Say No More

by Rose, Karen

  Bellsie? Jeff grimaced, then googled Mercy Callahan and groaned again. Shit. There were hundreds of results, the most recent an article about her near abduction from the airport. It also had a video, grainy because it was from the airport security cameras. It showed a zombielike Mercy being walked toward the door by . . . him. The man he’d seen leaving the dead woman’s New Orleans apartment next door to Mercy’s.

  He was not shocked, but he was horrified, even more horrified than he already had been.

  She wore a blank expression, like a doll. Even when the big man was struck down by some blond guy’s cane. A cane? Seriously? But Jeff’s disbelief turned into admiration when the blond yanked at the killer’s leg with the cane’s hook after both men crashed to the floor. The blond guy had serious ninja skills with that cane.

  He was also in a wheelchair. And looked damned familiar.

  Jeff scanned the article and remembered who the blond was. Detective Raphael Sokolov. He’d been involved in taking the serial killer down. And, according to this article from tonight, he’d taken Mercy Callahan to his family’s home on Medallion Avenue in Granite Bay.

  At least he knew where she’d be, he thought grimly. At the house on Medallion Avenue surrounded by news vans.

  ‘Okay, we’ll do that,’ his mother said after a series of hums, nods, and uh-huhs. ‘Thank you, Bellsie. And I’d love to go out with you next week. Text me a place and time and I’ll be there.’ She ended the call. ‘He says we need to formally file a cease-and-desist with the website. Once that’s filed, either they have to take it down, or we can report them to the FBI. This is considered “revenge porn”.’

  ‘I’m going to report Nolan anyway,’ Jeff muttered. ‘This woman is fragile. Something like this could push anyone over the edge, but . . . Damn, Mom. Did you see her walking through the airport?’

  She nodded, her expression pained. ‘Poor girl. How are you going to make this right to her?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ he admitted. ‘Hey, Mom, how did you even know about this?’

  ‘Your aunt Patricia called. She had an alert set up for anything with your name in it. Trying to be supportive. She called and woke me up. She was screaming. She’ll be glad to know that you didn’t do this. Not voluntarily, anyway.’ She patted his arm. ‘Get on your laptop and issue the takedown order.’

  Now? was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. She was right. ‘Okay. Thanks, Mom.’

  She met his eyes soberly. ‘You’re welcome. Find a better job, Jeffy. There isn’t enough money in the world worth your soul.’

  ‘I will. I promise.’ He had to. This was not the way his career was supposed to be. He wanted to help people and only hurt the bad guys. Now I’m a bad guy.

  Nine

  Sacramento, California

  Sunday, 16 April, 4.30 A.M.

  Mercy crept down the stairs of Rafe’s house, hoping she didn’t make any floorboards creak. She needed room to pace. To meditate. Because Ephraim had been in New Orleans. He’d been watching her for almost a week.

  She knew she should have been asleep, but even though she was completely exhausted, sleep had eluded her. Farrah had climbed under the covers in Sasha’s guest room still fully dressed, dropping off into a deep slumber before Sasha had finished readying the bedding. Mercy had managed to doze for what might have been an hour, but that nightmare had shocked her into full alertness.

  Mercy hated that nightmare, the one where she saw her mother gunned down by DJ Belmont. She hated all the nightmares, but that one was the worst. If she’d been in her own apartment, she would have been in her kitchen, baking cookies for her brothers’ and sisters’ kids. Snickerdoodles were the overall favorite.

  They’d made her family and she’d betrayed them. Stolen time they could have had with Gideon. And now she’d probably brought danger to their doorstep.

  The nightmare had woken her, but it had been dread at the thought of facing John and all the brothers and sisters that had her staring at the ceiling. That and the knowledge that Ephraim had stalked her in New Orleans for a whole week and she hadn’t even known he was there.

  He’d been in the same city as her family. Who at least by now knew to be careful, to watch the children more carefully. Gideon had called Farrah’s captain, who’d called John, who’d called Mercy a few minutes after two a.m. California time, frantically urging her to come home where he and all the sibs could keep her safe.

