side of his desk. One was Darby Wesley. Notes were scattered across his desk, as if he’d been sifting through them.

  “You’ve been working all night?”

  “There was another kidnapping.”

  Panic mingled with worry for the missing child. No wonder he looked exhausted. “Another little boy?”

  He nodded. “Ronnie Tillman. Mom’s in prison, father’s dead. The boy was abducted from his foster home.”

  “Do you think it was connected to the Wesley kidnapping?”

  “It looks that way. All I know so far is that the kidnapper was driving a white van. The other kids in the yard heard music similar to that of an ice-cream truck.”

  “That’s how he lured the boy to him,” Amelia said with a shudder.

  “Exactly.” John went to the credenza and poured himself some coffee. He offered her a cup, but she declined.

  “Now why did you come?”

  She tensed at his irritated tone.

  “I know you’re busy,” she said. “But this is important, John.”

  An awkward moment stretched between them. “I’m sorry, Amelia, but this case is a priority. It has to take precedence. A little boy’s life depends on it.”

  “What about my little boy?” she asked, anger hardening her voice.

  “I’m sorry but your son has been gone for years, and is probably in a home with another family. This child has asthma and doesn’t have his inhaler with him. If he has an asthma attack, he could die.”

  John hadn’t meant to make Amelia feel guilty. But he was worried sick about the Tillman boy. And every hour that passed lessened his chances of finding him alive.

  Besides, something about the mere sight of her disturbed him on a level he had to deny.

  He wanted her.

  In spite of all the reasons he shouldn’t, he ached to touch her. To remind himself that something beautiful existed in the midst of all the darkness and pain and violence in the world.

  But that dark world was his. It was where he belonged. Not with someone special like Amelia.

  Amelia rose from the chair, her mouth firmly set. “Then I’ll leave you to work,” she said. “I can take care of this myself.”

  Her tone raised a red flag. “Take care of what?”

  “Nothing,” she said, although disappointment flickered in her eyes as she turned away.

  Dammit.

  Knowing that Arthur Blackwood might have been involved meant that asking questions could endanger Amelia.

  There was no telling how many minions he had working for him. One of them might try to silence her as they had before.

  He bolted up from his chair and stopped her at the door with a light hand to her shoulder. That simple touch sparked a current of awareness in him that made him yank his hand back.

  “All right, talk to me, Amelia,” he said gruffly.

  She angled her head, the orbs of her eyes filled with such deep anguish that he felt her pain in his soul.

  “I spoke to Reverend Bartholomew. He was a friend of my grandfather’s and his pastor for years.”

  She had to be going somewhere with this. “And?”

  “Before he died, Papaw gave the preacher a letter for me.”

  “What did the letter say?”

  Amelia wet her lips with her tongue, drawing his gaze to her mouth. A big mistake. He suddenly imagined kissing her, hunger jolting through him.

  Not a good sign.

  “That he was sorry for what the Commander did to me, and he was trying to make things right.” She held the necklace in her hand. “Papaw discovered I’d had a baby boy. He left me these rosary beads.”

  A strong sense of déjà vu hit John as he looked at the cross. A faint memory of being inside a Catholic church.

  A feeling of needing to pay penance.

  “Was your family Catholic?”

  Amelia shook her head. “No. But these came from the church where my baby was left. Papaw said he didn’t have time to trace them, that Blackwood was onto him.”

  John frowned, details of the Catholic church playing in his head.

  “Rosary means ‘crown of roses,’ ” John said instinctively. “It refers to a series of prayers. The traditional fifteen mysteries of the rosary were standardized in the first century.”

  Amelia looked at him with an odd expression. “You’re Catholic?”

  “No.” At least he didn’t think he was. But there were all those lost years of his life.

  A time he knew nothing about. And the distinctive sense he’d needed a confessional . . .

  “May I look at them?”

  She handed the beads to him, and he cradled them in his palm. Suddenly he saw himself as a small boy, ducking into a church. Organ music groaned from the front as people filed in and knelt, made the sign of the cross, and bowed their heads in prayer.

  But he wasn’t part of the service. He was hiding out.

  Why?

  “Do you think we can trace them to a specific church?” Amelia asked.

  He narrowed his eyes. “You can buy rosary beads at dozens of places, and online.”

  “But these are old,” Amelia said. “And look at the back of the cross. A symbol of a saint is etched on it.”

  John walked back to the computer and clicked some keys, searching for Catholic churches near Slaughter Creek.

  A list appeared on the screen along with pictures of the churches and rosaries associated with them. Some rosaries were fashioned from wood, some from silver, with various combinations of saints and religious symbols on them.

