Daring herself to jump and end the guilt.
Daring herself to live and confess the truth about what she’d done.
“Holy fucking mother,” he muttered as he opened the back of the van and found the boy on the floor, his body shaking like he was having a convulsion.
“What’s wrong with you, kid?”
The boy didn’t respond.
Cold terror shot through him, and he shook the kid. But the boy simply looked up at him with glassy eyes.
Shit. He’d been in a hurry and hadn’t done his research on this one. He liked the healthy, strong ones.
But this kid’s skin was ice cold, his lips turning blue.
He shook him again, but the boy’s feet banged the metal floor of the van, and he was as limp as a dead snake.
Furious and scared the boy would die, he closed the door, jumped back in the van and drove like hell. Damn sleet drilled against the windshield, and fog blurred his view. He swerved to avoid a tree in the road, cursing.
The kid needed a doctor, but a hospital would ask questions, want insurance.
Call the police.
What a fucking mess.
Sweat beaded on his hands as he spun the van around and raced toward the little clinic he’d passed down the road. A doc-in-the-box.
They’d know what to do.
He tucked his gun in his jacket pocket, relieved when he spotted the clinic ahead. Only one car in the parking lot. Had to be the doc’s.
Good.
Something about the boy reminded him of himself. He couldn’t let him die. Besides, he wasn’t a kid killer. He was saving these boys. Turning them into men. Giving them a purpose.
He threw the van into park, jumped out and retrieved the boy, throwing his own coat over him to keep the sleet from pummeling his face. The boy looked pale as milk, his breathing choppy.
Knowing he had to play it smart, he tucked his hat low on his head, then glanced around from inside his jacket, searching for security cameras.
One on the corner. He tucked his head low and ducked, averting his face to avoid being captured on camera.
Breathing hard, he ducked inside, took the jacket off while keeping his hat low, and raced to the receptionist behind the glass partition. She couldn’t be more than twenty, her blond hair streaked with red and black, earrings in the shape of grizzlies swaying from her lobes. Her name tag read “Wynona.”
“Help. He can’t breathe.”
Startled when she saw the way the boy lay in his arms, she jumped up and waved him back through the door.
“Dr. Ableman,” the girl called. “Emergency!”
A wiry-haired man with bifocals rushed toward him, alarm slashing his face at the sight of the child.
“In here.” The doctor motioned for him to place the boy on a table inside an exam room. “What’s his name?”
Shit. If he told him the truth, the doc would run for the phone. “Timmy.”
“He your son?”
“No, my sister’s,” he said. “I was driving him home and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.”
The doctor began to check his vitals. “He has asthma?”
Jesus, he didn’t know. “I . . . his mama didn’t say. She just dumped him on me ’cause she had to go to work.”
The doctor frowned as if his story didn’t quite fit.
“You have insurance?” the girl asked while the doctor went to work on the kid.
It was a routine question, but he spotted a local newspaper with Ronnie’s picture on the front page and realized she and the doc most likely recognized the boy.
“Yeah, I do.” He pulled the gun from his pocket and aimed it at the girl. “Here’s my insurance.”
The girl screamed and threw up her hands. He motioned for her to sit in the corner and waved the gun at the old man, who looked panicked.
“Just fix the kid and we’ll be out of your way.”
The doctor’s graying eyebrows drew together. “There’s no need to hurt us.”
He smiled as if he agreed, but the two of them were already as good as dead.
It didn’t matter how damn pretty the girl was. She’d have to die.
Chapter Eleven
P aintings of the saints adorned the
Daring herself to live and confess the truth about what she’d done.
“Holy fucking mother,” he muttered as he opened the back of the van and found the boy on the floor, his body shaking like he was having a convulsion.
“What’s wrong with you, kid?”
The boy didn’t respond.
Cold terror shot through him, and he shook the kid. But the boy simply looked up at him with glassy eyes.
Shit. He’d been in a hurry and hadn’t done his research on this one. He liked the healthy, strong ones.
But this kid’s skin was ice cold, his lips turning blue.
He shook him again, but the boy’s feet banged the metal floor of the van, and he was as limp as a dead snake.
Furious and scared the boy would die, he closed the door, jumped back in the van and drove like hell. Damn sleet drilled against the windshield, and fog blurred his view. He swerved to avoid a tree in the road, cursing.
The kid needed a doctor, but a hospital would ask questions, want insurance.
Call the police.
What a fucking mess.
Sweat beaded on his hands as he spun the van around and raced toward the little clinic he’d passed down the road. A doc-in-the-box.
They’d know what to do.
He tucked his gun in his jacket pocket, relieved when he spotted the clinic ahead. Only one car in the parking lot. Had to be the doc’s.
Good.
Something about the boy reminded him of himself. He couldn’t let him die. Besides, he wasn’t a kid killer. He was saving these boys. Turning them into men. Giving them a purpose.
He threw the van into park, jumped out and retrieved the boy, throwing his own coat over him to keep the sleet from pummeling his face. The boy looked pale as milk, his breathing choppy.
Knowing he had to play it smart, he tucked his hat low on his head, then glanced around from inside his jacket, searching for security cameras.
One on the corner. He tucked his head low and ducked, averting his face to avoid being captured on camera.
Breathing hard, he ducked inside, took the jacket off while keeping his hat low, and raced to the receptionist behind the glass partition. She couldn’t be more than twenty, her blond hair streaked with red and black, earrings in the shape of grizzlies swaying from her lobes. Her name tag read “Wynona.”
“Help. He can’t breathe.”
Startled when she saw the way the boy lay in his arms, she jumped up and waved him back through the door.
“Dr. Ableman,” the girl called. “Emergency!”
A wiry-haired man with bifocals rushed toward him, alarm slashing his face at the sight of the child.
“In here.” The doctor motioned for him to place the boy on a table inside an exam room. “What’s his name?”
Shit. If he told him the truth, the doc would run for the phone. “Timmy.”
“He your son?”
“No, my sister’s,” he said. “I was driving him home and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.”
The doctor began to check his vitals. “He has asthma?”
Jesus, he didn’t know. “I . . . his mama didn’t say. She just dumped him on me ’cause she had to go to work.”
The doctor frowned as if his story didn’t quite fit.
“You have insurance?” the girl asked while the doctor went to work on the kid.
It was a routine question, but he spotted a local newspaper with Ronnie’s picture on the front page and realized she and the doc most likely recognized the boy.
“Yeah, I do.” He pulled the gun from his pocket and aimed it at the girl. “Here’s my insurance.”
The girl screamed and threw up her hands. He motioned for her to sit in the corner and waved the gun at the old man, who looked panicked.
“Just fix the kid and we’ll be out of your way.”
The doctor’s graying eyebrows drew together. “There’s no need to hurt us.”
He smiled as if he agreed, but the two of them were already as good as dead.
It didn’t matter how damn pretty the girl was. She’d have to die.
Chapter Eleven
P aintings of the saints adorned the
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