  She’d broken down again, sobbing into the phone, confessing what she’d done. John, to his credit, had been stunned, but kind. He still didn’t know about Eden, but Mercy had told him enough that he understood her childhood had been traumatic. Finally John had told her that they loved her and to sleep, that they’d figure it out.

  And through all the sobbing and confessing, Farrah had slept like a log, making Mercy envious. Farrah always slept like a log, while Mercy rarely slept at all. Especially recently.

  She’d made the trip to John’s this past week on the pretense of delivering the dozens of cookies that she’d made when she couldn’t sleep. She hadn’t even been able to stay to watch his kids eat a single cookie, simply shoving the plastic container into John’s arms and running from the raw pity in his eyes. He’d seen the CNN newscast too, but she hadn’t been able to talk to him about it.

  She couldn’t make cookies in someone else’s apartment, especially while they were sleeping, so she was punting to the next nervous-energy-burning activity in her repertoire.

  I could have paced upstairs, Mercy thought, rolling her eyes at herself as she descended the last step into Rafe’s foyer. Farrah wouldn’t have woken up. Sasha claimed to also sleep like the dead, so it wasn’t like Mercy’s footsteps would have woken her, either.

  Or you could just admit the truth, to yourself if no one else. Because she now stood in the little foyer of Rafe’s house, staring at his apartment door. She wanted to knock. She wanted to sit next to him, to breathe in his scent, to feel his arms around her. She wanted to sleep, and he made her feel safe enough to do so. That hour she’d slept in his arms had been more precious than gold.

  She’d actually lifted her fist to knock when she realized what she was doing. He was asleep. Waking him up so that she could sleep would be wrong and selfish, and she’d been both of those things enough tonight. Lowering her fist, she surveyed the square footage of the landing, determining it large enough for her needs.

  She needed to do more than pace. One of the most valuable takeaways from years of therapy was that pacing burned off energy, but meditation could actually silence the voices. Which, at the moment, were legion.

  Ephraim at the airport. Hello, wife.

  DJ from her nightmare. Watch, Mercy. Right before he shot her mother in the head.

  Her mother, pleading. Find Gideon. There’s something you need to know about Gideon.

  They all talked and talked until she wanted to rip her hair out, so she assumed the starting position for the tai chi routine that was her favorite. It aided in meditation, calming her mind when it was going full throttle, giving her the focus to shove the voices into the box and nail down the lid.

  She sank into the movements, one flowing into the next, timing becoming irrelevant. When she finished her routine, she did it again. And again. Until her body began to relax and her churning mind was suspended.

  Lowering her arms to her sides, she filled her lungs with air, expelling it on a quiet rush. And in the quiet, she could finally think past the panic that had kept her frozen in its grip since she’d stepped onto that airplane in New Orleans.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ she whispered, then became aware of someone breathing behind her. She spun, pressing her palm to her racing heart when she saw Rafe leaning in his doorway, dressed only in sweats, his chest bare.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ he repeated quietly.

  ‘How—’ Clearing her throat, she tried to project
calm. ‘How long were you standing there?’

  ‘Long enough to watch you go through your routine a few times,’ he said with a smile. ‘You’re very pretty when you do that.’

  ‘Do what? Tai chi?’

  He nodded. ‘Elegant and graceful.’

  ‘It’s my meditation,’ she said, flustered at the compliment. ‘One of the ways, anyway.’

  ‘Does it help?’

  She nodded. ‘Except when the life gets scared out of me afterward.’

  He chuckled. ‘Sorry. I was afraid to say anything. I didn’t want to scare you. I should have gone back inside, but . . .’ His smile turned a little bashful and it was an endearing sight. ‘I didn’t want to stop watching you.’

  She felt her cheeks heat in pleasure at the compliment. ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No. I should be sacked out solid, but I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Me either,’ she admitted. ‘Farrah falls asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow. I envy her that skill.’

  ‘My brain was racing.’

