Dying for Love (23 page)

“The map led to an empty campsite. Someone may have warned them we were coming,” Nick said. “I’ll continue looking and keep you posted.”

“Send me a list of the bombers’ identities and backgrounds.”

“I’ll send you what I’ve got so far.” John waited on the info to come through, then phoned the tech department. He spoke with Arianna, one of their best techs, and explained his theory. “Run an analysis on children who disappeared in the state of Tennessee and surrounding states, specifically boys who disappeared between the ages of five and nine.” He contemplated the age of the bombers. “Go back about fifteen years.”

“I’m on it,” Arianna said.

Dread balled in his gut as he hung up. If what he suspected was true, if these teen bombers were kidnap victims, the unsub had been abducting children for over a decade.

Which meant he’d already escaped detection for years and knew how to cover his tracks.

And John wouldn’t stop until they caught him.

Amelia studied the house where the Baylers lived. It was a well-kept gray Victorian set on an acre of land with a pond and dozens of live oaks to the right. The snowy ground made it look like a postcard, yet something about the sharp turrets and angles and the tiny attic window reminded her of a horror movie.

For a brief second, she thought she saw a little boy’s face pressed to the glass. His hands pounded the glass in a silent scream as if he were trapped.

According to the file Helen had found, the couple was in their midthirties. They had tried for two years to have a baby before finally turning to adoption.

They had a six-year-old son named Mark.

When no one answered her knock, she rang the doorbell. Wind battered her with ice pellets as she waited in the eerie quiet.

Finally she stepped to the side and peered into the garage. A black sedan was parked inside, although there was a second space that was empty.

She moved to the right and peeked through the front window, but the lights were off. Still, she could see that the house looked as if it had been ransacked.

A lamp was overturned, magazines were strewn on the floor, and the desk drawer stood askew. Deciding no one was at home, she descended the porch steps and walked around to the back of the house, her teeth chattering. A small stoop led to the back door, snow piled a foot high.

She looked inside and noticed dishes piled in the sink. A pantry was open, and it appeared that the items inside had been rummaged through.

Had someone broken inside? Were the Baylers all right?

Nerves on edge, she jiggled the door. It was locked, but she pulled a hairpin from her hair and picked it, a skill she’d picked up from Skid. The floor squeaked as she stepped into the kitchen. The rooms were drafty, ice cold.

Slowly, she moved past the kitchen table, then through the hall, pausing to note the photographs of the family on the wall. An attractive blond woman, a handsome dark-haired man, a small boy with big brown eyes and brown hair. They looked like a happy family.

Amelia’s heart tugged. If this boy was her son, his adopted parents obviously adored him.

She climbed the steps, found the little boy’s room first, and quickly assessed the contents.

A set of bunk beds. Toy dinosaurs, a football, action figures, books, and a child’s table loaded down with Legos. A photograph of the boy in a soccer uniform hung on the wall, making her heart swell with longing.

Judging from the posters on the wall and the books, he liked fantasy stories and supernatural creatures.

Slightly unsettling for a six-year-old.

She checked the closet and noticed the drawers to his dresser were opened. It looked as if clothes had been removed.

Frowning, she hurried to the next bedroom. The parents’ room. Nicely decorated, but just like the boy’s room, the dresser drawers stood open and so did the closet door. There was a space on the floor that was empty but held the imprint of a suitcase.

The truth hit her—after Helen had called the couple, they decided to take the little boy and run.

A noise sounded. The floor squeaked. Amelia turned to see if someone was in the house and thought she saw a woman. Mrs. Bayler?

Then something hard slammed against the back of her head, and she collapsed.

He removed the prosthetic leg, cursing at the throbbing that constantly gnawed at him. Phantom limb syndrome, that’s what they called it.

Damn fools. It felt real as hell to him. Not like a phantom limb.

He’d lost it years ago. Lost it to that fucking beating.

“You good-for-nothing lowlife. You have to be taught a lesson.”

Gut-wrenching pain had riddled his maimed body, and an endless sea of blood had pooled around him.

He had been the same age as the boys he was training.

Danny watched him from the corner, his eyes glued to the mangled leftovers of his leg, but he showed no reaction.

The kid was a real trooper. Hadn’t complained or whined. Hadn’t asked any questions. Had accepted his fate and the promise of becoming someone important.

Maybe because he was so small and the other children picked on him.

Yes, he’d chosen well this time.

Danny wasn’t sick like the Tillman kid. He would thrive where he was taking him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

T
he sound of computers and voices echoed through the halls as John entered the forensics lab.

Coulter was already there, waiting on him, eyebrows furrowed. “What’s this about?”

