by Rose, Karen
Everyone went quiet for a few minutes, and then, behind them, Liza sighed. ‘Anyone want a bar? Because I eat when I’m nervous and I’ve already had three.’
‘Pass ’em forward,’ Tom said. ‘But save a few for Gideon and Daisy. Agent Schumacher will pick them up from the radio station and then we’ll all be on our merry way.’
Sacramento, California
Tuesday, 18 April, 10.30 A.M.
Jeff’s mother dropped onto the sofa with a tired groan. ‘I’m running on fumes, Jeffy. How are you still conscious?’
Jeff bounced on his toes before sitting beside her. ‘I’m buzzed, Mom. That went so well.’ And it had. The coordinator from the rape crisis center had really gone for his idea, and Daisy had passed it on to the local paper. They’d named it Their Stories, and they already had a few survivors who’d submitted videos to the coordinator.
Doing good felt . . . good. He desperately hoped that it actually helped someone.
‘It did go well. I was very proud of you, son.’ But his mother wasn’t looking at him, her gaze instead riveted on the front window, outside of which the FBI agent was now driving away after making sure that the house was secure.
Jeff sighed. So far the FBI didn’t believe that the man who’d killed Miss Romero had seen him, but they couldn’t guarantee it. ‘I’m sorry, Mom.’
She whipped around to frown at him. ‘This is not your fault, Jeff. The article, yes. But you’re making that as right as you can. This? Witnessing a murder? This is not your fault.’
‘I know that. I do. But I hate that you’re afraid.’
Her expression softened. ‘I hate that you’re involved, but here we are. How about something to eat? You want a sandwich?’ She stood, covering her mouth to hide her yawn. ‘Then I’m going to take a nap.’
Jeff knew he should have been tired, but he really was buzzed. ‘Thanks, Mom. A sandwich sounds perfect. You want me to make them?’
She waved him off. ‘I’m already up and it’s better if my hands are busy.’
I’m lucky, he thought, watching as she disappeared into the kitchen. A lot of parents wouldn’t have been so supportive, but his mother had always been his cheerleader.
That she was proud of him shouldn’t mean so much. He was sixteen, after all. In college, even. But down deep he felt like a little kid and her pride meant everything.
He looked at his phone, clutched in his hand. He’d kept himself from checking his email after the retraction article went live. It hadn’t even been an hour, after all. But he should check his blog followers and YouTube subscribers. It would suck if his numbers dropped before they could make use of them.
He opened his account, relieved to see that his retraction had been received well. Lots of comments. Most of them positive. Of course there were trolls, but there would always be trolls.
He swiped to see his email and smiled. Mrs Sokolov had sent him a message, filled with smiley face emojis. She was such a nice lady. He hoped that she and his mom could be friends. He replied to Irina Sokolov with his thanks, then noticed a new email.
The subject line read: Mercy Callahan. Hoping that it wasn’t anything bad – anything new that was bad, anyway – he opened it, read it, then read it again.
‘Mom?’ he called, then got up to find her in the kitchen. ‘I just got a weird email. It’s from a lady in Reno who says she knows a man who claims to be Mercy’s father. He wants to contact her.’
His mother frowned. ‘That is weird. And suspicious. What if it’s the man who tried to abduct her from the airport? The one who killed that poor old lady in New Orleans?’
Jeff read the email a third time. ‘The email was written by an Edie Arthur and says the man’s name is Amos Terrill. She gives a phone number that I can call to reach him.’ Quickly he did a reverse lookup on his phone. ‘It’s a public library in Reno.’
His mother shook her head hard. She’d grown pale. ‘Send it to the FBI, Jeffy. I don’t want you in the middle.’
‘Okay, Mom.’ He forwarded the message to Special Agent in Charge Molina, then read the message again. ‘I sent it to the FBI. But . . . what if it’s real?’
She was still shaking her head. ‘What if it is? You let that Molina woman take care of it.’
He was unsure. Something was pulling at him, the same thing that had told him there was a story in Mercy Callahan. He’d been right about that. Wrong about the story he’d told, but right to have pointed himself in her direction.
