Say No More

by Rose, Karen

  If they wanted to read their own stories on his YouTube channel, he would upload them. If they wanted him to read what they’d written, he’d do that, too. He would keep their identities secret and he’d offer space for crisis counselors to publicize the services they offered.

  It was the least he could do. He wanted to do this correctly, though. Rather than posting it right away, he pulled up the email from Irina Sokolov, who’d contacted him less than an hour after he’d spoken with her daughter. She’d said she’d be more than happy to work with him on productive uses of his platform, and she’d copied in Daisy Dawson, who’d responded just as positively.

  He hit REPLY ALL, attached the article, then typed his message.

  Dear Mrs Sokolov and Miss Dawson,

  Thank you for offering to help me not only make amends for the emotional damage to Miss Callahan I inflicted, but also for helping me grow as a person. I don’t want to be the person who allowed that article to be written. Even though the video was uploaded without my knowledge, I accepted it from my source without consideration of the possible outcomes. As my mother says, I got in over my head. Thank you for helping me to start digging my way out.

  I’ve attached a proposal for use of my existing platform. I won’t have the spotlight for much longer, so I’d like to give it to those who can make the best use of it for as long as it lasts. If you would take a look and tell me what you think, I’d be grateful.

  Best regards,

  Jeffrey Bunker

  He hit SEND and closed his laptop. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. Pushing away from his desk, he stood to look in the mirror over his dresser. The face that looked back at him was tired. But determined.

  ‘Jeffy?’ his mother asked from the open doorway of his room. ‘I was calling you to come to dinner, but I guess you didn’t hear me. Are you okay?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He tossed her a lopsided smile. ‘But I can look at myself in the mirror, so that’s a start, right?’

  She gave him a decisive nod. ‘Right. I’m proud of you. Your father would have been too, God rest his soul.’

  His shoulders sagged, like a weight rolled away. Not all of the weight, not by a long shot, but enough that he thought he could eat his mother’s supper without it sitting on an anxious stomach. ‘Thanks, Mom.’

  Sacramento, California

  Monday, 17 April, 11.30 P.M.

  Rafe stopped his pacing to glare at Mercy. ‘Mercy, are you even listening to me?’

  She startled, because clearly she hadn’t been. She was sitting on the sofa in Daisy’s old place, her cat on her lap and a cup of tea in one hand. Her other cat had claimed the back of the sofa, lying behind her head, curled around her neck like a purring mink stole while she absently scratched its head. She’d been staring at Rafe’s bulletin board, her gaze unfocused.

  She blinked at him now, then smiled serenely. ‘No.’

  He wanted to rant at her, he really did, but he found himself laughing instead. He sat beside her, turning so that he faced her. ‘At least you’re honest about it.’

  She sipped her tea and gave the cat in her lap a long stroke. André had brought the two cats and all their supplies downstairs to the studio apartment when they’d returned from Reno. Mercy had immediately cuddled up with Rory, and the cat’s loud purrs indicated that he was on board with helping her manage her anxiety. It was working, because she seemed to be sitting in her own little bubble of calm.

  ‘You already knew the answer, Rafe. I’m not sure why you even asked the question.’ She raised a brow. ‘I tuned you out an hour ago.’

  He drew a breath, praying for patience. ‘Dammit, Mercy. If you don’t listen to me rant, how do I know you won’t do it again?’

  ‘I know, I know. I shouldn’t have made myself a target. What was I thinking? Do I have no instinct for self-preservation? How would Gideon have survived if I’d been shot?’ She smiled dryly. ‘I heard you the first three hundred times, all the way from Reno. After that it seemed like . . . overkill.’

  He snorted again. ‘Stop making me laugh. I want to be mad at you.’

  She stopped petting the cat to pat Rafe’s knee. ‘You go right ahead and be mad all you want.’

  ‘Now you’re patronizing me.’

  She smiled. ‘Yep.’ Then she sighed. ‘I’m sorry I scared you.’

  ‘But not sorry that you popped up like some sacrificial Whac-A-Mole?’

