Say No More

by Rose, Karen

  Amos clutched Abigail closer to him and whispered in her ear. ‘Quiet, now. Please.’ She nodded against his chest and he sent up a prayer that his plan would come to fruition.

  Sure enough, DJ’s truck slowed to a stop. Leaving the engine running, DJ jumped out and kicked at the tree that blocked the road. The tree Amos had cut down, creating the obstacle.

  Don’t check it too closely, he prayed. Otherwise DJ would see that the tree had been chopped and the jig would be up. But DJ didn’t look at the chopped end, too busy dragging it from the road by its limbs.

  Now. Now. Now. Sweeping Abigail into his arms, he quickly lifted her over the tailgate. Then Amos swung himself over, taking care to land lightly, hoping DJ’s grunts and curses covered the small sounds he had made.

  DJ continued to wrestle with the downed tree and Amos used the time to take one of the blankets he’d wrapped around Abigail to cover them both, head to toe. He’d chosen the darkest blanket they owned and DJ’s truck was black. Please let us blend in. Please, God, hear me. Help me save this daughter.

  DJ stopped cursing and Amos held his breath. This was the moment he’d feared the most. Don’t let him come back here for anything. Don’t let him check.

  It wasn’t until the truck started moving that Amos began breathing again. Abigail snuggled closer, her little hand patting his chest, right over his pounding heart. She remained silent, though, just as he’d asked.

  He had no idea where they’d end up. He had no idea what he’d do when he got there. He had no idea how much two hundred dollars would buy, thirty years later.

  He only knew he had to get his Abigail somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. And then he’d find Mercy and beg her forgiveness. Hopefully she remembered him kindly.

  Twenty-one

  Snowbush, California

  Tuesday, 18 April, 3.45 A.M.

  Amos had no idea how long they’d been driving. He’d been doing his level best to keep Abigail warm. And to avoid puking, because the road they’d taken was bumpy and full of curves.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been in the back of a moving vehicle since joining Eden. Every time they’d moved the community, they’d packed this truck with the heaviest equipment, then hitched a trailer to the back. Not a nice trailer. A bare, utilitarian trailer that had held as many people as they could fit. Waylon, and later DJ, had managed to borrow or rent trucks and trailers for every move. Only Founding Elders and the oldest of their members were allowed to drive or ride in cars. The others, which usually included Amos, had sat on the trailer floor. Some were sad to leave the place they’d called home while others were excited to see where they’d end up.

  At one point, at their peak membership, they’d needed seven trucks and trailers to make the move. That time Amos had been tapped to drive. He hadn’t seen much, though. Trees and more trees and a winding little road that disappeared into the darkness.

  Because they always moved at night. Fear was the common emotion each time, because they’d been told that they were moving because the FBI was looking for them. Just as they’d looked for Koresh and the Branch Davidians.

  Many of their members had joined after the horror in Waco, Texas, bringing tales of government atrocities. Some had brought newspaper clippings and grainy photos. The images had been horrific.

  Amos wondered now if those had been fake, too. Whether real or fake, they’d served their purpose, increasing the compound’s fear of government control, of the loss of their rights to religious freedom.

  Now, he realized, they’d simply given up their rights without a fight.

  No more.

  He held Abigail a little tighter, relieved that she’d made the trip as well as she had. She’d shown no fear and had, in fact, comforted him for much of the journey until her little pats to his chest had slowed and she’d fallen asleep. She was warm, her breathing even, and for a few minutes, he let himself doze.

  Until he felt the truck slow. He stiffened, listening, but hearing nothing except the rumble of the engine. He swallowed hard, hoping the pounding of his heart didn’t wake Abigail. Fortunately, she was a very heavy sleeper. He focused on the direction they took, for no other reason than to keep himself calm. Or at least not actively hyperventilating, because Amos didn’t think he’d ever be calm again.

  And then the truck stopped and all was quiet. No birds, because it was still night. And it was darker here, the moon no longer visible. That much he could see through the thin spots in the blanket that still covered them. Whether it was cloudy or they were under a thick canopy of leaves, he couldn’t tell.