  “There it is, see the small ‘SMHC,’ ” Amelia said, excitement marking her tone. “Saint Mary’s Holy Church. It’s about thirty miles from here. I have to go there. Someone at that church might know what happened to my baby.”

  John stood. “I’ll check it out.” The last thing he wanted was for her to go and be disappointed. Cold cases were difficult.

  Witnesses forgot things, paperwork got lost, sometimes those connected with a crime had passed on.

  And if the Commander had been involved, it might be dangerous.

  Amelia had been mentally unstable at the time she gave birth. It wasn’t a stretch to think she’d done something to the baby.

  Something she didn’t remember because it was too painful for her to face.

&
nbsp; The ride to St. Mary’s Holy Church dragged, compounded by the new storm moving in and slowing traffic. Wind and sleet battered the vehicle, turning the skies a blackish gray and making the woods seem even eerier. Debris from the latest hailstorm had torn branches from trees and tossed them across the road and forest.

  “I’m sorry to pull you away from the kidnapping case,” Amelia said.

  John checked his watch. “It’s all right. Coulter is researching other cases for a connection. He’ll call me if we get a lead.”

  “Tell me about this missing boy,” Amelia said.

  John scraped a hand down his jaw, his beard stubble rasping in the silence. “The poor kid has been bounced around for years. His mother’s in jail on drug charges. He was recently placed at his current foster home.”

  His phone buzzed and he snatched it up. “Yeah?” A pause. “Okay, keep me posted if anything comes in on the Amber Alert.” He ended the call. “Terri Eckerton, Ronnie’s foster mother, wants to make a plea for Ronnie on TV.”

  “What about the real mother?” Amelia asked.

  “She signed away all rights. She cared more about her next fix than her son.”

  Terrible. She could never abandon a child.

  But Skid or Viola could have.

  Helen Gray studied the picture of Ronnie Tillman on the news for any signs he might be the boy she was looking for.

  She’d joined the social-work group months before in hopes of finding him and making things right. She’d tried so hard these past few years to atone for her mistakes.

  But so far, she hadn’t had any luck.

  Her coworker Sara tapped Ronnie’s photo with a grimace. “This kid is just one of a dozen who disappeared this week across the country. I’m so glad you decided to join our group. We need all the help we can get placing these children and following up to make sure they’re taken care of.”

  Helen nodded, nerves on edge. “Ronnie Tillman has health issues. They need to find him fast.”

  “He’s a sweet-looking kid,” Sara said. “But he’s had a tough life. No one wants a child with health problems and an attitude.”

  “He’s spunky?”

  “That was the last family’s complaint.”

  But spunk could be a positive attribute. It could help him survive.

  She studied his face again. Ronnie had dirty brown hair and was small, but he was the right age. Six.

  For years she’d studied every little boy in a stroller, on the playground, at the park, inside a store, searching everywhere she went.

  She’d failed as a mother. Had been lured into bed by a monster years ago, one who’d hooked his claws in her and held on tight, using whatever method of torment he could to keep her silent and at his beck and call.

  Sara grabbed a stack of folders and waved as she left for a meeting.

  Troubled, Helen walked outside the office onto the deck, her breath catching at the way the wood frame hung over the sharp ridge, leaving a half-mile drop into the canyon where anyone who fell over would meet certain death.

  She’d been teetering on the edge for years. Daring herself to jump and end the guilt.

  Daring herself to live and confess the truth about what she’d done.

  “Holy fucking mother,” he muttered as he opened the back of the van and found the boy on the floor, his body shaking like he was having a convulsion.

  “What’s wrong with you, kid?”

  The boy didn’t respond.

  Cold terror shot through him, and he shook the kid. But the boy simply looked up at him with glassy eyes.

  Shit. He’d been in a hurry and hadn’t done his research on this one. He liked the healthy, strong ones.

  But this kid’s skin was ice cold, his lips turning blue.

  He shook him again, but the boy’s feet banged the metal floor of the van, and he was as limp as a dead snake.

  Furious and scared the boy would die, he closed the door, jumped back in the van and drove like hell. Damn sleet drilled against the windshield, and fog blurred his view. He swerved to avoid a tree in the road, cursing.

  The kid needed a doctor, but a hospital would ask questions, want insurance.

  Call the police.

  What a fucking mess.

  Sweat beaded on his hands as he spun the van around and raced toward the little clinic he’d passed down the road. A doc-in-the-box.

  They’d know what to do.

  He tucked his gun in his jacket pocket, relieved when he spotted the clinic ahead. Only one car in the parking lot. Had to be the doc’s.

