Mercy dipped her spoon into the carton of rocky road. “Why don’t you just talk to him?”
Liza rolled her very sore eyes. Because as soon as she and Mercy had been alone, Mercy had opened her arms and patted Liza’s back while she cried. “He had a fiancée. Her name was Tory.”
“Oh.” Mercy winced. “Was?”
“She was killed. Murdered, actually. It was a little more than a year ago, when I was still in Afghanistan. He went dark, wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t answer any of my e-mails.”
“A year isn’t all that long, is it?”
“No.” That Liza had lost her own husband wasn’t something she wanted to discuss, even with Mercy. So she added the one fact that would ensure Mercy understood. “She was pregnant.”
Mercy paled. “Oh no.”
“Yeah. So I get it. I do. He’s not ready. And when he is, it won’t be for me.”
“So what are you gonna do?” Mercy asked practically. “Avoid him forever? Move out and share custody of the dog?”
“Maybe. I’m going to try to get a room in the dorms for this semester. It might be too late, but I’ll get one for next year. That’ll give Tom time to find a new renter.”
“I was being sarcastic,” Mercy said.
“I wasn’t.” She ate some ice cream, then sat back to study her friend. “You’re not okay.”
Mercy laughed, the sound harsh. “No, I’m not. I figured we could be not okay together.”
“Is Rodriguez still outside?”
“For another hour. They do the shift change and Agent Fisher comes on. She’s a fan of Irina’s cooking, so I always save her a snack for later. It’s in a cooler in the back of Rafe’s Subaru, along with a late-night snack for Rodriguez to take home.”
Liza smiled. “Those guys are going to miss guarding you when this is over. I bet they’ve never eaten so well.”
Mercy’s smile was strained, but real. “They’ve fallen in love with Irina.”
“I have, too. She makes me miss my mom.”
“Me too. Oh, I nearly forgot.” She pulled a baggie from her pocket, filled with loose tea. “Special tea,” she said, waggling her brows. “Irina set you up. She sent dinner for you, too. I forgot it in the car, but Rafe can get it before we leave.”
Liza chuckled, and it made her feel so much better. “That woman,” she said fondly. “I’m going to miss her.”
Mercy’s brows flew up. “Why would you miss her? You’re going to nursing school in Davis, not Timbuktu. She’ll still expect you to come to Sunday dinner.” Her brows lowered, a frown furrowing her forehead. “You are still planning to come to Sunday dinner, aren’t you?”
Fuck no. Tom will be there. “I’ll probably be busy,” she managed stiffly.
“Bullshit.” Mercy shook her spoon before digging back into the ice cream. “You are not going to dump us because Tom Hunter is a clueless dick.”
Liza choked. “He’s not a dick.”
“He made you cry,” Mercy said stubbornly. “And he is clueless.”
“Totally clueless,” Liza agreed. “But not a dick. He’s a good man.”
“You are hopeless. If he’s such a good man, then grab him and talk to him.”
Liza started to reply, then glared. “Hey. I see what you did there. I said that you’re not okay and you—quite deftly, I have to say—turned the conversation back to me.”
Mercy sighed. “What do you want me to say? Yes, I’m scared. I’m always scared. And I’m tired of being scared. I’m kind of glad DJ made a move today, as crazy as that sounds.”
“Not crazy at all. At least you know where he is. Or where he was at that moment.”
“Pointing a gun at us. At you, actually. Don’t ever do that again. He could have shot you.”
“He would have shot you. And Abigail.”
Mercy shuddered. “Don’t even go there. I’m going to have nightmares about that forever. It makes me afraid to go anywhere with anyone.”
“It’s a terrorist tactic,” Liza said. “Makes you afraid to live your life.”
“It works,” Mercy said grimly. “Makes me want to buy a bull’s-eye costume and yell, ‘Come and get me, asshole.’ ”
Liza sucked in a breath. “But you won’t.”
“No.” But even Mercy’s smirk looked scared. “I don’t know where to buy a bull’s-eye costume. Although I bet Amazon would have one.”
“Mercy.”
Mercy focused on the ice cream. “I’m not going to do it. But I want to. I want this to be over.” She looked up, her green eyes filled with tears. “I want my life back. I found Rafe and Gideon and Amos and Abigail and all of you. I don’t want them to get hurt. Or you. Especially when you make yourself a target because you’re protecting me. This is between DJ Belmont and me. Nobody else should get hurt.”
