Her Dying Breath (22 page)

She looked young and vulnerable. But the insecurity in her voice made Brenda’s heart squeeze. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I thought you might be able to help.”

Amelia’s expression turned wary. “Another man died?”

Brenda narrowed her eyes. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. But I figured if you were back, it was because something bad had happened.”

Brenda wanted to assure Amelia that she’d simply come to visit. But that wasn’t true, and she refused to lie. Too many people had lied to Amelia already. “I’m sorry—if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. I can leave.” She reached for the door, but Amelia clutched her arm.

“No, come on in. I couldn’t sleep anyway. That’s why I was painting.” She sighed as they entered the den, and Brenda shivered at the sight of the black shadows on the canvas Amelia had been working on. A gold cross hung above a window in the sketch, as if to ward off the demons. A corner bookcase now held a Bible and a ceramic angel that hadn’t been there before.

“The nightmares come at night,” Amelia admitted.

Crimson reds dotted the black. Blood, maybe? The colors in her nightmare?

Then she noticed a painting of a girl who looked familiar. “Is that Grace?”

A soft smile curved Amelia’s face. “Yes—I tried to imagine how she’d look if she’d been happy and had led a normal life. She never got the chance.”

Sadly, Amelia was right. “I’m really sorry about what happened to both of you,” Brenda said, meaning it.

Amelia tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and gestured for Brenda to sit down. She made herself comfortable, hoping Amelia could relax with her. “Thanks for inviting me in. What else do you remember about Grace?”

“We played games in the waiting room before the doctor gave us our immunizations. Grace had a doll named Chatty Cathy. I wanted one so badly, but Gran never would buy me one.”

“You went to the free clinic for your immunizations?” Brenda asked softly.

Amelia nodded and picked at a thread on her shirt.

The free clinic in town had served as the base where Nick’s father and the doctors in the research project had chosen their subjects.

“Did you see Grace at the sanitarium?” Brenda asked.

A haunted look flashed in Amelia’s eyes. “Yes, sometimes.”

Brenda cradled Amelia’s hand in hers. “You did such a good job capturing Grace on canvas. Do you think you could draw a sketch of the others in the project?”

Amelia’s eyes lit up. “You mean Joe and Bertrice?”

“Yes,” Brenda said. “And Seven.”

Amelia stood, walked to the window, and stared out into the dark night.

“I’m sorry—did I say something to upset you?” Brenda asked.

Amelia shook her head. “It’s just that I know I’m supposed to remember. But…”

“Sometimes you don’t want to,” Brenda said.

“Exactly.” Amelia looked back at her. “Does that make me a coward?”

Brenda shook her head, then went to Amelia and stroked her arms. “No, Amelia, it makes you human.”

“Sadie says you’re only being nice to me because you want a story for the news.”

An image of the five-year-old Sadie being taunted by the bigger kids on the playground rose from the graveyard of Brenda’s memories. “I do want to tell your story, but not to embarrass or humiliate you. I want everyone to see that you aren’t mentally unstable, that you’re brave. That you’re going to survive no matter what they did to you.”

Tears blurred Amelia’s eyes. “But sometimes I still feel crazy. When I hear the voices. I tell them to go away, but when it’s dark and I dream about that basement where he took us, I want to give in and disappear.”

“But you haven’t,” Brenda said.

“I promised Sadie I wouldn’t give up.”

“Good for you. You’re stronger than people think.”

“Thanks. But I still get confused.”

Brenda rubbed Amelia’s hand. “Believe it or not, I know what it’s like to be confused about who you are.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t know. Everyone always liked you in school. You were popular.” Amelia took a deep breath. “You always wore these pretty store-bought dresses, while Sadie and I wore faded hand-me-downs from the Goodwill store.
One day you wore a white dress with sparkles and these bright red shoes. You looked so beautiful.”

“I called them my Dorothy shoes,” Brenda said with a laugh. She’d forgotten about them.

“I thought you looked like a princess.”

Brenda licked her suddenly dry lips. She knew the dress Amelia was talking about. Her mother had insisted she wear it to the country club, had screamed at her for wanting to play outside, had made Brenda pose with her parents for a photo for the newspaper because her father was running for town council.

“It appeared like I was happy, like I had it all, Amelia, but on the inside, I was just as insecure as you and Sadie.” Brenda paused. “It’s obviously not the same as the ordeal you endured. I wasn’t tortured or used like you were, but…” She decided to confide in her completely. “When I was sixteen, I found out my parents, the people who raised me, aren’t really my parents. They adopted me. They’d lied to me for years.”

Amelia’s face softened. “But you’re Brenda Banks—you’re on TV.”

Brenda laughed softly. “I do like my job, but in here”—she pressed a hand to her heart—“in here, I don’t know who I am. And that eats at me, because I need to know the truth.”

Amelia squeezed Brenda’s hands. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t know the truth, that people didn’t know. They look at me like I’m a freak.”