‘I’m going to call Mrs Sokolov,’ he said. ‘Just in case. She can ask Mercy what she wants to do about it.’
His mother let out a slow breath. ‘Okay. But only a phone call. You’re not leaving this house.’
He kissed her cheek. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He dialed the number for the Sokolov house, smiling when his call was answered by the same voice as the day before. ‘Zoya? This is Jeff Bunker.’
‘Hi, Jeff.’ Her voice was warm and friendly. ‘I read your retraction. It’s good.’
He felt his cheeks heating. ‘Thanks. It was the right thing to do. But I’m calling about something else. Is your mother home yet?’
‘No, not yet. What’s going on?’
He told her about the email. ‘I sent it to Agent Molina, but thought . . . you know, what if it’s real?’
‘Did you say Amos?’ she asked. ‘And that he’s in Reno?’
‘Yes. Amos Terrill. And the number is the Reno library. Why?’
‘Hold on. I’m going to add my mom to this call. She’s in Reno right now with my sister Sasha.’
A moment later Irina Sokolov’s voice was on the line. ‘Read me the email, Jeff,’ she said briskly, but not unkindly. ‘Every single word.’
Twenty-four
Reno, Nevada
Tuesday, 18 April, 11.55 A.M.
‘I really appreciate this, ma’am,’ Amos said to Millie. Edie’s friend had well and truly taken him under her wing.
She grinned at him over the stack of books and magazines she’d brought him to read. ‘My pleasure. This is like a librarian’s dream. I get to guide you through thirty years of history.’
He had to smile at her enthusiasm. ‘I don’t think I’ll get through all these books today.’ He didn’t think he could get through them in a month. He’d never been the fastest reader, his limited skill even rustier after thirty years away from newspapers or even comic books. It was overwhelming indeed.
‘Then come back tomorrow. I can hold them for you behind the desk, and when you get an address I can get you a library card.’
He wasn’t sure which of her comments to reply to. By tomorrow he hoped to be talking to Mercy or Gideon. He could trust them. He hoped. And as for a permanent address, he had no idea where to start. ‘Thank you,’ was all he could think to say.
Her grin softened to a sympathetic smile. ‘It’s overwhelming, I know. But your little girl seems to be fitting in.’
Together they looked to the children’s section, where one of the other librarians had just finished a story-time circle for preschoolers. Abigail had sat in the back row, her attention riveted until the librarian had closed the book with a dramatic ‘The End’. Then Abigail had begged for ‘One more’.
Delighted, the woman had read another story, then tasked Abigail with reading to the children. His daughter was in her element, reading from Ramona the Pest, stopping to show the children the illustrations as the librarian had.
‘She’s taking her responsibilities very seriously,’ Amos said, his chest near to bursting with pride.
‘That she is,’ Millie said fondly. She glanced at the computer screen, still open to the email account that Edie had set up. ‘Still no reply?’
Amos shook his head. ‘I’m beginning to think I won’t get one. At least not today.’
Millie sighed. ‘What will you do?’
‘I don’t know.
I need to . . .’ Write that letter to the police. Tell them about DJ. Tell them to warn Mercy, to protect her. He didn’t want to write it here and he was so tired that it was becoming difficult to even think of the words that he should say. ‘I guess I need to find a place to stay tonight.’ A safe place for them to sleep. ‘Can you point me to a low-cost hotel?’
‘I’ll run a search and print out a list of hotels in the area,’ Millie said.
‘Thank you, Millie. I need to provide some lunch for Abigail. When she’s done reading this book, I’ll take her out to the truck and let her eat, then I’ll be back in to get the list.’
She hesitated. ‘I have some fruit in my desk drawer. I always bring extra. Would you like an orange or an apple for you and Abigail?’
The memory of oranges tickled his taste buds, but he hated to take her food. ‘It’s fine. Thank you for offering.’
She gave him a look that he remembered from his grandmother, the one that said I know what you’re really thinking. ‘Come with me, Amos.’
Obediently he followed her, inhaling the delicious scent of oranges that filled the air the moment she opened the drawer. She put two oranges and two apples in his hands. ‘Enjoy them.’