“This is between DJ Belmont and the FBI. Promise me that you know that.”
Mercy only shook her head. “They can’t find him. Eden has stayed hidden for thirty years for a reason. They are good at hiding. DJ will crawl back under his rock and it could be another month before he comes back out. Or a year. I can’t keep this up, this living in fear. I can’t ask the Sokolovs to do it, either. I’m liking the bull’s-eye costume idea more and more.”
Liza’s blood went cold. “Promise me,” she whispered. “Goddammit, Mercy.”
Mercy blinked, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “No. I can’t promise I won’t. Luring him out makes the most sense and I’m the only bait.” Her brow lifted in challenge. “And if you mention this to Rafe, I’ll say you were drunk on vodka.”
“I’ll tell Tom,” Liza threatened.
“Vodka,” she repeated.
“He knows I don’t drink that stuff.”
Mercy’s chin lifted. “Then I’ll tell him that he’s a clueless dick and he should notice you.”
Liza’s mouth fell open. “You wouldn’t.”
Mercy rolled her eyes. “No, I wouldn’t. But I’d think of something else to discredit your dirty lies.”
“Dirty lies that are the goddamn truth.”
“Potayto, potahto.”
Liza exhaled. “Please don’t do anything stupid. Please.”
Mercy looked away. “Did you know that Rafe is planning a surprise party for me?”
Liza blinked, thrown by the abrupt change in subject. “No. When is it?”
“Sunday. He’s doesn’t know that I know. It’s going to be held at Irina and Karl’s. You’re invited, of course.”
“Okay,” Liza said slowly. “What can I bring?”
“Yourself.” One side of her mouth lifted wryly. “Maybe some of those Dream Bars.”
“Done and done. But why are you telling me this?”
“Because Rafe has hired six of his old SacPD buddies to be bodyguards. Six, Liza. They’ll be armed and will have the house surrounded.”
“That’s . . . good?”
“No,” Mercy snapped. “That’s bad. Six men will be put in harm’s way because DJ Belmont won’t give up trying to kill me. And we won’t even go into what Rafe is paying them, out of his own pocket. How long can we do this? How long before he decides I’m not worth it?”
“Never,” Liza said sharply. “That man loves you.”
Mercy’s gaze met hers once again, this time beseeching and afraid. “That’s why I have to do something. He loves me. I know he does. He’s going to get himself killed—or someone he’s hired—and it’ll be on me. I cannot live with that. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Liza said softly, covering Mercy’s hand with her own. “I really do. It’s like you’re in a combat situation, always prepared, always ready. It grates at you, makes you jumpy. Sometimes it makes you throw caution to the wind just to feel normal for a day. An hour.”
Mercy’s throat worked as she tried to swallow. “Thank you,” she whispered. “That’s exactly it. You sound like you know this from experience.”
It was Liza’s turn to look away. “Yeah. You spend weeks, months, in uniform, and gunfire is like . . . background noise.” So were the screams and moans of the wounded she cared for until the surgeons could work their miracles. “And you want just one day to be . . . normal.”
“And then?” Mercy asked quietly.
“And then a sniper on a rooftop starts shooting and . . .” She shrugged. “People die.”
“Oh, Liza.” Mercy looked as if she’d start crying again.
Liza hoped that wouldn’t happen, because she didn’t think she could keep from crying, too, and her eyes hurt too much. “It happens. I mean, it’s combat. A war zone. Shit happens.”
“That’s how you recognized the sniper’s scope this morning.”
“Yeah.”
“Who died?”
Liza smiled bitterly. “People I liked. People I loved. People I’d never met before that day. People died and I couldn’t save them. I have to live with that, every goddamn day. So please, please, do not make me have to mourn you, too.”
Mercy exhaled. “I don’t want you to have to mourn anyone. But something has to give, Liza. We can’t go on like this forever.”
“Don’t do anything impulsive. Can you at least promise me that?”
Mercy nodded. “I can promise you that.”
Liza’s heart settled. “Thank you.” Forcing a grin, she rose from her dining room table. “You wanna watch TV until Rafe comes back? I’ve been bingeing old Amazing Race episodes.”
