Say Goodbye

by Karen Rose

  Hayley struggled, but her mother was strong. “Mom, you’re hurting me. Don’t—”

  Hayley’s protest was suddenly cut off by her mother’s scream, the bitch’s grip abruptly disappearing. Hayley caught Graham’s small wink and bit back her grin. Graham had sloshed some of the contents of the pot onto his mother’s feet, and it was soaking into her shoes.

  “Oh, Mother. I am so sorry,” Graham said.

  “You did that on purpose!” she screeched.

  Murmurs arose from the curtained-off rooms.

  “Good job, Mom,” Hayley snapped. “You’ve woken everyone. I’m going back to bed.”

  She turned on her heel and headed back for the cubicle she shared with Joshua’s other wives. And ran right into Brother Joshua himself. He gripped her arms, steadying her before she could fall. His grip wasn’t punishing, like her mother’s had been, but she winced.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he growled.

  Sister Rebecca, the baby-stealer, sidled up beside him. “She’s a troublemaker.”

  “Her mother slapped her,” a calm voice said, and Hayley wanted to sag in relief. Sister Tamar had rescued her once again. “She slapped her, then grabbed her arm. She probably has bruises.”

  Joshua frowned. “Is this true?”

  Hayley started to answer but caught Tamar’s shake of the head. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that the question had been addressed to Graham. Who still held the damn pot of piss.

  “Yes, sir,” Graham said respectfully, and Hayley had the urge to giggle. His tone was so respectful. Only Hayley knew that he was laying it on with a trowel.

  Joshua let Hayley go. “Go back to bed,” he said with surprising gentleness. “I’ll deal with your mother.”

  Hayley blinked in surprise, then bit back a flinch at the venomous look on Sister Rebecca’s face. If looks could kill, I’d be dead.

  “I’ll help you,” Tamar said, sliding her arm around Hayley’s shoulders. She looked up at Joshua. “She’s due any day. If she falls, she could harm the baby.”

  Joshua glanced at his first wife. “We don’t want that.”

  Rebecca’s expression had shifted from venomous to beatific. “No, we don’t.”

  “Come,” Tamar said, giving Hayley a tug.

  Once they were back in Hayley’s space, Tamar shook her head. “What were you thinking? You can’t provoke your mother like that.”

  Now that it was over, Hayley realized that Tamar was right. She’d let her words fly without thinking. “I’m sorry. When she hit me, I . . .”

  “I know. But you must control your temper.”

  “I know.” Hayley sighed. “You’re right.”

  “And you’re tense.” Tamar started a lower back massage that made Hayley groan. “Have you felt any contractions?”

  “Not yet.” Hayley hugged her belly. “I’ve been hoping she’ll stay put a little longer.”

  “I understand that you’re scared, but if the contractions start, do not fight them. Send Graham to find me immediately. I’m serious. You could be endangering your life and your baby’s. Now, tell me why Graham was really out there. He’s been dumping the pots for a few days now, without complaint. People are talking about it. Now they’re singing his praises, but that could change on a dime.”

  Hayley looked at the curtain. It was pulled and there were no feet visible beneath it, so no one was eavesdropping. Unless they were waiting at the curtain’s edge. “He’s looking for something,” Hayley said, trying to keep it generic.

  “Something to help you escape?”

  Hayley inhaled sharply. “I . . .”

  “It’s all right,” Tamar said. “I don’t think anyone else suspects. I won’t ask more questions for now, because the other wives will be back soon. But I will help you. I want out, too.”

  She’d said it once before and Hayley needed to decide if she could trust her. Tamar could be working on the side of her mother, Rebecca, and Eden. Although Tamar had also lost her child, not to death, but to Rebecca.

  “They have a computer,” Hayley whispered.

  Tamar’s eyes widened, then filled with excitement. “For real?” Then she shut down like someone had flipped a switch. “There you go, Sister Magdalena,” she said, her voice back to soothing and calm. A second later the curtain was whipped back and Joshua’s other wives filed in. “Hopefully the massage helped.”

