Her Dying Breath (4 page)

For months, she’d tried to find out on her own, had even suffered a meltdown and spent a couple of short weeks in that horrid sanitarium.

Of course, no one knew about that either. William Banks, prominent citizen in town and now the mayor, had covered it up well.

Did Amelia remember seeing her there?

If so, that would be a start in forging a friendship, in winning Amelia’s confidence.

She drove straight to Amelia’s complex, expecting guards and a hospital atmosphere, but the facility looked more like a condo development than a mental care hospital. Flowers garnished the flower beds flanking the front door, a pair of crystal wind chimes dangled from the awning, and the door was painted Williamsburg blue, lending a homey appearance.

She’d managed to pilfer the address from a sheet of paper she found in Jake’s desk when she tried to corner him for more information, so she checked the numbers on the units: 23B.

She parked in front, then checked the surrounding area, but again didn’t see a guard or Sadie’s car. Hoping her impromptu visit would pay off, she hopped from her BMW, tucked her notepad and mini-recorder in her shoulder bag, then sashayed up the sidewalk to the front portico. She tapped the knocker twice, then waited, but seconds passed with no answer, so she punched the doorbell.

Again, no one answered. Curious, she peeked through the small windows on each side of the door. From that vantage, she saw a comfy-looking living room with a myriad of artwork on the walls, then an adjacent studio, with paint tubes filling the shelves and blank canvases lined up along the wall.

A series of morose paintings of Slaughter Creek were stacked to one side. One depicted the graveyard by the old river mill, where Blackwood’s body had been buried before he’d risen from the dead. Another showed twin girls, each locked in a dark prison
with blood dripping down the walls. Then another must have reflected the basement torture room where Blackwood and his staff had conducted their hideous experiments in the sanitarium. Wires and electroshock machines dotted the black background.

A dark, hollow tunnel that seemed to go nowhere had been painted on another canvas. In the center of the tunnel, a lone hand suggested a lost child desperately reaching for help, her tiny fingers curled over the end in an attempt to claw her way out.

A shudder coursed through Brenda. She’d heard that Sadie used art therapy techniques with her patients and realized Amelia was working out traumatic memories from her past in the paintings. Maybe Amelia would allow her to photograph some of her pieces as part of a personal profile.

She rang the doorbell again, then peeked through another window, but the rooms were dark, and no one answered the bell.

Deciding that Amelia wasn’t home, Brenda walked down the sidewalk. A series of gardens lay to the left, an immaculately maintained array of roses, azaleas, and daylilies, with cozy seating nooks carved through the walkways; at the center, water gurgled in a two-tiered fountain with a bird feeder beside it.

A middle-aged woman sat reading a book on a bench, while other residents strolled through the bird sanctuary. A clearing with several outdoor tables offered areas where patients congregated to chat, read, play cards and chess. Easels had been erected in a corner of the garden, and another set of tables held lumps of clay that four residents were pounding and molding into their own creations.

Brenda didn’t spot Amelia, so she gravitated to the middle-aged woman reading
Wuthering Heights
. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m looking for Amelia Nettleton.”

The woman glanced up as she turned the page, a small frown puckering her brow. “Amelia left a couple of days ago.”

Brenda rubbed the leather strap of her bag. “Do you know where she went?” Maybe to visit Sadie?

“No, I sure don’t. But I heard she saw that horrible news story about that man named Arthur Blackwood being arrested. Amelia got upset and ran out.”

Brenda drew a deep breath. “Are the patients free to come and go at will?”

The woman looked offended. “Of course we are. This is not a prison.”

Brenda bit her lip. Surely family members were notified when a resident left, especially one who’d once been considered dangerous and had an arrest record, like Amelia.

Brenda thanked the woman and headed to her car. If the story had upset Amelia, maybe she’d remembered something. Maybe she could name others involved in the experiment.

She started the engine, then turned her car back toward Slaughter Creek; perhaps Amelia might have gone back to the Nettleton farm.

Rather the studio—the farmhouse had been burned down in an attempt to kill Sadie. But Amelia might go back to the guesthouse.

When Brenda found her, she’d persuade her to talk. She wanted the inside scoop on Amelia, to get inside her head.

Just like you want to know the real story about your own past.

What would she find if she searched for the truth? Something terrible? Was her mother a criminal, or maybe she just had babies and sold them to make a living?

Was that the reason the Banks had kept her adoption a secret?

Nick contemplated the note his father had received as he drove through the winding roads of Slaughter Creek. Odd, how tourists saw only beauty in the rolling valleys and hills, yet for him they just awakened memories of survival exercises and running from monsters in the woods. Human monsters like his father,
who’d knowingly forced predators on him when he was a child, just to see if he was tough enough to survive.

He had to forget about his past and focus on the case. He assumed the victims wanted help, that they might even testify against his father, but so far no one had come forward.

Brenda Banks wanted their personal stories.

What if the subjects’ stories triggered a need for revenge, as the Commander had suggested? Not that he cared if one of them came after his father, but he was concerned that the psychopaths created by the experiment might harm innocents on the streets.

How could he protect any of them, if he had no idea who else was involved?

