Hayley missed indoor plumbing. At least at the last Eden site they’d had outhouses. Here in the caves, the toilet was basically a bench with a hole cut into it. They literally peed in the pot that was stuck beneath the hole.
The smell . . . She had to fight not to gag, because if she gagged, she puked. Which just made it all worse. Plus, she didn’t know if throwing up might start up her labor.
She didn’t think so, but she didn’t know. She didn’t know because she didn’t have access to a damn doctor. Even the healer was gone, having accompanied Pastor to the hospital in the city.
Because, of course, Pastor got to go to the hospital. She had to stay here, in a fucking cave.
She was having this baby in a fucking cave. Cameron wasn’t coming. Nobody was coming. Nobody could help. She’d considered an escape attempt, but Graham had told her that there was a guard at the entrance—with a rifle. Graham might be able to slip out, but she wouldn’t be able to, not as big as she’d become.
I’m going to have this baby and she’s going to be taken away from me. To give to Sister Rebecca, the vile whore. She thinks she’s gonna steal my baby? No. Not gonna happen.
Except that she might not have a choice. She needed to think. But all she seemed able to do was sleep, cry, and pee. She caressed her belly. “I’m so sorry, Jellybean,” she whispered. “This isn’t your fault.”
It’s not mine, either. She laid the blame of this nightmare directly on her mother’s shoulders. If they ever got back to civilization, Hayley was going to have her charged. Because this was kidnapping. This was a crime.
Her ire fizzled, exhaustion retaking her. This is my new life. Sniffling back tears, she stepped away from the toilet, pulled the curtain closed, then lifted the lantern to find her way back.
A lantern, goddammit. A real one, not battery powered. It had actual fire inside it. At least most of the caves were wide and had decent airflow throughout. Otherwise, between the fumes from the toilet and the smoke from the lanterns, they’d all suffocate.
“Psst.”
Hayley jumped, spinning around, barely holding on to the lantern. “Graham,” she hissed. “You scared me to death. What are you doing here?”
He grinned, the flickering light giving him a devilish appearance. “Came to empty the pot. I’m on duty today.”
Her stomach roiled. “You did it yesterday.” She frowned. “And the day before. Why?” The disgusting jobs were rotated among the younger boys, unless someone was being punished.
“Gets me outside. I can breathe fresh air.” Graham leaned closer and whispered, “And search for stuff. And hide other stuff.”
Stuff. Like the computer. And the drugs he’d found the day before. Her heart clenched. “You’re doing this for me?”
Graham shrugged. “More for Jellybean. Gonna be her favorite uncle.”
Hayley’s eyes stung. “I love you, Cookie.”
His lips curved up. “I know.” He hesitated. “You know.”
She smiled at him. She did know that he loved her, too. “You need to go back to bed.”
“After I dump the pot.”
“Gra—,” a shrill voice said before cutting away. “Achan,” their mother whispered. “Why are you whispering to Magdalena?”
The thief and the whore, Hayley thought, having to close her eyes. She couldn’t look at her mother anymore. The bubbling rage was just too much.
“She had to pee,” Graham said, somehow hiding his contempt for the woman who’d brought them here. “Because she’s pregnant. I’m dumping the pot, because it’s my job.” He darted into the toilet area, returning with the pot, full and foul. “Do you need to pee in it, Mother?”
Hayley gagged. “Graham. Oh my God, that reeks.” Then her head snapped back as her mother slapped her. Hard.
“His name is Achan. Your name is Magdalena. You will be respectful, and you will follow the rules. Do you understand?”
Hayley worked her jaw, tasting blood. “Fuck you,” she spat, suddenly not caring who heard.
Her mother gasped, and Graham winced. “She’s hormonal,” he said. “It’s not her fault.”
“It most certainly is her fault. She had relations with a man who is not her husband. Whatever happens to her is her fault.”
