Dying for Love (12 page)

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

J
ohn 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 lost?

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.”

“Is it true that the kidnapper is targeting single-parent households or children in foster homes?”

“At this point, I can’t make that conclusion.” He took Terri’s elbow. “Again, please call the police with any information regarding the case.”

His phone was buzzing as he hurried Terri away from the cameras.

“What do we do now?” Terri asked.

He checked the number on his phone. It was Helen Gray, the social worker Liz was supposed to contact. “We hope the BOLO and this public plea turn up something, and that a witness comes forward. This man must have been rattled at Ronnie’s asthma attack. Taking him to a doctor wasn’t in his plan. That means he’s probably panicked and off his game right now. Hopefully he’ll make a mistake and we’ll catch him when he does.”

Fresh snow and ice nearly blinded Amelia as she drove along the winding road, night sounds echoing from the woods as she delved deeper and deeper into the mountains. Thick, tall trees crowded together, creating a dark, sinister feel, making her struggle against her phobia of the dark.

So many days and nights she’d lived in darkness, trapped by her own mind, imprisoned by Blackwood’s staff and what he’d done to her, that now she slept with a light on.

Devious eyes and sounds warred with the peacefulness others found in the isolated areas, the sharp ridges and drop-offs an invitation to death.