From her front window, Liza watched Rafe sheltering Mercy with his body until she was safely in his Subaru. Something needed to give before Mercy broke. Liza had seen soldiers break under the stress, and Mercy wasn’t too far from that point.
They needed a distraction, something that would take Mercy’s mind off the fact that DJ was out there without allowing her to lower her guard. Putting the leftovers that Irina had sent into the oven, Liza sat at the counter and dialed a known compatriot.
“Liza!” Daisy Dawson sounded chipper as always.
“Hi, Daisy. I hope I’m not calling too late. I know you get up early for work.” Daisy was the cohost of a morning radio show, and her bedtime was surely approaching.
“It’s fine.” She laughed softly, a deep husky sound for which she was famous. “Even if you’d woken me up it would be fine. You saved Mercy’s life today. Gideon and I are grateful.”
Daisy was Gideon Reynolds’s girlfriend and had inadvertently started the official investigation into Eden when she’d grabbed a locket from the neck of a killer who’d been trying to drag her away. Through the investigation, she and Gideon had connected.
“I did what any of you would have done.”
“We’re still grateful. What’s up, Liza?”
That Daisy got to the point wasn’t a surprise. Their friendship was a cordial one, but not on the same level as Liza and Mercy’s. “It’s Mercy.”
“What’s wrong? Has DJ tried again?”
“No, it’s nothing physical,” Liza assured her. “This whole situation is starting to get to her.” She would not share Mercy’s desire to make herself bait. That had been said in confidence. “I know Tom got a few leads today, but everything is still moving too slowly, and Mercy’s going stir-crazy. I was hoping you’d have ideas about a distraction, something she can do that will make her feel like she’s still got some control over this situation.”
“Like what?” Daisy asked, curious. “A hobby?”
“I think Mercy’s too intense for that right now. I was thinking more in line with something she can do to contribute to the search for Eden or to prepare for when the people there are finally rescued. Channeling her energy into a positive endeavor might help her right now.”
Daisy hummed thoughtfully. “Like I’m doing with the escapees.”
Liza’s brows shot up in surprise. “What escapees?”
“Well, you know about the Eden tattoos, right?”
“Yes. Boys get them on their thirteenth birthdays. They’re the official Eden symbol, the children kneeling beneath an olive tree, all beneath the wings of an angel with a flaming sword.”
“Exactly. I started searching for other people with this tattoo on Instagram, looking for keywords like ‘olive tree,’ ‘children praying,’ and ‘angel with flaming sword.’ ”
Liza was intrigued. “Oh, wow. Did you find anything?”
“I did. Initially I found two. One was a close replica. A college kid had copied it from his lover—an escapee who’d taken his own life. That shook Mercy up. The second was exact—and belonged to an escapee both Mercy and Gideon had known. His Eden tattoo had been done in Eden on his thirteenth birthday, but he’d added a tat of a dragon breathing fire, like it was going to destroy it. His name was Judah.”
Liza winced. “Was?”
Daisy sighed. “He was killed in a car accident last year. I haven’t told Mercy yet. She’s been so sad, I didn’t want to add to it. Gideon took it hard enough.”
Liza understood that. “You said you ‘initially’ found two tattoos. Did you find more?”
“One more, another exact copy, but this one was done by the artist who posted it. The client who got the tattoo isn’t from Eden, as he’d have gotten it there, but he’s got to know someone who escaped. I found the tattoo artist on Instagram and we exchanged a few e-mails, but then he ghosted me after the Feds visited him at the studio where he worked. He’s taken down his Instagram page, so whatever happened, it rattled him. Artists use Instagram to advertise.”
“Do you know where this guy is located? What’s his name?”
“He was in San Jose. His name is Sergio Iglesias. He might have just changed studios.”
“But he probably wouldn’t have taken down his Instagram if he only moved. Does he have a police record?”
“No, but a lot of people get nervous when the Feds show up. They never actually got to talk to him. He skipped out the back door. He’s gone under, according to Gideon. He got the information from Tom, who got it from someone else because he wasn’t working that part of the case, but I’m not supposed to know any of that.”