Hayley clenched her fists. “Why, you smarmy little bi—”
“Mother,” Graham interrupted, taking a step closer to their mother, holding the pot up so that the old bitch took a giant step back. “Let my sister go to bed. She’s tired and scared. You had both of us in a hospital, didn’t you? You had an epidural and a real doctor. She won’t, and she’s scared. You would have been, too, don’t you think?”
“No. I was fine, and she will be, too. Unless God’s will is otherwise.”
Hayley took a step back of her own, partly to get away from the pot Graham held and partly so that she wouldn’t drop her mother to the cave floor with an uppercut. Cameron had taught her how as part of her self-defense lessons. Fat lot of good those had done her, because she couldn’t defend herself now. And if she couldn’t defend herself, how could she defend their baby?
Longing for Cameron and a bone-deep sorrow hit her hard. She missed Cameron’s mother. The woman had been a true mother to her. Not like the evil sack of shit that was trying to scare her by insinuating it might not be God’s will for her or her baby to survive. “I’m going back to bed,” she said, teeth clenched.
“I’ll walk you there,” her mother said silkily, taking her arm and digging her fingers into Hayley’s flesh.
Hayley struggled, but her mother was strong. “Mom, you’re hurting me. Don’t—”
Hayley’s protest was suddenly cut off by her mother’s scream, the bitch’s grip abruptly disappearing. Hayley caught Graham’s small wink and bit back her grin. Graham had sloshed some of the contents of the pot onto his mother’s feet, and it was soaking into her shoes.
“Oh, Mother. I am so sorry,” Graham said.
“You did that on purpose!” she screeched.
Murmurs arose from the curtained-off rooms.
“Good job, Mom,” Hayley snapped. “You’ve woken everyone. I’m going back to bed.”
She turned on her heel and headed back for the cubicle she shared with Joshua’s other wives. And ran right into Brother Joshua himself. He gripped her arms, steadying her before she could fall. His grip wasn’t punishing, like her mother’s had been, but she winced.
“What is the meaning of this?” he growled.
Sister Rebecca, the baby-stealer, sidled up beside him. “She’s a troublemaker.”
“Her mother slapped her,” a calm voice said, and Hayley wanted to sag in relief. Sister Tamar had rescued her once again. “She slapped her, then grabbed her arm. She probably has bruises.”
Joshua frowned. “Is this true?”
Hayley started to answer but caught Tamar’s shake of the head. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that the question had been addressed to Graham. Who still held the damn pot of piss.
“Yes, sir,” Graham said respectfully, and Hayley had the urge to giggle. His tone was so respectful. Only Hayley knew that he was laying it on with a trowel.
Joshua let Hayley go. “Go back to bed,” he said with surprising gentleness. “I’ll deal with your mother.”
Hayley blinked in surprise, then bit back a flinch at the venomous look on Sister Rebecca’s face. If looks could kill, I’d be dead.
“I’ll help you,” Tamar said, sliding her arm around Hayley’s shoulders. She looked up at Joshua. “She’s due any day. If she falls, she could harm the baby.”
Joshua glanced at his first wife. “We don’t want that.”
Rebecca’s expression had shifted from venomous to beatific. “No, we don’t.”
“Come,” Tamar said, giving Hayley a tug.
Once they were back in Hayley’s space, Tamar shook her head. “What were you thinking? You can’t provoke your mother like that.”
Now that it was over, Hayley realized that Tamar was right. She’d let her words fly without thinking. “I’m sorry. When she hit me, I . . .”
“I know. But you must control your temper.”
“I know.” Hayley sighed. “You’re right.”
“And you’re tense.” Tamar started a lower back massage that made Hayley groan. “Have you felt any contractions?”
“Not yet.” Hayley hugged her belly. “I’ve been hoping she’ll stay put a little longer.”
“I understand that you’re scared, but if the contractions start, do not fight them. Send Graham to find me immediately. I’m serious. You could be endangering your life and your baby’s. Now, tell me why Graham was really out there. He’s been dumping the pots for a few days now, without complaint. People are talking about it. Now they’re singing his praises, but that could change on a dime.”