He brought the fruit to his nose and inhaled again, stunned when tears burned his eyes. He cleared his throat roughly. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s just . . . it’s been a while. Apples we could get. Sometimes we could grow them, but oranges . . . I haven’t even smelled one in thirty years.’
Millie swallowed hard. ‘I wish I’d brought more. If you’ll come back tomorrow, I will.’
‘You are very kind. Thank you.’ He put the fruit in his pockets. ‘I’ll go get Abigail. I hope I can entice her from the books with an orange.’
Millie laughed, but it was shaky. ‘She loves books. This is the perfect place for her to be.’
But where is the perfect place for me? Amos wondered.
Soberly, he crossed the library to where Abigail sat in a small chair, two smaller children at her feet, completely engrossed in the story she was reading aloud. She looked up at him, disappointment clouding her eyes. ‘Do we need to go, Papa?’
‘Just for a little while. We need to have some lunch.’
‘I am hungry,’ she admitted, then looked down at the smaller children. ‘If you’re here when I’m finished with my lunch, we can read some more.’
The mother of the children met Amos’s eyes, her lips curving into a smile. ‘Your daughter is a very good reader. My twins never sit still long enough for me to read to them. Girls, can you thank Abigail for reading to you?’
‘Thank you,’ the twins chorused.
Abigail smiled sweetly. ‘You are welcome.’ She skipped to a cart and set the book atop a pile. ‘That’s where Miss Millie said to put the books I’m finished with. I’m ready, Papa.’
He held out his hand, his heart settling when she took it without hesitation. It didn’t matter what he did or where his place would be. As long as his daughter was safe and smiled at him, it would be all right. It would be perfect.
They turned for the door as it opened, two women entering. They were clearly related. Mother and daughter, probably. Both had blond hair and the same brown eyes. The older woman’s hair was streaked with silver, but her step was energetic.
She and the younger woman walked straight to the desk. He wasn’t intending to eavesdrop, but he heard the older woman say his name and he froze in his tracks.
Millie cast him an anxious glance. ‘Amos? These ladies want to talk to you.’
The younger woman smiled, the kind of smile that was supposed to calm frayed nerves. ‘We mean no harm. Did you email Jeff Bunker, sir?’
Amos stiffened. Reading his mood, Abigail stepped closer to his side, clutching his hand harder.
‘Papa?’ she whispered, and in that moment she was a scared seven-year-old again, the confident reader of Ramona the Pest gone like mist in the sunshine.
‘I did.’ Amos wanted to say more but had no idea which words would be the right ones.
The older woman stepped forward. ‘Are you Amos Terrill?’ she asked, her accent sounding vaguely familiar. Russian, maybe?
He pulled Abigail closer, so that she stood partially behind him. ‘I am.’
The older woman smiled, the same smile that still brightened her daughter’s face. ‘My name is Irina Sokolov. This is my daughter Sasha.’ She half bent, tilting her head toward Abigail. ‘And who is this pretty girl?’
Abigail was trembling and Amos was tempted to swing her into his arms and bolt for the door, but then the woman’s name sank in. ‘Sokolov, you said?’ He’d read that name an hour before. It was in the article about Ephraim’s attempted abduction of Mercy from the airport. The attempt had been thwarted by an off-duty detective. Sokolov had been his name, too.
Straightening, the woman nodded. ‘Irina Sokolov,’ she repeated.
‘Detective Raphael Sokolov. He is your son?’ he pressed.
Her smile bloomed wider. ‘He is. Do you know him?’
‘I read about him. On the computer.’ Amos gestured weakly to the computer table with the stack of books Millie had brought him to read. ‘He rescued Mercy Callahan.’
Irina and her daughter shared a glance. ‘He did,’ Sasha said. ‘I was there. It was . . . awful. Do you know Jeff Bunker?’
‘I read his name as well. On the computer,’ he added again. ‘We thought he might be able to get a message to Mercy.’
Abigail tugged at his hand. ‘Papa? Is it the same Mercy as in the picture?’
He looked down into her puzzled face. ‘I hope so.’
‘But Mercy died. Like my mama. You said so. You said.’