“You’re not a freak,” Brenda said earnestly. “You were a victim, but you’re taking charge of your life. I believe telling your story will help you heal.”

A sad smile curved Amelia’s face, but her eyes flickered with determination. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll try to remember what Seven looks like and draw her.”

Brenda gave Amelia a hug, emotions overwhelming her. “Thanks. Call when you do.” She turned to leave, then paused at
the door. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You can call me anytime, Amelia. Just to talk.”

That wary look returned to Amelia’s eyes.

“I promise you that I won’t print anything or report anything you don’t want me to.”

Amelia’s eyes glittered with tears. “Thanks, Brenda. I promise I’ll try to draw a picture of Seven, but it’s been years since I’ve seen her.” She tilted her head to the side. “She was pretty, you know. Not in a movie-star way, but striking. But her eyes were so tormented. Even though the Commander called her his favorite, she cried just like we did when he took her to the dark room.”

Brenda clenched her hands together. No telling what he’d done to Seven when they were alone. “Thank you. But listen, Amelia, if it’s too painful to remember, don’t push it. Take care of yourself first. We’ll find Seven, even if you can’t help.”

Amelia gave her a hug, then Brenda left, her heart aching.

They had to find Seven before she killed again.

Nick phoned Jake and another crime unit, and he and Jake decided to include his coworker, Special Agent Rafe Hood, in the investigation of the murder on the ridge. The Bureau had assigned him to investigate the Commander, saying he and Jake were too close. The fact that the gunshot wound resembled a professional hit meant they could be dealing with a different killer.

But Nick had a bad feeling it was all tied back to his father’s fucking experiment.

He just didn’t know how this man’s murder fit in. Had he worked for the Commander? Was he another hired gun, like the man he’d sent after Sadie in San Francisco?

Or a subject they wanted to snuff out before he talked?

Brenda rubbed her bleary eyes as she drove around the mountain toward her condo. Shadows jumped at every corner, the wind hurling leaves and debris across the road. Thunder rumbled, and a branch snapped off a tree to her right and tumbled across the road.

Suddenly a car raced up behind her, its headlights blinding her. She glanced in her rearview mirror, blinking and willing it to back off. But the car sped up, its motor roaring until it closed in, riding her bumper.

Brenda tapped her brakes, hoping to warn the tailgater, but instead of slowing, the driver gunned the engine and slammed into her rear. Clenching the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, she struggled to maintain control. But the car rammed into her again, and her car skidded and spun out of control.

Fear mingled with anger as she fought to stay on the road, but the curve loomed ahead, the mountainside rushing toward her as she slammed into its rocky face.

Her head snapped forward as the air bag exploded, the sound of the car racing away echoing in her ears as a black sea of nothingness swallowed her.

N
ick searched James’s house while the ME examined his body and the forensic team dusted for prints and combed the log cabin. He opened the closet and noted the dead man’s clothing: seven white shirts, seven pairs of dark gray slacks—one for each day of the week—on hangers spaced at half-inch intervals.

The man’s two pairs of dress shoes were stowed in a line on the floor beside a pair of military boots, the distances between them neatly measured. His bedroom was orderly, the bed made military style. James might have left military service, but his training had stayed with him, making him almost obsessive-compulsive in his home.

Nick glanced around for a computer or cell phone, but didn’t find one. In the prior cases related to the Slaughter Creek experiments, the victims had been either subjects or medical personnel.

Was this man’s death related to the Commander, or to Seven and the stranglings?

But how?

Both James and Logger had worked for the same security company. Logger had been murdered by Seven. So had victim number two.

James had been shot in the head.

Nick checked behind the victim’s ear, but there was no number carved there.

He searched the desk drawer, but it held only paper clips, pens, and rubber bands in neat compartments. He found a shoebox in the closet and looked inside. A 9 mm Luger. Hollow bullets. An extra magazine.

For personal protection? Or had he been a hired gun like the man who’d been sent to kill Sadie?

Nick examined the weapon. It hadn’t been fired recently. Still, he gave it to the crime tech to log into evidence.

Frustrated, he went back to the kitchen and rummaged through the kitchen drawers. Barring the usual silverware, most of the drawers were empty. A mail holder on the corner of the counter held recent bills that were organized by due dates.

In the last drawer, he found a business card listing the number of a rehab facility.

If James had been injured or suffered psychological effects from his stint in the service, maybe he’d received physical therapy and counseling. Nick turned the card over and read the name. Angel Mount Rehab.

His phone jangled, and he snatched it up. “Special Agent Blackwood.”

“Nick, it’s Jake.”

“Did you find anything?”

“I’m on my way to check out a building in the northern part of the mountains,” Jake said. “There was a fire this past week that sounds suspicious.”

Nick frowned. He didn’t see a connection, but sometimes seemingly unrelated events were related. “Okay. I found Darren James. He’s dead, shot in the head at point-blank range.”