Dying for Love (A Slaughter Creek Novel)

by Herron, Rita

  So why did he feel so damned drawn to Amelia Nettleton? A woman with a history of mental problems? One who could have invented her story about a baby out of envy for her sister and her child?

  He had no proof she’d had a baby.

  Except for the rosary beads and the letter from her grandfather. And the nurse who’d cared for her for years had admitted that she’d given birth.

  Worse, someone had killed the woman who’d tried to give her information about the baby.

  Which meant someone didn’t want Amelia to discover the truth.

  They needed a list of all the women Deanna Jayne had helped—which would be nearly impossible to get with the network’s secrecy.

  His phone buzzed, and he snatched it up, worried the shooter might have come after Amelia.

  “Agent Strong, it’s Nick Blackwood.”

  “What’s going on, Nick?”

  “There was another bombing, this time at a DFACS, Department of Family and Children’s Services, office in Chattanooga.”

  John groaned. “How many casualties?”

  “Five. We’ve identified the bomber as a young man, fourteen.”

  “God. A teenage bully story like the school shootings?”

  “Not from what I’ve learned so far. Turns out no one knew the kid. And when I looked into his past, it appears he disappeared from a foster home a few years back.”

  The hairs on the back of John’s neck rose. “You think his disappearance might be related to the missing children case Coulter and I have been working?”

  “We have to consider it. When I was searching for the Commander, I stumbled upon a group called SFTF, Soldiers for the Future. They were training and programming boys to be guerilla soldiers.”

  “I don’t understand the connection.”

  “Just think about it. The kidnapper is only abducting boys. If his motive isn’t sexual, perhaps he’s taking them to train in his own army.”

  John ground his molars. Nick could be right. What if SFTF was building an army by abducting kids who had no family driving the police to keep searching for them?

  Nick cleared his throat. “I’m on my way to talk to one of the members who’s in prison now. Chet Roper.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  A loud knock on the door startled Amelia. Maybe it was John with some answers.

  She rushed to answer, but when she opened the door, she was surprised to see Sadie on the other side. The sleet had slacked off, but Sadie’s teeth chattered, and little Ben lay curled against her chest in an infant harness.

  “What are you doing here?” Amelia asked.

  “Let us in, Sis, it’s freezing.”

  Amelia waved her in. “I’m sorry.” She helped Sadie out of her coat.

  Still, Sadie’s frown suggested something was wrong. “Jake finally told me what you said when you came to the hospital after I delivered. We need to talk.”

  Amelia started to argue, but her sister elbowed her way farther inside toward the kitchen and dropped something wrapped in aluminum foil on the table.

  “What’s that?”

  “Cinnamon rolls Gigi baked.” Sadie sank into the chair. “Now get us some coffee and tell me what’s going on.”

  Amelia studied her sister for a moment, the connection between them so strong she should have realized Sadie would pick up on her anxiety. Maybe the time had come to fill Sadie in.

  She poured them both coffee and took the chair across from her.

  Her sister looked tired, but radiant. “Are you getting any sleep?”

  “A little.” Sadie stroked the baby’s fine soft hair. “But he’s worth it. Being this tired won’t last long. So I’ve heard.”

  Amelia nodded and sipped her coffee, stalling for time.

  Sadie drummed her fingers on the table. “Come on, Amelia, we’ve been through too much together for you to hold back anything. Spill it.”

  “Jake didn’t want me to ruin your homecoming.”

  Sadie rolled her eyes. “Listen, you know how much I love Jake.” She reached over the table and squeezed Amelia’s hand. “But I love you just as much. And if you need to talk about anything, I’m always here for you.”

  Tears burned the backs of Amelia’s eyelids, but she blinked them back.

  “Oh, Sadie . . . ”

  Her sister looked her in the eyes. “If there’s any way I can help, I will.”

  Amelia nodded, then told her about the dream, the doctor’s visit confirming the truth, the rosary beads she’d found with their grandfather’s letter, the death of the woman who’d given her the name of The Gateway House, and the Sister’s disappearance.

  “My God, Amelia, I can’t believe this. Jake should have told me.” Sadie rubbed little Ben’s back as he squirmed. It seemed to soothe her as much as it did the infant, and made Amelia’s arms feel even emptier. It was all she could do not to reach for him.

  Amelia tapped her leg. “He loves you. The two of you deserved to have your special day with Ben. I’ve already put you through so much, Sadie.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Sadie said vehemently. “God, I hate Arthur Blackwood. I’m glad he’s dead.”

  So was she. Except he’d taken her son’s whereabouts with him to his grave.

  Prisoners clanged on the metal bars as John and Nick passed by, yelling obscenities and making crude gestures.

  The guard led them to an interrogation room, a small space with a metal table and two chairs. Roper shuffled in, shackled, his beefy face bruised and swollen, his lip cut, fresh scars on his forearms.

  Chet Roper, aka number ten in the Slaughter Creek experimental program, had stuck by the Commander until the very end, protecting him.

