Say No More

by Rose, Karen

  ‘I think you blocked a lot of things out. Probably kept you sane.’

  ‘My shrink says the same thing.’ She began typing again. ‘We also made dolls.’

  He frowned, trying to keep up. ‘Dolls?’

  ‘Yes, the girls made them. Dolls and some ceramics. Some quilts, too. A lot of them had a tree or an angel hidden somewhere.’

  Rafe sat up straighter. Dolls, quilts, and furniture were things they could track. ‘Did the leaders know you all were hiding Eden symbols in your crafts?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It was always done with a wink, you know? And we had our own signatures. Nobody spoke of it, because it would have been considered vanity and that was a sin. So we just did it and planned to claim ignorance if we got caught.’ She typed more, paging through catalogs and Pinterest boards, her expression growing more intense as the minutes passed. And then she blanched, the color in her cheeks draining away.

  ‘What?’ Rafe asked, unable to maintain his silence a moment longer. ‘What do you see?’

  Again she turned the laptop and again Rafe was impressed by the quality of the workmanship. The quilt was a starburst design, with Mt. Shasta front and center, the sun either rising or setting behind it. ‘That’s incredible,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’ She traced a fingertip over the photo of the quilt. ‘I remember this one, actually. It was made by one of Mama’s friends.’ She sighed. ‘Eileen’s mother.’

  Eileen, who’d escaped back in November only to be kidnapped by a serial killer the following month. Abruptly he wondered if Eileen’s family had been killed by Eden as well, or if they were being tortured like Mercy and her mother had been.

  ‘Where is it?’ he asked, wanting to comfort her, but having no clue how to do so.

  ‘The quilt?’ She scanned the screen. ‘Here’s the user who tagged it.’ She looked up, her eyes suddenly bright. ‘We could contact them and ask where they bought it. Same with Amos’s furniture.’

  He grinned at her, in perfect accord. ‘Let’s make up a dummy account and send out a few emails.’

  She grinned back. ‘Let’s.’

  Sacramento, California

  Sunday, 16 April, 6.30 A.M.

  Ephraim lounged against the pillows on Granny’s bed with a satisfied grin. ‘Yes,’ he hissed to the article on his laptop screen. It was titled 10 Things to Know About Mercy Callahan, and had, at least for a little while, included a damning video showcasing Mercy’s inner slut.

  He’d banished his fury at the thought of Mercy willingly submitting to another man’s sexual demands when she’d been so unresponsive with him, but then felt vindicated when he read her more recent boyfriend’s ‘colder than a fish’ statement.

  A retraction at the end of the article denied any responsibility of the site’s management regarding the uploading of videos portraying sexual assault and stated that they were against it.

  Part of him wished he’d seen the video himself, but he mostly was glad he hadn’t. Then he’d have to go back to New Orleans and kill the bastard who’d taken the video in the first place. He did not want to go back there, because Louisiana was too damn muggy and it was only spring.

  Plus he’d have to drive to New Orleans and the only way he’d do that was if Mercy ran home before he could grab her here. No more flying until Pastor made him a new driver’s license. It wouldn’t take the FBI long to track down the name he’d used to buy the tickets to and from New Orleans.

  Luckily, he wasn’t going to have to return to New Orleans. He knew exactly where Mercy was, thanks to the articles by other reporters. She’d holed up in the Sokolovs’ house in Granite Bay, east of Sacramento. He just had to bide his time until her guard was down and she went somewhere alone. Or at least somewhere without a cop. Although he wasn’t afraid to take out a cop or two if it meant returning to Eden with Mercy in tow.

  He wanted to prove DJ’s lies. He wanted to show that Mercy still lived, even though DJ had sworn that he’d killed her. He wanted DJ cast out.

  He wanted all the money that Pastor had been quietly accumulating for the past thirty years.

  He could be patient a little while longer, but he needed a better place to crash in the meantime. Granny’s little Boy Scout would be back from his camping trip by that afternoon, and Ephraim didn’t intend to still be here.

