Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel) (31 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

R
afe led Liz into the conference room for the wrap-up meeting, anxious to close the case so they could go back to bed together.

But work had to come first. The town was waiting for answers.

Lieutenant Maddison, Dr. Bullock, Jake, and Nick joined them, the mood somber.

Rafe took charge. “Ned Harlan is dead. Although he confessed to being Six and the Dissector, we now know that that wasn’t the case. The actual perp is the man who called himself Anderson Loggins, real name Jeremy Castor.”

Rafe pointed to the photos on the whiteboard. “Jeremy Castor and our original suspect, J.
R. Truitt, are fraternal twins. DNA confirms this. Their brother is Brian Castor. The boys were born to Ester Banning’s sister. After her sister, along with her sister’s husband, died in a car crash, Ester placed Brian and Jeremy up for adoption. At the time, J.
R. was in the hospital because he’d been in the car with his parents. Before Ester could place him for adoption, Social Services intervened and gave him to another family, the Truitts.

“Jeremy and J. R. were four at the time. When the Castors sent Jeremy away because of emotional problems, the Commander used him in his experiments. When Jeremy mentioned his twin, the Commander tracked Truitt down to compare them.” Rafe turned to Lieutenant Maddison to elaborate. “The question is—did Brian Castor find out about his brothers and help Six?”

Maddison cleared his throat. “Brian denies knowing that Jeremy was his brother. He tried to get information from the social worker who handled the case, Rusty Lintell, but she was murdered before he got answers. He was still trying to locate his brother.”

“He didn’t know about the twins?” Liz asked.

“No. The Castors had only taken in Jeremy, not J.
R., so Brian had no idea he had two brothers.”

“You believe him?” Nick asked.

Maddison nodded. “Brian took a polygraph and passed. He has stated that he wants to meet his brothers. Maybe he and Truitt can connect.”

“What about Truitt?” Liz asked.

“I questioned him again,” Jake said. “Apparently, at the nursing home, he overheard a conversation between his adoptive mother and Ester. That’s when he learned he was adopted and had at least one sibling.”

“When Ester abused his mother, Truitt grew suspicious,” Liz surmised. “He may have had the photograph of Ester because he was trying to learn about his birth family.”

Jake nodded.

“With all the hype about the Slaughter Creek cases and the social worker’s death, Brian Castor became suspicious as well,” Maddison interjected. “He went to the prison to find out if the Commander knew anything about his brother.”

Nick spoke up. “Roper admitted that when Ester realized Brian and Truitt were snooping around, she’d tried to make contact with the Commander.”

Jake drummed his fingers on the table. “Ironic that Truitt ran the slaughterhouse, but otherwise he’s innocent.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.

“Maybe his adoptive parents helped channel his urges through their business,” Liz suggested. “And when the father died, he inherited the farm.”

More murmurs.

Liz turned to Jake. “What about Amelia?” Liz asked. “Will she be charged as an accomplice?”

Jake shook his head. “No—she didn’t know about the murders. When she figured it out, she came to me for help.”

“She did save me,” Liz said, relieved for Amelia’s sake. She’d already suffered too much.

“What about the body on Truitt’s farm?” Nick asked.

“DNA proved it was Truitt’s adoptive mother,” Dr. Bullock said. “It was illegal to bury her on his property, but we have confirmation that it was at his mother’s request.”

Liz rubbed her forehead. “So we know that Six was Jeremy, and Chet Roper was Ten. What about Eight and Nine?”

“Ned Harlan was Eight, J.
R. Truitt Nine,” Rafe said. “Roper filled in the blanks.”

“Then it really is over,” Liz said.

“My family is finally safe,” Jake said.

“And so is the rest of Slaughter Creek,” Nick added.

The relief in the room was palpable.

“I’m sure Brenda is chomping at the bit for the scoop,” Jake said wryly.

Nick gave them a lopsided grin. “Of course she’s waiting outside for the go-ahead.”

“Good work,” Rafe said. “Everyone get some rest.”

The group stood and shook hands, relief reverberating in the air as they dispersed.

As Liz and Rafe filed from the conference room, Liz’s emotions ping-ponged back and forth. Finally she was free from Harlan, and the town was safe.

Rafe’s confession of love and his marriage proposal made her giddy with joy.

But they still needed to talk. She couldn’t marry Rafe without telling him everything.

He could still change his mind.

Rafe pulled her up against him when they reached his vehicle, giving her a kiss. “Now we can take a day or two off.”

Liz’s heart fluttered at the passion in his eyes. There was nothing she wanted more than to make love to him again. “We have to talk, Rafe.”

