Dying for Love (3 page)

“Did the family receive a ransom note?” the reporter pressed.

Coulter shook his head. “No, they did not.”

Which meant the perpetrator’s intentions had not been good. All the ugly possibilities ran through John’s mind, from abuse to child trafficking . . .

And the one detail they had decided to keep quiet—the crime team had found a large duffel bag of cash hidden in Billingsly’s van.

Enough money to draw suspicion that he’d been paid to kidnap the little boy.

He listened to the news report about the Wesley kid’s rescue in disgust as he drove by the next house on his list.

Fresh snow nearly blinded him, making him slow to a crawl. The damn weather would make it harder to snag the kid when he was outside.

And he’d have to cover his tracks. Leave no footprints behind.

Fucking foster families didn’t want other people’s leftovers, didn’t love them, treated them like they were nothing.

He rubbed the scar on his arm beneath his shirt, then the one on his chest. He had dozens of them. Scars that had made him cry when he was a kid.

Scars that made him tough as a man.

Just like the one from the pin in his leg. That asshole had beat him with a baseball bat, thrown him out on a freezing night. Bloody and nearly unconscious, he’d crawled under a bridge and tried to find shelter. But his fingers and hands and feet had nearly frozen.

And his leg had been permanently damaged.

He massaged the ache. But those scars made him who he was. Had taught him to be strong.

Just like he had to teach the boys.

Poor little Darby Wesley would get lost now. They’d put him back in that system where they shuffled kids around like a stack of cards.

That stupid Billingsly had fucked up big time. Not only had he been spotted at a gas station, but he’d taken the kid to his own damn house instead of to a motel where he couldn’t be found.

Loser. Good thing the cops had shot him. He would have killed Billingsly himself if he’d had the chance.

What had the idiot done with the cash?

If he’d left it lying around for the feds to find, they’d be digging around for answers, wanting to know who’d paid him.

If not for the money, they’d probably have chalked the case up to a pedophile and celebrate that the sicko was dead.

But the money indicated they’d know Billingsly hadn’t been working alone.

But they would never find out the truth about who was behind it.

No, hell, no.

Not until he wanted their asses to know.

The wind beat at his car so hard that the windows rattled. More snow and ice on the way. More nights when the poor kids who slept in shelters and on the streets would go hungry and cold.

He parked at the old wooden house, took out his camera, and used his telephoto lens to look through the window. This damned woman was like the old woman in the shoe.

She had so many fosters she didn’t know what to do.

The familiar childhood rhyme echoed in his head, except he’d invented his own verses:

Eenie, meany, miney, mo

Catch a child by his toe

Turn him loose and watch him go

Eenie, meany, miney, mo

Laughter bubbled in his chest. Except when he caught them, he didn’t plan to let them go.

He’d turn them into soldiers.

He’d learned well from his mentor and would continue to honor his legacy.

Because he had his own cause now.

One that would change the world and help these unwanted boys go down in history.

Chapter Three

A
melia sank onto her couch in a stupor.

She had seen the agent before.

That was the only explanation for the portraits she’d painted of him.

But where had they met?

Outside, a storm brewed, the winds rolling off the mountains and beating at the house. The furnace groaned, struggling to keep up with the drop in temperature.

The news faded to the weather, another sleet storm on its way. Roads were being shut down, cars were stranded, the mountain roads were treacherous with black ice.

The wind chimes tinkled in the background, drowning out the story and carrying Amelia back to the lost years of her life. She was in the basement of that sanitarium. Screams echoed around her. The scent of a strong antiseptic turned her stomach.

She tried to shout for help, but her voice wouldn’t work. Her hands and feet were strapped, holding her down on the cold steel table. The drugs infused her system and her mind blurred as voices tapped at her thoughts.

The Commander’s sinister laugh . . .

You’re weak, Amelia. But you’re pretty.
We’re
pretty,
Viola said with a throaty laugh.
Let me find a man to take care of us.

Shut up, Viola, you’re a whore,
Skid said harshly.
I’m the strong one. I’ll take over.

Shut them out,
Bessie whispered.
It’s dark in here and I’m scared.

A shudder coursed up Amelia’s spine as she remembered the subtle ways the alters had guided her, confused her.