  The truck shimmied slightly as the driver’s door opened but didn’t slam closed.

  Amos’s heart beat so hard that it hurt. God, please don’t let him look back here. Don’t let him see us.

  But he heard no voices, just the light crackle of leaves as footsteps faded away. Amos held his breath, risking a peek from underneath the blanket. Nothing above. No DJ staring down at him.

  And then he heard the tinkle of crashing glass. Not from the truck. It was farther away.

  Should I get up? Should I grab Abigail and make our escape? Or is this a trap and DJ is waiting for us? Is he armed? That last question was most likely a yes. The truck had a gun rack in the cab and Amos had always seen DJ stow a rifle there before he’d left on his weekly supply runs.

  But DJ wasn’t in the truck at the moment. If Amos could get that rifle . . .

  But . . . but . . . Indecision and fear left him frozen in place, huddling under the blanket with his little girl.

  And then he heard a door open and close – like the door to a house, not a car – followed by a quiet curse. DJ. He was coming back.

  No, no, no. I should have run when I had the chance.

  But the truck door didn’t open. Instead, another engine started up, a smaller sound. Not a truck. A car?

  The car drove away, in the opposite direction from which they’d come, from the sound of it. The engine grew quieter until Amos could hear nothing at all.

  Now. Go now.

  Carefully he pulled free of Abigail’s hold, settling her small body on the truck bed, making sure she was covered up, then crawled to the tailgate and rolled over it, keeping his body as close to the truck as possible.

  He looked around wildly, but saw nothing but a small house, all dark inside.

  DJ was gone.

  Amos didn’t question further. Still crouching, he rushed to the driver’s-side door, slightly ajar, his knees buckling with relief when he saw the key still in the ignition. Two seconds later, he was behind the wheel and turning the key. The engine roared to life and he did a quick U-turn.

  When they’d arrived they’d turned left, then right and right again once the truck had slowed, so Amos turned left, and left again.

  And shuddered out a sob, because there, like a shining beacon, was a highway. He didn’t know which way to go, but DJ had turned left, so Amos went right. And then he floored it, flying down the road in the dead of night until he came to a town.

  Snowbush, Population 162, the sign said. The town was dark. Not a single light burning anywhere.

  No sheriff’s department, either. He saw a diner, a general store, a hardware store, a gas station, and a post office. Pulling in behind the hardware store, he rushed to the back and retrieved his most precious bundle. Gently settling his still-sleeping Abigail on the bench seat, he grabbed his backpack from the truck bed and placed it on the floorboard, next to his feet. A glance behind him proved that there was indeed a rifle, which Amos would not hesitate to use if DJ chased them in the car he’d taken.

  Why DJ had taken that car made absolutely no sense, but Amos couldn’t think about that now. His brain was racing, one thought pounding: Go. Go. Go.

  So he got behind the wheel, cranked up the heater, and then pulled out onto the highway heading south.

  Away
from where they’d come.

  Away from Eden.

  Toward . . . ?

  He had no idea. But anything had to be better than what he’d left behind.

  Sacramento, California

  Tuesday, 18 April, 5.50 A.M.

  Blearily, Jeff lifted his head from his pillow. His phone was ringing. How could his phone be ringing? Goddamn telemarketers. He groped for it, intending to jab it into silence.

  His finger veered away at the last moment as he blinked at the screen. It was a local number. Knowing he’d regret it, he answered. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jeff. This is Daisy Dawson.’

  ‘You’re perky,’ he mumbled, and she laughed, waking him up a bit more.

  ‘It’s my job to be perky at six a.m. Morning radio, remember?’

  His mind clicked and he sat bolt upright. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, no. Relax. I read your email.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ It was coming back to him now. ‘I haven’t posted it. I wouldn’t, not until I got the okay.’

  ‘I can’t give you that, not as it’s written anyway.’