Mercy put the lid on the ice cream. “That sounds really nice.”
YUBA CITY, CALIFORNIA
WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 8:15 P.M.
DJ crept through the semidarkness of Mrs. Ellis’s house, patting his pocket for the tenth time. Yes, the used syringe and empty vial were there. No, he hadn’t left them behind.
He’d watched the surveillance feed from the cameras that Kowalski had mounted throughout the old woman’s house until he’d seen her get into bed with a novel to read, then had donned his leather gloves and broken in through her back door. He’d be fixing that before he left her house, along with covering the cameras.
She was dead. He’d stayed to make sure, ignoring the tug of remorse at the sight of her facial muscles going slack, her mouth falling open. She’d been a pain in his ass, but she had baked the most amazing cherry pies.
No more pies, he thought with a silent sigh. He’d watched the camera feed, mouth watering, as she’d filled three plastic containers with cookies and taken two pies from the oven to cool.
He paused now as he passed the pies in the kitchen, his stomach growling loudly. His name was written on one of the pie pans, and he was tempted to take it, but he left all the baked goods behind. He wouldn’t do anything that might alert investigators to an intruder in her home. He wasn’t so certain the ME would buy that she’d had a heart attack.
The needle had left a mark on the inside of her elbow. It might get missed in the crepey folds of her skin. But if it didn’t? He wanted nothing to point to him.
No more pies, he thought again, stifling a sigh as he picked up the cordless phone. He’d reviewed the video of her talking on the phone the night before, the conversation in which she’d called him “weird and antisocial.” She’d picked up the receiver of the ancient phone in the living room and begun speaking, so it had been an incoming call.
He pulled up the call log, then took out his own cell phone to take a photo of the numbers. He hadn’t used his cell since he’d left Eden, but the sat phone didn’t have a camera. He was about to slide his phone back into his pocket when he saw the missed calls.
Ten missed calls, all in the last two hours. What the actual fuck?
The only person alive who had this number was Pastor, and he had no way of accessing a signal. Not in the caves. If he’d climbed high enough on the mountain, he might have, but the old man wasn’t as spry as he used to be.
Something had to be wrong. Dammit.
Heart hammering, he put his cell phone away. If Pastor had access to a signal, he might have access to the Internet. If that happened, and he saw a story about Mercy Callahan?
“Fucking hell,” he hissed quietly.
Frowning, he stared at the tools he’d left at the kitchen door. He needed to fix the damn lock, but he also needed to find out what was wrong in Eden.
He took a breath, forcing himself to think logically. Kowalski didn’t want any suspicion on this job, and he was the biggest threat.
Decision made. He quickly added wood putty to the door frame he’d splintered when he’d forced the lock. It needed to set for an hour before sanding, so he left the door slightly askew and slipped back into his own house.
His hands were trembling as he hit the notification for the first voice mail, then blinked in surprise when it wasn’t Pastor’s voice.
It was Sister Coleen, the healer. She was the only person outside of the Founding Elders who knew about their ability to stay connected with the outside world. She was the primary user of the desktop computer, researching ways to treat the people of Eden.
Of course, sometimes there was no treatment. Cancer, for example. The community prayed over the patient, but in all cases, they died. The Internet was useful for setting broken bones and treating mild coughs and colds. At least they hadn’t had to deal with the flu. Being isolated from the outside world did have its benefits.
“DJ?” Coleen sounded breathless and scared. “Please call me. I’ve got Pastor’s phone because he’s hurt. I need you to call me right away and come back now.”
Well, shit. What could have happened to him?
He didn’t have to wait long to find out, because his phone buzzed in his hand before he could listen to the next voice mail. “Yeah,” he answered tersely.
“Oh, thank God,” Coleen said on a relieved exhale. “You finally picked up. I was afraid this thing didn’t work.”
“What’s happened?”
“Pastor fell. He was above the cave entrance and it was raining. He must’ve slipped. He fell down some rocks. He’s in a lot of pain.”
“What’s wrong with him? Exactly?”