Liza’s chest warmed. Tom was a Dudley Do-Right, a stickler for procedure, but he had a huge heart. He was capable of bending rules if necessary to help someone. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Daisy chuckled. “I would guess not, considering it would hurt your guy more than mine.”
Not my guy. Roughly, she cleared her throat. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.” She thought she’d sounded pretty upbeat, but Daisy’s extended silence said that she had not.
“I’m sorry, Liza. I just figured—”
“It’s all right. Now,” Liza said briskly, “back to the tattoo artist, Sergio Iglesias. The Feds haven’t been able to get any whiff of where he went?”
“None. I think the FBI backburnered their search because they figured that an adult who’d gotten an Eden tattoo wasn’t an actual escapee. And even if they know an escapee, that person won’t be able to give them a current location, because Eden moves around too much.”
Liza started up her laptop. “I keep thinking about the guy’s Instagram account. If he continues tattooing, he’ll need one. When did he take his Instagram down?”
“Three weeks ago. The day after he got a visit from the Feds.”
“Did the Feds go looking for him? At his home, I mean.”
“I don’t know.” She hesitated. “You’d have to ask Tom that question.”
Which I’m not going to do. “Can you send me the screenshots you took of his old page?”
“Sure, but tell me what you’re thinking, because I’m dying here.”
“What if Iglesias started up a new Instagram account? If it were me, I’d post a few of my most popular photos under a different name.”
“Oh.” Daisy sounded impressed. “I’m kicking myself for not thinking of that.”
“Fresh eyes help. What were you planning to ask this guy if he hadn’t ghosted?”
“The name of the person who got the Eden tattoo. They have to have known an escapee, because the design is an exact replica. It’s far too detailed to be a coincidence.”
“And when you found the escapee?”
“I’d make sure they were all right, because Gideon and Mercy sure aren’t. Maybe they can support each other, because none of us really knows what they went through. But I’d also ask how they got out and where their Eden was located. I’m frustrated that the FBI doesn’t seem interested in doing any of this.”
“I agree.” That the FBI wasn’t looking for the man was both frustrating and puzzling. “Look, it’s late and you need to go to sleep. I’m going to do some searching online and I’ll let you know what I find.”
“You promise? You won’t try to go alone if you do find him?”
“No, I won’t go alone. I promise.”
But she would go. Everyone else was either personally known to Eden—like Gideon, Mercy, Amos, and Abigail—or had been featured in the news stories about Ephraim’s murder spree.
Liza had the only face that nobody would know. And she liked tattoos.
She looked down at the rose and musical note twined together and inked over her heart. The tattoo had given her ease. It had made remembrance of her family a physical part of her. A visible reminder that she’d been loved and had loved in return.
She had a second tattoo that no one had ever seen. It covered the scar on her hip, the remnants of that awful day when her unit had been broken apart. It hadn’t been for comfort. She’d wanted to hide her scar, even from herself, out of guilt. But now she wanted comfort.
She closed Daisy’s e-mail and stared at the desktop image on her screen. Arrayed in front of a Humvee, twelve people smiled at the camera. All were in uniform, all held their weapons.
They’d all been happy that day. Even me.
The next day, only five of the twelve still lived. We weren’t happy anymore. But they had been once, which was why she’d kept this photo to remember her military family. Even in her nightmares about the day they’d died, she knew they’d protected one another with their lives.
Now she’d been invited into a new family. She’d protect them as well. Especially Mercy, who at times reminded her so much of her sister that it hurt Liza’s heart.
She took one last look at the photo of the twelve smiling faces. They deserved permanent remembrance. She was going to find Sergio Iglesias. For Mercy. And for myself.
Because she was considering a new tattoo.
EDEN, CALIFORNIA
THURSDAY, MAY 25, 12:45 A.M.
DJ parked the truck close to the cave entrance. There was a rocky path that many of their members had found difficult to climb, but they were all inside the network of caves now with no need to leave.
Unless they got hurt. Way to go, Pastor, DJ thought with a sneer.
He found Coleen waiting at the entrance. “I’m so glad you’re back,” she said in relief.
“How is he?” DJ asked, because he didn’t want the old man dead just yet.
“Conscious,” Coleen replied. “He’s talking, but he’s in a lot of pain.” She winced. “He’s babbled a little, but nothing I couldn’t explain away.”