He raised a brow, one finger trailing along her shoulder. “Uh-oh. You haven’t changed your mind about marrying me, have you?”

“No, but you might change yours.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

Liz blinked back tears. “Because after Harlan’s attack, after I lost the baby”—she paused to swallow—“I had internal injuries.” She had to spit it out. “The doctor said I might never be able to carry a baby to term.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening for a moment before he dipped his head and looked straight into her eyes. “You think that matters to me?”

Liz held her breath. “I don’t know.”

He took a step back, making her heart sink. “Come on. I want to take you someplace.”

Liz was confused. “Where?”

“Just get in,” he said, motioning to the passenger-side door.

They picked up coffee and doughnuts at a drive-through and then drove to a building on the edge of town.

The sign read
BOYS
’
CLUB
.

Rafe paused in the entryway, and Liz stared across the room at groups of kids. They varied in ages from preschool to teenagers. Some were making bird feeders, some playing games, some painting. Older kids were playing basketball in an attached gym.

Suddenly a little boy of about four, wearing faded clothes and sporting a bad haircut, raced toward Rafe, calling his name. “Rafe, Rafe . . .”

Rafe scooped up the kid with a laugh and hugged him to his chest. “Hey, Benny. What’s up, bud?”

Benny started to babble about making pinecone birdfeeders, and Liz smiled. Rafe was good with children. He needed and deserved to have one of his own.

How could she deny him that?

A teenager with dark hair and a scar on the side of his face approached and shook Rafe’s hand. A minute later, he and Benny hurried back to join their group.

Rafe pulled Liz up against him. “If we have a baby, I’d love that. If we don’t, I have a family here. I’ll share them with you.” He gestured toward Benny. “In fact, that’s only one of the kids here who needs a home.”

Liz’s throat closed. She loved Rafe more than she’d ever thought possible.

Smiling through her tears, she threw her arms around his neck and nodded, then kissed him again with all her love.

A few months ago, she’d thought her life was over. That Rafe was gone.

But now she was looking forward to forever.

Acknowledgments

F
irst, a special thanks to all the fans of the Slaughter Creek series! I’m glad you’re enjoying my dark, sinister plots.

Also thanks to my critique partner Stephanie Bond for reading through the rough draft, to fellow writer Jennifer St. Giles for brainstorming lunches, and to fellow writer Debra Webb for her support and for answering questions about law enforcement.

And last but not least, thanks to the amazing team at Amazon for liking my dark side, and for their editorial and marketing support. You guys are awesome!

Look for the next exciting story in the Slaughter Creek series,
Dying for Love
, coming soon from Amazon Montlake!

Prologue

I
wish I could leave my body behind. I’d take my mind to another place, somewhere nice and soft and warm. Someplace where rainbows made pretty colors, and I had friends and a mommy who’d sing to me at night.

Then the monsters could do whatever they wanted to me, and I wouldn’t feel any pain.

I try so hard to make it happen. To levitate and leave the room. To float to another place far away so I can tell . . .

Help me. Please help me
, I cry.

But I’m only a kid, and nobody listens. Nobody hears me cry at night. No one comes to chase the bogeyman away.

No one says it’ll be okay.

Because they don’t lie to little boys where I am. And they don’t care if you’re afraid.

Death whispers in my ear a thousand times a day. “You can run, and you can hide, Zack. But I’ll get you anyway.”

No . . . I would escape one day.

I picked up the nail I found under my metal bed and scratched a picture on the concrete wall. A drawing of the monster who kept me locked up. It had hideous features, distorted and bulging. Coppery eyes that shot daggers dripping with blood at my feet.

And sharp fangs that snapped at my skin and tore it off into pieces like rags.

The woman’s voice drifted through the eaves of the cold halls. The lullaby she was singing. Only it wasn’t a lullaby but a call for the dead. A warning of what was to come.

The room was black. The door bolted. The keys turning in locks down the hall screeching like banshees.

I know what banshees are. They’re creatures of the night.

People who are about to be murdered see them.

I hear her mourning call from the woods outside.

She’s washing the bloody clothes of someone who just died.

Is she coming for me next?

Chapter One

A
melia Nettleton jerked from sleep, jumped up from her bed, and went to the window to look out at the morning sunlight, grateful for the beginning of a new day. Last night had been filled with horrible dreams.

Nightmares of Six cutting off body parts and storing them in jars to look at like they were prizes he’d won for being so smart.