“Broken ribs, a broken arm, a badly broken leg, and probably a torn-up knee. And a concussion. He hit his head when he fell. He’s been in and out of consciousness all day. I found his phone in his pocket and hid it away so the others wouldn’t see. One of the times he came to, he told me to climb the mountain until I got a signal, so I did. I’ve been here for two hours, waiting for you to answer.”
The last sentence was said in a slightly accusatory way, but DJ let it go. Coleen was only in her fifties, but she had a bad knee and the climb couldn’t have been easy for her.
“What do you want me to do about it?” he asked cautiously.
She hesitated. “He needs a hospital with real doctors.”
“The community won’t like that. They’ll ask why he gets special treatment.”
“He’s Pastor,” Coleen said, as if that explained everything. In a way it did. Pastor was like a god in the community’s eyes. “I’ve had a few of the men privately ask me if we can take him to the city. They’re worried that the government will find him and force him to reveal our location, but they realize he needs appropriate care.”
“Who asked you this?” DJ pressed.
“Joshua and Isaac were the most insistent. They’re worried that the community will implode without Pastor.”
It was fair. Pastor held Eden together. “Is anyone saying he shouldn’t go to a doctor?”
“Not out loud where anyone can hear. I noticed that a few members were scowling at the discussion of outside medical help for him. Mostly those whose family members have died. But they won’t fight it publicly.”
“Can’t we just see if he improves on his own?”
She was quiet for a moment. “He has broken bones. And I think he’s got internal bleeding. I don’t have the equipment or training to know for sure, but . . . I don’t think he’s going to magically get better, DJ.”
No, he wanted to scream. He didn’t have time for this now. He needed to kill Mercy Callahan and Gideon Reynolds.
Although if Pastor died, it wouldn’t matter. Especially if DJ managed to get him to cough up the bank account passwords first.
Suddenly the situation looked brighter. “What was he doing when he fell?”
“He’d gone to call his banker. He said that he needed to check the accounts.”
It was how Pastor normally managed financial transactions. He would either e-mail or call his banker to check balances. He never logged on to the account himself. If he had, DJ could have tracked his keystrokes long ago. But the bastard was a wily old fucker.
The wily old fucker just might have met his end, though. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Get back to Pastor and make sure he’s comfortable and not so out of it that he spills secrets.”
“I will. Thank you.”
He ended the call, realizing that her thanks were heartfelt. After having three husbands die over the last thirty years—two of natural causes, and McPhearson, who’d been murdered—she’d been married to Pastor for over a decade.
DJ wondered if she genuinely loved the man.
DJ did not. Pastor feigned amiability and exuded competence. Under all the charisma, though, lay a snake.
DJ knew that Pastor had instructed Ephraim to kill people who’d spoken out against Eden’s leadership. It was always done in a way to make it look like an accident. Sometimes they’d “fallen” or, more frequently, they’d “wandered” too far from the compound and were “mauled by wolves or bears.”
Ephraim had enjoyed his job as Eden’s enforcer. A lot.
DJ preferred to do his killing with a gun and from far enough away to escape if need be, but a pillow over Pastor’s face while they were en route to the hospital would also work.
He set his cell phone aside and called Kowalski on the sat phone.
“Yeah?” Kowalski barked over voices in the background. “This better be important.”
“Daddy! Daddy!” A little boy’s voice came through the phone.
“Just a minute,” Kowalski said, his tone much gentler. “Daddy needs to take this call. Go wait with your mother. I’ll be right there.” A second later his demeanor was surly again. “What?”
“There’s been an accident back home.”
“What kind of accident?” Kowalski asked coolly.
“My father took a fall. He needs a doctor.” DJ managed to call Pastor his father without a snarl. The man had taken him in when he was barely nine years old, even though Waylon had still been alive. Marcia, Pastor’s wife, had died, along with their children, and he’d decided that DJ would be his next heir.
DJ always wondered why his biological father had gone along with it, but had figured that Pastor held something incriminating over Waylon’s head. All of Eden’s founders had nasty skeletons in their closets.
“Can’t somebody else take him?” Kowalski demanded. “You have a crop to harvest.”
The grow houses. Shit. Kowalski was right about that. Kowalski would send a few of his guys to help, but the responsibility was DJ’s. His mind searched for a solution. “The doctor I need to use is in Santa Rosa. I can drive back and forth. It’ll be no problem.”