  ‘Mine too.’ She wanted to say more but had no idea what she should say. Instead, she gestured lamely to the stairs. ‘I should let you try to sleep.’

  ‘Or you could come in for a cup of tea,’ he said, and her heart began to race again, but not in fear.

  It was anticipation and it was more than a little heady. ‘If you really don’t mind.’

  Gripping his cane, he stepped backward into his apartment, beckoning her in. ‘I don’t mind at all.’

  She looked around as he closed the door behind them, partly out of curiosity and partly to avoid staring at the chest he was making no move to cover up. ‘You didn’t change anything from when Daisy lived here.’ The walls were still covered in vibrant, colorful murals, the open closet door revealed a jumble of sports equipment, and the corners were still stacked high with fabric of every imaginable color. It was like a hobby shop had exploded. Mercy had loved it at first sight.

  ‘It’s only temporary,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Daisy’ll want her place back eventually. Once my PT is done and I can take the stairs again. If she’s not married to Gideon and raising their five children by then.’

  The PT was not going well, then. Mercy was glad she hadn’t asked. Not sure how to respond, she pointed to the whiteboard against the living-room wall. ‘That’s new.’

  It was a free-standing model, the kind that flipped to reveal another board on the other side. The whiteboard was filled with his PT schedule. He went three times a week and he was clearly discouraged by his lack of progress, real or perceived.

  She could identify with that. Her own mental health therapy had been a similar struggle. Two steps forward, one step back. It still was.

  ‘Ah, my board,’ Rafe said, walking into the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane. ‘It helps me keep my schedule straight.’

  This surprised her, because the schedule hadn’t looked complicated. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, same time, same place.

  ‘What kind of tea?’ he asked. ‘I have a whole drawerful. Well, Daisy does. Come take a look.’

  Mercy picked a packet of chamomile from the drawer. ‘It helps me wind down.’

  He nodded once. ‘Have a seat on the sofa. I’ll bring it to you.’

  She cast a doubtful gaze from the two cups on the counter to the cane in his hand, but made no protest. He was a grown man. He knew what he was capable of doing.

  She’d settled on the sofa when she spied the edge of a canvas leaning against the far wall, behind several other paintings. It was a painting she’d recognized when she’d been here six weeks before, a painting that had shattered her heart at first sight. She was on her feet and pulling the painting free before realizing that she’d even planned to move. Placing it in front of the others, she stood and stared at the crudely painted field of daisies, a young girl sitting in their midst. A smiling young girl with black hair and green eyes.

  The girl was Mercy and she remembered the day she’d sat in the field of flowers. But they hadn’t been daisies. Most had been light purple, a few others had been red and—

  Oh. Details clicked together in her mind. Oh my God. ‘Poppies,’ she murmured.

  ‘I think they’re daisies,’ Rafe said. ‘Poppies are red.’

  She looked over her shoulder to see him placing two steaming mugs on the coffee table. He’d brought them in on a tray, which made complete sense – and made her glad she hadn’t said anything about his being able to carry both mugs one-handed.

  ‘At least they’re supposed to be daisies,’ Rafe added. ‘Gideon is good at many things. Painting . . .’ He waggled his hand in a so-so gesture.

  ‘These are daisies because Daisy made him paint,’ Mercy said. ‘He changed the flowers because he had Daisy on his mind. The flowers were actually purple and red.’ She pointed to the young girl sitting in the field of flowers. ‘That’s me.’

  He approached her warily, as if worried she’d bolt. Which was probably fair. ‘I thought so. I moved it out of sight when you left. I was a little . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I missed you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. You did what you needed to do. I understand.’

  ‘I was still unkind to have run away.’

  ‘Well, maybe a little,’ he allowed.

  Her lips twitched. ‘All right, then.’ She returned her gaze to the painting, sobering. ‘This day actually happened. I was nine years old. It was a week before Gideon’s thirteenth birthday.’ She rubbed the heel of her hand against her heart again because the memory hurt. ‘There was a field of flowers beyond the gates of Eden. We were expressly forbidden to go there, but we could see it when the teachers took us on field trips outside the gates. The purpose of the trip that day was to gather roots for the healer. We kids were cheap labor, I guess.’