“I think these kidnappings may be related to another investigation. Agent Blackwood faxed photos he found on surveillance cameras of the most recent bomber as well as a picture someone snapped on their cell phone of the first bomber.”

“And?”

“I’ve got a hunch.”

Arianna tapped her tablet. “I pulled up that list you wanted.”

John gave her a quick thanks. “Let’s see if the pics of these bombers match.”

Coulter propped his hip against a nearby desk while Arianna went to work. John watched the computer system scroll through pictures searching for a match. Five minutes later when they hadn’t found one, John drummed his fingers on the desk.

“Arianna, let’s use facial recognition software with age progression and compare the images.”

“Can you narrow the parameters?”

“Focus on boys who disappeared from foster homes, The Gateway House, or single-parent homes.”

“Okay.” She tapped a few keys, and the computer program began to run, flashing photo after photo on the screen, comparing them.

“You really think this kidnapper has something to do with these bombings?” Coulter asked.

“Think about it. He could have kidnapped these two boys, held them for years, and brainwashed them to become suicide bombers.”

John explained that The Gateway House had burned down, and that the Ellingtons were missing along with the children who’d been living with them. “There are unaccounted-for adoptions of children who passed through The Gateway House. It could be a front for trafficking kids or—”

“Or for someone building their own terrorist group.” Coulter’s eyes lit up at the possibility of connecting the cases.

John nodded. “Commander Blackwood tried something similar, except he was working on perfecting soldiers, not terrorists. And he drew kids from a free clinic. It also would explain the reason the abductor released Ronnie Tillman. He wanted strong boys who he could shape into what he wanted.”

The computer program beeped that it had a match. “Look,” Arianna said. “Your first bomber’s name is Allen Crone. He disappeared from a government-funded daycare center in Nashville when he was five. Mother lived in the projects. Teacher said one minute he was on the playground, and the next he was just gone.”

“Did the police have any leads?” Coulter asked.

Arianna accessed the file. “They suspected the stepfather because of abuse allegations. But he had an alibi, and so did the mother. The police questioned neighbors, other teachers and workers at the daycare, even the children, but came up with nothing. The case eventually went cold.”

Except that missing children’s cases were never closed.

A dinging sound, and the program found the latest bomber. “His name is Larry Romberg. Lived in Cleveland, Tennessee, with an ailing grandmother after his mother abandoned him. Apparently she was a drug addict. Larry disappeared from a Laundromat where the grandmother forgot him. Later she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.”

Another boy who had no one to push the police to find him.

John looked over Arianna’s shoulder as she scrolled through the police reports and photos of the crime scenes.

“Wait,” John said. He pointed to a picture of a snowy playground where Ronnie Tillman had gone missing. “Enlarge that photo.”

She tapped some keys and enhanced the picture.

John narrowed his eyes. “Looks like odd foot impressions. One is heavier than the other. It could mean he wears a special shoe of some kind. Or that he has a handicap.”

“And that you’re right. We have a serial kidnapper on our hands.”

John grimaced. “Nick discovered a website that Blackwood’s followers frequent. That’s how he found Roper.”

“I’ll look at it again,” Coulter said. “Maybe there’s something that will lead us to this unsub.”

John’s phone buzzed. Helen Gray. “I need to take this.” He stepped outside Arianna’s office and connected the call. “Agent Strong.”

“Are you with Miss Nettleton?”

“No, why?”

A second passed. “We met with two of the families who adopted from The Gateway House, but one couple refused to come in. I stepped out of my office for a moment, then Amelia left in a hurry. I think she may have stolen some information from my computer about the other couple. I’m afraid she might have gone to see them. I don’t have to tell you that I could get in trouble for this—”

“You won’t,” John assured her. “Just give me that address. I’ll find Miss Nettleton and make certain to smooth things over with the couple.”

Another pause riddled with anxiety.

“I promise I’ll use discretion,” John said.

“I’m texting you their name and address now.”

John disconnected, explained to Coulter and Arianna he needed to go, and headed down the hall to the elevator as he read the text. Five minutes later his tires squealed, grinding the sand the snowplows had poured on the roads as he raced from the parking lot.

He tried Amelia’s cell, but she didn’t answer. Damn.

As he pulled down the Baylers’ street, he saw Amelia’s Mini Cooper parked in front of the Victorian house. Icicles dripped from the roof, and crystals of ice were plastered to the windowpanes, giving them the appearance of broken glass.

He screeched to a stop, threw his SUV into park, jogged up the steps, and pounded on the door.

When no one answered, his instincts kicked in. He peered through the front window. The house looked as if it had been torn apart.

