by Rose, Karen
Abigail slid from the truck, landing on her feet with a bounce, then went still, staring. At everything. Cars raced by on their way to the highway. One honked and she squeaked a terrified whimper.
They were surrounded by buildings. No forests. The mountains were brown and small, not towering and snowcapped. Nothing looked familiar.
Abigail clutched at his hand, her bravado replaced with fear. ‘Papa?’
‘It’s scary, I know,’ he said softly. ‘Stay with me. It’ll be all right. I promise.’
He hoped. God, he hoped.
They crossed the parking lot, Abigail pressed close to his side. She was taking everything in, barely blinking. He opened the door to McDonald’s and gently tugged her inside. ‘The bathroom is this way.’
He took a moment to inhale. This was familiar. The aroma of breakfast. Of McDonald’s breakfast. They had a little food in his backpack, but he needed this. The connection. The anchor to something he actually understood. This had been his first job, flipping burgers at Mickey D’s, and this restaurant looked remarkably like the one he’d known before.
Abigail was tugging at his hand. ‘Papa, I need to go.’
And then he realized she’d never experienced plumbing. He blew out a breath, trying to figure out what to do. She was scared enough without sending her into the ladies’ room by herself. Plus, the restaurant wasn’t full, but there were enough people inside. He wasn’t letting her out of his sight.
‘Okay. This is going to be new for you,’ he said, leading her to the men’s room. ‘Next time, maybe you’ll want to use that bathroom.’ He pointed to the door with the outline of the woman. ‘But for today, you can stay with me.’
She nodded, saying nothing. She was trembling. Oh God. She was afraid. She’d been so brave during the worst part – that ride in the truck. But now she was afraid. He crouched down a few feet from the men’s room door so that he could meet her eyes. ‘It will be okay, Abi-girl. I promise.’
Her smile was shaky. ‘Okay, Papa.’ Then she did the little dance that said she really needed to pee. ‘I need to go,’ she whispered.
He led her into the men’s room, praying nobody else was there. Nobody was. He showed her the stall and she stared at the toilet. ‘Sit here,’ he said, making sure it was clean first. ‘I’ll shut the door and you tell me when you’re done. When you close the door, push this little latch to lock it. There is paper on that roll, right there.’
Luckily, toilet paper was one of the few ‘modern’ things they hadn’t been forced to give up in Eden. Amos wasn’t sure the women would have stayed, otherwise.
Not that any of them had much of a choice once they’d arrived. He swallowed the sigh, listening for Abigail’s progress. He heard the rip of paper and the rustle of clothing.
‘I’m finished, Papa.’ The door opened and she smiled up at him. ‘I can do it myself.’
He couldn’t stop his smile. ‘I know you can, but let me show you something.’ Reaching around her, he flushed the toilet, chuckling when her eyes went round as saucers again.
She leaned over, peering into the toilet bowl. ‘Where does it go?’
‘Into a big pipe, that goes to a . . .’ How did he explain it? ‘A place that fixes the water so it can be used again.’
She looked up at him. ‘Can I do it?’
He laughed. I love you, Abigail. ‘Sure, but just once. We don’t waste water, even if they can fix it to use again.’
She nodded, then flushed the toilet, giggling with delight as the water rounded the bowl and disappeared. ‘Can I do that every time I pee?’
He laughed again. ‘Of course. Now let’s wash your hands and we’ll get something to eat.’
Abigail pointed to the urinal. ‘What’s that?’
Oh. ‘That’s . . . well, that’s for men who don’t need to sit down to pee.’
‘They’re lucky.’
He nodded. ‘I agree. Wash your hands.’
She looked at the sink doubtfully. ‘How?’
‘How?’
‘How do I wash my hands?’
‘Oh. Well, you . . .’ He stood at the sink, tilting his head one way, then the other. There were no knobs to twist or pumps to push. He vaguely ran his hand around the faucet, then startled when the water started to flow. ‘Oh.’ He leaned down to take a look. There was a shiny . . . something at the base of the faucet that activated the water flow every time he passed his hand in front of it. Like a photoelectric eye, he thought. Like those doors at the mall that opened automatically. The water stopped and he waved his hand over the shiny panel again. More water. ‘Well, this is new.’