“Good. Is he ready to go?” It was then that DJ spied the small bag leaning against the cave wall. “Is that his bag?”
“No, it’s mine.” Coleen met his gaze directly. “I’m going with you.”
DJ laughed and it wasn’t a nice sound. “No, you’re not.”
“I am. Pastor wants me there. The community wants me to go with him.”
DJ stopped laughing. “You’re staying. I outrank you.”
“Pastor outranks us all. The members will be displeased if he’s not getting the best care.”
Oh, you fucking little bitch. “Are you threatening me?” he asked softly. Menacingly.
She paled. “No. I’m letting you know that the community knows Pastor has asked me to come with him. He hasn’t left the confines of the compound for nearly ten years, except when we move. This last move was especially hard on him.”
Because the old man had needed to pull his own weight for a change. Ephraim was dead, and DJ had been unconscious when they’d arrived in the caves the month before.
“He’s in pain and frightened, DJ. Let him have his way in this.”
DJ seethed. When he killed Pastor, he’d have to kill her, too. He’d make sure it was a car accident, so that their deaths could be explained away.
The community might miss their healer, but Coleen was just a woman. Utterly replaceable. She was not meant to tell him what to do. None of the women were.
None of the men, either. Between Pastor and Kowalski, he’d about had it with people telling him what to do.
“Fine,” he snapped. “Be ready to leave in five minutes.” He stalked to Pastor’s quarters, opening the makeshift door without knocking. Pastor got a piece of plywood to give him privacy. Most of the members had only a curtain. Some didn’t have that much.
“Close the door,” Pastor said weakly.
DJ obeyed, startled at the old man’s appearance. He was . . . old. Frail, even. “How did you fall?” he asked, suddenly suspicious. “Did someone push you?”
“No. I was coming down the mountain. I had to climb to get a signal for my cell phone. I had to call my banker. You wouldn’t set the dish up for me to e-mail him, so I had no choice.”
DJ scowled. “So did you talk to your banker?”
Pastor nodded absently. “I’ll call him again to make a financial transfer to whatever hospital you’re taking me to.”
And then DJ would learn the access code. He kept his voice calm, even though he wanted to shout with excitement. “All right.”
“Where are you taking me?”
Straight to hell, motherfucker. “I’m not sure yet. I need to find a doctor who’ll take cash.”
“My banker has my personal papers.”
DJ blinked. “What?”
Pastor struggled to open his eyes. “Specifically my will that states you are my heir.”
Yes. He bowed his head so that Pastor couldn’t see his glee. “I see.”
Pastor huffed, a weary, sick little sound. “I’m sure you think you do, but you’d be mistaken. If I don’t show up at a hospital by morning, my banker is instructed to mail all of the sealed envelopes in his possession. I send him a new one every year detailing everyone’s personal sins. Including yours. He also knows to place my money in a series of trusts if I’m declared missing or dead. One trust is for the people of Eden. One is for you. You will get a stipend once a year.”
Motherfucker. “I see,” DJ said levelly. Because he did. The old man was ever cagey. “You said a series of trusts. Are there more?”
“Yes. One goes to my wives. One to my banker.”
“Your banker gets a trust?”
“He’s served me well.” Pastor coughed, moaning at the resulting pain. “The point is, I better show up at a hospital. If I don’t, you’d better hope it was an accident and we all died, otherwise your face will be on an FBI wanted poster.”
Too late, asshole. The FBI already had his prints. If there was camera surveillance in the office building he’d used Wednesday morning, his face was now known to the Feds as well.
Then a detail popped up, distracting him. “Wait. How does your banker know all of this?”
“I told Coleen to call him. Gave her a onetime code.”
“Where are the other codes?”
A crooked smile. “In my head. Better hope I wake up from surgery, or they die with me.”
And then the money would be divided and put into trust. He had killed Ephraim in part to keep from having to share that money with anyone. Unless he could find another way, he’d still be sharing it. Despite being bruised and bloody and frail from his fall, Pastor looked smug.