  He’d caught her midsip and she coughed, setting the cup aside while she got her breath. ‘Sacrificial Whac-A-Mole?’ she sputtered.

  ‘Yes.’ He glared at her. ‘You made yourself a damn target.’

  She sobered and he could see that under her nonchalance, she was deeply affected. ‘Yes, I did. You did it for me. So did Gideon. And so did Erin.’

  He knew what she meant. Back in February, they’d all put themselves on the line when she’d been abducted by a killer. ‘We’re cops. We were doing our jobs.’

  ‘No, you weren’t. Well, Erin may have been. I think she was the only one who followed any kind of procedure. You took chances. And Gideon . . . he would have traded his life for mine. Do you really think that I could have watched you all be picked off by Ephraim while I did nothing? Do you think so little of me, Rafe?’

  Rafe opened his mouth, then shut it again when he realized he had no comeback to that.

  She reclaimed her cup of tea, never breaking their eye contact, knowing that she’d made her point.

  He rubbed his hands over his face, leaving them there. Hiding behind them like a little kid. Vulnerability was not fun. ‘You scared me,’ he murmured. ‘I thought I’d lose you.’

  She tugged one of his hands from his face, threading their fingers together. ‘I get it. But, Rafe, I stood up to him today. Well, I didn’t stand. I knelt. But I looked him in the eye and I didn’t back down. Don’t take that away from me. Please.’

  His heart immediately softened. ‘All right. I won’t. At least I’ll try not to.’

  Her smile lit her eyes. ‘I didn’t zombie out.’

  He chuckled, both at her words and her delight in them. ‘I noticed that. What made the difference?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that. In the airport, I wasn’t expecting him. Ephraim, you know.’

  ‘I know.’ Rafe had to tamp down his fury at the man who’d tried to take Mercy yet again. If he could have, he’d have broken Burton in two. ‘But you were expecting him today?’

  ‘Yeah, kind of. I mean, you said yourself that I was looking around like I expected him to jump out from behind a tree.’

  ‘And then he did,’ Rafe said ruefully.

  She shrugged. ‘It’s creepy, knowing he was following us. It’s creepy, knowing the store owner in Snowbush was on the phone as soon as we left. All of it’s creepy, but I’m so tired of being afraid. Today I wasn’t.’ She made a face. ‘Okay, I was totally scared, but I held it together.’ She hesitated, then showed him the scratches on the inside of her left wrist. ‘Sometimes a little jolt of pain is enough to derail the panic attack.’

  He turned her hand, examining the deep gouges with horror. ‘You did this to yourself?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t mutilate myself, Rafe. I’ve never done that. But I realized a while back that I could distract myself with a little . . . something. For a while I wore a snap bracelet. One of those things that smokers or cussers use when they’re trying to quit. Farrah gave it to me when I was trying to quit smoking a few years ago and one day some guy on campus got in my space. He’d been asking me out for weeks and I kept politely refusing. Then one day he got tired of asking, I guess. I was so scared and I think I’d already zoned out.’

  Rafe’s jaw hurt, he was clenching it so hard. ‘And then?’

  ‘Then he saw the bracelet and I think he thought it was funny to snap it. It . . . snapped me out of the zombie zone and I kneed him in the nuts
.’

  Rafe barked out a surprised laugh. ‘Good for you.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I don’t know how to shoot like you guys, but I’m not entirely helpless. I wield a mean can of pepper spray. And I have a Taser, but I left it back in New Orleans.’

  That she should have to arm herself made him angry as well, but that was more a fact of life than due to Burton. ‘I’m glad you found a way to derail the panic attacks, but I hate that it hurts you.’

  ‘To me, it’s a fair trade. I think I need that moment to think. And you gave that to me today.’

  He felt his cheeks heat, but not with embarrassment. It was pleasure and maybe a little pride. ‘I did?’

  ‘You did. I could feel myself falling into it, like a dark nothing, but you were there and you were warm and you were talking to me and telling me that it would be okay. That you wouldn’t leave me. It gave me that little window of clear thought I needed to pull myself out of the free fall. So thank you.’

