‘You’re doing it,’ she said, pressing her cheek to the hard wall of his chest. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
For a long, long moment they sat there in the quiet, the steady thumping of his heart beneath her ear the only sound that mattered. ‘I need to help,’ she finally said wearily.
‘Need to help with what, specifically?’
‘Finding Ephraim Burton.’ Somehow saying both of his names together made him feel more like a stranger, less like her own personal nightmare. A little bit, anyway.
His hand rubbed big circles on her back. ‘All right.’ His reply wasn’t condescending. It was simple acceptance, like it made perfect sense that she’d help.
‘But I don’t know where to start,’ she confessed.
‘Let’s start tomorrow,’ he said softly. ‘Tonight, you need to take care of you.’
She wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy. ‘All right,’ she said, intentionally mimicking his words and tone, making him chuckle.
‘Good,’ was all he said before falling silent once more. He rubbed her back, occasionally stroking her hair, his constant touches more than mere comfort. His hands anchored her. His arms made her feel safe.
Safe enough to sleep.
Sacramento, California
Saturday, 15 April, 10.05 P.M.
In hindsight, Ephraim should have waited until morning to kill Regina, so that he could have gotten a decent night’s sleep. His head still pounded and he was exhausted, but hotels were not an option. He didn’t want to risk even a shitty motel because Regina had been right about the BOLOs. Cops and Feds all over the state were looking for him. The airports would be alerted, as would the borders if he tried to hang out in Mexico.
But he didn’t want to be in Mexico. He wanted to be wherever Mercy Callahan was, so he’d headed back to Sacramento. He hadn’t been able to find Raphael Sokolov’s address online, no matter what search engine he’d used, so he’d have to track Mercy another way. He didn’t know what that way would be, but he’d figure it out in the morning.
Now, he just needed to find a place to sleep.
He stopped in a northern suburb of Sacramento, a community in which every house was dark. Slowly he drove through the streets, checking for any place that looked unoccupied, but the houses were close together and he didn’t want to risk surprising someone inside who might yell loudly enough to be heard. He followed the main street out of town, finding himself on a farm road, not unlike the one where he’d dumped the woman’s body earlier this evening.
What was her name again? Right, June Lindstrom. He needed to remember the details, needed to listen to the news for word of her discovery. Her death couldn’t directly be traced to him, but eventually the cops would figure out that she’d left the airport at the same time that he’d fled.
He turned off his headlights as he approached the old farmhouse at the end of the lane. It had definitely seen better days. Even in the darkness, he could see that the paint was peeling and the weeds grew high all around the property. Quietly, he got out of the car that he’d stolen after ditching Regina’s sleek Lexus. This car was an older model, a real clunker. It still had a cassette tape deck, for God’s sake, so it was unlikely to have GPS. Which was exactly what he needed right now to stay off the grid.
He walked toward the farmhouse, keeping to the shadows. Checking all the windows, he found only one occupant – an old woman sitting in her recliner, watching TV.
Drawing Regina’s gun from his pocket, he made sure the suppressor was on tight and crept to the back door, ready to break one of the small window panels so that he could reach in and unlock it. But to his surprise, it was already unlocked.
He opened the door and slipped in, checking for any kind of home alarm system, but he saw nothing. He crossed an old kitchen into a drab hallway, stopping cold when a floorboard squeaked.
‘James?’ a frail voice called from the living room. ‘What are you doing home?’
He had no idea who James was, but this was a bad idea if the guy would be returning soon. Ephraim wanted to sleep and not worry about anyone else coming in.
He continued walking toward the living room, wincing when more floorboards creaked.
‘James?’ the old woman called again, a thread of fear in her voice. ‘Is that you?’
He wondered what would happen if he said yes, then froze when the lights abruptly came on. The old woman stood at the end of the hall, one hand on the light switch.
The other cradling a rifle like a baby. And not just any rifle. It was an AR-15 with an extended magazine. Ephraim blinked in surprise. The rifle she held wasn’t legal in California configured as it was, so the old woman wasn’t afraid of breaking the law. He had to admit to being reluctantly impressed.
She stiffened. ‘Who are you?’
‘Who is James?’
‘My grandson,’ she said, lifting the rifle to her shoulder with a speed and grace that surprised him.
Granny may have been badass, but she wasn’t as fast as Ephraim. He shot her in the chest, both the gun and the suppressor doing their jobs. All he heard was a slight pop and she dropped like a rock.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured as he crouched next to her body. He really was. It was a shame that such a feisty old lady should meet her end so anticlimactically. He moved the rifle from her arms and took her pulse. She was still alive, dammit. With regret, he shot her again, then put her body in the chair, making it look like she was still watching TV.
Then he locked all the doors, placing chairs under each of the doorknobs. If James the grandson came home early, he’d have to break a window and Ephraim would hear that.
Climbing the stairs, he found a nice bedroom decorated with paisley and lace. A second bedroom looked like a tornado had struck, dirty clothes on the floor and posters of basketball players on the walls. Must be James’s room, he thought. He found a laptop on an old desk and, figuring it couldn’t hurt to try, tapped the keyboard with one finger.
To his utter shock, the laptop turned on – with no password protector.
Granny must trust James a lot. Or James must not think Granny is very smart.
A quick search of his email revealed that James, a fourteen-year-old, was camping with his Boy Scout troop this weekend. Ephraim grimaced, the very sappiness of the situation leaving a bad taste in his mouth. Boy Scouts? Really? He didn’t know kids still did that shit. Maybe out in the country they did.
At least he’d get some uninterrupted sleep. James wasn’t due home until tomorrow afternoon.
By then Ephraim would be gone, on his way to wherever Mercy was.