It took every ounce of DJ’s self-control not to ball his hands into fists and beat the fucker into a bloody pulp. Instead DJ breathed until he could be sure his voice was steady. “Is that why you want Coleen to come with us? To make sure I don’t do anything—”
“Evil?” Pastor interrupted with a laugh that sounded more like a geriatric bark. “I don’t need to give you any reason, but if you must have one, then yes, that is why. When do we leave?”
DJ gritted his teeth. “As soon as you’re ready. I’ll ask some of the men to carry you down to the truck. I need to make arrangements for a hospital.”
Pastor closed his eyes. “Good boy.”
Not a damn boy. Not anymore. He had been once, before Pastor had given him to Edward McPhearson. DJ had been his apprentice. Edward had been a brutal master. Once Edward was dead, McPhearson no longer owned him. But Pastor still did. Not sexually, but DJ was owned.
And he still owns me.
Because Pastor knew that the lure of fifty million dollars was too strong for anyone to ignore.
DJ turned to go. “I’ll be waiting at the truck.”
ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA
THURSDAY, MAY 25, 1:15 A.M.
Finding Sergio Iglesias didn’t take as long as Liza had thought it would, at least compared to the hours Daisy had spent identifying him to begin with. A week after the Feds visited his old studio, fifteen of Iglesias’s photos had appeared on Instagram under the account of Sal Ibarra, the new name allowing Iglesias to continue using his initials as his signature.
According to his profile, Sal Iberra was an artist, located in Monterey. His last location had been San Jose, so he hadn’t gone all that far. At least he hadn’t skipped the state. Which made her wonder why.
She found her answer in one of the screenshots that Daisy had made of Iglesias’s old Instagram account. The photo showed a woman in profile, hands cupping her pregnant stomach. The photo was captioned, My beautiful wife, Felicidad. It was originally uploaded six years ago.
“Yes,” Liza whispered aloud. Sergio Iglesias had a good reason for staying close by.
Liza knew she had to tell someone what she’d found, but she didn’t want the man to feel like he needed to run again. He had a family. Sending him running again seemed cruel.
She’d contact him first. If he had no relevant information, she’d let it go. If he could tell them who had gotten the Eden tattoo, she’d pass that information on to Tom.
On finding the tattoo parlor’s website, she was pleased to see that they had an online appointment tool. “Sal Ibarra” had openings the next afternoon. According to Google, Monterey was about a three-hour drive from Sacramento. She requested a three o’clock session.
She could leave after giving Abigail the reading lesson she’d promised and be back before dinnertime. Hopefully with information.
And maybe a new tattoo. She had an idea now of what she’d like.
She cleaned up her dinner dishes, then took her laptop and a spiral notebook up to her bedroom. Pulling on her pj’s, she stared at the place on the bed where Tom had so carefully perched that afternoon.
It hadn’t been the first time he’d come to her room. He’d brought her chocolate once when she’d had cramps so bad that she couldn’t get out of bed. Another time he’d brought her some of Irina’s chicken soup when she’d had a cold. And more than once he’d come crashing through her door when he’d heard her scream while having a nightmare.
The nightmare. The one where all of her friends bled out while she fruitlessly tried to save them. She’d woken those nights to find herself in Tom’s strong arms, his murmurs in her ear. He’d asked her to talk to him about the nightmares, but she hadn’t wanted to and he hadn’t pushed. At the time she’d been relieved.
Now she wished he’d pushed. She could have told him about Fritz. About how she’d married him. About how she hadn’t loved him like she should have. How Fritz had been a substitute.
At the time she’d worried that it might make Tom think less of her, that maybe he wouldn’t want her. Now she wanted him to know. It was wrong for her to keep Fritz a secret. He’d deserved so much more than that.
She crawled under the blankets, able to hear Tom working. His home office was adjacent to her bedroom. Muted strains of Pavarotti made her smile sadly. Pavarotti was his “thinking music.” She’d mentioned once that she could hear it and he’d immediately offered to turn his music down. She’d told him that was ridiculous, that the music soothed her.
Not so much tonight.
She put in earbuds, turned up her Garth Brooks playlist, and opened the spiral notebook to a fresh page. She was no artist, but she had a few ideas about the tattoo she’d like. Sergio did good work, and having left the studio where he’d already built a clientele, he probably needed the money. If he turned her away after learning who she was and what she wanted to know about the Eden tattoo, she’d find another tattooist.