A breeze stirred the leaves in the trees on the mountain, the fluttering noise filling the chilly spring air, echoing in a domino effect. The sea of green blended into the dark, the ridges enfolding the town of Slaughter Creek like a mother’s arms, protecting the residents from outsiders. Yet innocent children had suffered, while the town remained oblivious.

Even Nick and Jake hadn’t known.

Nick passed the road leading to Jake’s, and was tempted to drop by. But he still felt like an outsider.

In spite of his father’s abuse, Jake had turned out to be a loving father to his daughter. Ayla attended kindergarten at the same school he and his brother had attended years ago. Jake obviously had fond memories of growing up in Slaughter Creek, or he wouldn’t have brought his daughter here.

Nick’s memories weren’t so pleasant.

He drove to the homestead where he and Jake had grown up, but the place had been destroyed long ago. Still, he parked and climbed out, his shoes crunching dry, brittle grass as he crossed to the giant live oak he’d climbed as a kid. A few fond memories flashed back. He and Jake building a fort at the edge of the woods near the property. The two of them fishing in Slaughter Creek as boys. The campouts that had started out fun when they
were young—hikes in the woods, catching frogs at the edge of the creek, roasting hot dogs on sticks.

But as they’d grown older, those campouts turned into strenuous hiking sessions—basic wilderness training. Days of being left alone in the woods with no food or water, to teach them how to live off the land. Nights of sleeping in whatever cave they could find to protect them from the frigid mountain temperatures and mountain lions when winter set in.

And then the times when the Commander took Nick out alone. His father always saved the worst tests, the harshest conditions—the beatings—for times when Jake wasn’t around.

Nick’s shoulder throbbed as he crossed the field to the edge of the creek that ran through the property, and the images he’d tried to banish for years bombarded him. Suddenly he was launched back in time, as if he were eight again, reliving one event.

“You must learn to survive to be a good soldier,” his father said
.

Nick stood perfectly still, his gaze trained on his father’s face. To look away meant he was afraid. Stare down the enemy, his father had taught him.

His father was the enemy.

The thick ropes cut into his wrists as his father tied him to the stake in the middle of the circle of rocks. Next came his legs, his father kneeling on the dirt to secure the knots around his ankles.

Nick scanned the area for a way to escape. If he could reach the rifle leaning against the boulder, he could take off his father’s head.

He almost smiled at the thought.

But his father looked at him, and he erased any trace of emotion. Instead, he focused on analyzing his surroundings.

If he passed this test, he’d need to find his way home again
.

The trees stood tall and thick around him, hiding him from other hikers and campers in the woods. They’d hiked north for approximately two miles, then veered to the east, then…he couldn’t remember; it had been so dark.

But he could hear the creek…If he followed it, it would lead him home.

Other night sounds echoed off the mountain walls. Animals. Gunfire. The sound of fire sizzling jerked his attention down to his feet, where his father was lighting the sticks surrounding him.

When they caught, his father muttered a cold good-bye and disappeared into the woods.

Nick’s breath formed a cloud of white in front of him as he breathed in and out. The sticks crackled as the flames began to eat at the dry wood.

He struggled to untie his hands, twisting and yanking at the knot.

Remember how he formed the loop,
he told himself.
Then work it backward from there.

Heat singed his bare feet as the flames grew higher, sweat trickling down his jaw as he worked at the ropes. Blood streamed down his arms and dripped onto the flames from where the rough hemp clawed at his skin, but he bit his tongue to keep from crying out. The flames licked higher, teasing his fingers, and smoke curled upward in a fog, making it hard to breathe.

He had to hurry, or the flames would eat him up.

Seconds passed, maybe minutes, the heat intensifying, the fire catching the tail end of the fraying rope. The rope began to blacken in the flames, his fingers burning and aching as he finally slid free the knot.

He jerked the rope away and dropped it to the ground just as fire engulfed it. The flames shot higher, closer to his feet, and he bent over and quickly untied the restraints at his ankles. But he wasn’t fast enough, and the flames caught the leg of his jeans.

Pain ripped up his calf as he ran through the circle of fire, then dropped to the grass nearby and beat at his leg to put out the flames.

His father’s laughter echoed in the woods nearby. He had been watching, timing Nick to see how fast he could escape.

And he had failed the test.

Nick opened his eyes, breathing through the pain as if his leg were on fire once again. That night Jake had found him slathering burn cream on his leg.

Of course he’d lied.

He’d lied to cover his father so many times.

Never again.

If it was the last thing he ever did, he’d track down his father’s victims.

He wanted them to see his father rot in jail.

Brenda drove past Amelia Nettleton’s studio, planning her strategy as she parked. The charred remainder of the Nettleton farm adjacent to the guesthouse still looked stark, the embers dirty brown, soggy from rain and weather, a sad reminder of the family whose life had been destroyed by Arthur Blackwood.

Crickets chirped nearby, the March winds rocking the trees and making the wind chimes on the front porch clang violently. Whispers of honeysuckle, wildflowers, and new grass scented the air, yet the wind also brought the stench of burned wood and rubble that lingered from the fire.