The thought sickened her. At least her psychosis hadn’t entailed mutilating others. She’d hurt herself with the alters, although Skid had been violent a few times. But only when he’d been protecting her.

When she finally fell back asleep, another dream had seeped into her sleep. A tiny voice, whispering that he needed her.

Images of her holding a baby taunted her. Then images of her in a hospital delivery room.

The dream was so vivid it seemed real. As if she’d been launched back in time.

“Push, Amelia, push. The baby’s coming!”

Pain ricocheted through Amelia’s abdomen, fear choking her. What if something went wrong?

“Come on, you can do it.”

Hands lifted her shoulders. A voice ordered her to grip her knees and push again. She heaved a breath, fighting through the pain of the contraction and imagining the moment she would hold her newborn in her arms.

Finally.

She wished Sadie were here. Wished for Papaw and her mother and all the people she’d lost when they’d locked her up.

But
he
was here. The baby’s father. The man who was going to save her and take her away. Then the two of them would raise their baby together and have a real home.

She reached for his hand, desperate for his touch. She couldn’t lose him, like she’d lost everyone else. He was the only one who believed her, who didn’t think she was crazy.

The only one who knew the truth about what they’d done to her at the sanitarium.

But her fingers touched empty air. And suddenly he was gone.

The bright lights blinded her, and the room blurred, spinning in circles. White coats with nameless faces floated past, the sound of voices echoing as if they came from a faraway place. As if they were in a tunnel.

“She’ll never know.”

“Don’t tell her.”

“She’s too crazy to have a baby.”

“No one can ever find out what we did.”

She struggled to make out who was talking, but another contraction gripped her, then another. They were right on top of each other.

She lost her breath and gulped back a sob. Another push, and a baby’s cry echoed through the room.

Her baby’s cry.

Machines beeped. Footsteps pounded. Hushed voices spoke.

“It’s a boy,” someone said through the chaotic haze.

Tears blinded Amelia, but she blinked them back, then reached out her arms. “Let me hold him . . .”

But another pair of hands shoved her down on the bed. They were tying her down again.

Amelia struggled, kicking wildly. “Please, give him to me! Let me hold him!”

The lights dimmed. Something sharp stung her arm. The baby’s cry grew more distant. Hushed voices drifted in the silence.

Then there was another voice . . . one she recognized.

The man she hated and feared most was here. The Commander.

Then her baby was gone.

And the room went black.

Amelia pressed her hands over her ears, forcing the voices and images away as she paced the room. But the painting she’d done the night before disturbed
her.

A man’s face. The man from her dreams. The one she’d loved. The father of her child.

She paused and studied his features. He was tall, muscular, broad-shouldered. A soldier’s body. Square jaw. Beard stubble.

Dark, stormy, mesmerizing eyes.

She’d been dreaming of him for weeks now. Had sketches of him all over her studio. For some reason she couldn’t get him out of her mind.

But he wasn’t real . . .

Just like the baby in her dream wasn’t real. She’d never given birth.

So why was she having these nightmares? Were they delusions?

Maybe it was some kind of twin jealousy because Sadie was pregnant?

That had to be the reason. She’d always had a connection with Sadie.

Was something wrong with Sadie’s baby?

Or was another alter trying to emerge in her own mind?

Her phone trilled, and she raced to answer it. When Sadie’s name appeared on the caller ID, her hand began to shake.

“Hello.”

“Amelia, it’s Jake. Sadie and I are at the hospital. The baby’s coming now.”

Cold fear swept over Amelia. She had to get to the hospital and make sure Sadie’s baby was okay.

There were too many damn missing kids in the United States.

Special Agent John Strong held his gun at the ready as he crept toward the clapboard house deep in the mountains.

Hell, a lot of the missing persons cases involved parental disputes/kidnappings. There were hundreds of runaway teens. Kidnappings for ransom. Abductions by mentally disturbed individuals desperate for a child of their own.

The reasons went on and on.

Many of the lost children were already dead. Some they’d never find or learn what happened to them. Others were locked somewhere, being abused or tormented.

Worse were the child traffickers. Bunch of sick fucks.

And then there were the pedophiles . . .

Even sicker fucks.

His partner, Special Agent Scott Coulter, gave a quick nod from the opposite side of the house from his vantage point inside the front window, indicating that he had visual confirmation that the man they were looking for was inside.

John prayed the kid was, too. Six-year-old Darby Wesley. He’d been missing less than twenty-four hours.

Every hour that passed decreased the chances of finding the boy alive.

But they’d caught a break when the clerk at a gas station had heard a noise coming from the back of a white utility van.