It was time to lay her friends to rest, once and for all.
MCARTHUR, CALIFORNIA
THURSDAY, MAY 25, 1:35 A.M.
DJ scowled at his sat phone, knowing he’d put off calling Kowalski as long as he could. The man would be meeting with customers and suppliers soon. Most of their work was done in the wee hours when most people were asleep.
He hated having to call Kowalski. Hated having to owe the man anything.
Hated having Kowalski know where Pastor was, because he would if they used the doctor he recommended. He did not want Kowalski meeting Pastor and asking him questions, especially now, when the old man wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
Gritting his teeth, he dialed Kowalski’s number, swallowing a snarl when the man answered, his tone smug. “Changed your mind about the doctor, huh?”
“Yes. My father was hurt worse than I’d been led to believe.”
“That’s too bad,” Kowalski said, his words dripping with mock concern. “The doctor’s name is Ralph Arnold. I’ll text you his number. Wait a few minutes before calling. I’ll have to let him know to expect you. He doesn’t take calls from just anyone. He runs a very private hospital.”
“Thank you.” He swallowed the snarl that was crawling out of his throat. “I appreciate this.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll be able to return the favor at some point in the future.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. “Of course. But . . . what do you mean by ‘private’ hospital?”
“He’s a legit doctor, if that’s what you’re asking. His patients have one thing in common—the need for privacy. Most of his patients are celebrities looking to avoid the media. Others are . . . like us. People who don’t want their DNA falling into the wrong hands. He operated on my knee a few years ago and it’s as good as new now.”
DJ’s phone buzzed with the incoming texted contact information. “I got the doctor’s number, thank you. I’ll wait to call him. I need to go. Road’s dicey here.”
Ending the call, he set the phone aside, gripping the wheel with both hands to navigate a hairpin turn. He hated driving this big truck on these curves. He didn’t know how drivers of semitrucks did it without careening over the cliff to instant death, but they did, so he could, too.
The pickup in which Waylon had taught him to drive had been a standard Ford F-150. This box truck that he’d stolen from the itinerant farmhand was considerably bigger.
The road evened out after a few minutes, and DJ tapped the doctor’s contact information to dial his number.
“Yes?” The voice was deep and musical.
“I’d like to speak to Dr. Ralph Arnold,” DJ said.
“Speaking. Is this Mr. Belmont?”
“It is. Can you help my father?”
“I won’t know until I see him. But I will see him, as Mr. Kowalski has vouched for you. Head toward the Sacramento airport. When I get your payment, I’ll text you the address.”
DJ rolled his eyes at the cloak-and-dagger approach. “What is the payment?”
“One hundred thousand.”
What the fuck? A hundred thousand dollars? DJ opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“Mr. Belmont? Are you still there?”
“Yes.” DJ cleared his throat because the word had come out hoarse. “I am.”
“Can you afford my services?”
Uppity sonofabitch. “Yes. Of course.” Pastor had fifty million bucks. A hundred thou was nothing. He hoped. “If you can text me the transfer instructions, I’ll get that underway. It might be a little while. We’re still in the mountains and unlikely to have a cell signal.”
A short pause. “But you are talking to me.”
“This sat phone is my business line. My father will be arranging the payment himself on his cell phone. He is . . . unaware of my business relationship with Mr. Kowalski.”
“Oh. I see. Well, that’s fine. We won’t be revealing any information to him. We’ll be focused on fixing what’s broken.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be wiring the payment as soon as I can.”
It was another hour before DJ could safely pull off the road into a gas station. He stuffed the sat phone into his pocket and zipped the pocket closed. He did not want Pastor or Coleen to see it. Looking both ways to ensure that they were alone, he opened one of the back doors.
The old man lay on the floor, eyes closed, his head in Coleen’s lap. The healer looked up, her skin even paler than it had been in Eden. She looked a little green. “Are we there?”
“No,” DJ replied. “But the curvy parts are over.”
“Thank God,” she breathed. “Pastor didn’t do well. He’s thrown up a few times, which is going to dehydrate him. When will we arrive?”
