Dying for Love (A Slaughter Creek Novel)

by Herron, Rita

  His white brows formed a straight line. “Of course.”

  The priest led them through a set of doors that opened to a greenhouse garden. Set in the midst of the snowy yard, it didn’t look real.

  Housing units sat to the left, ivy winding up and down the sides of the stone structure, although at this point everything was covered in a layer of white.

  Two nuns sat chatting quietly by a fountain while an older nun knelt in front of a statue of Jesus with her head bowed.

  Father Hallard gestured for them to wait until she finished her prayer, then he introduced them. “Sister Grace, this is Amelia Nettleton. She claims that her baby boy was stolen from her six years ago and believes someone dropped off the child here.”

  Sister Grace clutched the folds of her habit.

  Amelia adjusted her shoulder bag. “I think Commander Arthur Blackwood took my son when he was born. Do you remember a man bringing a baby boy here around July fourth of that year?”

  Wariness crossed her face, but she nodded. “Not a man. A woman.”

  Amelia sucked in a breath. “What was her name?”

  Sister Grace frowned. “She didn’t give her name.”

  “I know it was a long time ago, but this is important. Please. Can you at least describe her? I’m afraid for my son.”

  The nun’s eyes widened. “All I can tell you is that she left a note asking us to take good care of the baby. And she left rosary beads with the infant.”

  The woman looked familiar to John, but he had no idea why. Maybe he’d been raised by nuns or attended a Catholic school.

  “Did the woman say the baby was hers?”

  The nun shook her head. “No, I got the impression he was a child she’d rescued. That she thought he was in danger.”

  “What was she afraid of?” John asked.

  “She didn’t say. She just asked us to find a loving, safe home for him.”

  Amelia gripped the woman’s arm. “What happened to the baby?”

  The nun’s eyes darted sideways toward the priest.

  “Go ahead,” he murmured.

  “I passed him through a team. An underground network that helps women and children escape bad situations.”

  John gritted his teeth. The underground networks prided themselves on secrecy. They had to.

  “Can you give us the name of the person you handed the baby off to?”

  She shook her head.

  “She is bound to secrecy for the protection of the women and children she helps,” Father Hallard said.

  “Please,” Amelia said to the nun. “My baby was taken against my will. I have to find him and make sure he’s safe.”

  The priest and nun exchanged a look, then Father Hallard spoke up. “We can’t give you a name or address. But I’ll see what I can learn.”

  Underground networks sometimes used illegal means to hide women in trouble and help them escape. The fewer people who knew about the group, the safer the women and children would be.

  John didn’t like it, but he understood it was necessary to protect them.

  Amelia shook his hand. “Thank you so much. This means a lot to me.”

  Amelia wrote her cell number on a piece of paper, then tore it off and handed it to the priest. “I’ll be waiting.”

  John’s phone buzzed. Coulter. He punched connect. “Yeah?”

  “John, we just got a 911 call. A shooting at a doc-in-the-box. A witness claims he saw a white van leaving the place in a hurry. CSI is there now.”

  A white van. John sucked in a breath. “I’ll meet you at the clinic.”

  “Make it the hospital,” Coulter said. “The girl is hanging on by a thread. I’ll stay at the clinic with CSI.”

  Adrenaline surged through John. If the kidnapper had taken Ronnie to the clinic, that meant the boy was hurt or ill. But he might still be alive.

  And this woman might be able to tell them something.

  He had to hurry.

  John dropped Amelia off at her place, and raced to the hospital. A car accident, five cars in a chain reaction due to the black ice, slowed him down as other drivers decelerated to get past it.

  An ambulance had just arrived, and he hurried to the emergency workers surrounding the patient on the stretcher.

  The medic shouted vitals to the ER doctor in charge, one nurse held the IV pole as they pushed the woman inside, while another held pressure on her wound. Blood soaked the sheet and her clothes, and she looked so pale that John wondered if she’d survive.

  “I’m Agent John Strong with the TBI,” he said, addressing the triage group. “Is this the shooting victim?”

  “Yes. Her name is Wynona Akers.” The heavyset nurse at the foot of the bed shot him an irritated look.

  “Wynona may know something about a missing child. She’s our only lead right now to the kidnapper.”

  “She needs emergency surgery,” the doctor said. “Your questions will have to wait.”

  “I understand,” John said, “but the boy’s life is in danger.”

  The young woman moaned, her eyes fluttering open. John rushed along beside the team as they pushed the gurney into an ER room.

  Wynona reached for his hand, and he took it. “What happened, Wynona?”

  The doctor shouted orders, a page for another doctor blared over the intercom, and the nurse tried to shove John away.

  But Wynona clung to his hand as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Scared.”

  “Shh, it’s going to be all right,” John said, soothing her. “They’re going to take good care of you here. But I need your help. Did the man who shot you have a boy with him?”

  She gave a small nod.

  John showed her a photo of Ronnie from his phone. “Is this the child?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice cracking. “Couldn’t breathe.”

  “He was having an asthma attack?”

  She nodded, her eyes closing again.