Hayley looked at the curtain. It was pulled and there were no feet visible beneath it, so no one was eavesdropping. Unless they were waiting at the curtain’s edge. “He’s looking for something,” Hayley said, trying to keep it generic.
“Something to help you escape?”
Hayley inhaled sharply. “I . . .”
“It’s all right,” Tamar said. “I don’t think anyone else suspects. I won’t ask more questions for now, because the other wives will be back soon. But I will help you. I want out, too.”
She’d said it once before and Hayley needed to decide if she could trust her. Tamar could be working on the side of her mother, Rebecca, and Eden. Although Tamar had also lost her child, not to death, but to Rebecca.
“They have a computer,” Hayley whispered.
Tamar’s eyes widened, then filled with excitement. “For real?” Then she shut down like someone had flipped a switch. “There you go, Sister Magdalena,” she said, her voice back to soothing and calm. A second later the curtain was whipped back and Joshua’s other wives filed in. “Hopefully the massage helped.”
One of the wives offered Hayley a cup of water. “Sister Tamar gives the best massages. She’ll be an amazing midwife, even if Sister Coleen isn’t back before your baby arrives.”
Tamar patted her hand. “I’ve delivered five babies in the past year. Haven’t lost a single one, nor their mothers, so don’t worry. I’m going back to bed as well. Tomorrow, I’ll ask Brother Joshua if I can move my pallet in here, so that I can be close by if you need me. Now, try to rest. You’re going to be needing all the strength you can muster.” She met Hayley’s gaze with determination. “I will help you.”
I will help you. Tamar hadn’t just been talking about the baby. She’d been talking about their escape. She was moving her pallet tomorrow so that she could be nearby. To help with the baby and their escape.
Hayley thought about that and about Graham doing the most disgusting of all the compound’s chores so that he could find the satellite dish that was their only hope of communication with the outside world. That was love.
She curled around her meager pillow, letting that love settle around her and within her. I hope you know we love you, Jellybean. We’re going to find a way to save you.
ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA
THURSDAY, MAY 25, 4:35 A.M.
Tom leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his desk and stretching his back. His muscles had grown stiff from sitting at his keyboard for far too long. He glanced at the wall of his office that faced Liza’s bedroom, wishing things weren’t so weird between them. He could have used one of her shoulder massages right about now. He loved the feel of her hands on his skin.
But she was probably asleep. Curled up in the nest of soft blankets she liked so much. Warm and pliant, smelling like apples and tasting like chocolate because she always had some for a bedtime snack.
He stiffened, in more ways than one. Goddammit.
He was hard. He’d felt desire since Tory died. Always when he’d been with Liza. Always he’d shoved it back, but tonight denial was much more difficult. He wanted Liza. Dammit.
Clenching his eyes shut, he swallowed a groan, wanting to call Rafe Sokolov and curse him to hell and back. Putting thoughts in his mind like that.
That Liza might be for me. That she might want me. That I could have her for my own.
Because it was not true. She was his friend, one of his oldest friends. They loved each other, true, but like friends. They took care of each other and that was all.
Tell that to your cock, buddy.
This was lust and it was wrong. If I give in—which I won’t—it will ruin our friendship.
“Do we still have a friendship?” he asked, and Pebbles looked at him. The Great Dane lay pressed against the common wall, as if she knew that Liza was just beyond it. “Well? Do we?”
Pebbles snorted like the small horse she was and went back to sleep.
Tom sighed. He was getting nothing done. After his conversations with Rafe and then his mother, he’d returned to his office and picked up his attempt at tracing Cameron Cook’s e-mail.
From Hayley, who was pregnant and scared and about to give birth in that horrible place. His arousal fled as he imagined Tory being scared the night she’d been killed, certain that she’d been more afraid for their baby than for herself. No one had saved Tory that night.
Everything in Tom yearned to get Hayley to safety. He’d tried everything he knew, both legal and illegal, but kept slamming up against nothing. It was like Eden’s network had disappeared—maybe at the same time as their last move?