  Opening a new tab in his browser, Ephraim searched for empty homes for sale in the Granite Bay area, quickly discarding his search when he saw the relative wealth of the community. Rich people alarmed their homes, even hiring security guards sometimes. He didn’t want a poor neighborhood, because he liked his creature comforts, so he searched for a middle-class area where nicer houses sat abandoned, preferably in a secluded location where nobody could either sneak up on him, surround him, or report him as a squatter.

  He settled on three possible homes, copied their addresses, then gathered his belongings, taking great care to wipe off anything that he’d touched, wishing he’d had the presence of mind to do the same at Regina’s. He’d left his prints everywhere in Regina’s house, especially in the room where he’d killed her. That had been his room, every time he’d stayed with her. There was no easy way to erase his presence. Not that he was overly worried about that.

  Because who are Regina’s people gonna tell? Quickly he clicked back to the first tab he’d opened that morning and refreshed the page, checking again for any reports on a murder at Regina’s address.

  Just as before, nothing. He wasn’t surprised. Regina ran a prostitution ring. She kept underage girls, selling them to men who liked them young. Men like me. Her staff would find her body and dispose of it, and her second-in-command would take over, likely thrilled with the promotion.

  In fact, the new boss of Regina’s place would probably be very grateful. Not that Ephraim was going to chance it. He wasn’t ever going back there.

  Satisfied that he’d considered every potential issue, he made himself breakfast in Granny’s kitchen, appreciating the preserves she’d stored in her pantry. He cleaned out the old woman’s pantry, storing the canned goods in the trunk of his car. Who knew when he’d get hungry on the road, and canned garden veggies were better than no food at all.

  He’d also take her rifle and search her house for any items he might need. Ammo, rope to tie Mercy, duct tape to keep her quiet . . . all of the normal tools of the trade.

  He would need a disguise, though, before he could come anywhere close to the Sokolovs again, especially the cop. He could wear a wig. A fake beard. Anything that would disguise his features, since the asshole knew his face. Law enforcement across the whole damn state knew his face now, thanks to that fucker with a cane.

  Ephraim did one more Google search, looking for costume stores in the area.

  Ten

  Orangevale, California

  Sunday, 16 April, 8.15 A.M.

  The costume store’s alarm hadn’t sounded, but Ephraim was taking no chances. He kept an eye on the big picture window in front, just in case the alarm was a silent one.

  He had most of what he needed. A few wigs that weren’t too cartoony, a mustache/beard set, some theatrical makeup that he had no idea how to use. He could google it later. He grabbed a bottle of spirit gum and a package of scars. He’d started for the back entrance where he’d left his car when he heard a soft click.

  ‘Ah, fuck,’ he muttered. Not again.

  ‘Don’t move,’ a woman said, her voice trembling. ‘I will shoot you.’

  Slowly he turned to find her to be about twenty years old. Cute, if not a bit coltish. In one hand she held what looked like a .22. In the other, her cell phone. Both hands shook like leaves in a hurricane.

  Behind her was an open door, probably to a storeroom. He’d checked it when he’d come in, but it had been locked.

  ‘I said don’t move!’ But she backed up a step, her terror clear on her face. ‘I called
the police, so don’t make any sudden moves.’

  She really needed to stop watching bad movies, he thought. ‘I don’t want to kill you,’ he said quietly. And he didn’t. Especially since he hadn’t pulled the bullets out of Granny. If he shot this girl with Regina’s gun, they’d be able to connect the crimes. If he shot her with his own gun, the neighbors would hear the gunshot.

  Which didn’t really matter, because he’d left his own gun in the car. Fucking hell. It didn’t matter and he couldn’t just stand there waffling. He didn’t have any time to waste.

  Her laugh was shrill. ‘I don’t want to kill you either, but I will. Drop the stuff and put your hands up.’

  He shoved the stolen items beneath his shirt and tucked its hem into his pants so the disguises wouldn’t fall out. Then he calmly pulled Regina’s gun from his pocket and pointed it at her. ‘Drop the gun.’ He began walking toward her, shaking his head when she clutched the gun tighter and backed up, matching him step for step.