  His heart sank, but then she continued. ‘Mercy would need to approve it. I forwarded it to her, but I doubt she’s seen it yet. However, I would like you to present your proposal to the coordinator of one of the local rape crisis centers, with no mention of Mercy. I think giving a platform to victims could be a positive thing. The coordinator was already scheduled to do an interview on my show this morning, so she’ll be in the studio. I know you were told to keep a low profile, but I’ve informed Agent Molina and she’s on board. Agent Reynolds can pick you up. Your mother, too. He’ll keep you safe.’

  ‘Wow.’ He was fully awake now, his adrenaline pumping. It was better than Mountain Dew. ‘Yes. I’ll do it. I need to wake my mother up. What time do you want us to be ready?’

  ‘The crisis center coordinator will be here from nine to ten, but I have to be on the air in a minute and a half, so I’m calling now. How about you be ready at eight thirty?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, please.’ He pressed the heel of his hand to his pounding heart. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I can’t promise it’ll go anywhere, but she’s a great resource if you really want to do some good. Gotta go. See you soon,’ she said and ended the call.

  Had that really happened? He hadn’t been dreaming, had he? He pinched his arm, hard. ‘Ow.’ Yeah, he was awake. Then he checked his call log and, yes, the call had happened.

  ‘Jeffy?’ his mother called through his door. ‘Are you okay? I heard you talking.’

  He jumped from the bed and flung open his door, full of energy, but the good kind. ‘Did I wake you up?’

  She wore her housecoat and a worried frown. ‘No. I haven’t been able to sleep. What’s going on here?’

  His excitement plummeted. God, she looked exhausted. ‘Why couldn’t you sleep?’

  ‘Just worried about that man still out there.’ She held out her phone. ‘I found out what the Sokolovs’ family emergency was. There was a shooting up near the Oregon–Nevada border. Detective Rhee was hospitalized. Sasha Sokolov was also hurt, as were Agent Reynolds and Captain Holmes, the police officer from New Orleans. It doesn’t say that the shooter was the same guy that you saw there, but who else would it be?’

  Jeff stepped backward, dropping onto his bed. ‘Wow. That’s awful. Poor Mrs Sokolov. She didn’t mention it in her email and Daisy didn’t mention it when she called just now.’

  His mother frowned, confused. ‘Daisy called?’

  ‘Yes.’ He relayed the call. ‘She says Agent Reynolds can keep us safe.’

  His mother sighed. ‘I don’t want to leave the house, but I suppose if that man really wanted to find you, he could. We’re safer with Agent Reynolds. You want to meet with this coordinator?’

  Jeff met her tired eyes. ‘I do. She may say that my idea is dumb, but then again, she might not. I need to do this, Mom.’

  She nodded once. ‘Then you will. We have two and a half hours. That’s enough time for a good breakfast and for you to iron your white shirt.’

  He opened his mouth to protest because it was radio, for heaven’s sake, but she raised her eyebrows. ‘Okay, Mom. One ironed shirt, coming up.’

  ‘Pancakes and sausage, coming up.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Get moving. Your shirt won’t iron itself.’

  Sacramento, California

  Tuesday, 18 April, 6.15 A.M.

  Mercy watched the sky outside the studio apartment window grow rosy. It was morning, finally. Which was a relief and . . . not. She’d lain awake for hours, feeling safe and . . . not.

  Today she’d see Ephraim’s mother. If things went well, they might find out where he was hiding. The worst that could happen was that she wouldn’t help at all. But one thing was for certain. Mercy would come face-to-face with the woman who’d raised the man who’d tortured her for an entire year. The man she’d locked eyes with the day before. The man who was hunting her.

  So while she was relieved that the day would finally begin, she was terrified. Because the worst that could happen wasn’t that she’d simply meet Ephraim’s mother and walk away. The worst that could happen was that Ephraim found her, because if he did he’d kill everyone around her.

  And that included the man who’d slept with his arms around her all night long. He hadn’t demanded anything. His hold had been frustratingly platonic. Because he knew she wasn’t ready.