It was possible that they’d gone someplace where they couldn’t get online. It was also possible that their equipment—the satellite dish that Amos had discovered at their most recent location—had been damaged.
They had taken it with them when they evacuated. Tom had checked himself, searching the perimeter of the compound Amos had described a month ago when he’d first escaped with Abigail. Tom had found evidence that a cable had been buried and then dug up. Maybe they’d damaged the cable when they’d ripped it from the earth.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. He blew out a breath and pushed away from his desk, needing . . . something. Exercise? Food? More booze?
No, definitely not more booze. He’d had more alcohol tonight than he usually consumed in a month.
His glance flitted to the wall again and he had to fight the urge to bang on it with his fists, to wake Liza up and demand that she tell him what was wrong.
You know what’s wrong. Stop being an obtuse dick.
He hung his head, suddenly too weary to ignore it any longer. “I am a dick,” he whispered.
Karl had tried to tell him, and he’d made a joke.
Rafe had tried to tell him, and he’d thrown him out.
His mother had tried to tell him multiple times as they’d talked on the phone, but each time Tom had changed the subject and his mother had allowed him to do so, albeit reluctantly.
Even Croft had tried to tell him that Liza’s wants and needs might have changed during the seven years of their friendship, but he’d pretended to be clueless.
Dammit all to hell. “I don’t want this,” he growled to Pebbles. “I don’t want to want her.” But he did want her. He could lie to himself, but his body apparently knew the truth. He wanted her friendship, her laughter, all of her smiles. And he wanted to curl up with her under those soft blankets and see what would happen. “I can’t want her.”
Huffing a groan, Pebbles rolled over to press her face against the wall, shutting him out.
“Et tu, Pebbles?” he muttered. He closed all of the browser tabs he’d been using to trace that damn e-mail and stared at the image that remained on his screen.
Tory laughed at the camera, all bubbly happiness and dancing delight as she waggled her fingers to show off the diamond he’d just put on her finger. It was the night she’d agreed to be his wife. A month later, she was gone. The diamond on her finger was gone. The smile on her face, gone. The light in her eyes . . . all gone. All stolen by the brute who’d killed her.
He drew a breath and stared hard at her face. They’d fallen hard and fast, going from dating to storing toothbrushes in each other’s bathrooms in a matter of weeks. And the only person he’d told was Liza.
He closed his eyes, remembering the night he’d told her about Tory on a Skype call. Liza had been laughing about something he’d said when he’d blurted it out. I met someone. She’s amazing. Liza’s smile had disappeared, and then hurt had flitted across her face.
I hurt her. I was clumsy and bumbling and I hurt her. He could see that now, in his memory. He’d either missed it or ignored it then. Either way, she’d schooled her features into a tight smile and had wished him all the happiness in the world. Had even asked all about Tory.
And he’d told her everything. Well, not about the sex. “Thank God for that,” he muttered.
Because now . . . now he could see what everyone else had always seen. She’d cared for him then. At least a year and a half ago. Maybe before that.
Not as friends. Not just as friends, anyway.
Goddammit.
He had no idea what to do with this epiphany. He didn’t want this epiphany.
He pushed back from his desk and paced the length of his little office. He was edgy, felt caged in. He needed to run. The ten-mile route he took around the neighborhood always cleared his head. But he wasn’t leaving her alone. Not when she’d been in a killer’s sights less than twenty-four hours before.
So, no, he wasn’t leaving her here alone to go for a run. He had a treadmill downstairs.
He’d turned to go there when his phone shrilled an alarm. He sucked in a startled breath—that was the alarm for Eden’s bank account. Dropping back into his chair, he quickly brought up the offshore account.
“Whoa,” he whispered. One hundred grand was gone. Transferred.
He clicked on the transaction and stared at his screen. The money had been wired to a Dr. Ralph Arnold of Sacramento.
Fingers flying, Tom googled the man and found absolutely nothing of note in the standard search results. No address, not even a photograph. He then checked the California DMV database and found the man’s photo.