  ‘Hurry!’ she cried into her phone. ‘Please hurry. He’s got a gun!’

  When he reached her, he took the gun from her shaking hand, pocketed it, then grabbed her head in both hands and gave a quick twist. Dropping her to the floor, he turned and ran.

  He’d parked his car a few feet from the back door and, luckily, had left the engine running because his hot-wiring skills were a bit rusty. It had taken him a few tries to steal the thing to begin with. At least now he didn’t need to fumble with it.

  He slid behind the wheel and was around the next block when he heard sirens. Hands gripping the steering wheel until they hurt, he kept driving, obeying the speed limit, until he was in the next town, his heart still beating so hard that he was dizzy.

  He pulled onto a side street and leaned against the headrest until his heartbeat returned to normal.

  Too close. Too fucking close. Another thirty seconds and his ass would have been toast. I should have just shot her and run. But he hadn’t wanted to leave a bullet behind and there was no way he’d have had time to dig a bullet out of the wall, much less out of her body if the wound wasn’t a through-and-through.

  At least he had a disguise now. And he had a few addresses for empty houses.

  But he needed to find another car without GPS before he went house hunting, in case there had been security cameras behind the store. Last thing he needed was to have this piece-of-shit clunker added to the BOLO. ‘Pain in the fucking ass,’ he muttered.

  But it could have been much worse. He could have gotten caught. And then he’d never be able to show Mercy the error of her ways, and that wouldn’t do at all.

  He rubbed his hands over his face, then checked the abandoned-house addresses he’d noted. He’d just put the address into Maps when his phone vibrated in his hand, making him yelp.

  And then swear. It’s Pastor. Again. He considered letting the call go to voice mail, but reconsidered. He wouldn’t tell Pastor what he was up to, because he didn’t want to give DJ Belmont any opportunity to cause trouble for him – or to come up with an explanation for why he’d lied about Mercy’s death. He wanted Pastor to see the shock and the guilt on DJ’s face when he hauled Mercy through the gates of Eden by her hair.

  But he wasn’t sure how to buy himself a little more time.

  Clearing his throat, he answered. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ephraim.’ Pastor sounded annoyed. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I told you that I’m sick.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I asked.’

  Shit. Pastor had gone all cool and snobby. ‘I went to Regina’s. I told you that.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I also know that I called this morning and was told that Regina could not come to the phone. It’s been a while since I’ve talked to a police officer.’

  ‘It must have been Dusty, Regina’s assistant. She has that way about her.’

  Pastor’s chuckle sent an unpleasant shiver down Ephraim’s spine. ‘I might have believed you had the speaker not identified herself as Officer Wong from Santa Rosa PD. She asked who I was and I hung up.’

  New dread sat like lead in Ephraim’s gut. What if the cops could trace the call? What if they found Eden? ‘I’m sure that DJ’s set up your phone to be untraceable.’ He hoped.

  ‘He assures me that he has. I’m going to ask you one more time. Where are you, Ephraim?’

  ‘San Francisco.’ The lie came out smoothly. ‘Regina’s place was closed when I got there last night. Now I know why. I went to a place in San Fran that stocks my type.’

  ‘Right,’ Pastor said, and for once Ephraim couldn’t read his tone. ‘When will you return? Your sabbatical has run its course.’

  ‘Considering I’ve been sick as a dog for part of it, that’s not really fair. I’m going to take a few days to get my body better, and then I’ll be back.’

  ‘Bring me back some Frankenwaffle,’ Pastor said, very mildly, then hung up.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ That last part had sounded downright menacing. Ephraim’s hands had finally stopped shaking, but now they were shaking again as he typed Frankenwaffle into a Google search.

  Sacramento. The waffle place was in Sacramento and there were no other locations.

  He knows. He knows where I am. How did he know? Motherfucking hell.

  He stared at his phone, realization dawning, and the dread in his gut grew even heavier. ‘Fucking hell.’ He tried to pop the little SIM card from his phone, but his hands were shaking too hard – with fear and dread and cold fury. How dare they? How dare they keep tabs on him like this?

