Fucking hell. Now he remembered where he’d seen the guy – in a photograph on the old lady’s coffee table. He was Farrah’s fiancé. Quickly he opened Farrah Romero’s Facebook page on his phone and scrolled through her photos. He never got used to seeing how very free people were with their information online. After living off the grid for thirty years, the thought of anyone having information on Ephraim made his skin itch.
There he is. It was a photo of Farrah and her fiancé. André Holmes, NOPD.
Fucking hell. Another damn cop?
But his focus on the now-identified newcomer fractured, his breath catching in his throat when Gideon Reynolds emerged from the gray Suburban. A petite blonde at his side rushed around the SUV to wrap her arm around Gideon’s waist. Daisy Dawson, he remembered. She hugged Farrah and the New Orleans cop, then Gideon hugged Farrah and shook hands with André Holmes.
Mercy and Sokolov emerged from the backseat of the Suburban, but the asshole detective ushered her into the garage before Ephraim could get a good look at her. His attention returned to Gideon, who was helping Daisy back into his SUV, and Ephraim realized he’d shoved his hand in his pocket and was gripping Regina’s golden gun.
Not here. Not now. There were too many people – too many damn cops – and Ephraim wasn’t sure he’d get cleanly away. When Reynolds and Dawson drove away, Ephraim had to force himself not to follow. Yes, he wanted Gideon, but he needed Mercy. Either dead or alive.
Yes, Waylon had lied about killing Gideon, but Waylon was dead. His influence on the community and his claim to the millions under Pastor’s control were no more. DJ was still alive and the biggest threat. And DJ had lied about Mercy’s death.
Mercy is key, he told himself. Once he got her, he could come back for Gideon.
And revenge would be so damn sweet. Gideon would be sorry that he hadn’t died that night all those years ago. Ephraim would hear the bastard scream as he carved out his eyes. The first eye would be payment for Ephraim’s own eye. The second would be the down payment for killing Edward. Then he’d take his time carving up the rest of him, making him look like the raw meat that Waylon had brought back to Eden, claiming it was Gideon’s body.
Ephraim laughed bitterly. Waylon had fooled them all. Except for Rhoda, of course. Gideon’s mother had to have known that the remains Waylon had returned hadn’t been her son, even though she’d positively identified his body.
She should have been mine to kill, he thought, fists clenched. DJ would pay for that too, the prick.
The garage door came down, cutting off Ephraim’s view. For the moment, no one was outside. The blue Range Rover and the hot pink Mini Cooper were unattended.
He ran a hand over his face and patted his head, making sure his beard and wig were in place. It wasn’t going to fool them if he got up in their faces, but from a distance, in the dark? It would do.
Grabbing two of the GPS trackers, he drove slowly next to the empty vehicles, opening his door just enough to squeeze his hand through. He glanced up at the house. Lights were going on in the upstairs apartments, but no one was looking out the windows.
Slowing to a crawl, he paused long enough to slip the first tracker into the Range Rover’s left rear hubcap. He did the same to the Mini Cooper, then pulled his door closed and kept going until he reached the end of the block, where he pulled over.
He opened the tracking app on his smartphone and grunted in satisfaction. There they were, two blinking dots right next to each other.
He’d be able to follow those cars at least. Unfortunately, they didn’t belong to Rafe Sokolov or Mercy. He rounded the block, stopping on the street behind Sokolov’s.
He couldn’t see into the house, but he could see headlights if anyone left. That would have to be good enough for now. Plus, no one could leave except for the pink Mini Cooper, not with the Range Rover parked across the driveway. Rhee would need to move her vehicle first, which would send an alarm to his phone.
Ephraim settled down into his seat, watching as windows in the Victorian began to go dark. They were settling in for the night. He could close his eyes for a little while.
Just a little while.
Sixteen
Sacramento, California
Sunday, 16 April, 9.45 P.M.
Rafe didn’t think he’d ever been so drained. The single step from his garage into the foyer might as well have been a steep mountain climb.
‘Need a hand?’
He turned to see André giving him a sympathetic grimace. ‘I broke my leg a few years back. Took me months to get back to normal.’
The women had already gone into the house, Erin at the forefront, clearing every room before declaring his house safe. His partner had made herself their personal bodyguard and Rafe was grateful. He certainly wasn’t up to the task at the moment.
‘But you obviously recovered,’ Rafe said, André’s words giving him hope.
‘Eh.’ André waggled his hand back and forth. ‘Mostly. I’m not as fast as I used to be, and a lot of days start and end in the whirlpool. You got a good PT?’
‘The best. My brother Cash.’ Who’d gone the extra mile, concerned for his mental health in addition to the rehabilitation of his leg.
‘Good. Plan on using him for a long, long time. It’s been eight years, and I still have to go in for tune-ups occasionally. Not just my leg, y’understand. Now it’s my knees and hips, too. Turns out you distribute your weight differently. Have to compensate. So, not to be all doom and gloom, but you’re in this for the long haul.’
‘But you came back to the job.’ It was a glimmer of hope and he held on to it.
‘Yep. You okay if I help you up the stairs?’
Rafe nodded, stifling the embarrassment and irritation at having to accept it. André put his arm around his shoulders, practically hefting Rafe up the single step.
Ouch. Now his shoulders hurt too, but he nodded, thankful. He pressed a set of keys into André’s hand. ‘I think Sasha’s already let Farrah in, but here’s a key to the third-floor apartment in case you need to come and go. Feel free to drive the Tahoe if you don’t want to keep paying for the rental.’
‘What about you? Don’t you need it?’
Rafe pointed to his Subaru, on the other side of the garage. ‘That’s mine. The bullet hit my left leg, so I can drive myself.’ And he was grateful for that stroke of luck. ‘The Tahoe is my dad’s, but he got a midlife-crisis Tesla, so the Tahoe sits in his garage. We borrowed it for Mercy, but I don’t think she’ll be driving anywhere alone until we get Burton, so you might as well use it. Sasha’s the hot pink Mini outside, so she’s good, too.’