  Nick and Jake had arrested him for helping their father escape prison, and tortured him until he’d given up Blackwood’s plan to leave the country, leading them to the helipad where their father’s helicopter had exploded in midair.

  John gestured toward Roper’s black eyes. “Looks like you’re making friends in here.”

  “Fuck you,” Roper snarled. “You should see the other guys.”

  “We need your help,” Nick said matter-of-factly.

  “Fuck you,” Roper said again.

  John kept a steely control on his temper. Unfortunately prison didn’t allow them to use torture as Nick and his brother had before.

  Nick laid the photos from the DFACS bombing that day on the table, spreading the gruesome pictures of the dead bodies and carnage in front of Roper.

  “What do you know about this?”

  Roper’s eyes remained flat, showing no reaction to the bloody, burned bodies. “Why do you think I know anything about it?”

  “Because a teenager did this,” Nick said. “And we think he might have belonged to SFTF.”

  A tiny twitch of Roper’s mouth was his only reaction. “What makes you think that?”

  “Because you and your militia group were teaching boys to be guerilla soldiers,” Nick said bluntly.

  Another shrug from Roper, his lips thinning into a straight line. “Soldiers, yes. Not terrorists.”

  John crossed his arms. “There’s a difference with your group?”

  Roper slanted a devious look toward him. “There’s a difference.”

  Nick made a cynical sound. “Enlighten us.”

  Roper blew air between his teeth. “Soldiers protect and defend our country. Terrorists attack, killing targeted groups and innocents to make a point.”

  “And your teams were strictly trained to defend and protect?” Nick asked, a note of derision in his voice.

  Roper leaned forward, the tattoo on his forearm snaking down to his wrist. “Yes.” He gestured toward the photograph of a college kid with his leg blown off, the medics working to keep him alive. “We don’t support terrorists.
”

  Nick traded skeptical looks with John. To hear Roper talk, you’d think he’d been doing his country a service, which meant he really believed the crap spewing from his mouth.

  “How did you recruit your soldiers?”

  Roper smirked. “Each member solicited his own recruits. Friends. Family. Everyone had to be read in and agree.”

  “Or be brainwashed by your group.”

  Roper didn’t respond.

  John displayed pictures of the missing boys he and Coulter had been looking for, going back six years. “Have you seen any of these kids?”

  Roper’s thick brows bunched together in a scowl as he examined them. “Don’t think so. Why?”

  “All of them are missing. All from troubled homes and foster families. Kids no one might look for very hard.”

  Roper rolled his shoulders. “You think I had something to do with kidnapping them?”

  “Did you?”

  “No, I didn’t have to steal kids.”

  “Then how did SFTF build its army?” John asked.

  “I told you. Each man recruited his own followers.”

  John’s lips curled into a snarl. “Who is abducting these boys?”

  Roper shot daggers at him. “Are you deaf? I said I don’t know.”

  John yanked the man by his shirt collar. “If you don’t give me something, I’ll spread word in this prison that you kidnapped children and used them for yourself.”

  Hell, they all knew pedophiles were the lowest vermin in prison.

  “You wouldn’t,” Roper said through clenched teeth.

  John snatched the pictures and crammed them back in the envelope. “Watch me.”

  Roper shot up from his seat, chains clanging. Nick glared at him. “Talk, Roper. Tell us what you know.”

  Roper spit out a string of curse words, then dropped his big body into the chair like a rock. “I told you we didn’t kidnap kids or make terrorists out of them.”

  “Then who does?” John asked. “Because we suspect this teenager wasn’t acting alone.”

  Roper flattened his scarred hands on the table, then pounded it with one fist. “Look in the foothills of the Smokies. Word is there’s a crazy son of a bitch who might be doing what you said.”

  “His name?” John asked.

  “I don’t know and that’s the damn truth.”

  “What about their camp?” Nick asked.

  Roper hissed between his teeth. “I can draw you a map.”

  John removed a pad from inside his jacket and shoved it at Roper along with a pen. “Get started. And if you’re lying or setting us up to be ambushed, you’ll be sorry.”

  Ice from the trees pinged off the roof, startling Amelia. Then her phone buzzed, indicating a text from John.

  Be there in ten minutes to go to The Gateway House.

  Amelia cleaned up the kitchen table from her visit with Sadie. Anxious to visit the children’s home, she tugged on her coat and gloves, then her boots, preparing for the bad weather.

  Her doorbell buzzed, the wind chimes tinkling from the front porch. She grabbed her purse and hurried to meet John. He looked so handsome and strong that for a second she could barely breathe.

  His dark look locked with hers, the memory of their heated kiss making her body hot with need and desire.

  But his rejection stung, a reminder that she didn’t belong with him. Not with anyone.

  “Let’s go,” he said in a gruff tone.

  He didn’t bother to wait on her, but turned and strode toward his SUV, the wind whipping his hair into a mess.

  “What’s wrong?” Amelia asked as she settled into the passenger side.

  He shot her an irritated look. “Nick Blackwood called earlier about that suicide bombing. There was another one.”

  Amelia’s heart hammered. She’d faintly heard the story on the news. “Another teenage bomber?”