  He lifted her wrist to his lips and brushed a kiss over the healing scratches. ‘You’re welcome. So what do we do next?’

  She grinned again, her dimple appearing. ‘With the case?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, with the case.’ But it was all he could do to keep his gaze from darting to the bed behind the painted screen.

  ‘Boo,’ she said, then squared her shoulders, almost as if she were bracing herself – but for what he wasn’t sure. Until she said, ‘I want to go to Santa Rosa, to the nursing home where his mother is.’

  For a moment Rafe could only stare. ‘You want to do what?’

  She didn’t repeat herself, merely sipped at her tea, her gaze still locked on his face.

  He sighed. She fully expected him to argue with her, he could see it in her expression. ‘Why?’

  ‘You could call it closure. I’d like to meet the woman who spawned Ephraim Burton, even if she called him Harry Franklin. Plus, I’d like to know if she’s seen him recently and knows where he’s hiding.’

  ‘Don’t you think the FBI has tried to get that out of her?’

  ‘Maybe. But they clearly weren’t successful or they would have found him.’

  ‘Unless she doesn’t know.’

  ‘She might not. I’d still like to talk to her. I am, after all, her daughter-in-law.’

  He couldn’t hold back his rage this time. ‘No, you’re not,’ he snarled. ‘You were never married to that monster. Not in the eye of the state of California or God or anyone with a shred of decency. There was no marriage license, for one. No license, no marriage. And he was already a bigamist. No marriage.’

  ‘I know,’ she said calmly, and he could feel his anger draining away. ‘But I’ll bet you that she doesn’t.’

  Rafe needed a minute to process this. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I have a wedding photo of her son and me. I’m very worried about his well-being. I haven’t seen him in too long and I’m worried because I don’t know where he’d go.’ She batted her eyelashes. ‘I’m very worried, Rafe.’

  He shook his head, not sure where to even start. ‘I tried to talk to her and she told me to go to hell. It’ll never work. She won’t talk to you.’

  ‘Then I’ve only wasted a day in my life. I can assure you that I’ve wasted far more worrying for real about Ephraim Burton.’ She dropped the facade and let him see that worry. ‘He shot Gideon. Luckily he was wearing that Kevlar vest. Ephraim shot Erin. He shot Sasha. He stabbed André and held Farrah at gunpoint. He would have killed all of you. I can’t live with that. If you don’t want to go with me, I can accept that. But I will go. And I’ll tell Agent Hunter that. Agent Molina, too. Short of arresting me or putting me in protective custody, they can’t stop me from entering a nursing home to visit my own mother-in-law.’

  She was terrifyingly serious. ‘I can’t talk you out of this, can I?’ he asked wearily.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’ll go with you. Let me make a few phone calls.’

  She nodded once. ‘Thank you. And then maybe we can go to sleep. I’m really tired.’

  He could see it now, the bone-deep fatigue she’d masked as serenity. ‘Sleep sounds wonderful.’

  Eden, California

  Monday, 17 April, 11.55 P.M.

  ‘Papa, I’m cold.’

  Amos tightened his arms around Abigail, wishing he’d brought another blanket. The days on the mountain were cold enough, even though it was spring, but the nights . . .

  Temperatures had dropped below freezing and his little girl was shivering violently despite the three blankets he’d already wrapped around her. He wished he could start a fire, but that was an impossibility. All he could do was hope his body heat would be enough.

  ‘I know, baby. It shouldn’t be too much longer now. But you need to be very, very quiet, okay?’

  She nodded wordlessly, her eyes huge in her small face. But she said no more, obedient and still. Maybe for the first time in her life. He’d told her that they were going away on an adventure and that she’d have to be very, very quiet. Like a mouse. He’d told her that it would be dangerous, but that he’d make sure she was safe. But that she was to obey him without question.

  She’d nodded, her eyes suddenly way too old for a girl of seven. ‘Are we coming back, Papa?’ she’d asked.