  One of the wives offered Hayley a cup of water. “Sister Tamar gives the best massages. She’ll be an amazing midwife, even if Sister Coleen isn’t back before your baby arrives.”

  Tamar patted her hand. “I’ve delivered five babies in the past year. Haven’t lost a single one, nor their mothers, so don’t worry. I’m going back to bed as well. Tomorrow, I’ll ask Brother Joshua if I can move my pallet in here, so that I can be close by if you need me. Now, try to rest. You’re going to be needing all the strength you can muster.” She met Hayley’s gaze with determination. “I will help you.”

  I will help you. Tamar hadn’t just been talking about the baby. She’d been talking about their escape. She was moving her pallet tomorrow so that she could be nearby. To help with the baby and their escape.

  Hayley thought about that and about Graham doing the most disgusting of all the compound’s chores so that he could find the satellite dish that was their only hope of communication with the outside world. That was love.

  She curled around her meager pillow, letting that love settle around her and within her. I hope you know we love you, Jellybean. We’re going to find a way to save you.

  ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, MAY 25, 4:35 A.M.

  Tom leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his desk and stretching his back. His muscles had grown stiff from sitting at his keyboard for far too long. He glanced at the wall of his office that faced Liza’s bedroom, wishing things weren’t so weird between them. He could have used one of her shoulder massages right about now. He loved the feel of her hands on his skin.

  But she was probably asleep. Curled up in the nest of soft blankets she liked so much. Warm and pliant, smelling like apples and tasting like chocolate because she always had some for a bedtime snack.

  He stiffened, in more ways than one. Goddammit.

  He was hard. He’d felt desire since Tory died. Always when he’d been with Liza. Always he’d shoved it back, but tonight denial was much more difficult. He wanted Liza. Dammit.

  Clenching his eyes shut, he swallowed a groan, wanting to call Rafe Sokolov and curse him to hell and back. Putting thoughts in his mind like that.

  That Liza might be for me. That she might want me. That I could have her for my own.

  Because it was not true. She was his friend, one of his oldest friends. They loved each other, true, but like friends. They took care of each other and that was all.

  Tell that to your cock, buddy.

  This was lust and it was wrong. If I give in—which I won’t—it will ruin our friendship.

  “Do we still have a friendship?” he asked, and Pebbles looked at him. The Great Dane lay pressed against the common wall, as if she knew that Liza was just beyond it. “Well? Do we?”

  Pebbles snorted like the small horse she was and went back to sleep.

  Tom sighed. He was getting nothing done. After his conversations with Rafe and then his mother, he’d returned to his office and picked up his attempt at tracing Cameron Cook’s e-mail.

  From Hayley, who was pregnant and scared and about to give birth in that horrible place. His arousal fled as he imagined Tory being scared the night she’d been killed, certain that she’d been more afraid for their baby than for herself. No one had saved Tory that night.

  Everything in Tom yearned to get Hayley to safety. He’d tried everything he knew, both legal and illegal, but kept slamming up against nothing. It was like Eden’s network had dis
appeared—maybe at the same time as their last move?

  It was possible that they’d gone someplace where they couldn’t get online. It was also possible that their equipment—the satellite dish that Amos had discovered at their most recent location—had been damaged.

  They had taken it with them when they evacuated. Tom had checked himself, searching the perimeter of the compound Amos had described a month ago when he’d first escaped with Abigail. Tom had found evidence that a cable had been buried and then dug up. Maybe they’d damaged the cable when they’d ripped it from the earth.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe. He blew out a breath and pushed away from his desk, needing . . . something. Exercise? Food? More booze?

  No, definitely not more booze. He’d had more alcohol tonight than he usually consumed in a month.

  His glance flitted to the wall again and he had to fight the urge to bang on it with his fists, to wake Liza up and demand that she tell him what was wrong.

  You know what’s wrong. Stop being an obtuse dick.

  He hung his head, suddenly too weary to ignore it any longer. “I am a dick,” he whispered.