But no more. Now she was in control.

Her hands felt clammy as she twisted them together. Was she in control?

If she was in control, why did she still have nightmares? Still feel like someone was watching her . . .

God . . . she had so many holes in her memories. Dozens of nowhere nights when she’d slipped into a fugue state as one of her alters. Days and nights she’d do things, talk to people, go places—only to forget it all when she transformed into Amelia again.

Amelia the lonely, crazy girl with too many people in her head.

She looked back at her painting of the man. What was it about him that haunted her?

She took each of the canvases of John Strong and lined them against the wall.

She had captured his square jaw. His olive skin tone. Thick dark brows. Blue-black hair.

Intense, dark-brown eyes.

Eyes that had looked troubled even as he’d been heralded for saving the child.

But the pain in the depths told a different story. Those eyes were dark. Simmering. Self-loathing.

He didn’t see himself as a hero.

And he didn’t want to be in the limelight.

Lord knew she understood that feeling. Except she had her own reasons for avoiding reporters and cameras. Her involvement in the Slaughter Creek experiments had become worldwide news.

Suddenly she was famous and everyone wanted to probe her mind as if she were a bug under a microscope.

People not only thought she was crazy, but they looked at her with pity. She was a
victim
. They said it like it was a four-letter word.

But she was also unpredictable, and she recognized the wariness in people’s eyes, as if they thought she might burst from her own body and turn into a raging lunatic.

Or a killer.

Six, Seven, and Eight
had
become killers. And another subject had been a cold-blooded hit man.

No . . . she was a survivor.

Desperate to know more about Agent Strong, she rushed to her laptop and googled his name. Seconds later, links appeared, most of them articles about the TBI agent’s heroic work.

Six years ago, John Strong had joined the TBI. She skimmed the headlines.

SPECIAL AGENT STRONG RESCUES ANOTHER MISSING CHILD

AGENT JOHN STRONG FINDS LOST LITTLE BOY CHAINED IN BASEMENT BY HIS STEPFATHER

THREE CHILDREN ABANDONED BY THEIR MOTHER FOUND NEARLY STARVING IN CABIN ON LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN

Another case had drawn national attention—

Woman in western Tennessee sold her son for ten thousand dollars to a couple who intended to use him as a child laborer.

The mother, who claims she needed the money for drugs, has been arrested along with the couple, who refused to talk to the police.

Adrenaline pumping, Amelia searched for more information on Agent Strong’s background, looking for any clue as to where they might have crossed paths. But there was nothing about him prior to the date he’d joined the TBI.

Nothing about him ever being in Slaughter Creek or being connected to the sanitarium.

John cleared his throat, speaking into the mic again. “If you have any information about this man Billingsly, please contact the authorities. Police believe he was not working alone, and we are looking for his accomplice.”

The reporter repeated the number to call and John turned to leave. He was anxious to speak to the doctors evaluating Darby Wesley.

And to Darby. Maybe he’d heard something, like the name of the accomplice.

Who had paid Billingsly to abduct Darby, and why?

People didn’t kidnap kids for no reason. John wanted to know what that reason was, and if it was an isolated incident.

Or if whoever paid Billingsly was looking for another victim.

He tugged his coat collar up around his neck to ward off the bitter chill. Winter was almost over, but Tennessee had been racked with snow and ice that year and record low temperatures.

He went inside the courthouse to meet with the child psychologist.

Darby’s foster mother, Shayla Simms, was already seated in the viewing room in front of the two-way mirror that allowed them to watch the interview. She kept wringing her hands together as if she feared what Darby might disclose.

Because she’d been in on the kidnapping?

Of course, she’d been questioned unmercifully by the police when the boy had first gone missing. Every parent or guardian of an abducted child experienced guilt, but the officer she’d first turned to for help had practically accused her of child neglect and implied that if she’d been watching Darby, he wouldn’t have been kidnapped.

He didn’t blame the officer. He didn’t expect Darby to go home with the woman either.

The psychologist, Dr. Catherine Rowen, was known for handling difficult cases with children.

“I’m so glad to meet you, Darby. You’re a very brave little boy.”