“What’s the doctor’s name?” Kowalski asked suspiciously, as if DJ had made it up.
Like I’d lie to Kowalski. Well, yeah, he would. He had. So he supposed Kowalski had a right to be suspicious.
“Burkett.” The man had provided meds whenever Coleen had requested something specific.
Kowalski hummed, amused. “Jason Burkett?”
DJ’s internal alarms began to scream. “Yes. Why?”
“Nothing. Just good luck with getting in touch with him. Not so sure that he’s getting good cell reception where he’s at right now.”
DJ blinked. “You know Burkett?”
“Not personally. He was all over the news a month ago. He was murdered in his home. Neck snapped like a twig. What’s really interesting, though, is that would have been less than twenty-four hours before you were shot.”
“Do they know who killed him?” DJ asked tightly, because he was pretty sure he knew.
“Some guy named Harry Franklin, who also went by Ephraim Burton.”
Fucking hell. DJ hadn’t realized that Ephraim had killed the man. Fucking Ephraim.
“Okay, then. I’m going to need to find another doctor.”
“There’s the Yellow Pages,” Kowalski offered with faux helpfulness.
“You know that’s not an option,” DJ growled. “We live off the grid for a reason.”
“Which I’d love to hear more about,” Kowalski practically purred.
“It’s . . . it’s not my story to tell.”
“Bullshit,” the man murmured. “Bull. Shit. But your story can wait. I’m willing to help you with another doctor.”
DJ bit his tongue, because he wanted to tell Kowalski to go to hell. “I think we’ll be okay.”
Because he didn’t actually need to take Pastor to a doctor. He just needed Eden to think that he was. Pastor needed to stay alive long enough to give him the account information. Once he got the passwords, he’d take Pastor’s body back to Eden, lamenting that he hadn’t made it.
“Fine,” Kowalski agreed affably. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
I won’t. “Of course,” he lied.
“Uh, before you hang up, did you take care of that small matter we discussed?”
Mrs. Ellis. “Yes.”
“Then I guess I’ll see you after you’ve gotten your father to a hospital.”
The call ended abruptly and DJ let his head fall forward, suddenly weary. But he didn’t have time to be weary. He had things to do before leaving for Eden.
ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA
WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 8:15 P.M.
Rafe tapped his notepad with a pen. “I’m sure you know everything I’m about to tell you.”
“Maybe, maybe not. What do you know?” Tom couldn’t feed Rafe information, but he could confirm what the man had discovered.
“I started with Terminal Island, where Pastor and Waylon met and where Edward McPhearson came after he was arrested for his first bank heist. It was after the second bank robbery that he hid in Eden. When they met in prison, McPhearson was Aubrey Franklin and Pastor was Benton Travis.”
“Right.” Tom hoped Rafe’s review would at least trigger a new approach. “Keep going.”
“Waylon was Pastor’s protector in prison, but McPhearson also saved Pastor’s life once and this seems to have cemented their friendship. Marcia came along later. She was part of a prison reform movement and connected with Waylon there. The visitation records show that Marcia visited Waylon every two weeks without fail.”
“She was a devoted girlfriend,” Tom noted.
“Who became a devoted wife. They got married as soon as Waylon was released.”
Tom had also found the marriage license—and the divorce decree. “And divorced him shortly thereafter. McPhearson didn’t get out for a few more years.”
“So we’re really going to do this dance? Me telling you what you already know?”
“You might be able to fill in some blanks.”
“I doubt it,” Rafe muttered. “Pastor changed his name a few months after his release and married Marcia himself.”
“As soon as the ink on her divorce was dry,” Tom commented.
Rafe nodded. “I saw that. It looks like she divorced Waylon so that she could marry Pastor. Maybe for love? Or maybe to help perpetrate their church scam. Pastor was born Benton Travis, but changed it to Herbert Hampton and applied to be the pastor of a small church outside L.A. He fabricated the backstory that he was a preacher, complete with phony ordination certificate and seminary diplomas.” He glanced up from his notepad. “All of this was in the newspaper because a decade later he was discovered to have lied about everything and embezzled tens of thousands from his parishioners.”
“Helluva guy.”
Rafe turned the page in his notepad. “Amos provided a list of the parishioners who sold everything and joined Pastor in Eden. I assume you have this as well.”