Ralph Arnold was . . . ordinary. Medium height, medium build. Dishwater-blond hair that had grayed at the temples. He could be anyone.
But he was someone—someone who Eden trusted and needed enough to wire a hundred grand to. Right off, that made the man a definite person of interest.
Tom unlocked his safe and pulled out the laptop he used for the dark web. He was protected by multiple levels of proxy servers on his main computer, but he’d been taught to be careful by his first white-hat mentor, Ethan Buchanan.
Ethan had taken Tom under his wing when he’d been a junior in high school. Tom had managed to break into a protected government website and realized how vulnerable he was. He’d backed out quickly and had never been approached by men in black asking questions, but he’d realized that he could have been in real trouble. Life-destroying, going-to-prison trouble. So he’d taken his laptop to Ethan and asked for help.
Ethan’s brows had nearly shot off his forehead when he’d seen what Tom had accomplished on his own, but then he’d rolled up his sleeves and taught Tom to be a white hat, too.
Tom owed the man a great deal and thought about him every time he delved into the dark web. Be safe, was Ethan’s first rule. Don’t compromise your everyday workstation.
Tom signed in on his throwaway laptop and opened the browser that provided entrée into the dark web. He wasn’t going to dig that deep yet. He’d do a quick search, then report the Eden activity to Molina.
He sighed. No, he’d send it to Raeburn first and call Molina right after. He didn’t want her kept in the dark, and it seemed that Raeburn was capable of doing just that.
Ralph Arnold MD, he typed into the search window. Then whistled softly when his screen filled with links, all referencing Arnold’s very private practice. He operated a surgery out of his home, which was well guarded. He accepted U.S. dollars, euros, rubles, pesos, and yuan.
References abounded—many from satisfied former patients with code names like Coyote and Scarface and Moll. The man appeared to be a doctor to both Hollywood celebrities and the stars of organized crime.
Having sufficient information for the moment, Tom dialed Agent Raeburn.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
THURSDAY, MAY 25, 4:40 A.M.
DJ pulled the truck through the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to Dr. Arnold’s home. He’d received a call from Dr. Arnold’s office manager confirming that payment had been received and that the address had been texted to his phone only minutes before.
Way to leave things till the last minute, he thought, feeling manipulated, distrusted, and surly. Most of which had been caused by Pastor, the bastard.
The house was located in an upscale neighborhood about fifteen minutes from the airport. DJ figured that made transport more convenient for the celebrities and crime bosses coming from out of town.
He half-expected to see Kowalski at the doctor’s house, waiting for them, but the drug dealer was nowhere in sight.
DJ drove around to the back as he’d been instructed and stopped the truck in front of a large garage. The doors rolled up, revealing an ambulance, two nurses in white scrubs, and a muscled man about the size of a gorilla who held a rifle in his arms.
“Mr. Belmont?” one of the nurses asked. Her name tag read Jones.
“Yes. My father is in the back of the truck. His wife is with him.”
“We’ll get your father checked in and have your mother fill out his paperwork.”
“She’s not my mother.” DJ had to bite back a wince, because he hadn’t intended to say that aloud. The less information he provided, the safer he’d stay. “What paperwork? I was assured the doctor would require no paperwork.”
The woman smiled. “Just his medical history. No identification required.”
A hundred thousand bucks seemed to be enough identification for Dr. Arnold.
DJ opened the back of the truck. Coleen looked exhausted and Pastor was either asleep or unconscious.
“Asleep,” Coleen said, reading the question in DJ’s expression.
Nurse Jones climbed up into the back of the truck, the muscled man taking position at the open truck door. She knelt beside Pastor and took his wrist, frowning. “His pulse is very weak.”
“I know,” Coleen told her, her manner as professional as DJ had ever seen. “I’ve been monitoring it since we left home. The ride was difficult for him.”
Coleen was not, to DJ’s knowledge, a real nurse. Her first husband in Eden had been both a Founding Elder and the compound’s actual doctor. He’d taught her to be his assistant. When he’d died they’d been unable to get a replacement and Coleen had become the healer.