  Rafe Sokolov was a good man. She’d known they existed. She still believed it. Her experience in Eden hadn’t soured her to the possibility of good in people.

  But even though Rafe Sokolov made her feel so damn safe, he scared her, too. Or, at least, what he made her feel scared her. She’d lain there for hours, afraid to move, when all she really wanted was to turn in his arms and let him show her what she’d been missing her whole life.

  It wasn’t just sex, although that was a huge part of it. What she really wanted was intimacy. Vulnerability.

  Trust.

  She trusted Rafe and that was perhaps the most terrifying thing of all. Not because she was afraid he’d betray her. He wasn’t built that way. She’d known it even as she’d sat at his bedside while he recuperated from surgery. He’s a good man.

  But if she let him in, then lost him? She wasn’t sure she could handle that.

  ‘You are thinking so hard that you woke me up,’ he mumbled behind her, kissing her shoulder, covered in her TARDIS pj’s. They’d been a Christmas gift from Rory and Jack-Jack, but the Doctor Who-themed gift tag had been written in Farrah’s pretty handwriting. Because they can’t write, she’d said laughingly.

  I’m so lucky. I have friends who love me. So even if this thing with Rafe crashed and burned, she wouldn’t be alone. But it wouldn’t be the same.

  ‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Didn’t mean to wake you.’

  Rafe lifted up on his elbow to kiss her temple. ‘You’re shaking, Mercy. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We don’t have to go to Santa Rosa. Nobody will be angry if you change your mind about seeing Burton’s mother.’

  She swallowed hard. ‘I guess I am transparent.’

  ‘Maybe a little. But maybe there’s more to it?’ He tightened his arms around her, skirting the line between pain and comfort, but somehow managing to stay on the comfort side while giving her the little jab she needed to break the panic cycle.

  She hadn’t even been aware it was happening. Of course it had been, though. She’d been panicking throughout all the hours she’d lain awake. She relaxed then. A little. ‘I guess I’m not used to . . . this,’ she finished, suddenly awkward.

  He immediately loosened his hold, but she covered his arms with hers and pulled them back. ‘Don’t go. I mean . . .’ He was quiet behind her, giving her the time and space she needed to put words to her
thoughts. ‘I like it, you holding me like this. I’m not used to it, though.’

  ‘And that scares you.’

  There was no judgment in his tone. No hurt or annoyance or condescension. ‘Yes.’

  Another kiss to her shoulder. ‘I know why it scares me, but why does it scare you?’

  She half turned at that, surprised. ‘It scares you?’

  His brown eyes were so serious. ‘Yes, of course it does. I felt something for you the moment I met you, Mercy. Something I hadn’t felt for anyone in years. Not since Bella.’

  The woman he’d loved and lost. Loved. The word mocked her, but the voice of her therapist intruded. You are lovable. You deserve love.

  The woman had made Mercy repeat it dozens and dozens of times, which hadn’t made her believe it then. But the mantra did resonate in her mind now, and maybe that was the point. To create a kind of muscle memory. Whatever its purpose, it worked now, creating that little bubble of space that gave her a moment to think before habit kicked in to deny the possibility.

  He’d loved Bella. He feels something for me.

  And he’s scared, too.

  ‘You lost her,’ Mercy said quietly.

  ‘I did. And I didn’t think I’d survive it. But I did. I just don’t want to have to survive again and right now this thing between us, whatever it is or will be, is uncertain. If I fall for you and lose you . . .’

  I thought I’d lose you, he’d choked out the night before, when he’d let her glimpse his vulnerability.

  I get it now. ‘I won’t make myself a target again,’ she said quietly, willing to make the promise.

  He shuddered against her, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘But . . .’

  She waited. And waited, but he said nothing more, just pressed tight against her back, his breathing ragged. But what?

  Concerned, she looked over her shoulder, the movement making him lift his head to meet her gaze. She didn’t mean to gasp, but the sound emerged before she knew to shove it back down. He looked . . . wrecked. Simply devastated. This, she knew immediately, was vulnerability.