  Good.

  Something about the boy reminded him of himself. He couldn’t let him die. Besides, he wasn’t a kid killer. He was saving these boys. Turning them into men. Giving them a purpose.

  He threw the van into park, jumped out and retrieved the boy, throwing his own coat over him to keep the sleet from pummeling his face. The boy looked pale as milk, his breathing choppy.

  Knowing he had to play it smart, he tucked his hat low on his head, then glanced around from inside his jacket, searching for security cameras.

  One on the corner. He tucked his head low and ducked, averting his face to avoid being captured on camera.

  Breathing hard, he ducked inside, took the jacket off while keeping his hat low, and raced to the receptionist behind the glass partition. She couldn’t be more than twenty, her blond hair streaked with red and black, earrings in the shape of grizzlies swaying from her lobes. Her name tag read “Wynona.”

  “Help. He can’t breathe.”

  Startled when she saw the way the boy lay in his arms, she jumped up and waved him back through the door.

  “Dr. Ableman,” the girl called. “Emergency!”

  A wiry-haired man with bifocals rushed toward him, alarm slashing his face at the sight of the child.

  “In here.” The doctor motioned for him to place the boy on a table inside an exam room. “What’s his name?”

  Shit. If he told him the truth, the doc would run for the phone. “Timmy.”

  “He your son?”

  “No, my sister’s,” he said. “I was driving him home and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.”

  The doctor began to check his vitals. “He has asthma?”

  Jesus, he didn’t know. “I . . . his mama didn’t say. She just dumped him on me ’cause she had to go to work.”

  The doctor frowned as if his story didn’t quite fit.

  “You have insurance?” the girl asked while the doctor went to work on the kid.

  It was a routine question, but he spotted a local newspaper with Ronnie’s picture on the front page and realized she and the doc most likely recognized the boy.

  “Yeah, I do.” He pulled the gun from his pocket and aimed it at the girl. “Here’s my insurance.”

  The girl screamed and threw up her hands. He motioned for her to sit in the corner and waved the gun at the old man, who looked panicked.

  “Just fix the kid and we’ll be out of your way.”

  The doctor’s graying eyebrows drew together. “There’s no need to hurt us.”

  He smiled as if he agreed, but the two of them were already as good as dead.

  It didn’t matter how damn pretty the girl was. She’d have to die.

  Chapter Eleven

  Paintings of the saints adorned the church. Sunlight shimmered through the stained-glass windows, and a litany of candles filled an altar, some lit, others waiting for sinners and those in spiritual need to light them as they prayed.

  Amelia hesitated before they made it to the altar.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  She wrung her hands together. “I don’t belong in church.”

  His mouth twisted into a frown. Good God, he understood that feeling. He felt as if the powers that be might strike him down
any minute and the demons would carry away his soul.

  But Amelia had been a victim. Somehow, he didn’t think he had been one.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “I . . . I’ve made too many mistakes.”

  “We’ve all made mistakes,” he said, sure as hell he’d made plenty of them. “That’s why people go to church, for salvation.”

  “Maybe I’m not worth saving,” she said in such a troubled voice that his chest tightened.

  “You were a victim, Amelia. Commander Blackwood is the one who deserves to go to hell.” He hoped the bastard was burning there.

  “But what if my memory is all screwed up? What if one of my alters gave my baby away?”

  John released a sigh at the uncertainty in her voice. He didn’t totally understand the alters thing, except that they were part of Amelia. The part that couldn’t cope.

  Dammit, she’d had good reason to invent them. “I guess it’s possible, but don’t you think that would have come out in therapy?”

  Amelia ran a finger along one of the pews. “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I’m not as well as I thought.”

  He didn’t know what she meant by that and didn’t have time to ask. A priest appeared from the confessional booth, his robe billowing around him, his gold cross shining in the light, as he approached.

  “Welcome to Saint Mary’s. I’m Father Hallard.”

  “Thank you, Father.” John introduced them and flashed his credentials.

  Amelia removed the rosary from her neck and showed it to the priest. “My grandfather left these beads for me,” she said, then explained about the son she’d given birth to.

  “We believe someone brought the baby here,” John said. “It would have been in July six years ago. Were you here at that time?”

  Father Hallard shook his head. “No, I came to Saint Mary’s about three years ago. Father Dennis was here, but I’m afraid he’s gone on to glory.”

  Frustration splintered Amelia’s face. “How about a nun or another priest who worked with him?”

  Father Hallard scratched his head with a crooked finger. “Yes. Sister Grace was here.”

  “Can we talk to her?” John asked.