Ephraim held the bottle to the light to read the label. Ketamine HCl.
‘Fucker,’ he snarled under his breath. This was how Burkett had planned to keep him asleep for twelve hours. The sedative in his coffee would’ve been only the beginning.
He pocketed the bottle and syringes and searched Burkett’s pants pockets, finding his key ring. Adding Burkett’s gun to his duffel, he shouldered the bag and dragged the other man’s body to the garage, which held a chest freezer and an Escalade.
Perfect. The Escalade was shiny and new, and would blend into Sokolov’s neighborhood. It would also haul the honeymooners’ camper with no trouble at all. He opened the chest freezer, pleased to see it nearly empty. The doctor fit well enough, after Ephraim cracked a couple of his bones.
He dumped the body into the freezer, then stepped back, wincing as he rolled his shoulder. The guy was heavier than he looked. And I’m tired. At least he hadn’t reopened his wound. The bandage was still dry. No new blood. Time to get out of here.
Drawing a deep breath, he took a step toward the Escalade and froze. Then inhaled again.
Cigarette smoke. Fresh cigarette smoke.
Someone is here. Or was here. Drawing his weapon, Ephraim turned in a tight circle, searching the shadows for the smoker. But he was alone.
He hadn’t been, though. He took more deep breaths, scenting the air, following the smell of smoke, but it was already fading. Ephraim might have wondered if he’d imagined it.
Until he found the butt on the garage floor. Gingerly he picked it up and held it under his cell phone flashlight. Marlboro. Most of the name was visible and the butt was still warm.
His jaw tightened. DJ. DJ Belmont smoked Marlboros when he went off property – not many, because he managed to never smell of cigarette smoke when he returned.
But DJ couldn’t be here. That was impossible. There was no way that DJ could have tracked him here. Unless . . . Fucking hell. Fucking fucking hell.
Burkett had gotten Ephraim’s number from Pastor. Pastor could have sent DJ here to get him.
Except . . . Eden was almost six hours’ drive to Santa Rosa. For DJ to have beaten him here, he would’ve had to have left at four that afternoon at the latest. That was possible, depending on when Burkett had called Pastor.
I could call Pastor and ask him. Of course that would tip Pastor off if he had sent DJ.
Ephraim scowled, unable to think of a better way to discover when Burkett and Pastor had their little chat. He hadn’t found a phone in Burkett’s pockets and he didn’t want to hang around here to search. DJ was younger and Ephraim wasn’t at his fighting best. If DJ was lurking outside, Ephraim didn’t think he could win a face-to-face showdown. Not tonight.
Just go. If he shoots at you, shoot back. He stowed the duffel on the Escalade’s passenger seat and started the engine before hitting the button for the garage door opener.
Gun clutched in one hand, he hunkered down as the door slid up, put the SUV in reverse, then started down the driveway, expecting a bullet to pierce one of the windows at any moment. DJ was a damn good shot. Better than me.
But there were no bullets. No gunfire.
There was, however, a dark sedan parked down the street that followed him as he left Burkett’s neighborhood. A glance in the rear-view revealed a head of white-blond hair reflecting the glow of the streetlights. Not blond like Mercy’s detective, Rafe Sokolov. That would have been bad enough.
It was DJ. He was sure of it.
Fuck you, Pastor.
Stay calm. DJ might have been a better shot, but Ephraim was a much better driver. He kept an eye on the rear-view mirror, watching the dark sedan match him, move for move.
Fucker. Ephraim pulled onto the interstate going north, weaving between cars, then allowing the sedan to get a little too close before crossing three lanes of traffic and pulling off the exit in a cacophony of horns. Not prepared for the move, DJ missed the exit and kept driving.
Ephraim exhaled in relief, then started for Sacramento, using a state road instead of the interstate. It would take him longer to get there, but DJ wouldn’t know where he’d gone and that was good enough for now.
Twenty-seven
Sacramento, California
Tuesday, 18 April, 10.05 P.M.
Mercy closed the apartment door and began unbuttoning her coat as she looked at the box at her feet. ‘It was nice of your mother to make more food, but I’m not sure it’ll fit in the fridge. It’s still full from the last time. I might have to put some of it in the freezer.’
She’d shooed him straight to the sofa as soon as they’d entered the apartment, and Rafe hadn’t complained. He felt like he’d been through two dozen of Cash’s PT sessions. At least.
‘I think the freezer is also full. Mom’s always cooked when she’s stressed out. If we came home from school and the kitchen was filled with food, we knew Mom was upset about something. For all her “You vill do this, you vill do that,” she really hates confrontations. She’s a softie, but I won’t ever admit that I said that.’
He lowered himself to the sofa, ignoring the pain in his leg because Mercy was hanging her coat in the closet like she’d done it a thousand times.
He wished she would. He wished he could tell her that he wanted her to stay. But it wasn’t time for that. Not yet. They had another seven and a half weeks until she went back to New Orleans.
A fact that startled a laugh out of him.
‘What’s so funny?’ Mercy asked, on her way to the kitchen, Irina’s box in her arms.
‘Come sit with me and I’ll tell you.’
Two minutes later, she did, sitting so close that their hips touched. So close that he could put his arm around her shoulders and pull her against his chest. So he did, feeling like he could finally breathe again when she melted into him.
‘I was thinking how you still had seven and a half weeks of leave left. You’ve only been here four days.’
‘Feels like four weeks already,’ she agreed wryly. ‘Facing my batshit-crazy ex-mother-in-law, reuniting with my stepfather, and being shot at by my evil ex-husband is kind of a lot.’ She sighed. ‘Then I think of the lives DJ and Ephraim have stolen and feel selfish for worrying about myself. And don’t tell me that it’s not my fault. I know it’s not. But I still feel responsible.’
He kissed her temple. ‘I wouldn’t respect you so much if you didn’t care about the lives Ephraim and DJ have taken. And I do. Respect you, I mean. I don’t think I’d be handling this nearly as well if I were in your shoes. You’re stronger than you know.’
She looked at him, gratitude in her eyes. ‘Thank you. I’ve been considered fragile by so many people for so long. It’s nice to be seen as strong. It’s good for my ego,’ she added with a self-deprecating grimace.