“I do. He told me which ones had died over the last thirty years. It was most of the original members, because most of the people who followed Pastor from the L.A. church after the financial scandal were already retired thirty years ago. Pastor picked the right congregation to fleece.”
All of the parishioners had had money, some more than others. When they’d sold their land and cars and belongings, then signed the proceeds over to Pastor, it had been the start of the Eden nest egg that had grown into fifty million dollars.
“I talked to a few of the L.A. church members who didn’t follow Pastor,” Rafe said. “They still hate him, thirty years later.”
“It was a huge breach of trust,” Tom agreed. “They were betrayed by their spiritual leader. But at least they weren’t also fleeced out of their savings and land.”
“True.” Rafe flipped a few pages in the notebook. “People in the church remembered Waylon. He did handyman-type work for the church and for Pastor personally. Most of the congregation was afraid of him because of his tattoos and his appearance. But Pastor looked like a college professor and was very charming.” He looked up from the notebook. “Almost every person used that word. ‘Charming.’ ”
“Charisma is important for cult leaders,” Tom said dryly. “After sociopathy and narcissism.”
Rafe scowled. “And plain old evil.”
“In Pastor’s case? Yes, definitely.”
Rafe flipped a few more pages in his notebook. “I’ve been looking for Pastor’s wife, Marcia, and the kids—who were named Bernice and Boaz. I found their birth certificates.”
This surprised Tom. “Why? Amos said they were dead. Gideon said they were dead. They both saw their bodies and . . .” Oh.
Waylon had brought back the bodies of Pastor’s wife and twins after they’d fallen into a ravine, but the remains had been so decomposed that they were unrecognizable.
Waylon had also brought back a body—also unrecognizable—claiming it was Gideon’s.
“You think that Pastor’s wife and kids escaped like Gideon and Mercy did,” Tom murmured.
Rafe lifted a brow. “He shoots, he scores!”
Tom was still reeling. Why hadn’t he thought of this himself? “What have you found?”
“Nothing. It was easier to become someone else twenty-five years ago,” Rafe commented.
“It was easier even twenty years ago,” Tom said, nodding when Rafe’s gaze immediately met his. “My father was an abusive sonofabitch who beat my mother and physically abused me as well. My mother tried to escape several times, but he kept finding her.”
Rafe looked surprised. “I thought your father was an NBA star turned history professor.”
Tom smiled. “Max Hunter is my stepfather, and yeah, that’s him. But my biological father was . . . well, he was a murdering bastard. My mother finally escaped after he tossed her down the stairs and broke her back.”
“Oh my God,” Rafe whispered. “Is she all right now?”
“Yeah. Mom is amazing. She knew he’d kill her if she stayed and that I’d be left alone with him. She had to go to rehab for her back, and made friends with one of the nurses there. The woman slipped her the name of a shelter in Chicago that helped women start over, find new identities. So Mom did that. She became Caroline Stewart and I became Tom.”
“What was your name before?”
Tom’s smile faded. “Robbie Winters. Mom was Mary Grace and the sonofabitch we lived with was Rob Winters.” Old hatred rose to burn in his gut, and he had to draw a deep breath before burying it back down where it never seemed to die. “My mother got her name off a gravestone in St. Louis. The shelter where we hid got us the necessary documents.”
“So you used fake social security numbers?”
“We did—until Rob Winters went to prison. Then we legally changed our names and took our old socials back.”
“Rob Winters,” Rafe said hesitantly. “Is he still in prison?”
“No.” And the single word gave him immense satisfaction. “He was killed soon after he was incarcerated. Got shanked in the shower. News got around that he’d been a very dirty cop.”
“Good,” Rafe said simply. “I’m glad.”
“Me too.”
“Does Liza know?”
Tom nodded. “My mom’s best friend is a woman named Dana Buchanan. Dana ran the shelter where we hunkered down for quite a while. She got us IDs and helped us start a new life.”
“You have good people in your life,” Rafe said.
“Yeah. I think your mother would love my mom and Dana. Anyway, Liza . . . You know about her background, right? How her sister was murdered?”
Rafe nodded sheepishly. “My mom and I looked her up.”