Pastor was moved to a stretcher and the second nurse began setting up an IV. “We’re going to run some scans before the doctor scrubs in,” she said. “We need to know the extent of his injuries before he’s put under anesthesia. Has he received anesthesia before?”
“Not that I know of,” Coleen replied. She climbed down from the truck, her body swaying a little. Probably from exhaustion. “I’ve been our community’s healer for thirty years.”
Both nurses lifted their brows at the term “healer.”
“We live in a remote town and we don’t have a board-certified physician,” DJ hastily explained, shooting Coleen a warning glare. “We’ve learned to be self-sufficient. This injury was outside our expertise.”
Coleen dropped her gaze to her feet, folding her hands at her waist. The picture of female subservience. Just as Pastor demanded. “Can you help him?”
“We’ll do our best,” Nurse Jones promised, then turned to the man with the rifle. “Mr. Saltrick, please show our guests to the family lounge. Get them a meal and a place to rest.”
“This way,” the man commanded.
Coleen hesitated, casting a worried glance at Pastor. The nurses pushed the stretcher up a ramp and into the garage before disappearing through a door marked Employees Only.
“This way,” Saltrick repeated.
DJ and Coleen followed. Once they were in a lounge with comfortable sofas and chairs that reclined into beds, Saltrick pointed to the refrigerator, a cabinet full of soup, and a microwave. “Help yourself,” he grunted. “If you’ll give me your keys, I’ll park your vehicle.”
DJ hesitated, then handed the man the keys to the truck. They could have had the cops waiting here for them had they been so inclined. That they hadn’t suggested he and Coleen would be safe here.
Saltrick gave each of them a folder with no external labels or markings. “Inside you’ll find an explanation of how things are done here. Once your father is finished with surgery, he’ll be taken to a rehabilitation center for his recovery and for any other medical services he might require. Sunnyside Oaks’s key mission is to provide quality care with the utmost privacy. We serve mostly celebrities—stars of film, TV, and sports. Some of our patients require privacy of a different sort, like your father.”
In other words, DJ thought, protection from law enforcement.
“Due to privacy concerns,” Saltrick continued, “we do not file claims with insurance companies. We require all patients to pay with cash. When your father is ready to be transferred, there will be an additional payment due for the rehab services. Dr. Arnold’s office manager will provide the details. Please familiarize yourself with the rehab center. Do you have questions?”
Coleen timidly raised her hand. “The nurse said they’d do scans. What kind of scans?”
“CT scan,” the man replied brusquely. “And an MRI, should he need one.”
Coleen nodded like she understood the terms, which surprised DJ. “Do you have the equipment here?” she asked.
“We do,” Saltrick said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He strode to the door, leaving DJ and Coleen alone. She was staring at the microwave with confusion and fear.
“What?” DJ barked.
She flinched. “I haven’t used a microwave in thirty years. I’m not sure I remember how.”
DJ was starving, so he got up to make them a meal. “I’ll show you. It isn’t difficult.”
“Brother DJ? Will we have enough money to pay for the rehabilitation center?”
“Yes. We’ll have enough.” He opened the cupboard. “We have chicken soup, clam chowder, and beef stew. Which do you want?”
Coleen’s eyes were wide before she dropped her gaze to her feet. “Choose for me, please.”
It didn’t surprise him. Women of Eden did not make their own choices. Ever.
“Come and watch me,” he commanded. “You can make my food from then on.”
“Yes, Brother DJ.”
ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA
THURSDAY, MAY 25, 4:45 A.M.
“Yes?” Raeburn snapped. “It’s four forty-five, Agent Hunter. I assume this is important.”
“Critical, sir. There’s been a wire transfer from the offshore Eden account.”
“Oh.” The word was uttered on a huff of surprise. “When?”
“Four minutes ago. I got an activity alert. One hundred thousand dollars was wired to a Dr. Arnold in Sacramento.”