  “Was the boy alive when they left?”

  The girl nodded slightly.

  “What did the man look like?”

  She tried to speak but a rasp came out instead. “Hang in there,” he told her.

  But a second later, alarms pealed and the nurse coaxed him out the door as they shoved a crash cart in the room to try to save the girl’s life.

  He watched through the glass partition, praying she’d make it.

  But her body jerked and convulsed as they used the paddles on her, and the monitor flatlined.

  The followers of the Commander were strong. He should know—he had been one of them.

  They had united, and believed in his mission. They would carry on his legacy and continue to protect what he’d done.

  But now he had his own plans. His own agenda.

  “Amelia Nettleton hooked up with that agent John Strong, and they’re asking questions about the baby.”

  He held the phone with a white-knuckle grip. He’d hired this man to do his bidding, and by God, he’d better perform. “They have to be stopped.”

  Tension vibrated over the line. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  He ended the call, ditched the van at a junkyard, broke a window in the run-down garage, and lifted a set of keys for a beat-up gray sedan that had been left for repairs. He shoved the kid inside. The clipboard said the owner wouldn’t be back for three days, and the mechanic had already fixed the engine and rotated the tires.

  Perfect.

  The car would help him and the kid get off the grid.

  At least the boy was alive. The medicine had eased his breathing, and the kid had passed out. He hoped to fucking hell he slept all night.

  That had been too damn close. He’d started the van, and by the time they were pulling out, a black Cadillac had rolled in an
d parked, an old man and lady getting out.

  He’d almost killed them, but damn if the scrawny woman wasn’t pushing a walker, the old man leaning on a cane, both of them wearing glasses and hearing aids.

  Figuring they were on their last leg anyway, and they wouldn’t make reliable witnesses, he let them live.

  But any fool could have seen he was driving a white van.

  Ditching it was the only thing to do, or else the cops would be all over his ass.

  He turned off the main road and wound through the woods, crawling at a snail’s pace as his tires skidded and clawed for control on the slick asphalt.

  If he could just cross into the Great Smokies, he’d be all right for the night.

  Then he could decide what to do with the kid. If he was worth training or if he should cut him loose and move on to the next recruit.

  His boys had to earn their spots. Be worthy of becoming heroes for the cause.

  Chapter Twelve

  John called Coulter as he left the hospital. “The girl said the doc treated Ronnie for asthma and that he was alive.”

  “Did she give you a description?” Coulter asked.

  “Afraid not. She . . . didn’t make it.” Damn, the girl was too young to die. “Anything from CSI?”

  “They’re still processing the place for prints. The medicine cabinet had been rummaged through so the unsub may have taken some meds for the boy. CSI is checking the doc’s computer to see what might be missing.”

  “Tell them to look at Flovent. It’s commonly used as a rescue inhaler as well as to treat asthma.”

  “Will do.” Coulter paused. “At least the perp is trying to keep the boy alive. That’s a good sign.”

  “Yeah, but for what reason?” John asked, on edge. He certainly hadn’t left any witnesses behind, meaning he was a cold-blooded killer.

  “Did the clinic have security cameras?” Coulter asked.

  “Yeah. I took a look, but the unsub must have known the cameras were there and kept his face averted.”

  “Size? Hair color?”

  “I could only make out that he was a big guy. Not fat, but wide like a linebacker.” Coulter paused. “Looked like he had a bad leg. A limp.”

  “Maybe a military man,” John said, honing in on the injury.

  “Could be.”

  “What about the van?”

  “A partial plate. I sent it to the lab and issued a BOLO.”

  “Who called in the shooting?”

  “An older couple. They saw a white van racing from the parking lot, then found the doc dead.”

  “They give a description of the man?”

  “No. They were pretty shook up. Said the van was going too fast for them to get a good look.”

  “What direction was the unsub headed?”

  “He turned onto the highway leading toward the Smokies.”

  Jesus. That meant miles of forests and wilderness. Like a needle in a haystack.

  “Listen, Strong. The foster mother is going ahead with that interview with Brenda Banks. She wants to make a public plea for the return of the boy.”

  John grimaced. Not that he blamed the woman. Her plea might bring witnesses out of the dark.

  But it might also draw crazies out who’d clog the investigation with false leads.

  And waste time they didn’t have.

  Amelia entered the guesthouse at the farm, her nerves in her throat as she glanced at her studio. She hoped the priest could help her. If not, she didn’t know where to go from there.

  The scent of cologne suffused her, sending her head spinning. She glanced around the room, and saw a dark painting—this one of the cemetery where her son was supposed to have been buried.

  Bones and skeletal fingers clawed through the ground. Ghosts floated in the wind. Blood dripped from the monuments.

  Her pulse quickened. The canvas had been blank when she’d left.

  Angry that someone was trying to mess with her mind, she grabbed the umbrella for protection in case the intruder was still inside. When she stepped into her bedroom, her legs quivered.

  Whore had been scrawled in red lipstick across her mirror. And Bessie’s bear had been stabbed with a knife.

