‘I see. When he is no longer indisposed, can you have him call me?’
Call him? Call him? That thing . . . that tiny thing was a . . . a phone?
No way. Wow. He remembered car phones, and Eden newcomers had whispered about how small the devices had become, but this . . . Wow.
Pastor must have ended the call, because he looked up to the sky and murmured, ‘Dammit, Ephraim, what have you done now?’
Amos held his breath, listening for the next words, but Pastor tapped the thing in his hand and held it to his ear. ‘Ephraim?’
Amos stiffened. Ephraim had a phone too, obviously, and was not lost in the wilderness. Which was a shame.
‘When are you returning?’ Pastor asked. ‘You were supposed to be back this morning.’ Then he frowned. ‘Difficulties?’
Oh. Amos knew that tone. When Pastor spoke gently like that, it was never a good thing.
‘Oh, good heavens,’ Pastor said, sounding abruptly concerned. ‘I knew you had to have a good reason. DJ thought you might have decided not to come back.’ Then he rolled his eyes heavenward again. ‘That’s what I told DJ. He has so little faith.’
Brother DJ was involved, too. Of course he was. Amos had never liked the young man, especially after Brother Waylon died. Amos had loved Waylon Belmont like a brother, but the man’s son had been coddled to the point of ruination.
‘No,’ Pastor said. ‘Just checking on you, like a good shepherd cares for his flock.’ Another eye roll. ‘Yes, I’d like that. Call me every day, so that I know you’re okay. Where are you staying?’ A pause. ‘I see. Should we target more of the younger girls for Eden? I hate that you have to go elsewhere for your needs.’
Target. His needs. Amos leaned against a tree, his knees suddenly weak. Younger girls. They’d brought in younger girls for Ephraim.
They gave him my daughter. Mercy. Bile rose in Amos’s throat and he had to focus on not throwing up.
‘You do that,’ Pastor was saying warmly. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Go take some aspirin.’
Pastor tapped the screen again, then slipped the phone – which was still blowing Amos’s mind – into his pocket. Exhaling impatiently, he turned for the compound.
Amos held himself as still as stone, not risking a single breath, a single twitch.
Pastor walked by within about twenty feet of him, muttering, ‘Damn the day I let you in. Should have kicked you to the curb years ago. Would have if it hadn’t been for Edward.’
Amos waited until he could no longer hear Pastor’s footsteps and made his way to where the man had been standing. There were some large boulders on the ground that Pastor had been sitting on – and it appeared that one of them had rocked a little when he stood up.
Crouching low, Amos looked around to make sure he was alone before tentatively pushing at the boulder. Which really did move. Way too easily.
He pushed a little more and the boulder rolled back, revealing that it was hollow. And that it was hiding a small satellite dish. Amos had seen these back in the 1980s, before he’d come to Eden. His neighbor had been the first on their block to get a satellite dish for cable TV. But here?
He stared for a long moment, trying to make sense of it all. Then remembered where he was supposed to be. He returned the boulder to where it had been, then backed carefully away, into the forest. Retracing his steps, he caught up to the search party, still looking for signs of Brother Ephraim.
‘Brother Amos,’ one of the others called. ‘We were worried. We thought we’d have to send a search party for you, too.’
Amos made himself smile apologetically, hoping that no one could hear the nervous pounding of his heart. ‘Sorry. I thought I saw a movement in the woods, but it was only a fox.’
The group of men, most of whom Amos would have called friends, gave him a good-natured ribbing about getting lost in the woods and the difference in size between Ephraim Burton and a fox.
Should have said that I saw a snake, Amos thought. Would have been closer to the truth.
Sacramento, California
Saturday, 15 April, 6.55 P.M.
Jeff Bunker ignored the ringing of his phone, focusing instead on his laptop screen. He still had five minutes to make this deadline, dammit, and he wasn’t going to let his editor rush him into making a mistake. He’d been working this Mercy Callahan story for the past six weeks, ever since a brutal serial killer had been brought down practically in his own backyard.
He frowned at the words on the screen, his fingers slowing to a random tap-tap-tap on the keyboard. Stop. Just stop. Admit the truth.
Which was that he wasn’t proud of this story. It wasn’t his best work and he wasn’t finished with it. He couldn’t help the feeling that he’d only exposed the tip of the iceberg. With just a little more time . . .
No, that wasn’t the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway. Yes, he wanted more time. But he’d had time today. He’d had nearly seven hours to finish the story, between airports and the flight from New Orleans. But he hadn’t even started until he’d gotten home from the airport, his heart still racing to beat all hell.
His knew he’d worried his mom, ignoring her demands to know where he’d been for the past three days. You may be in college, Jeffrey Bunker, but you’re still only sixteen years old. You can’t just disappear for three days!
She was right, of course. But he hadn’t been able to talk about it. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to talk about it. He physically couldn’t. His tongue was still as frozen as it had been ever since last night. Ever since he’d come upon that old woman’s body.
And had seen her killer’s face.
So as soon as he’d gotten home, he’d fled up the stairs to his bedroom, where it was safe. Where the killer couldn’t find him.
He hoped. Please don’t let him find me. I really am too young to die.
He’d stared at his laptop for a long time that afternoon, trying to think of what to write about Mercy Callahan, but only able to think about the man he’d seen leaving the apartment of Mercy’s next-door neighbor.
After the man had killed her. He’d killed her.
And then, as if seeing the man’s face in Mercy’s apartment building hadn’t been bad enough, the guy had been on Jeff’s flight. The man had been several rows behind him, but Jeff had sat frozen in fear for the entire flight. Did he see me? Did he recognize me? Will he kill me, too?
He’d finally thrown himself into writing this piece on Mercy Callahan to keep from thinking. To keep from remembering the body of the old lady lying on her floor amid the wreckage of her apartment. Mercy’s neighbor had been dead. He’d checked.