Oh. How was he going to explain this? ‘I know I said so, because I thought so. But she might not have.’ He looked to the Sokolov women. ‘Did she? Is Mercy still alive?’
Please, God. Please let her say yes.
Irina’s smile was radiant. ‘Alive and well,’ she said. ‘I think we should talk.’
‘I think that would be a good idea. I was about to take Abigail outside for some lunch. Perhaps you can sit with us?’
‘There’s a picnic table in the courtyard,’ Millie offered. ‘Around the back of the building.’
‘Thank you, Millie,’ Amos said. ‘You’ve been so kind.’
She smiled at him, tears in her eyes again. ‘I’m a sucker for a happy ending, Amos.’
He smiled back, his chest now tight with anticipation. These women knew Mercy. His Mercy. Who was not dead. Light-headed with relief, he followed the Sokolovs out of the library, Abigail clinging to his hand even harder.
When they were in the sunshine, the Sokolovs went ahead to the picnic table and Amos stopped, crouching until he was eye to eye with his child. ‘You know how we hid in the woods last night?’
She nodded. ‘I was scared, Papa.’
‘I was too, but you were so brave. You did everything I said and made me so proud of you. What we did last night was dangerous.’
She nodded, her eyes looking old again. ‘People aren’t supposed to run away from home.’
He swallowed. Because they get murdered when they try. ‘But I did and I took you with me. I had a good reason.’
Her face pinched. ‘Because Mercy isn’t really dead?’
‘Partly, yes. Partly because I found out some things about Eden that weren’t so nice. Weren’t so safe. And I need for you to be safe, Abi-girl.’
She patted his cheek. ‘I am. You keep me safe.’
Her utter surety weakened his knees and he fell forward, landing on those weak knees and drawing her into his arms. ‘I love you, Abigail.’
She patted his back. ‘I love you, Papa.’ Then she patted his pockets. ‘What is that?’
He laughed around the lump in his throat. ‘Miss Millie gave me a treat for you. Let’s fin
d that picnic table so you can eat it.’
He rose, taking her hand. The Sokolov women had watched them and were visibly shaken. ‘I think you must have a story to tell us, Mr Terrill,’ Irina said. ‘Come. You can tell us about your journey and we can tell you about Mercy.’
‘And you can show them your pictures, Papa,’ Abigail offered.
Amos’s hand went to his shirt pocket where the Polaroids were safely tucked along with his grandfather’s pocket watch. ‘I can.’
Santa Rosa, California
Tuesday, 18 April, 1.25 P.M.
‘A wire?’ From her position in the van’s middle seat, Mercy stared in disbelief at the microphone Tom Hunter held in his hand, the device disguised as a butterfly lapel pin. ‘You want me to wear a wire? Like Ephraim’s mother is John Gotti or something?’
Standing at the van’s open door, Tom’s mouth twitched up on one side. ‘No, not like she’s John Gotti. More like she might be the only one to know where Ephraim would hide. But yes, I want you to wear a wire. We can’t go in there with you and we need to know what’s said. This is a camera that will transmit both video and audio to my phone. I’ll wait with Gideon and Rafe while Liza goes with you into Mrs Franklin’s room.’
‘For the record, I’m still against staying in the lobby,’ Gideon grumbled. He’d left the vehicle that he and Daisy had ridden in, still visibly annoyed at being sidelined.
Rafe only scowled. He’d already made his objections known, but apparently Agent Molina was pulling the strings, even if she hadn’t physically joined them.
Mercy could understand their point of view, but she also saw the extreme possible downsides. ‘Sorry, Gideon, I have to agree with Molina on this one. If Ephraim – I mean Harry – told his mother that you stabbed his eye out after killing her other son? I think your presence might do more harm than good.’
Gideon nearly pouted. ‘Yeah, but still.’
Mercy nearly smiled. ‘Yeah, but still.’ She turned to Rafe. ‘And if I’m supposed to be Harry Franklin’s worried wife, having you hovering over me looking all protective and alpha male won’t look right, either.’ She softened her words with a smile. ‘But I wish you both could be there with me. I’m . . . nervous. What if I don’t know what to say? What if she won’t talk to me at all?’