  Karl had tried to tell him, and he’d made a joke.

  Rafe had tried to tell him, and he’d thrown him out.

  His mother had tried to tell him multiple times as they’d talked on the phone, but each time Tom had changed the subject and his mother had allowed him to do so, albeit reluctantly.

  Even Croft had tried to tell him that Liza’s wants and needs might have changed during the seven years of their friendship, but he’d pretended to be clueless.

  Dammit all to hell. “I don’t want this,” he growled to Pebbles. “I don’t want to want her.” But he did want her. He could lie to himself, but his body apparently knew the truth. He wanted her friendship, her laughter, all of her smiles. And he wanted to curl up with her under those soft blankets and see what would happen. “I can’t want her.”

  Huffing a groan, Pebbles rolled over to press her face against the wall, shutting him out.

  “Et tu, Pebbles?” he muttered. He closed all of the browser tabs he’d been using to trace that damn e-mail and stared at the image that remained on his screen.

  Tory laughed at the camera, all bubbly happiness and dancing delight as she waggled her fingers to show off the diamond he’d just put on her finger. It was the night she’d agreed to be his wife. A month later, she was gone. The diamond on her finger was gone. The smile on her face, gone. The light in her eyes . . . all gone. All stolen by the brute who’d killed her.

  He drew a breath and stared hard at her face. They’d fallen hard and fast, going from dating to storing toothbrushes in each other’s bathrooms in a matter of weeks. And the only person he’d told was Liza.

  He closed his eyes, remembering the night he’d told her about Tory on a Skype call. Liza had been laughing about something he’d said when he’d blurted it out. I met someone. She’s amazing. Liza’s smile had disappeared, and then hurt had flitted across her face.

  I hurt her. I was clumsy and bumbling and I hurt her. He could see that now, in his memory. He’d either missed it or ignored it then. Either way, she’d schooled her features into a tight smile and had wished him all the happiness in the world. Had even asked all about Tory.

  And he’d told her everything. Well, not about the sex. “Thank God for that,” he muttered.

  Because now . . . now he could see what everyone else had always seen. She’d cared for him then. At least a year and a half ago. Maybe before that.

  Not as friends. Not just as friends, anyway.

  Goddammit.

  He had no idea what to do with this epiphany. He didn’t want this epiphany.

  He pushed back from his desk and paced the length of his little office. He was edgy, felt caged in. He needed to run. The ten-mile route he took around the neighborhood always cleared his head. But he wasn’t leaving her alone. Not when she’d been in a killer’s sights less than twenty-four hours before.

  So, no, he wasn’t leaving her here alone to go for a run. He had a treadmill downstairs.

  He’d turned to go there when his phone shrilled an alarm. He sucked in a startled breath—that was the alarm for Eden’s bank account. Dropping back into his chair, he quickly brought up the offshore account.

  “Whoa,” he whispered. One hundred grand was gone. Transferred.

  He clicked on the transaction and stared at his screen. The money had been wired to a Dr. Ralph Arnold of Sacramento.

  Fingers flying, Tom googled the man and found absolutely nothing of note in the standard search results. No address, not even a photograph. He then checked the California DMV database and found the man’s photo.

  Ralph Arnold was . . . ordinary. Medium height, medium build. Dishwater-blond hair that had grayed at the temples. He could be anyone.

  But he was someone—someone who Eden trusted and needed enough to wire a hundred grand to. Right off, that made the man a definite person of interest.

  Tom unlocked his safe and pulled out the laptop he used for the dark web. He was protected by multiple levels of proxy servers on his main computer, but he’d been taught to be careful by his first white-hat mentor, Ethan Buchanan.

  Ethan had taken Tom under his wing when he’d been a junior in high school. Tom had managed to break into a protected government website and realized how vulnerable he was. He’d backed out quickly and had never been approached by men in black asking questions, but he’d realized that he could have been in real trouble. Life-destroying, going-to-prison trouble. So he’d taken his laptop to Ethan and asked for help.