“Somehow, I’m not surprised. Well, after Liza’s sister’s killer was caught, she was all alone and still only seventeen. Dana and my mom took her in. Dana and her husband Ethan have been her primary family all these years. But then she joined the army to pay for school.”
Which still annoyed the hell out of him.
“And you went on to the NBA.”
“I did,” Tom said.
“So . . . I’ve been wondering. How did you get from the NBA to the FBI?”
“I was recruited during college. Do you know what DEF CON is? The hacker conference?”
“I’ve heard of it. It’s in Vegas, right? I read that they’re super paranoid about attendance. No registration. You just show up with cash, so there are no records. The FBI recruited you there?”
“They did. The FBI would try to infiltrate the con so that they could either arrest the criminal hackers or recruit the ‘good’ ones. They wanted me to work for them then, but I was already on the watch list for the NBA draft. I told them to give me a few years. That I wanted to play for a while, but I’d join when I was ready.” He’d done some contract work for the FBI in the off-season to keep his hand in, but that wasn’t something he could talk about with Rafe.
“What prompted you to be ready?”
The sorrow returned, and with it all the guilt that still plagued him. “I was at the end of my contract with the league. Tory and I talked about me retiring at the end of the season.”
“Then you could go public and she could keep her job.”
“Exactly. We wanted to go public. I still wasn’t sure if I was ready to make the leap, though. I had a few good years left in me. But then she was taken and . . .” He shrugged. “I couldn’t focus.”
“You’d been a secret, so you couldn’t grieve openly.”
Tom nodded, grateful that Rafe understood. “I got hurt again, this time worse. It was kind of like a sign, I guess. I called my Bureau recruiter, asked if there was room in the next training class at Quantico. He said if I got my knee in shape, then yes. So I opted out of my contract, took an early retirement, then did what I had to for my knee. I made it to Quantico for the August class and graduated in December, right before Christmas, then started here in January.”
“Liza was discharged from the army about that same time, wasn’t she?”
“She was. She got home on Christmas Day. It was like . . . I don’t know . . . almost fate that we ended up in the same place after only seeing each other on Skype all those years.”
Rafe looked away for a few seconds. When he looked back, his expression was tentative. “You and Liza . . . Were you ever—”
“No,” Tom interrupted. “No. She was seventeen, for God’s sake.”
“Well, then she was,” Rafe allowed. “She’s certainly not seventeen now.”
Tom found himself taking a mental step back. “I was with Tory.”
“But Tory’s gone,” Rafe said gently. “Liza’s right here.”
He knew that. Goddammit, he knew that.
Tom slid from the stool and grabbed the plate of untouched cheese. He slammed a few drawers before finding the plastic wrap and covering the plate. After shoving it into the fridge, he felt calm enough to face Rafe. “It’s only been a year,” he said stiffly. Actually, fourteen months, nineteen days, and two hours. Our baby would have been seven months old by now. “So no. Whatever you’re suggesting . . . no.”
Rafe sighed. “I’m sorry. I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“Yeah, you should have. I think Mercy might be wanting to get home.”
Rafe closed his notebook. “I can take a hint, Tom. We can compare more notes later.”
“Eden notes.”
“That too,” Rafe murmured. “I’ll see you later.” He started for the door, then turned. “Life is short, Tom. If you find someone who makes you happy, don’t let society tell you how long is ‘proper’ to wait. That someone may move on, and then you’ll be alone.”
Tom didn’t answer. He didn’t think he could. He watched Rafe leave, then reached for the beer he’d set aside. It was warm now. He really wanted to throw the bottle against the wall, but curbed his temper.
His father would have thrown the bottle. Rob Winters. Not Max Hunter. Never Max.
Eyes burning, he reached into one of the cabinets for the bottle of Jack he kept for company. He’d never been much of a drinker, because Winters had been a vicious drunk. But tonight he needed a little something to settle his nerves.
He poured himself two fingers’ worth and tossed it back, wincing at the burn. Then he picked up his phone and hit the first number on his speed dial. It was answered on the first ring.
“Tom? Hey, honey. How are you?”
Tom’s throat burned, but not from the whiskey. He blinked back the tears and drew a huge breath. “Hey, Mom. I’m doing okay. I just called to see how everyone is back home.”