A noise that sounded like a little boy’s scream for help.

The clerk had played it cool, but scribbled down the van’s tag number and then called 911 as soon as the driver peeled out of the parking lot and headed into the foothills.

A helicopter search had narrowed down the location.

John inched around to the left, checking the side windows, then the back door. “No visual on the child,” he said into his mic.

“Suspect is passed out on the couch,” Coulter replied.

“I’m going in the back.”

“Copy that. I’ll take the front.”

John jiggled the doorknob. Unlocked. Either they had the wrong man, or the bastard was so cocky, he thought he’d already gotten away with his crime. That he was so far off the grid that no one would find him.

Then he could rest up before he did whatever heinous thing he had planned with the child.

That wasn’t going to happen on John’s watch.

Unless he already had hurt the boy . . .

They’d lost the suspect for two hours after that 911 call. He could have killed the child and ditched him someplace in the woods or thrown him off a ridge, and no one would know. It might take days for them to recover his body.

And in that time no telling what the animals might do to him.

Nausea gripped his belly into a knot.

Days that would be torture for his mother and father, who were already crazed with worry and guilt.

Hand clenched around his Sig Sauer, he crept into the kitchen, his gaze sweeping the room. A pizza box on the counter. A fast food bag with a kid’s toy.

So the man had had a child with him.

He hoped to hell that he was alive.

John eased through the kitchen, glancing sideways into the bedroom to the left. A rusted metal bed with a quilt thrown over it, a pair of men’s work boots, a pair of overalls on the floor. He didn’t see Darby.

Dammit.

Coulter was waiting on him, so he moved swiftly into the hall and checked the second room. A twin bed, blue comforter on top.

Shit. A bed for a little boy.

But he didn’t see him inside.

What had the bastard done with him?

Heart racing, he crept to the edge of the living room and spotted the big guy on the couch, sprawled and snoring as if he hadn’t slept in days. He looked scruffy, a patchy beard growing in, a gut that indicated he liked fried food and beer.

A shotgun sat propped by the couch within a finger’s touch.

Coulter acknowledged that he saw John in the doorway, raised his fingers in a one-two-three count, then kicked the door open with a bang.

“TBI!” Coulter shouted, his gun already raised and aimed at the man.

The meathead on the couch jolted upright and reached for his gun.

“I wouldn’t do that,” John said from behind him.

The suspect jerked his head around, stunned, and John pointed the barrel of the gun at his face. “Where’s Darby?”

“Get the hell out of my house,” the man muttered.

Coulter took a step closer, closing in. “You have one more chance. Tell us where he is, and I won’t put a bullet in your brain.”

The bastard was just stupid enough to ignore John’s warning and lunge for his shotgun.

John and Coulter shot at the same time. Coulter’s bullet hit the man between the eyes, while John’s pierced his heart.

They both cursed at the same time as the bastard collapsed, blood and brain matter splattering.

Rage ripped through John. If little Darby wasn’t in the house, they might never find him now.

Amelia raced into the hospital, frantic to talk to Sadie.

Ayla, Jake’s daughter, and their nanny, Gigi, who was like a grandmother to Ayla, were in the waiting room, looking nervous and excited at the same time. Ayla jumped up and ran toward her. “Aunt Amelia, Sadie’s having the baby!” Gigi grinned at her from behind Ayla, as if she couldn’t wait to welcome the newest member into their family.

A soul-deep ache seized Amelia. She’d give anything to have the kind of love Sadie and Jake shared. To have a family and a future to look forward to.

Jake suddenly stepped into the hallway, his face glowing like a Christmas tree. “It’s a boy!”

Gigi and Ayla rushed toward him, and Ayla threw herself into his arms. “Can I see him, Daddy? Please, please, please . . .”

Jake swung Ayla around. “Of course you can. But remember Sadie’s tummy might be a little sore, so we can’t jump on her.”

“I’ve got a brother, a brother, a brother,” Ayla sang.

“Is Sadie okay?” Amelia asked.

Jake grinned. “She’s great. Come on, and you can meet my son.” He waved for them to follow him, and Amelia’s nerves settled slightly. As they entered Sadie’s room, she saw her twin propped against several pillows, a tiny infant cradled in her arms.

Amelia’s heart skipped a beat at the sight. Déjà vu hit her again, though, and she saw herself holding her own baby. Then a scream reverberated in her ears as someone took her son away.

Ayla and Gigi raced over to dote over the child, and Jake lifted Ayla onto the bed. Sadie wrapped her arm around Ayla and whispered low to her, smiling as Ayla studied her little brother.