  I am going to kill DJ Belmont.

  He managed to yank the SIM card free, then got out of the car and placed the phone beneath his tire. A few passes under the tire left the phone crushed and useless. He snapped the SIM card in half, then dropped the pieces in the leftover travel mug he’d taken from Granny’s house. There wasn’t a lot of coffee left, but enough to damage the card eventually. He’d toss the mug and the card into the first dumpster he passed.

  Motherfucking little prick. DJ had gone too far. Again. But this time he wouldn’t let him win.

  Ephraim needed to get back to Eden, to stop the greedy bastard before he completely poisoned Pastor against him. DJ wanted it all. He wanted the power, the money. He wanted control of everyone and everything around Eden, and he’d toss Ephraim to the fucking wolves without a blink.

  Except that DJ wouldn’t get the chance, because now Ephraim had ammunition. He knew where Mercy Callahan was and he was going to bring her back.

  Dead or alive. Either would serve his purpose.

  Sacramento, California

  Sunday, 16 April, 10.15 A.M.

  The knocking on Rafe’s door woke him from what had been a very comfortable sleep. He blinked hard to try to make sense of where he was and . . .

  Oh. He breathed deeply, taking in the lingering clean scent of Mercy’s shampoo. She slept up against him, her head on his shoulder. His laptop had slid off her lap to the sofa and his notebook was on the floor. They’d drifted off together while searching the Internet for more furniture with Amos’s olive tree and more dolls and quilts with their hidden Eden symbols.

  The knocking resumed, a little louder this time, and Rafe carefully pulled away from Mercy, gently easing her down to the soft arm of the sofa. Grabbing his cane, he made it to the door, just as the knocking started again. He yanked the door open, hoping the noise hadn’t woken Mercy. She desperately needed to sleep.

  It took him a second to reconcile the sight of the Korean American woman on his doorstep, her fist still raised. ‘Rhee?’ he whispered.

  His Homicide partner for the past two years gave him an incredulous look. ‘It hasn’t been that long since we saw each other, Sokolov. You okay?’

  ‘Yes, sorry. I was . . .’ He shook his head and stepped from the apartment, forcing her to back up a few feet. He pulled th
e door shut. ‘I was asleep. Still a few cobwebs up there.’

  Eyeing him curiously, she held up a coffee cup and the aroma had him nearly moaning. The logo on the cup told him it was from the shop the two of them stopped at every time they had a chance. A block from SacPD, it was a favorite hangout for a lot of the cops.

  ‘I came bearing gifts,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’

  He swallowed a mouthful of coffee, uncaring that it was still a little too hot and scalded his tongue. ‘Mercy’s here. She’s asleep.’

  Erin Rhee was a very smart woman, her entire demeanor sharp and sometimes cutting. She rarely missed a thing, and this morning was no different. ‘Asleep. With you?’

  ‘Kind of. We’d been . . . talking.’ He’d almost said searching, but there was no way he was letting Erin know about his completely off-the-record and under-the-radar investigation. He was on disability leave and wasn’t supposed to be working on anything. ‘We had a long evening and ended up falling asleep on the sofa.’

  ‘Okay.’ She lifted her brows. ‘By long evening, you mean stopping an assault in progress, getting yourself on the news, and getting a very offensive video pulled down from a trashy website?’

  He stared down at her. She was barely five-two, although she swore she was five-four in her boots. Either way, he towered over her, but Erin was not a woman to be intimidated. ‘You’re remarkably well-informed.’

  She snorted. ‘Come on, let’s sit on the stairs. I’m afraid you’re going to fall over.’

  It was then he realized he’d been leaning dangerously off-kilter, the aluminum replacement cane too damn short. Joining her on the stairs, he sipped at the coffee, wondering why the hell she was here, but way too polite – and intelligent – to ask her outright. His partner was fierce. But also kind, deep down. He didn’t like making her angry, but mostly because he really liked her and didn’t want to hurt her feelings.