  Ethan’s brows had nearly shot off his forehead when he’d seen what Tom had accomplished on his own, but then he’d rolled up his sleeves and taught Tom to be a white hat, too.

  Tom owed the man a great deal and thought about him every time he delved into the dark web. Be safe, was Ethan’s first rule. Don’t compromise your everyday workstation.

  Tom signed in on his throwaway laptop and opened the browser that provided entrée into the dark web. He wasn’t going to dig that deep yet. He’d do a quick search, then report the Eden activity to Molina.

  He sighed. No, he’d send it to Raeburn first and call Molina right after. He didn’t want her kept in the dark, and it seemed that Raeburn was capable of doing just that.

  Ralph Arnold MD, he typed into the search window. Then whistled softly when his screen filled with links, all referencing Arnold’s very private practice. He operated a surgery out of his home, which was well guarded. He accepted U.S. dollars, euros, rubles, pesos, and yuan.

  References abounded—many from satisfied former patients with code names like Coyote and Scarface and Moll. The man appeared to be a doctor to both Hollywood celebrities and the stars of organized crime.

  Having sufficient information for the moment, Tom dialed Agent Raeburn.

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, MAY 25, 4:40 A.M.

  DJ pulled the truck through the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to Dr. Arnold’s home. He’d received a call from Dr. Arnold’s office manager confirming that payment had been received and that the address had been texted to his phone only minutes before.

  Way to leave things till the last minute, he thought, feeling manipulated, distrusted, and surly. Most of which had been caused by Pastor, the bastard.

  The house was located in an upscale neighborhood about fifteen minutes from the airport. DJ figured that made transport more convenient for the celebrities and crime bosses coming from out of town.

  He half-expected to see Kowalski at the doctor’s house, waiting for them, but the drug dealer was nowhere in sight.

  DJ drove around to the back as he’d been instructed and stopped the truck in front of a large garage. The doors rolled up, revealing an ambulance, two nurses in white scrubs, and a muscled man about the size of a
gorilla who held a rifle in his arms.

  “Mr. Belmont?” one of the nurses asked. Her name tag read Jones.

  “Yes. My father is in the back of the truck. His wife is with him.”

  “We’ll get your father checked in and have your mother fill out his paperwork.”

  “She’s not my mother.” DJ had to bite back a wince, because he hadn’t intended to say that aloud. The less information he provided, the safer he’d stay. “What paperwork? I was assured the doctor would require no paperwork.”

  The woman smiled. “Just his medical history. No identification required.”

  A hundred thousand bucks seemed to be enough identification for Dr. Arnold.

  DJ opened the back of the truck. Coleen looked exhausted and Pastor was either asleep or unconscious.

  “Asleep,” Coleen said, reading the question in DJ’s expression.

  Nurse Jones climbed up into the back of the truck, the muscled man taking position at the open truck door. She knelt beside Pastor and took his wrist, frowning. “His pulse is very weak.”

  “I know,” Coleen told her, her manner as professional as DJ had ever seen. “I’ve been monitoring it since we left home. The ride was difficult for him.”

  Coleen was not, to DJ’s knowledge, a real nurse. Her first husband in Eden had been both a Founding Elder and the compound’s actual doctor. He’d taught her to be his assistant. When he’d died they’d been unable to get a replacement and Coleen had become the healer.

  Pastor was moved to a stretcher and the second nurse began setting up an IV. “We’re going to run some scans before the doctor scrubs in,” she said. “We need to know the extent of his injuries before he’s put under anesthesia. Has he received anesthesia before?”

  “Not that I know of,” Coleen replied. She climbed down from the truck, her body swaying a little. Probably from exhaustion. “I’ve been our community’s healer for thirty years.”

  Both nurses lifted their brows at the term “healer.”

  “We live in a remote town and we don’t have a board-certified physician,” DJ hastily explained, shooting Coleen a warning glare. “We’ve learned to be self-sufficient. This injury was outside our expertise.”