‘You said that already, Papa.’
He had? Huh. He actually had. ‘I think I’ll be saying that a lot in the future.’ At least he could figure out the soap. He gave the dispenser a few pumps. ‘Come over here, Abi-girl.’ He wet his hands and got the soap sudsy.
She cast another wary look toward the toilet stall. ‘It’s clean now? The water?’
He snorted. ‘Yes, it’s clean. Come on, I’m hungry, too. I need to eat.’
And to sit and think. He needed to find Mercy.
He had no idea where to even start. Everything was so different. He felt like he’d landed on another planet. In a way, he had.
But at least McDonald’s still had Egg McMuffins, so there was that.
Twenty-two
Broken Tooth Campground, Nevada
Tuesday, 18 April, 7.00 A.M.
Ephraim pulled the breakfast burrito from the microwave in the camper he’d taken from the pair of honeymooners, inhaling as he did so. It smelled good and he was hungry and the honeymooners wouldn’t be needing it anymore. He hadn’t eaten a decent meal since leaving MacGuire’s house in Granite Bay, and even though the camper’s bed wasn’t the best, it beat sleeping in MacGuire’s Cadillac as he’d done Sunday night.
He checked the view from the camper’s window, pleased to see that no person or animal had come sniffing around. The honeymooners’ bodies were still safely hidden in the cab of the truck he’d stolen outside Alturas, California. He wouldn’t have killed them if he’d had any other choice, but pickings had been slim. Theirs was the only camper in the campground, probably because it was still too cold for most people to camp.
He figured the campground was all the young lovers had been able to afford – they’d been college students, if their sweatshirts were anything to go by. He’d actually considered hitting another campground when he’d seen their Jeep with Just Married painted over the back window, but he’d been too tired. He’d lost a lot of blood after that asshole Sokolov had shot him. The fight with the New Orleans cop hadn’t helped matters any.
Should’ve killed them all. But the New Orleans cop had gotten the jump on him and by the time Gideon and his posse had arrived, there were too many of them to kill. He might have taken out two or three, but he wouldn’t have escaped alive. He’d gotten lucky as it was – Sokolov’s shot had been a clean through-and-through and he’d dressed the wound with a first-aid kit he’d found in the truck he’d stolen. He hurt, but he’d had worse. By the time he’d driven into the campground, he’d desperately needed a safe place to sleep.
So, unwilling to continue searching for the perfect victims, he’d killed the honeymooners and claimed their camper. He had let the couple finish what had been a marathon session of sex. And he’d told them he was sorry as he’d stashed their bodies in the truck. I’m not a total monster.
He made some coffee and ate the burrito he’d found in the camper’s mini fridge, while consulting his phone. According to Google Maps, he was about two and a half hours from Sacramento, which was where he assumed Mercy and Sokolov had returned.
He was certain that Gideon had returned to Sacramento as well, because his girlfriend was on the radio at the moment. A search on Daisy Dawson had revealed her to be some kind of local
radio personality who did a morning show from six to ten every day.
He was listening to her at the moment, courtesy of an online site that streamed radio broadcasts from all over the country. She was abominably perky and he thought she should die for that transgression alone.
Not to mention that she’d shot at him, for fuck’s sake. Somebody needed to take these modern women in hand and teach them a little respect. He laughed quietly. And I’m just the man for that job.
But he had to come up with a better plan first. There was no way he was going to catch any of them unaware at this point. They’d come too close to dying the day before and they’d all be on guard. Waiting for Mercy to be alone, or any of them for that matter, would take more time than he cared to spend away from Eden. Time was ticking. He needed to get Mercy back to show to Pastor before DJ managed a total coup d’état.