Darby shrugged, his teeth worrying his lip.

“I understand the past couple of days have been hard for you, but I’d like to ask you some questions. Would that be all right?”

He shrugged again, then released a wary sigh.

“Do you like to draw?”

“I guess so,” he said in a low voice.

She smiled, then slid some paper and crayons in front of him. “Can you draw me a picture of yourself?”

He stared at the blank paper for a moment, then chose a brown crayon and drew the outline of his face and body. He drew two long oval shapes for his eyes, then colored them in with the brown.

“That’s good,” Dr. Rowen said. “Like I told you, you’re a very brave boy.”

She paused, and he drew his mouth, although he wasn’t smiling or showing his teeth. His mouth was a straight, harsh line.

“Darby, I know you had a scary time,” she said softly. “Can you tell me about the man who took you?”

Darby looked up at her, fear flashing across his face. “He was mean.”

“Did he hurt you?” Dr. Rowen asked.

Darby shrugged.

The psychologist stroked his back gently. “Tell me what happened.”

Darby chin’s quivered, then he dropped his head forward and began to draw again, this time a sketch of his foster mother’s house. “I was playing in the yard making snowballs, and he grabbed me.”

“Did he have a weapon? A gun or a knife?”

He shook his head. “No, he just grabbed me real tight. He said he was taking me to a better place.”

Dr. Rowen’s mouth turned downward. “Did he tell you where this better place was?”

“No . . . he said my foster mother didn’t want me anymore. That she said I was too much trouble, and that I had to go with him.”

John’s chest clenched, and he angled himself toward the foster mother.

“Did you tell Darby that?”

“No,” Shayla shrieked. “That’s not true.”

“How about neighbors or friends? Did you tell anyone that you wished you hadn’t taken Darby in?”

“Of course not. I told you all this before.”

“You also said the state didn’t pay you enough for all the kids. Did this man offer you money for Darby?”

Shayla crossed her arms, her voice brittle. “You think I sold him?”

“It happens,” John said, deadpan.

The woman sagged against the chair. “I may not have been the best mother, but I tried. I . . . Darby was just rambunctious sometimes.”

“And you had to scold him?”

“All kids need to be reprimanded.”

He made a note to check the doctor’s reports for physical abuse. If there were signs, he’d personally get Darby removed from the home.

But if she hadn’t cooperated in the kidnapping, the abductor had used a mental ploy to draw Darby away from the house.

“Then what happened?” Dr. Rowen asked.

“He tied a cloth around my eyes and put me in his van.” Darby dropped the brown crayon, picked up a black one, and drew the rag over his eyes with angry lines. John didn’t have to be a shrink to realize he was depicting the terror he’d felt when he was blindfolded.

“Did the bad man say where he was taking you?”

“No.” Darby’s voice cracked. “Just that one day everyone would know who I was.”

John grimaced. Darby had been compliant. Maybe that had saved his life.

“Did he talk to anyone on the phone or meet up with someone while you were with him?” Dr. Rowen asked.

A long second passed, fraught with tension.

“Darby?”

“He talked on the phone.”

“What did he say?”

Tears swam in Darby’s eyes. “He said I was a good one.”

“A good one?” Dr. Rowen asked. “What did he mean by that?”

Darby clenched the crayon so hard it broke. “That I did what he told me to do.”

“What else did he say?”

“That he’d deliver me the next day.”

John fisted his hands by his sides.

When he found this guy, the bastard would never see the light again.

Nerves tingled along Amelia’s spine as she checked over her shoulder before entering the doctor’s office. She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was following her.

A car zoomed past her. Three strangers were walking across the street, then a shadow caught her eye.

She froze, digging her hands into the pockets of her thick winter coat. The gray fog of winter made visibility difficult, but the shadow disappeared into an alley.

She took a deep breath, telling herself she was imagining things. She stepped inside the doctor’s office and greeted the receptionist.

“She’s waiting on you,” the petite blonde said, then turned back to her computer.

Amelia rapped on her door, then pushed it open. Her therapist, Dr. June Clover, waved her in, and Amelia sank onto the sofa. Dr. Clover had been using hypnosis to help her recover memories and sort the truth from delusions.