“Give me a minute.” A woman’s murmur was followed by rustling sheets and creaking springs. A door closed and then Raeburn asked, “Sacramento? I would have thought they’d seek medical help in Redding or Eureka—cities closer to where you think they’re hiding.”
“I agree, but I’m frankly shocked that they’re seeking medical help at all. Amos Terrill said that, in general, if members of Eden got sick, they either recovered on their own or they died. Outside help was never sought.”
“Didn’t Ephraim Burton get a glass eye?”
Huh. He does read the briefs I send him. “Yes. Ephraim Burton’s eye surgery seems to have been an outlier, and one that was kept from the community as a whole. Amos said he continued to wear his patch whenever he was in the compound. We think Burton got a doctor in Santa Rosa to perform the surgery during one of his quarterly hiatuses from Eden, but again, that’s an outlier. For them to leave Eden and seek outside medical assistance—”
“It has to be a grave injury,” Raeburn finished.
“Yes, sir. I think so. It would almost have to be one of the leaders.”
“Belmont’s hurt,” Raeburn said.
“True. He was wearing a sling in the surveillance video we took from the office building he used to target Mercy Callahan.” And Liza.
“Maybe he arranged for Dr. Arnold’s services because he was back in Sacramento intending to finish off Mercy Callahan.”
“That makes sense, sir.”
“So who is this guy? Is he associated with a hospital?”
“I don’t think so. Dr. Arnold’s name doesn’t get any hits on the surface web, but he’s quite popular on the dark web.”
“Not a shock,” Raeburn muttered. “What did you find out about him?”
“He’s recommended by movie stars, TV personalities, and mob bosses all over the world. He does surgery from his home, but his former patients say they convalesced and received rehab services at Sunnyside Oaks Convalescence and Rehabilitation Center. Again, patients include both A-list celebrities and criminals.”
“Excellent work, Hunter. Can you find an address for Arnold’s home surgery?”
“Not in these search results. It seems like his patients agreed to keep the location secret. A few say that they don’t want to make the doctor angry in case they have family members who need help in the future.”
“What about the rehab facility?”
Tom opened a new search window and typed in the name. He was a little surprised when an address surfaced. “That’s available. The place is very private, but . . .” He turned to his primary computer and typed the name again. “It shows up on both the dark and surface webs. I’ll send you the surface link with the address, but their website is very basic and says little of substance.”
“It’s something, though. This is our first real break. I assume you haven’t traced the e-mail allegedly sent from Eden, since I haven’t heard from you on that.”
“Not yet. Still working on it.”
“Keep me up to speed. I’ll see you back in the office first thing.”
It wasn’t a request. Tom grimaced, wondering how he’d ensure Liza’s safety tomorrow. He needed to hire someone to watch her, ASAP. “Yes, sir.”
“And you will not be sharing this information with anyone, even Agent Reynolds, correct?”
Tom gritted his teeth, but forced his voice to remain level. “Of course not, sir.”
“Good night, then.” Raeburn ended the call before Tom could say another word.
Not that he’d wanted to say more, not after being chastised like a teenager skipping school. Telling Molina would help soothe the irritation. He started to dial from his work phone, but stopped himself. He didn’t want either of them to get into trouble.
Using his burner phone, he dialed Molina’s number. She answered on the first ring, wary but alert. “Yes?”
“Agent Molina, this is Tom Hunter.”
“Agent Hunter. Why are you calling from this number?”
“Because I have information.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Tell me!”
He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.” He relayed the information that he’d shared with Raeburn.
“Good. Agent Hunter . . .” She sighed. “Tom. You know I’ve been recused.”
“I know.”
“Which is why you used the burner.”
“Yes, ma’am. Would you prefer that I don’t call you?”
She made a rude sound. “No. I want you to use another number.” She rattled it off.
Tom grinned. “You have a burner? Agent Molina, I must admit that you’ve surprised me.”
“Baby agents,” she muttered. “You think you invented all the tricks. But thank you. I appreciate the heads-up. Good night.”