  ‘But you got tempted by the flowers,’ Rafe said and she shot him a startled look.

  ‘How did you know?’

  He pointed to the painting. ‘Because you’re sitting in them.’ His voice held more than a note of ‘duh’.

  ‘Good point. Well, I got caught. I was good at avoiding harsh punishments as a kid because my stepfather, Amos, was a gentle man.’

  ‘Sounds like you cared about him.’

  ‘I did. He never laid a hand on me. He was a good man.’ She frowned, troubled. ‘I hope he wasn’t punished because Mama and I escaped. Although we were part of Ephraim’s household by then.’ She shook her head, dislodging the notion for now. ‘Anyway, I got caught and the punishment for going to the flower field was severe and out of Amos’s hands. A week in the box.’

  ‘What was the box?’ Rafe asked grimly.

  ‘What it sounds like. It was a little outbuilding, an outhouse actually. But its only use was for punishment. They’d lock the person in with no light for a week. Twice a day you’d get food and water.’

  ‘Mother of God,’ he whispered. ‘They put you in there? At nine years old?’

  ‘No, but only because Gideon stepped up when they were about to throw me in. He took my punishment. Spent a week in that goddamned box.’ She swallowed hard. She really didn’t want to cry any more, but the tears were pushing against her throat. ‘It was freezing cold at night and blistering during the day. And because the punishment was meant for me, he was only given the food and water rations that I was supposed to have gotten.’

  ‘They starved him.’ Rafe’s voice was hoarse.

  Guilt grabbed at her, and she had to fight it back. Yes, Gideon had taken her punishment, but none of them had deserved it. Not ever. Years of therapy had taught her this. If only she could truly believe it. ‘Yes, they starved him. They let him out on his thirteenth birthday. I remember him coming into the light, how he shielded his eyes. How gaunt he was. My mother cried. So did I.’ She ran her fingertip along the top of the painting. ‘That
night, he had his fight with Edward McPhearson.’

  ‘The man who tried to rape him.’

  She nodded. ‘He was the blacksmith and Gideon was to have been his apprentice. He fought the man off, even as weak as he was, coming off a week of malnutrition and dehydration.’

  ‘McPhearson hit his head on his anvil and died.’

  ‘Right. And then Ephraim led some of the community’s men in a mob, intending to beat Gideon to death. That’s when Gideon fought back. Stabbed Ephraim’s eye. That’s why he wore a patch.’ She remembered his face in the airport with a shudder. ‘I don’t know when he got the glass eye. I only remember him wearing a patch.’

  ‘That was the night your mother broke Gideon out of Eden.’

  ‘Yes. The last time I saw him, he was being led out of the box.’

  ‘Not your fault, Mercy. You were only nine years old. Plus Ephraim took your mother right after that, didn’t he? It was a traumatic time. I’m not surprised you blocked things out.’

  ‘Head knows, heart still feels guilty.’

  He said nothing for a long moment, then sighed. ‘I get that, too. Do you want the painting?’

  She shook her head, hard. That day still haunted her. ‘No, thank you. But the field was not daisies, that’s what I was trying to tell you. It was poppies. Mostly purple poppies. Purple opium poppies.’

  He stared for a moment, before his eyes flooded with understanding. ‘Oh. They’d moved from a cash crop of marijuana to opium.’

  ‘I think so. That was why we kids weren’t allowed in the field. Not many of the adults, either. Only the highest-ranking wives were allowed. I think they were the harvesters.’

  Rafe stared at the painting before turning his gaze on her. ‘Did you mean what you said last night? That you want to help catch Burton?’

  She blinked at him. ‘Yes, of course I did. Why?’

  He backed away from her until he reached the whiteboard. ‘I’ve been keeping myself occupied since you left.’ Abruptly he flipped the board, revealing a bulletin board on the other side.