His mother was quiet. “We’re fine, sweetheart. The kids are in bed and I’m making coffee.”
Tom winced at the time. “I’m sorry, Mom. I forgot about the time zones.” It was two hours later in Chicago.
“Silly boy. I always have time to talk to you.” He heard the clink of mugs and the hiss of the coffee maker and pictured her in her kitchen, all smiles and love and . . . home. “How is Liza?”
He hesitated for just a heartbeat. “She’s okay.”
His mother’s hesitation was five heartbeats. “That’s good. Give me a minute, I’m taking my coffee into the living room.” He heard the quiet creak of the rocking chair where she loved to sit and read and wished he could go home. Just for a few hours. “Okay. Tell me everything.”
Oh no. He wasn’t telling her anything. “I’ve been busy at work, and you know I can’t talk about that. Tell me how everyone is doing there. Is Gracie still mooning after that boy?” His younger sister was nine years old and currently in love with a boy in her class.
His mother’s chuckle was soothing. “Oh, that’s a story and a half. How long do you have?”
“As much time as you’ll give me.”
This time her hesitation was longer, her voice softer. Warmer. Like a blanket right out of the dryer. “Well, get comfortable, son, and I’ll tell you a story.”
Tom did as he was told, grabbing another beer before settling into the corner of the sofa. Without thinking, he pulled an afghan over himself, flinching when Liza’s scent hit his nose. She’d crocheted the damn thing and liked to cuddle in it when she came over to watch TV. Rafe’s words pinged around in his head and he tightened his jaw.
I’m not ready. Even if she were interested, I’m not ready. He contemplated switching out Liza’s afghan for the throw on the back of the love seat. It was within his reach, the love seat and the sofa arranged in an L. He only had to stretch a little to the left to grab it. But he didn’t.
Instead he pulled Liza’s afghan closer, inhaling her scent. “Okay, Mom. I’m ready.” Again he flinched, this time at the words that had fallen from his mouth. “What’s up with Gracie?”
YUBA CITY, CALIFORNIA
WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 8:40 P.M.
DJ did a final sweep of the house, looking for anything that might be incriminating in case the ME suspected foul play and the cops came sniffing around.
He’d already swept the basement twice. It smelled like weed, but there wasn’t even a leaf on the floor and Kowalski had already cleared out all of the product that DJ had harvested before he’d been shot. He’d planned to take some of that back to Eden with him and store it in the caves. Their mushroom production had been disrupted with the last two moves in such quick succession, and they’d had no Eden-grown product to sell all winter. DJ had sold most of the pot he’d skimmed from what he owed Kowalski, just to keep revenue coming in.
That money was supposed to have been his. He wasn’t supposed to have shared it with Eden. But Pastor had demanded an accounting of their income and DJ hadn’t wanted him to see that he’d been siphoning money from the community for years. So he’d dipped into his own stash to keep Eden’s coffers full so that Pastor wouldn’t go looking.
This room had no product, just DJ’s electronics. He packed up his laptop and the hard drives he’d collected over the years. He knew the Feds could find stuff, even on wiped hard drives. So he’d never thrown anything away.
He’d learned his way around computers on the old machines. His father had never been interested in the Internet. Had never understood what it could do.
DJ had immediately seen the benefits—some for Eden, but mostly for himself. Once Waylon was dead and DJ was in charge of supply runs, he’d met Kowalski, who’d taught him how to use software, how to manipulate photographs, how to use the surface web to sell Eden’s quilts and sundries, and, importantly, how to use the dark web to sell the drugs they grew.
Once all of his old laptops were boxed up, he turned to the printers. There was no way he was leaving them. Cops could get copies of things a printer had produced by checking the device’s memory. If DJ was suspected in Mrs. Ellis’s death by virtue of being her “weird and antisocial” neighbor, the cops could come sniffing.
If the cops got evidence from his electronics, Kowalski would drop him like a hot potato. DJ didn’t hold it against the man. He’d do the very same thing. Business was business, after all.
DJ loaded everything into his truck and took a last look at his house before driving away. He didn’t think he’d be coming back. Even if Mrs. Ellis’s death was assumed to be from natural causes, Kowalski had wired his house with cameras. He had no intention of allowing the dealer to monitor his every move.
He got enough of that from Pastor.
