He’d banished his fury at the thought of Mercy willingly submitting to another man’s sexual demands when she’d been so unresponsive with him, but then felt vindicated when he read her more recent boyfriend’s ‘colder than a fish’ statement.
A retraction at the end of the article denied any responsibility of the site’s management regarding the uploading of videos portraying sexual assault and stated that they were against it.
Part of him wished he’d seen the video himself, but he mostly was glad he hadn’t. Then he’d have to go back to New Orleans and kill the bastard who’d taken the video in the first place. He did not want to go back there, because Louisiana was too damn muggy and it was only spring.
Plus he’d have to drive to New Orleans and the only way he’d do that was if Mercy ran home before he could grab her here. No more flying until Pastor made him a new driver’s license. It wouldn’t take the FBI long to track down the name he’d used to buy the tickets to and from New Orleans.
Luckily, he wasn’t going to have to return to New Orleans. He knew exactly where Mercy was, thanks to the articles by other reporters. She’d holed up in the Sokolovs’ house in Granite Bay, east of Sacramento. He just had to bide his time until her guard was down and she went somewhere alone. Or at least somewhere without a cop. Although he wasn’t afraid to take out a cop or two if it meant returning to Eden with Mercy in tow.
He wanted to prove DJ’s lies. He wanted to show that Mercy still lived, even though DJ had sworn that he’d killed her. He wanted DJ cast out.
He wanted all the money that Pastor had been quietly accumulating for the past thirty years.
He could be patient a little while longer, but he needed a better place to crash in the meantime. Granny’s little Boy Scout would be back from his camping trip by that afternoon, and Ephraim didn’t intend to still be here.
Opening a new tab in his browser, Ephraim searched for empty homes for sale in the Granite Bay area, quickly discarding his search when he saw the relative wealth of the community. Rich people alarmed their homes, even hiring security guards sometimes. He didn’t want a poor neighborhood, because he liked his creature comforts, so he searched for a middle-class area where nicer houses sat abandoned, preferably in a secluded location where nobody could either sneak up on him, surround him, or report him as a squatter.
He settled on three possible homes, copied their addresses, then gathered his belongings, taking great care to wipe off anything that he’d touched, wishing he’d had the presence of mind to do the same at Regina’s. He’d left his prints everywhere in Regina’s house, especially in the room where he’d killed her. That had been his room, every time he’d stayed with her. There was no easy way to erase his presence. Not that he was overly worried about that.
Because who are Regina’s people gonna tell? Quickly he clicked back to the first tab he’d opened that morning and refreshed the page, checking again for any reports on a murder at Regina’s address.
Just as before, nothing. He wasn’t surprised. Regina ran a prostitution ring. She kept underage girls, selling them to men who liked them young. Men like me. Her staff would find her body and dispose of it, and her second-in-command would take over, likely thrilled with the promotion.
In fact, the new boss of Regina’s place would probably be very grateful. Not that Ephraim was going to chance it. He wasn’t ever going back there.
Satisfied that he’d considered every potential issue, he made himself breakfast in Granny’s kitchen, appreciating the preserves she’d stored in her pantry. He cleaned out the old woman’s pantry, storing the canned goods in the trunk of his car. Who knew when he’d get hungry on the road, and canned garden veggies were better than no food at all.
He’d also take her rifle and search her house for any items he might need. Ammo, rope to tie Mercy, duct tape to keep her quiet . . . all of the normal tools of the trade.
He would need a disguise, though, before he could come anywhere close to the Sokolovs again, especially the cop. He could wear a wig. A fake beard. Anything that would disguise his features, since the asshole knew his face. Law enforcement across the whole damn state knew his face now, thanks to that fucker with a cane.
Ephraim did one more Google search, looking for costume stores in the area.
Ten
Orangevale, California
Sunday, 16 April, 8.15 A.M.
The costume store’s alarm hadn’t sounded, but Ephraim was taking no chances. He kept an eye on the big picture window in front, just in case the alarm was a silent one.
He had most of what he needed. A few wigs that weren’t too cartoony, a mustache/beard set, some theatrical makeup that he had no idea how to use. He could google it later. He grabbed a bottle of spirit gum and a package of scars. He’d started for the back entrance where he’d left his car when he heard a soft click.
‘Ah, fuck,’ he muttered. Not again.
‘Don’t move,’ a woman said, her voice trembling. ‘I will shoot you.’
Slowly he turned to find her to be about twenty years old. Cute, if not a bit coltish. In one hand she held what looked like a .22. In the other, her cell phone. Both hands shook like leaves in a hurricane.
Behind her was an open door, probably to a storeroom. He’d checked it when he’d come in, but it had been locked.
‘I said don’t move!’ But she backed up a step, her terror clear on her face. ‘I called the police, so don’t make any sudden moves.’
She really needed to stop watching bad movies, he thought. ‘I don’t want to kill you,’ he said quietly. And he didn’t. Especially since he hadn’t pulled the bullets out of Granny. If he shot this girl with Regina’s gun, they’d be able to connect the crimes. If he shot her with his own gun, the neighbors would hear the gunshot.
Which didn’t really matter, because he’d left his own gun in the car. Fucking hell. It didn’t matter and he couldn’t just stand there waffling. He didn’t have any time to waste.
Her laugh was shrill. ‘I don’t want to kill you either, but I will. Drop the stuff and put your hands up.’
He shoved the stolen items beneath his shirt and tucked its hem into his pants so the disguises wouldn’t fall out. Then he calmly pulled Regina’s gun from his pocket and pointed it at her. ‘Drop the gun.’ He began walking toward her, shaking his head when she clutched the gun tighter and backed up, matching him step for step.
‘Hurry!’ she cried into her phone. ‘Please hurry. He’s got a gun!’
When he reached her, he took the gun from her shaking hand, pocketed it, then grabbed her head in both hands and gave a quick twist. Dropping her to the floor, he turned and ran.