  He’d told her that he didn’t know. Which was true enough. He prayed the answer was no, but . . .

  She’d nodded again and asked if she could bring her stuffed bear. He’d made sure that she’d watched him pack it in his bag, along with a loaf of bread, some cheese, a jar of jam, and a canteen of water. He’d also packed the wallet he’d brought with him to Eden, which held his ID, long expired, and an envelope with two hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills. He’d given Pastor all of his personal savings and his inheritance, but the money in the envelope had come from his grandfather, who’d told him to keep it ‘just in case’. Mad money, the old man had called it.

  Amos suddenly missed his grandfather so much it stole his breath. The man had been in his eighties back in 1989, and dying of cancer. He’d wanted to join Pastor in Eden, but he’d been way too sick to make the journey. Amos had stayed with him until the end, and then, after burying him, sold the house his grandfather had left him, signed the proceeds over to Eden, and made the journey all alone.

  I was a fool. Such a fool. But he was fixing that. Changing it, he hoped.

  Through all his packing, Abigail had watched, those eyes of hers missing nothing. He’d nearly finished when she’d run from their little living area to his bedroom, returning with the Polaroid photos that he’d only shown her once.

  He wasn’t even aware that she’d remembered them. ‘Papa,’ she’d said. ‘You can’t forget Mercy and Gideon.’ She’d put the Polaroids in his hands and he’d nearly broken down and cried. They were treasures and he wouldn’t have left them behind. He’d put them out on his small dresser along with his grandfather’s pocket watch, intending to carry them in his shirt pocket, close to his heart.

  One of Eden’s early residents had brought a Polaroid camera with them and had taken photos of Gideon, Mercy, and Rhoda in exchange for a custom wardrobe. Amos considered it one of his most satisfying transactions. Eventually the member’s camera had run out of batteries and film and had been left behind after one of their moves. The Polaroids of his first family were faded, but he could still see Mercy’s sweet toddler face, Gideon’s always-serious expression, and Rhoda’s incandescent smile.

  These were among his most valued possessions. He never would have left them behind. But that Abigail had remembered them . . . I’m so blessed. Please, God, help me get my baby girl out.

  This had to work. If they were caught, Ephraim would kill him like he’d killed the Comstocks, of that he was sure. And Abigail would be given to another family. He couldn’t bear the thought of it.

&
nbsp; But if DJ didn’t pass by soon in his truck, he’d have to carry Abigail back through the gate to their house and hope no one saw them in the shadows. Amos had, hopefully, bought them a little time by going by the clinic earlier and coughing convincingly enough that Sister Coleen gave him some of the herbal tea she blended specially for coughs and colds. He’d gotten some of the tea for Abigail too, claiming that she also was coughing pitifully. Which Abigail wasn’t, of course, but it was unlikely the healer would mention it to anyone who’d know differently till tomorrow.

  By then they’d be on their way to freedom or they’d be back home and Abigail really would have a cough, because he’d kept her out in the cold all night.

  Sister Coleen had told him to get some rest and to take the next day off. That if she saw him going into his workshop, she’d drag him back into his house herself.

  Exactly what he’d wanted to hear. Nobody would think twice now if he didn’t show up for work. Nobody would come to check on them for hours and hours, giving them time to get far, far away.

  He knew that he couldn’t make it to civilization on foot. Not with Abigail. He didn’t know the way and had no idea how long he’d need to walk. Even if he carried her on his back, it was unlikely that they’d reach a town before they were discovered missing.

  If that happened, it would all be over.

  He needed to wait for DJ’s truck to come by, and then they’d begin their journey in earnest.

  He breathed out in relief when he heard the chug-chug of the old Ford. DJ had appropriated Waylon’s truck when he’d passed on – his truck, his job, his place on the Founding Elders board, and everything else.

  Amos wasn’t sure if it was even the original truck or if DJ purposely bought identical replacements to maintain the illusion of continuity. Of comfort and constancy. But it didn’t really matter which incarnation of Waylon’s vehicle this truck was. It was, simply, his and Abigail’s only way out.