He needed to draw them out. He needed a weak link, the injured gazelle that would get picked off by the predator. There was Mercy’s best friend. Sokolov’s family. Mercy’s family back in New Orleans, her half brothers and sisters. He considered them all.
The New Orleans family wasn’t a viable target. He wasn’t going to be able to fly back to Louisiana, because his face was probably tacked up on every TSA bulletin board across the country.
The best friend was engaged to a cop, so she would probably be protected, too.
He flexed his finger and typed into a new search screen: Sokolov family Sacramento. Then he shook his head. They had almost as many kids as he did, and only one child bearer. Irina Sokolov. He’d seen her face from MacGuire’s window when he’d been squatting there. She seemed open and friendly. According to the article that popped up, she was a retired nurse, so probably empathetic enough to be lured by a fake injury. And she wasn’t so very tall, so even with a hole in his shoulder, he could probably overpower her.
Of her eight children, three were cops – Rafe, Damien, and Meg. Ephraim wasn’t touching them with a ten-foot pole. They’d all carry guns.
Sasha was the social worker, but she was also going to be on guard after getting shot yesterday afternoon. Cash was a physical therapist to basketball stars and traveled. Who even knew where he was? Patrick was a firefighter, and Jude was an LA prosecutor, both looking like they could bench-press a damn house. Ephraim was not going to risk getting into a showdown with either of them.
But . . . yes, the eighth Sokolov child would work. Hello there, pretty girl. Irina’s youngest daughter was a sweet young thing. Still in high school. Zoya.
And, according to his Google search, young Zoya had an Instagram account. Whatever the hell that was. He’d heard of Instagram and figured that it was like Facebook. He clicked on the link and scrolled through her many photographs. Most of them were of her with her friends from school. He kept swiping through photos until he found one of her wearing a soccer uniform, the name of her school clearly printed on the jersey.
Zoya Sokolov went to a private school in Granite Bay. Enlarging the soccer photo, he saw that she was blond like her sister and brother. Didn’t look too ferocious. She was a little old for his tastes, but he wouldn’t need her for sex.
Just as bait to lure Mercy and Rafe into his crosshairs.
Not that Rafe Sokolov would know that. He’d assume his baby sister was being defiled and it would drive him crazy. Crazy enough to knock him off his guard.
Leaving Mercy unprotected.
Smiling, Ephraim drained his coffee. He liked this plan. A lot.
He tossed the dishes in the small sink and started to get the camper ready to go.
Reno, Nevada
Tuesday, 18 April, 7.05 A.M.
Abigail sat back, patting her tummy with a satisfied sigh. ‘That was good, Papa.’ She’d cleaned the disposable plate of every bite of pancakes and sausage, and would have licked off the lingering syrup if he hadn’t shaken his head. ‘How is yours?’
He chuckled because she was eyeing his Egg McMuffin calculatingly. She’d taken to the concept of a restaurant with surprising ease, especially once he’d described it like dinners in the common room in Eden – a few women making food for them all to enjoy. Except here in the world, the cooking wasn’t just done by women. She’d been particularly interested to hear that he’d cooked in a restaurant like this, back in the olden days, as she called it. He pushed what was left of his McMuffin across the table to her. ‘You want to try it?’
‘Yes, please.’ She wolfed it down as well, sighing again. ‘When we go back home, maybe you can make these for us. Deborah would love it.’
When we go home. Right. They weren’t ever going back home again. She would never see her best friend, Deborah, again. Unless someone could free everyone in the compound.
That someone could be you.
He’d considered it, of course. Many times. But it wasn’t going to happen until he was sure that his Abigail was safe. Yes, it was selfish, but his daughter was his priority.
Once he found Mercy, he’d let her decide what should be done. She’d been living in this world for the past thirteen years. She’d know the safe thing to do. She’d know which police he could trust.
Because going to the police was . . . well, it wasn’t smart. Police brutality was a real thing. He’d seen the evidence before he’d gone to Eden. He’d heard horror stories from the new community members.