  Another message on the wall said, “You can run, but I’ll find you wherever you go.”

  God, she’d left the condo to escape whoever was doing this. And now he’d been at the farm, in the guesthouse.

  Amelia’s head hurt just thinking about it.

  “You’re not going to get to me or run me off again!” Amelia shouted. “You won’t.”

  Furious, she rushed to the closet, and grabbed her cleaning supplies. But she hesitated—if she cleaned up, she would destroy evidence.

  Then again, what if John didn’t believe her? What if he thought her alters were responsible? It was just the kind of thing Skid might have done . . .

  Shame washed over her. She didn’t want him to see how ugly her life was, how ugly it had been.

  Biting back tears, she scrubbed the mirror clean. Then she took Bessie’s bear, wrapped it in a blanket, and stuffed it in the top of her closet.

  When she went back to the studio, she grabbed a butcher knife and slashed the painting, shredding it. Then she stuffed the pieces in the trash and carried them outside.

  Breathing out, relieved to be rid of it, she jumped at the sight of headlights on the road by the farm. She rushed back inside and locked the door, then peered out the window until the car passed.

  Leaning against the window, she wiped at the sweat on her neck.

  But another one of her paintings caught her eye. This one was a crude drawing Bessie had done. She’d drawn herself hiding beneath the bed.

  Bessie was pushing at a loose board and had a book in her hand. No . . . not a book. One of Amelia’s journals.

  Adrenaline surging, she hurried to the bedroom, dropped to her knees, and felt under the bed. A board was loose.

  She tugged at the board, ripping a nail in her haste, but ignored the pain and jerked the board free. She slid her hand beneath the floor and felt around.

  There.

  A stack of journals.

  Hoping they held some answers, she carried them to the kitchen table and spread them out. Viola and Skid had had a tendency to burn them to keep her from discovering their activities. But she’d managed to salvage a few.

  The handwriting was so distinctive she could easily tell which alter wrote an entry. Little Bessie had drawn childlike renditions of a monster, and pictures of her and Sadie together riding horses or playing in the creek.

  Skid’s entries were full of anger and violence. He’d ranted about how stupid Amelia was, that he had to be the strong one and save her. That he’d taken blows from the Commander for her. He told her he’d saved her life. But later she’d realized he’d told her that to win her trust, that he’d deceived her.

  Then there was Viola—Viola spoke of raw sex and passion, of her need for physical intimacy, of her need to explore her sexuality. She described slipping out of the house to meet up with boys in high school, of drinking and engaging in a three-way with two men she’d met at a bar, of liking rough sex and to be tied up in bondage.

  She skimmed a diary entry:

  I love the men. They touch me everywhere, fuck me blind. Then I forget what a crazy fool Amelia is. And that Skid is mean as a snake.

  I’m the best part of Amelia. The woman inside her waiting to find love.

  If she lets me take over, I’ll have us a different man every night.

  Revulsion slid through her. Amelia hated what she read, but she had to face her past to find the truth.

  She flipped the pages, searching for any indication of her pregnancy, and discovered several pages had been torn out.

  Why? Because she’d talked about the baby she’d l
ost?

  Her phone jangled, startling her, and she raced to answer it. “Hello.”

  “Sister Grace told me to call you.”

  Her heart stuttered. The voice was so muffled she thought it belonged to a woman but couldn’t be sure. “Yes. I’m looking—”

  “Not on the phone. Meet me at Fox Hole Gorge. Midnight.”

  Amelia glanced at the waning sunlight filtering through the shades. Midnight was still hours away and another storm was brewing.

  But she couldn’t say no. She had to go.

  Cameras flashed, the lights blinding John as he stood beside Ronnie’s foster mother Terri Eckerton. Reporters sat near the podium, notepads in hand, microphones ready for questions.

  Terri spoke into the microphone. “Ronnie is a sweet boy who has health issues. He suffers from asthma, and trauma can drastically exacerbate his condition.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I’m begging you to bring him back. I don’t have money for a reward, but I love him and he deserves to have a warm, safe home.”

  “Do the police have any leads?” asked Brenda Banks.

  John stepped up. “We believe the boy was abducted by a man driving a white van that plays the same music as an ice-cream truck. Today the kidnapper carried Ronnie to a clinic for treatment for his asthma, so we do believe the boy is still alive. Although the man who kidnapped him is armed and considered dangerous. He shot and killed the doctor and receptionist at the clinic using a thirty-eight. We ask that if anyone has information about the man or the child, please call the police immediately.” He swallowed. “We also advise you not to approach the kidnapper yourself as he is dangerous.”

  Brenda cleared her throat. “Do you think this abduction is related to the Wesley kidnapping?”

  John shifted. Jesus. Saying yes meant alarming the public and indicating they had a serial kidnapper on the loose. But responding with a no would be lying to the public. “At this point, we suspect it is, although we do not have concrete evidence confirming that. However, we do advise parents to watch their children closely and to be on guard for anyone suspicious lurking around your neighborhood, local parks, and schools. Any place frequented by children.”