“Not for another three hours, if there’s no traffic on the freeway.”
She gasped. “Three hours? DJ, he’s in pain now.”
“And I’m sorry,” DJ said. Even though he really wasn’t. “But we can’t just take him to a regular hospital. They’ll ask for his insurance card and ID. Things are much different now than they were when you entered Eden. It’s much harder to fake your identity. Especially when insurance is involved. We don’t have insurance cards and they might not treat him without one.”
That was probably not true, but DJ wasn’t taking any chances. Pastor needed good care, because if he died, the codes died with him.
“I know,” Coleen fretted. “I just hate seeing him in pain.”
DJ didn’t mind at all. “Is he conscious?”
“Yes,” Pastor wheezed. “Why?”
“I need you to authorize a transfer from our bank account to the doctor.”
Pastor’s nod was barely perceptible. “How much?”
“A hundred grand.”
Coleen gasped again and Pastor turned his head to glare at DJ. “Are you insane, boy?”
“I am not,” DJ said levelly. Insane or a boy. “Hospitals are very expensive now.”
“Coleen, please give the phone to me. DJ, have the information ready.”
DJ took another look around. Luckily, it was early enough that no one was around.
“It’s Ben,” Pastor said a moment later, and DJ blinked. He’d never heard Pastor called anything but Pastor. Once or twice he’d heard Waylon call him Brother Herbert.
Pastor motioned for DJ to come up into the back of the truck. Drawing his weapon, DJ complied, closing the door. If anyone got nosy, he’d blow their head off and ask questions later.
“No, I’m not fine,” Pastor snapped to his banker. “I’m on my way to a private hospital. I need you to wire a hundred grand to the following account ASAP.” He listened for a moment, then turned his gaze up to DJ. “He says that a hundred Gs is pretty cheap for private treatment.”
The grudging acknowledgment was as close to a “please,” “thank you,” and “I’m sorry” as Pastor would ever give.
Pastor put the phone on speaker. “DJ, give the man the information.”
DJ read the account and routing number aloud. “The doctor’s name is Ralph Arnold.”
“Good,” Pastor muttered. “An American name. Don’t want a foreigner working on me.”
“But you find a foreigner handling your money acceptable?” the banker asked congenially in lightly accented English. Not for the first time, DJ wondered who this man was and why Pastor trusted him with that much cash.
Pastor’s expression chilled at the veiled criticism. “You know I’m not talking about you.”
“Of course not,” the banker said dryly. “I’ll need your authorization code.”
Pastor glanced up at DJ before saying, “B-e-B-o-11,” into the speaker.
The code. That was the code. Short for Bernice-Boaz-11. The names of his dead twins and their age when they died. DJ tried not to let his excitement show, keeping his expression bland.
Inside he was jumping up and down and screaming in triumph. Until Pastor spoke again.
“Delete that code from our approved list. The new code will be the next in the cipher series.”
Cipher series? What the hell? The bastard hadn’t merely memorized some passwords, DJ realized. He and his banker had some kind of prearranged code. Meaning I can’t break it. Motherfucking sonofabitch. DJ couldn’t contain his glare. Damn you to hell, old man.
Pastor’s lips twitched. He knew what DJ had assumed and had enjoyed cutting him back down to size.
Once I get that money, you are dead, old man. Dead. And it’s going to fucking hurt.
“Understood,” the banker replied. “I’ve sent the wire. It might be a few hours before it goes through.”
“That’s all right,” Pastor said. “Apparently I’m a few hours from this Dr. Arnold. I’ll check in again before I go into surgery to ensure the wire transfer was successful.”
Pastor ended the call and gave his phone to Coleen, who still sat, looking shocked at the amount of money he’d so casually transferred. It appeared the healer didn’t know about the fifty million that Pastor had been hoarding and building for thirty years.
DJ wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but it was certainly something he’d use for his own benefit if he could.
“Water, Coleen.” The old man still managed to sound like a pompous king.
“Of course. I’m sorry, Pastor.”
“As you should be,” the old man muttered, closing his eyes. “Hurry up, boy. Get us there.”
“Absolutely,” DJ promised. And he’d make sure he hit every damn pothole along the way.