His instincts roared to life, and he pulled out his gun and crept around the outside of the house, checking the windows and perimeter in case someone was lurking around.

But the house was eerily quiet. Dark. No movement inside.

Palms sweating, he made it to the back door. The fact that it was ajar made him grip his gun tighter. He stepped inside, sweeping the kitchen, then hallway and living room, for Amelia.

Or someone lying in wait.

But he didn’t see or hear anyone. Instead, silence cloaked the rooms. The only sounds were his breathing and the squeaking of the wood floors as he climbed the stairs.

The first room on the right, a child’s, was empty, although toys and clothes were scattered as if someone had left in a hurry.

The wind outside whistled, rattling windowpanes, and he rushed to the next room. Dark. He paused, watching for an intruder waiting to attack.

The curtains fluttered by the window, drawing his gaze to the corner. Dammit.

Amelia was lying on the floor, unconscious.

Amelia roused from unconsciousness, her head spinning, the world a blur. What had happened?

She’d come in looking for the Baylers. She’d thought she saw Mrs. Bayler . . . then someone had hit her.

“Lie still,” a voice murmured. “I’ve called an ambulance.”

The man’s voice registered, gruff and soothing. His hand stroked the hair from her face so gently that tears burned her eyes as she struggled to look at him.

John was there. Saving her. Always saving her.

She lifted one hand and pressed it against his cheek. “John?”

“I’m here,” he said. “What happened?”

A barrage of other images pummeled her.
She was in the hospital, drugged, disoriented. White coats rushed by in a blur. Some strong chemical odor permeated the air. Machines beeped, shrill and loud. The orderlies were holding her down, injecting her with yet another narcotic.

Locking her in that room.

A guard stood at the door, armed. He would shoot if she tried to escape.

John’s chest constricted at the sudden sliver of fear in Amelia’s eyes. For a second, she looked as if she was afraid of him.

He had seen that look before.

The realization made his anxiety mount. How could he have seen it when he’d only known her a few days?

Another memory teased at his subconscious.
A woman looked up at him with trusting eyes. Needy eyes.

Her lips whispered his name . . . his body heated. He wanted to touch her, but doing so was forbidden.

The image quickly disappeared, leaving him confused and with more questions. Who was the woman? Someone he’d been involved with before he’d met Amelia? Someone waiting for him to come back?

The truth was buried somewhere in his lost past.

Secrets that would confirm he hadn’t been a good guy before his accident.

Secrets he would have to face before he could be whole again, to maybe have a real life. A life that involved more than chasing kidnappers and predators and going to bed alone at night.

The siren wailed closer, jerking him back to the moment. “The ambulance is almost here. What happened, Amelia?”

She clutched his arm. “I came here to talk to the family, but they were gone. At least I thought they were.”

“You didn’t see anyone when you arrived?”

“No. The house . . . was empty. But then I thought I saw Mrs. Bayler.”

John spoke through gritted teeth. “She must have knocked you out to give them time to get away.”

Amelia tried to sit up, but she swayed, and he caught her.

“You probably have a concussion,” he said. “Just lie still.”

She touched the back of her head, wincing. “We have to hurry and find them, John.”

“We will,” John said.

The possibilities raced through his mind. Ones he didn’t like. The Ellingtons had disappeared when they’d learned John was investigating The Gateway House, and now this couple had run, too.

What were they hiding?

The paramedics arrived, and John hurried to let them in. While they examined Amelia, he searched the house for signs of foul play or that the child was hiding somewhere.

But he didn’t see blood or signs of violence. He did find the little boy’s room disturbing. Several books on dark, paranormal creatures were jammed in the bookshelf. He flipped through the sketchpad on the kid-sized table and saw sinister outlines of a monster.

Then a drawing of a boy locked in a tiny room, the narrow window at the top the only light source. More creatures circled the outside as if trying to scratch their way inside the room.

He searched the closet but found nothing except a few T-shirts and jeans left. Questions needling him, he jogged back to the kitchen, then checked the kitchen desk, but he didn’t find a checkbook or computer. There were no suitcases in the house either, indicating they packed and left willingly.

He searched for an address book or notepad with information on family or a friend they might have called, but found nothing.

It was most likely they’d disappeared out of fear that Amelia would press for custody if they’d adopted her child, but they also could be in trouble. Maybe the adoption was illegal? Maybe they knew they had adopted a kidnapped child?

Maybe they were accomplices in something much bigger . . .

He phoned Arianna. “I need a search warrant for the Ellingtons’ phone records at The Gateway House and for files at the adoption agency.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Also, run a background check for me on Eugene and Dana Bayler.”