There was quiet for a long, long moment. ‘I can talk to my lieutenant,’ Erin finally said. ‘It would be best if you found a place where you could lay low for a little while.’
‘I have to work,’ Mrs Bunker protested. ‘I can’t just leave town.’
‘Don’t panic until I have some more information,’ Erin soothed. She turned to Rafe. ‘We square, partner?’
Rafe nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said, relieved that it was true. ‘Thank you.’
Irina tipped Bunker’s chin up and to the side, studying his throat. ‘Are you all right, son?’
Fucking hell, Rafe wanted to groan. What had he nearly done?
‘I’m okay,’ Bunker said again. ‘And I’m not going to sue, so don’t worry about that. If Miss Callahan were my sister or my . . .’ He searched Rafe’s face. ‘Whatever she is to you. Girlfriend? And if I were Miss Romero’s family? I’d do the same thing.’ He waved his hands airily. ‘Again, if I were the Incredible Hulk. Otherwise, I’d just pen a letter to the editor.’
If the kid had been being sarcastic, Rafe would have been able to hold on to his anger, but Bunker was so damn sincere. ‘Thank you,’ Rafe murmured. ‘I’m sorry.’
Bunker tentatively smiled. ‘It’s okay. You’ll explain to Miss Callahan?’
‘I will. I promise.’
Granite Bay, California
Sunday, 16 April, 7.10 P.M.
‘What the hell?’ Ephraim muttered from Sean MacGuire’s upstairs window as he watched the scene unfold on the Sokolovs’ front porch. Rafe Sokolov had lifted that kid by the shirt collar – right off the ground – with one hand. Only to shove him away when a small woman stopped him. The kid looked shaken and terrified.
Ephraim felt kinship with the kid. He’d experienced Sokolov’s strength and the back of his head still ached from it. Fucking cane. If I ever get that man alone, I’m going to beat his head in with it.
His attention was diverted when more people tromped out of the house, holding court on the porch. Sokolov was joined by Gideon Reynolds and a woman that Ephraim recognized from his Google searches as Irina Sokolov, the detective’s mother. Then two more women – a tall blonde with a high ponytail who’d been at the airport the night before and a small blonde who clung to Reynolds like a limpet.
Her, Ephraim also recognized. She’d been featured in that CNN special about the serial killer. She was the third survivor, Daisy Dawson. And she was clearly with Gideon.
That was interesting. He tucked the knowledge away for later. If he wanted to make Gideon pay, basic garden-variety torture of his girlfriend would do nicely.
A black man had also come from the house to stand glaring at the kid who’d been mauled by Sokolov, and Ephraim was irritated that he couldn’t ID him. The man had arrived about an hour before in a red rental car and had been let straight into the house, so he’d been expected and welcomed.
Unlike the kid, who was now hiding behind another woman, who looked related to him. The woman was glaring back at Sokolov, her body vibrating with . . . something. Fear, maybe? Or rage? Or both. She had the look of a mother bear.
Like his own mother. Before she’d stopped recognizing him.
He shoved the distraction aside, waiting for Mercy to appear. But she never did and after what seemed like an eternity of talking, the kid wrote something on a sheet of paper and handed it to Sokolov.
Seemed like the crisis had been averted, and Ephraim was a little disappointed. If Sokolov had managed to hurt the kid, he’d be in trouble. Maybe even spend a few hours behind bars – hours during which Mercy would be more vulnerable.
Unfortunately, when the kid left, everything went back to the way it was before. Ephraim focused his binoculars on the license plate of the kid’s car as he and his mommy left, noting it for a further look. Something important had just happened there. He’d figure it out.
He put the binoculars down and sat in the comfy recliner, his gaze still glued to the Sokolov house. He’d figure it all out. Now that he knew DJ’s secrets, Ephraim held the real power.
He told himself that again as he pulled his second phone from his pocket. He hadn’t made a single call on it and wouldn’t use it for anything but talking to Pastor.
He dialed the man’s cell phone number from memory, relieved when he got Pastor’s voice mail. He wasn’t sure he could pull this off without losing his cool if he heard Pastor’s voice.
‘Hi, it’s Ephraim.’ He made his tone both raspy and self-deprecating. ‘I dropped my phone and it broke. Had to buy a new one. You can reach me at this number.’ He faked a cough and cleared his throat before reciting his new digits. ‘I’m in Sacramento now, by the way.’ Best to ’fess up, since Pastor knew he was there. ‘I . . . well, I met an old friend from my high school days when I was in San Francisco. An old girlfriend, actually. She’s a pediatrician now and said it looked like I might have strep throat. She invited me home and she has a kid. A daughter. I’m going to stay here for a few days and she’s getting me some antibiotics for the strep. No good bringing it back to the compound, right? Gotta go. Call if you need to.’
He hung up and rolled his eyes. He’d sounded like he was lying. Pastor would know it. But then, so would DJ, if Pastor mentioned it. Which Ephraim was pretty sure he would. DJ would know something was up, and maybe it would make him nervous.
Of course it might make DJ strike out and further defame him, but Ephraim was beyond caring. When he brought Mercy back to Eden, he’d make sure the whole compound knew that both Pastor and DJ had been lying to them.
The thought made him smile as he got comfortable, his gaze still fixed on the Sokolov house. He’d bought himself some time, at least.
Granite Bay, California
Sunday, 16 April, 7.30 P.M.
Mercy rubbed at her sore eyes. Her head hurt and the ibuprofen Irina had given her wasn’t working nearly fast enough. Her face felt like hamburger from crying so much, and Farrah didn’t look any better. They were surrounded by friends and family, of course. André was at Farrah’s side, Daisy at Gideon’s. Rafe was a solid presence next to her. Sasha sat with Karl at the head of the table, Karl looking . . . a little older than he had when she’d first arrived the day before. He still felt bad about how he’d told her about the damn article last night, but Mercy was completely past that. Now she grappled with what seemed to be the actual truth about the kid who’d posted the video evidence of another violation of her body, of her soul. Of whatever innocence she’d thought she’d had left at the time.
Tom Hunter was also at the table, having arrived a few minutes before. He’d come to ask her questions about Eden, but also to tell her about Jeff Bunker, the sixteen-year-old journalism student who’d dragged her past through the mud. He’d been surprised to learn that Bunker had already been there, to apologize and deliver a letter to Mercy. As far as Mercy knew, no one had told him the small detail about Rafe’s near-throttling of the idiotic boy. Hearing that part of the story from Rafe had made her a little happy, she had to admit.