Tom shut down his throwaway laptop and returned it to the safe. He’d been antsy and had needed to run, but now he was exhausted. Time for bed.
“Come on, Pebbles. You want to go out one more time?”
But Pebbles didn’t follow him to the office door. She tensed, then growled low, head cocked toward the shared wall.
Concerned, Tom pressed his ear to the wall and a moment later heard what Pebbles had. Liza was screaming. His pulse rocketed up. No. He would not lose her, too. “Pebbles, come.”
Grabbing his gun and the keys to Liza’s side of the duplex, he ran down the stairs and through the kitchen into the backyard, calling up the cameras on his phone. No one was at the front and the alarm was still set. His hands were shaking as he shoved the key into the lock on her kitchen door.
He didn’t disarm the alarm, leaving it to count down. In sixty seconds, it would go off. If there was an intruder, the blaring sound might startle them. And if something happens to me, the police will still be called.
Cell phone in one hand, his gun in the other, he took the stairs three at a time. Midway up, Pebbles raced past him and through Liza’s open bedroom door.
“Pebbles? What the hell?” he heard her say, but her voice was hoarse and broken.
He stopped in her doorway to disable the alarm. But also to let his heart calm down. She was okay. She was unhurt, at least. But even though the screams had stopped, she was sobbing. Pebbles had climbed onto her bed and she had her arms around the dog, rocking her.
“Liza?” Tom asked, then entered when she didn’t answer. He figured she would have told him to leave if that was what she’d wanted. She still might, and he’d cede to her wishes.
At least he knew she was all right. Physically. Psychologically, not so much. She visibly shook as she rocked Pebbles, her fingers clenched in the dog’s short hair.
He couldn’t let her cry. Nudging Pebbles off the bed, Tom took her place and pulled Liza onto his lap, blankets and all. She didn’t fight him when he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. She grabbed handfuls of his shirt and held on, burying her face against his chest.
“Shhh,” he soothed, her sobs breaking his heart. “It was a nightmare. It’s not real.”
She shook her head but said nothing. Just clung harder.
It was then that he realized she’d fallen asleep with the light on and earbuds in her ears. They’d fallen out at some point, the cords visible against the white of her pillow. He lifted one of the buds to his own ear and heard Garth Brooks singing. Her laptop was overturned on its side, still open, and next to it was a spiral notebook.
Keeping one arm tightly around her, he righted her laptop. The screen woke up, displaying the photo she kept as her wallpaper. He’d have to lecture her again about computer security. She didn’t use a password even though he’d set one up for her.
He’d seen the wallpaper photo before. It was Liza and eleven other soldiers, all holding their weapons and smiling. All he knew was that it had been taken while she’d been deployed in Kabul.
The notebook was opened to a page bearing a sketch that he’d never seen before. He tugged the notebook closer so that he could see the sketch more clearly. It wasn’t particularly artistic, but it didn’t have to be for him to get the gist of its purpose.
An angel held the caduceus staff in both hands, the smaller wings of the caduceus the same shape as the larger outspread wings of the angel. Instead of snakes, a stethoscope wound around the staff. Which, on closer inspection, wasn’t a staff at all. It was a semiautomatic rifle. But the detail that grabbed his attention was the names written on the feathers of the angel’s wings, three on the left, four on the right.
Seven names, each with a different symbol sketched below. Ted had a football. Lenny, a violin. Judy, a baby bottle. Odell, a smiling sun. Neil’s name was surrounded by the ABCs. Christie had a medal on a ribbon. And Fritz had two connected rings against a broken heart.
His gaze lingered on the broken heart, wondering what it meant. Wondering what the rings meant. Wondering who Fritz had been. Wondering who all of the people had been.
Had been being the operative phrase. This was clearly a memorial. A helmet hung from the top of the rifle. A pair of empty boots was positioned at its base.
These people had meant something to Liza. And they’d died.
Eyes stinging, he hugged Liza harder, and the question just slipped out. “Who was Fritz?”
