Dying for Love (17 page)

But another boy had to take Ronnie’s place.

He drove past the clinic where the poor kids got dental treatment. He’d gone there himself when he was little.

Had hated the stigma attached to being poor. Not just poor—poor white trash.

That damn dentist didn’t give a shit about the poor kids, either. His laugh said he enjoyed causing them pain. Most of the time he hadn’t even used Novocain. Said it cost too damn much.

Poor kids deserved what they got.

The last time he’d stepped in that place and the bastard had pulled three of his teeth, he’d vowed to come back and kill him.

Maybe he still would.

The door opened, and a little girl stepped outside with a woman holding her hand. A girl wouldn’t do.

Had to be a boy.

If he waited long enough, he’d find one. He saw the bench where he used to sit and wait for the bus to take him back to school after he’d been drilled on and got a filling. So many fillings.

He hated that motherfucker dentist. Once a little girl had cried because she was scared and the dentist had slapped her across the face.

She never cried again.

The door squeaked open, and a boy emerged, his threadbare clothes hanging on his bony body. Bruises darkened his arms, but the boy tugged his sleeves down to cover them.

He remembered doing that, too. Hide and lie. Make up an excuse.

He’d fallen. Ran into a door. Stumbled down the steps because he was a klutz.

But that had taught him to be strong. To be a survivor.

He would do that for these boys. Teach them the same way.

The boy slumped down on the bench, head down, mouth drooling from the numbness of the Novocain.

He parked, got out, dug his hands into his pockets, and strolled up to the kid, careful to keep his head shielded by the ski cap. It wasn’t holiday time, but he felt like he was Santa about to give the boy a present.

A way out of his miserable life.

A way to make changes in the world.

He stooped down and held out his hand. The boy’s eyes lit up at the prize in his palm

Without a word, he stood and followed him back to the car.

Zack blinked, his head foggy, the room twirling like he was on a merry-go-round.

Not that he’d ever been on one, but he’d dreamed about it from the videos he’d seen.

But then there were colors and darkness and sickening sounds, swallowing him up in a dizzying rush.

Finally they’d moved him from the underground hole to another building. The rehabilitation center.

His last-chance stop. If he didn’t follow orders, he’d end up in the ground again. This time for good.

That other boy was there, too. He heard his voice all the time.

Only the guard said Zack was alone.

Colors began swirling in his mind, flowing and running together. There were dragons that breathed fire and man-eating machines and noises that sounded like teeth crunching bone.

He tried to yell for help, but he couldn’t move his tongue.

A howling sounded outside.

Were the colors and monsters and banshees all in his mind?

Or were the demons chasing him, trying to claw the skin off his back and drag him back to that dark hole where he’d never be seen again?

Chapter Seventeen

T
he embers of the fire glowed orange against the darkness as night fell, and the firemen finally started pulling in their equipment.

The lead fire investigator, Ian Wainwright, assured John he’d contact him with any forensics they found at the scene.

“I just talked to a social worker, Helen Gray,” John said as he and Amelia drove away. “She said a couple named the Ellingtons managed The Gateway House. She’s going to see what she can find out about their whereabouts.”

The defrost whirred in the car. Amelia rubbed her hands together to warm them. Behind them, smoke still clogged the night sky. “I don’t understand why someone would try to hurt the kids and couple who live there.”

John twisted his mouth in thought. “Unless there was something going on with the house.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe the couple was involved in some illegal adoptions. Or trafficking kids themselves.”

“You think they could have sold my baby?”

John laid his hand over hers. “I’m just speculating out loud. We have to consider all possibilities.”

Amelia felt sick inside.

“Helen also gave me the names of two families who adopted about the time your son was born.”

Amelia’s heart picked up a beat. “They might have him?”

“It’s a long shot, Amelia. And these folks may not want to cooperate.”

“I understand that.” Amelia watched the trees fly past, gnarled branches bowing beneath the weight of the snow and ice. “I suppose if I were in their shoes, I’d feel the same way.”

John drove onto the main road leading back into town. “One of the families lives near Slaughter Creek. I probably should get a court order, so we’ll have to tread lightly, but I thought we might stop by there now.”

Amelia’s breath caught. So soon? Was she ready? What would she do if the child was hers? Should she tell him?

No, she’d work that out with his adopted family. If he had a safe, secure home and was happy, she didn’t want to traumatize him by suddenly appearing in his life.

And if he wasn’t her son . . .

She would keep looking.

John’s expression looked grim. “Amelia, I have to warn you that this child has special needs.”

Amelia’s chest constricted. “Do you think that would matter to me?”

John’s gaze met hers. “I don’t know. Would it?”

Anger surged through her. Maybe she’d been wrong about the two of them being involved before. If they had been, surely he’d instinctively understand her.

“No,” Amelia said firmly. “If he’s my son, I’d love him no matter what.”

The quarter moon peeked through the clouds over the mountain, adding a sliver of light to the treetops, but the forests seemed thick with darkness and there were very few stars shining. An indication winter wasn’t ready to leave them.

And when it did, tornado season would roll in on its heels.

While they made a quick stop at Amelia’s to change out of their smoke-filled clothes, John debated on calling the couple before they showed up. They might feel ambushed and totally shut down when they realized the nature of their questions.

But if he warned them, they might run.

Amelia lapsed into silence, her fingers moving up and down, tapping her leg. He watched her for a second and realized it was some kind of pattern that she repeated over and over again. He wondered what it meant, but refrained from asking.

It was most likely a nervous tic she’d developed due to PTSD.

“Tell me about this family,” Amelia said. “How they adopted the boy.”

He relayed the information Helen had texted him. “The Millers, Bonnie and Ralph, are foster parents. They’ve had at least a dozen children stay with them at different times.”

