‘Thank you,’ Mercy said, then remembered something. ‘Wait. Was Pastor married? Did he have a family who visited him in prison?’
‘No, but Waylon had a girlfriend. He met her when he was incarcerated. She was some kind of do-gooder. He had all these tats and she looked like she should be a student at an Ivy League school.’
‘Do you remember her name?’ Mercy asked.
‘Not off the top of my head. If I get a chance, I’ll ask my assistant to go to the tombs and get the visitor logs from that time frame. They haven’t been digitized, so it’s a pain in the ass to search them.’
‘That would be very helpful,’ Mercy said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Rafe added. ‘When can I expect that email?’
‘I just sent it,’ Shipley said. ‘I’m late for my next meeting. Signing off.’
And the screen went dark.
Rafe and Mercy sat quietly for a moment, and then Rafe kissed the knuckles of Mercy’s hand, still twined with his. ‘We have a name. Pastor’s real name.’
Mercy smiled. ‘Yes, we do. Let’s see if we have a face. Can you check your email?’
Rafe logged into his email. ‘She sent the photo separately. Nice of her not to bury it in that other megafile.’ He clicked it open and Mercy stiffened.
There, filling Rafe’s laptop screen, were Pastor, Edward McPhearson, and Waylon. ‘Benton Travis, Aubrey Franklin, and Waylon Belmont,’ she murmured. ‘Their paths crossed in prison.’
‘Just like you figured out last night.’ Rafe tipped her face up and kissed her hard. ‘This is huge, Mercy.’
She nodded numbly. ‘They were criminals the whole time. Criminals masquerading as spiritual leaders.’
Rafe’s face softened in sympathy. ‘I’m sorry, honey. I got carried away. This is . . .’
‘Personal,’ she murmured. ‘Very personal.’ She gave herself a little shake. ‘Are you going to pass this on to Tom Hunter?’
‘Of course.’ He pulled his phone from his pocket and flinched. ‘Shit. I had my ringer turned off so I wouldn’t wake you up earlier. I’ve got twenty missed calls.’ He paled. ‘Oh shit. They’re from my mom and Damien’s wife.’
Dread grabbed Mercy’s gut. She found her own phone on the coffee table, the volume turned down as well. Her stomach turned upside down, bile rising to burn her throat. ‘I’ve got six missed calls. All from Farrah’s mother.’
Twenty-eight
Dunsmuir, California
Wednesday, 19 April, 11.45 A.M.
Ephraim woke up still too damn tired for words. The nap he’d taken hadn’t been nearly enough, but at least his eyes felt a little less like they’d been scrubbed with fiberglass. The spot he’d chosen to stop was peaceful and pretty perfect, actually. Especially since he could rest for a while. It would take Mercy at least four hours to get here.
But she would come, because he had leverage now. He glanced to the camper behind him with a triumphant grin. He had triple leverage now – one New Orleans best friend, one New Orleans police captain, and one Sokolov cop. The Sokolov cop might not still be alive, but Mercy didn’t need to know that.
Damien Sokolov had taken a hard hit to the head when Ephraim had forced his car off the road and into a tree – ironically enough, not far from where Ephraim had killed June Lindstrom after she’d smuggled him out of the airport on Saturday night.
Ephraim’s luck had finally changed. Once he’d lost DJ on the interstate, the rat hadn’t found him again, and he’d arrived back in Rafe Sokolov’s neighborhood with perfect timing. The house behind Sokolov’s didn’t have a view of the Victorian, but he had been able to see the flash of headlights through the gap separating the houses.
Lucky once more, the headlights had belonged to a car that had been parked in the driveway. It was the car that belonged to one of the Sokolovs – Damien Sokolov, another cop. The car carried two other passengers – Mercy’s friends from New Orleans. Ephraim had followed, keeping a decent distance the whole way to the exit for the airport.
Looked like the New Orleans folks had been going home. If Mercy had been with them, it would have been a perfect day, but he was still happy with his haul. The road from the interstate to the airport was lightly traveled that early in the morning. Not a single witness.
Truly my lucky day. The little car had been no match for Burkett’s Escalade, the SUV shoving the smaller car off the road and into a tree with no trouble at all.
The trouble had been getting the three passengers out of the wrecked car and into the back of the SUV. At least the huge SUV provided adequate cover for him to work, blocking him from view of anyone who passed by on their way to the airport. It had taken a bit of time to secure the passengers, all of whom had been stunned by the impact – or worse in Sokolov’s case. He had been fully unconscious when Ephraim had approached their car, his gun out, ready to shoot the men at the very least.
Ephraim had been disappointed to see that Mercy wasn’t with them, but Dr Romero would serve as an irresistible lure. The Sokolov brother would ensure compliance from the blond bastard who’d become Mercy’s damn shadow.
Holmes had been stunned enough by the airbag that Ephraim was able to stab the needle of one of Burkett’s prepared syringes directly into his arm, through the man’s shirt sleeve. Holmes had tried to fight Ephraim off, but the gun that Ephraim held in his other hand had kept the cop frozen in place. A minute later, the man’s head had lolled to one side, drawing a scream from the woman in the backseat, who’d apparently just woken up.
Farrah Romero had come at him like a drunken wildcat, all hiss and no coordination. A gash on her head was bleeding and her pupils were huge. But a well-placed slap had her bouncing back against the seat. He hadn’t wasted any of the sedative on Romero – he could handle her with no problem. He’d bound her hands and covered her mouth with the same roll of duct tape he’d used on Sean MacGuire. Once she’d been secured, he slapped Burkett’s handcuffs on Romero’s fiancé, then sedated the Sokolov cop and bound him like he had Romero.
Romero had walked to the SUV on her own power, his gun an effective motivation, but getting the two men into the SUV had not been fun. Sokolov was a big guy, but Holmes was even bigger. Both were heavy motherfuckers. Dragging them from the car to the SUV had caused Ephraim’s wound to reopen.
He touched it now, the new bandage dry and free of blood. He hadn’t changed it until he’d transferred his passengers once again – this time to the honeymooners’ camper that he’d left parked in the state park when he’d gone to meet Burkett.
He’d wanted to sleep then, but he hadn’t felt safe until four hours later. He’d driven north, past Redding and into the forest east of Dunsmuir. He knew this area. Eden had settled here once, in the early days. Mt. Shasta loomed in the distance and the sight left him feeling peaceful.