The police were not to be trusted. Ever. They’d arrest him and take his child. They’d take Abigail.
His gut turned to ice at the very thought. No. He was not letting that happen.
Of course, given all the lies he’d been told, the stories about the police might have been a lie as well, but he wasn’t taking that risk. Not yet. Eventually he’d report Pastor, DJ, and Ephraim, but he needed to find Mercy first. He needed to be sure that someone he trusted would be there for Abigail, no matter what happened to him.
‘Papa?’
Amos returned his attention to Abigail, who was watching him with open dismay. ‘Are you all right, Papa? You look sad.’
‘I’m a little overwhelmed,’ he confessed. ‘You know what that means?’
She nodded. ‘It’s when you have this much work’ – she spread her arms wide – ‘and this much time.’ She pinched her fingers together. ‘That’s what Deborah’s mama says when she does the washing.’
His chest flooded with emotion, so full that it hurt. And it occurred to him, not for the first time, that if DJ came looking for him, if he was caught, he wouldn’t survive. He’d never told Mercy, Rhoda, and Gideon how he felt about them. He hadn’t made that mistake with this child. If anything happened to him, she’d know exactly what was in his heart. ‘I love you, Abi-girl.’
Visibly pleased but blessedly unsurprised, she patted his hand. ‘I love you too, Papa. Where will we go next?’
‘That is a good question. I need to find a phone book and make a call. On a telephone,’ he added when she looked confused. ‘You learned about phones in school, right?’
Another nod, this one accompanied with a frown. ‘Not from Sister Mary, though. It was from Israel, one of the big boys. He’s ten. He said his big brother remembers phones from before they came to Eden.’
‘What did Sister Mary say?’ Amos asked carefully. Mary was the schoolteacher. She was also one of Pastor’s wives.
Abigail winced. ‘She told Israel to stop lying. Then she put him in the corner and after school, she whipped him with a switch.’ Her eyes got big. ‘She made him cut it himself and everything. But he didn’t cry. Not at all. Even though she made his legs bleed.’
Amos felt sick. He’d been raised by a grandfather who hadn’t believed in sparing the rod, but not to the point of blood. He hadn’t realized that Eden had tortured children for telling the truth. They’d been told that Israel had been punished for stealing from one of the other children. They’d always been told that the children were punished for disobed
ience. Another lie. ‘What do you think about phones?’
She looked troubled. ‘I don’t know. Are they real?’
She was questioning, which made him feel better. ‘Yes, they are. I used one every day before I came to Eden. It’s how you talk to someone when they’re far away.’ He looked around the McDonald’s, where at least four people had phones just like the ones he’d seen Pastor and DJ using. ‘Those are phones. Those people are talking to other people who aren’t here.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Like imaginary friends?’
He laughed because she was clearly unconvinced. ‘Other people who aren’t here in this restaurant, but they’re real people, not imaginary. I’ll find a phone and show you.’ He needed to locate Mercy.
And if you can’t? What then? Will you contact the police? He’d have to, but he also had to think about Abigail. Maybe I could write a letter. An anonymous letter. He was probably being paranoid, but thirty years in Eden had left him distrustful of the law. ‘Sit right here and I’ll be back.’
He opened the door on their side of the restaurant and looked both ways but saw no pay phone. He hurried to the door on the other side and repeated his search, but found nothing. There was a gas station across the street, but he couldn’t see a phone booth over there, either.
He stopped by the counter, trying not to be distracted by the fancy cash registers and what had turned out to be credit card machines. People used credit cards at McDonald’s? That was . . . Wow. Just, wow. And the cashier didn’t handle the credit cards. The customers stuck their own cards into the machine. He’d been so focused on the machine when he’d first approached the counter that he’d forgotten what he’d wanted to order.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to the young girl at the register. ‘Where is your pay phone?’
She stared at him. ‘Our what?’
‘Your pay phone,’ he repeated.
She shrugged. ‘We don’t have one.’
‘Where can I find one?’
She smirked. ‘In the Smithsonian?’