“Any complaints about them?” Amelia asked.

“No,” John said. “Six years ago they took in this little boy named Davie. He was small for his age and had vision problems as well as seizures. He’s on medication.”

They reached the couple’s street. The family lived on the outskirts of town in a small brick house nestled among other similar homes. Most were dated-looking, but judging from the tricycles, bikes, and other toys scattered in the yards, and the snowmen, it was a family-friendly neighborhood.

He parked, and they walked up the sidewalk together. Amelia’s quick intake of breath relayed her nerves. He rang the doorbell, then heard a woman yell that she was coming.

When she opened the door, he offered her a smile. She was middle aged and pudgy with short curly hair and kind eyes. Behind them, he heard children laughing and chattering.

He introduced the two of them, bringing a frown to her face. “You’re with the TBI? I recognize you from the news when you rescued that Wesley boy.”

“Yes, I work with a task force looking for missing children.”

A frown pinched her face. “I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

“Please let us in and we’ll explain,” Amelia interjected softly.

Bonnie Miller motioned for them to enter. “Let me check on the children.”

They followed her to the kitchen, a cozy room painted a soft green with a butcher-block table where three children sat. One girl, who looked to be about twelve, was working on math homework, a freckle-faced toddler boy was drawing a spiderweb, and another child of about six with wavy brown hair held a book of some kind. In fact, he was running his hands over the pages, which John realized were in braille.

He had to be Davie.

Bonnie introduced each of the kids by name. The girl offered a tentative smile, but the toddler didn’t bother to look up. He was busy adding dozens of bugs caught in the spiderweb.

Davie seemed totally absorbed in his book although he was tapping his leg as he read.

“Kids, I’ll be in the other room for a minute.” She touched the girl’s shoulder. “Come and get me if you need me.”

The girl nodded. “Sure, Miss Bonnie.”

John relaxed slightly, relieved that this foster home appeared to be loving, not like some he’d encountered through his job.

Bonnie led them to a small living room off the kitchen. A comfortable sofa and armchair filled one corner and faced a TV. Bins with toys were stacked against the wall.

“Now, why are you here?” Bonnie said, her voice concerned.

“We need to talk to you about Davie.”

Bonnie’s frown deepened. “What about him?”

“Do you know who his mother was?” Amelia asked.

Bonnie picked at a thread on her shirt. “No. He was dropped off at The Gateway House early one morning.”

John tensed. “Did he have anything with him when he was found? A note? Blanket? Toy?”

Bonnie narrowed her eyes. “He was wrapped in a blue blanket and left in a laundry basket. Whoever abandoned him left a note saying she couldn’t take care of him and to please find him a good home.”

John glanced at Amelia, but her face was pale.

Could she have actually left the baby there herself when she was in one of her fugue states? Or could Davie be the baby the nun said had been left with at the church?

Amelia’s heart melted at the sight of the children. The toddler was adorable, but the little boy practicing his braille had stolen her heart. He looked small for his age, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he had other issues besides the seizures and his vision impairment.

“Now, Agent Strong,” Bonnie said. “I’ve answered your questions. Tell me why you’re interested in Davie.”

John started to answer her, but Amelia gestured to let her explain. “Because of me, Bonnie. I’m looking for my son.”

Bonnie turned to Amelia, her expression guarded. “You think Davie is yours?”

Amelia shifted. “I don’t know. It’s possible.”

Bonnie leaned forward. “I don’t understand.”

Amelia took a deep breath. “I’m sure you heard about the CHIMES project that took place in Slaughter Creek?”

Recognition dawned in Bonnie’s eyes. “You were part of it?”

Amelia nodded. “During that time, I was drugged and brainwashed. For a long time, I suffered from mental problems, but I’ve been undergoing therapy. Lately, I’ve recovered memories of giving birth.”

“Amelia’s grandfather left her a letter to be opened after he passed away telling her he’d discovered she’d had a son,” John cut in. “He also left her some rosary beads, which led us to another contact, who referred us to The Gateway House.”

Bonnie picked up a stuffed dinosaur from the sofa and began to rub it. “How old would the child be now?”

“Six,” Amelia said. “And we know Davie is that age and you got him through The Gateway House.”

A wary look darkened Bonnie’s eyes. “So you gave him up and now you want him back?”

“My baby was stolen from me.” Anguish clogged Amelia’s throat. It was obvious that Bonnie loved the little boy and he seemed happy. “I know this may be upsetting, but if he is my son, I’d like to get to know him.” And be a mother to him.

Although Bonnie had already filled that role.

Bonnie folded her arms. “Davie has had a hard go of it, Amelia. He’s small for his age, gets teased, and he’s completely blind in one eye with a very low percentage of sight in the other. It took him a long time to adapt here and to feel secure. My husband and I love him very much and don’t want anything to impede the progress he’s made.”

“I wouldn’t want that either,” Amelia said. “But please know that I didn’t willingly give up my child. He was taken from me.”

Silence descended, deafening with unanswered questions.

“Mrs. Miller,” John finally said. “Davie may not be Amelia’s son. We have another family to talk to about this. But there’s one way to find out for sure.”

“You want to test his DNA?” Bonnie asked, her voice dropping a decibel.

“Yes,” John said. “That way you’ll know the truth and so will Amelia.”

Bonnie gave Amelia a look that cut her to the core. “And what if he is your son, Amelia? Would you take him from the only family he’s ever known?”

Amelia stood. She understood the woman’s reservations. But at the same time, her child had been stolen from her, and she deserved to know him.

Tamping down her emotions, she squared her shoulders. “Please just agree to the test and then we’ll talk.”

“You said you had mental problems,” Bonnie reminded her. “I read about you, you know. What makes you think you’re well enough to take care of a handicapped child?”