  “Yeah.” He started the engine, flipped on the defrost, and cranked up the heat, then pulled down the drive. “Nick has a theory that there’s a group behind these bombings similar to SFTF.”

  Amelia’s mind raced. “Did the teens know each other?”

  He exhaled. “I don’t know yet. The coroner is working on IDs, then we can determine if they were connected.”

  They lapsed into silence as the storm kicked up. The black ice forced John to drive slower. Abandoned cars had been left on the side of the road, obviously from drivers who’d been caught in the mess overnight.

  Amelia wanted to broach the subject of the kiss again, but now didn’t seem like the best time. How could she ask for love when she had nothing to offer John?

  John was focused on the road, clutching the steering wheel with a white-knuckle grip. A sigh rumbled from him, fraught with emotions Amelia didn’t understand.

  Still, need and hunger taunted her every time she looked at his strong face. She desperately wanted him to hold her again. It was almost as if she knew his touch, as if her body had learned it a long time ago and had been deprived of it for years.

  As if she’d never really forgotten, as if she’d only stored those memories away so she wouldn’t have to miss him so much while he was gone.

  Good heavens, if she told him that, he would think she was insane.

  John veered onto the turn that led to The Gateway House.

  The wind swirled leaves and twigs across the road, gray skies creating a haze on the mountain, a thick fog swelling over the creek.

  John swerved around a tree branch that had fallen, then veered onto a side road.

  But just as they rounded a curve, Amelia saw thick plumes of smoke swirling in the air and flames shooting into the sky.

  “Oh my God, John. The Gateway House is on fire.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Amelia threw the SUV door open, jumped out, and ran toward the burning building, her feet digging into the sludge.

  John chased her and caught her around the waist to keep her from charging inside. “Wait, Amelia, it’s too dangerous.”

  Amelia pushed at him, trying to get away. “But there could be children inside!”

  John gripped her tighter, and turned her to face him. “I’ll check. Stay here and call 911.” He shoved his phone into her hands and rushed toward the building.

  Wind beat at her as Amelia fumbled with the phone, her fingers trembling as she punched the emergency number. The wind could make the fire spread, though hopefully the snow and ice would stop it from reaching the trees.

  “911 operator speaking. What’s your emergency?”

  “A fire at The Gateway House on Old Salter Road. Hurry!”

  “I’ll dispatch the fire department. Is anyone hurt, ma’am?”

  “I don’t know,” Amelia said, choking on the words. “Just hurry!”

  She jammed the phone in her pocket and approached the building. Heat seared her face and hands, the flames inching higher into the sky, the smoke so thick she could barely see the doorway or windows.

  She ran to the side of the house where John had gone, hoping it wasn’t completely engulfed. But flames were eating the walls. Wood crackled and popped, splintering, as the blaze consumed it.

  She headed around back, searching for John, but he was nowhere to be found.

  She screamed his name just as a board sailed toward her. She ducked sideways to avoid getting hit.

  A noise sounded, and flames burst from the windows, glass exploding and flying. Then the roof crackled as it began to cave in.

  Terror seized her, and she tried to move closer, but the heat was too intense and she doubled over, choking on the smoke.

  John beat at the flames licking at him as he ran through the house. He covered his mouth with a handkerchief as he leapt over patches of fire and burning wood.

  Smoke thickened the air as the roof ca
ved in.

  He ducked into the hallway to miss being hit, then looked toward the stairs. Half of them were on fire.

  Heart pumping, he jumped over a burning step and climbed the staircase, praying they lasted long enough for him to make it back down. Flames crawled along the walls in the hall upstairs and slipped into the bedrooms. He dodged more debris, heat scalding his arms as he checked the rooms.

  They were empty. Thank God.

  Another crashing sound, more wood splintering, glass shattering. He had to get out.

  He exhaled into the handkerchief and made it back to the staircase, but it was engulfed. Dammit.

  He glanced around for another way out. Not the window . . . the drapes . . . they were just starting to catch at the bottom.

  He ran the other way and found a second staircase. The flames were starting to move up them, but he raced down anyway, dodging falling debris.

  Sweat poured down his back and neck as he dove through the back door. He dropped to the ground and rolled in the snow to extinguish the fire.

  “John! Where are you?”

  Amelia’s voice sounded far away, distant, terrified.

  “John!”

  “I’m here,” he shouted, hoping she heard him over the thunderous roar of the house collapsing. Heat scalded the back of his neck and hands, the flames shooting outward from the burning wood.

  The fog lifted slightly, and he spotted Amelia running toward him. He pushed to his feet and jogged toward her.

  She fell against him with a sob.

  “The children?”

  His throat was so dry he had to swallow twice to make his voice work. “The house was empty,” he whispered against her ear.

  A siren wailed, and seconds later the fire truck squealed down the drive. The truck screeched to a stop, and firefighters jumped down, springing into action.

  Amelia extracted herself from John’s embrace as one of the firemen sprinted over to him. But her hopes of finding her baby crumbled with the destruction of The Gateway House. The place lay in ruins, the burning embers snapping and popping.