by Rose, Karen
He hadn’t wanted to listen.
But now he knew the truth and he needed to get Abigail out. To safety. To freedom.
He wouldn’t fail her like he’d failed Mercy, Rhoda, and Gideon.
He picked up the hope chest and turned it over effortlessly, a lifetime of woodworking giving him more strength than most men. He began to carve his true signature into the base of the chest, no larger than a dime. A small olive tree with twelve branches. It was exacting, but, at the same time, something he could do with his eyes closed, he’d done it so many times.
‘Papa!’
Amos startled, the knife in his hand skipping over the wood, and pain ripped into his finger. ‘Ugh!’ he cried, unable to stifle the sound.
‘Papa?’ Abigail bounded into his workshop, with the same energy with which she tackled everything else in her life. ‘Tackled’ being the operative term. Abigail never walked when she could run, never sat when she could stand. Never whispered. Ever.
His lips curved up into a smile even as he grabbed a clean rag to press to his finger.
‘Abi-girl,’ he said with genuine warmth. Abigail was the only one who could summon anything close to happiness for him. She was the only thing that was real and had been for the past six months. Ever since Amos had witnessed Brother Ephraim calmly breaking the necks of Sister Dorcas, her husband, and their sixteen-year-old son, three of the dearest people in the world. Amos’s throat burned every time he remembered Brother Ephraim so carelessly tossing their bodies into an unmarked grave.
After which Ephraim had returned to tell the membership that Dorcas and her family had chosen to return to the world after the untimely death of their dear Miriam.
Miriam, who’d walked around with shadows in her eyes. Who, the last time Amos had seen her, had been bruised and bloody and begging to die.
Sister Dorcas had begged Amos for his help. Please help us get her out of here. Please.
Amos had done his best, or he’d thought so at the time, working through the night to fashion a hope chest similar to the one he was now building for Abigail. It wasn’t ornate and hadn’t had a false bottom, but it had been large enough that Miriam had been able to hide inside. Her father and brother had hoisted the hope chest into the bed of Brother DJ’s truck when no one was around to see their muscles strain under the added weight. Miriam was supposed to have climbed from the back of the truck and run for freedom the moment that Brother DJ had slowed enough to make it possible.
But it had all been for naught. Miriam must have been attacked by an animal because her body had been returned to them, too damaged to be identified. And, as punishment for their part in her escape, Sister Dorcas, Brother Stephen, and their son, Ezra, had been murdered in cold blood.
I failed them, too.
But he would not fail again. He would not fail his Abigail.
‘Are you all right, Papa?’ she asked, leaning in to peer at his bleeding finger.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he assured her. ‘What brings you skipping into my workshop, Abi-girl?’
She giggled. ‘Abigail, Papa. How many times must I tell you?’
It’s Mercy, Papa. Not Mercy-girl. How many times must I tell you?
He swallowed hard, shaking off the memory of his daughter, dead for thirteen years. He tapped the end of Abigail’s adorable nose, so like her mother’s. ‘Until I get it right, obviously.’
Abigail sighed dramatically, then stared again at his finger. ‘That’s bleeding a lot, Papa. You should go to the healer.’
He glanced at his finger, grimacing at the sight of the rag, already heavy with blood. ‘You’re right. Why don’t you go to Deborah’s house and play? Tell her mother that I’ll be by to get you as soon as I get my finger taken care of.’
He tossed a tarp over the almost-finished hope chest, hiding it from view. He didn’t want anyone to see it. He didn’t want anyone getting close enough to realize that its interior wasn’t nearly as deep as it should be. He didn’t want anyone spying the false bottom that hid a crawl space just large enough for a seven-year-old girl.
For Abigail.
The chest clearly hadn’t worked for Miriam. If it had, she’d be free instead of dead, so Amos was saving it as a last resort to get Abigail out. He first had to convince Pastor and Brother DJ to allow him to go into town when DJ took items to be traded, because there was no way Amos would leave his little girl hidden in the back of the man’s truck all alone. Move carefully. Take your time. He didn’t want Brother Ephraim to become suspicious of him or he might end up in an unmarked grave like Sister Dorcas and her family. And then who would take care of his Abigail?
Abigail grabbed his uninjured hand. ‘I came to tell you that I have supper.’
He looked down at her, unable and unwilling to hide his affection. ‘You do? Butter sandwiches again?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘No, Papa. It’s roast chicken with pumpkin. Deborah’s mother made extra by mistake. She said we should eat it or it would go bad.’ She cocked her head, her pigtails swaying to one side. ‘I think she makes extra by mistake on purpose.’
Amos smothered a chuckle. ‘You do?’
Of course Deborah’s mother did. She was a good woman who hated to think of anyone going hungry. Her husband was a good man, always available to help.
Amos would miss them when he and Abigail were gone from this place.
‘Yes,’ Abigail said with a sharp nod. ‘She does it all the time, Papa. If it was truly an accident, I think she should have learned better by now. I think she likes to feed us.’
This time his chuckle escaped. ‘Well, we shouldn’t let on that we know her secret. We will accept her delicious gift and be thankful, yes?’ He closed the door, not bothering to lock it.
The door had no lock. None of the homes in Eden did. Except the Founding Elders’ homes. And the clinic.
Which was where he needed to go. He bent over and kissed Abigail’s soft hair. ‘Go play. I’ll be by to pick you up very soon.’
He watched her bolt across the compound’s open courtyard, narrowly avoiding Sister Joan, who only chuckled and shook her head.
There were good people here.
And bad people.
Amos wondered which of the membership were evil like Brother Ephraim, hiding behind a nice smile and a friendly hello. He wondered which of the people he’d lived among for thirty years were aware that Brother Ephraim knew how to kill with his bare hands, or which, like himself, had simply been oblivious.
Amos had been so blind. So willingly blind, because there had been signs. Signs he’d been too happy to ignore.
No more.
Drawing a breath, he descended the steps into the clinic. It was housed in an earth home, partially underground, like all the dwellings in Eden. He glanced around, finding the room empty. He didn’t bother searching – there really wasn’t anywhere the healer could be hiding. The patient treatment area was one big room, with a curtain that could be pulled for patient privacy.
He avoided looking at the bed in the corner, pristinely made. That was where Abigail’s mother had died in childbirth. Afterward it had been especially hard to remember why he was here, living separate from the world. In a proper hospital, women didn’t usually die in childbirth.
Not like here, in Eden.
There was only one other place the healer could be. He approached the door to the healer’s office, where she kept supplies and medicines, intending to knock, but his fist froze midair. The door was slightly ajar, a faint whirring sound catching his ear. He frowned, having not heard anything like that before.
He approached carefully, afraid of what he’d see. The last time he’d investigated an odd noise, he’d witnessed Ephraim murdering three good people.
He stared, his mouth falling open. He could only see a portion of the healer’s desk, but what he did see jarred a distant memory.
A thirty-year-old memory. An upright box. A keyboard. A . . .
He wasn’t sure what the last thing was. A screen of some kind, but thinner than anything Amos knew existed. Sister Coleen, the healer, was staring at it.
It was a . . . Was that a computer? Here? In Eden? It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be. He’d used computers in high school, but the screens had been large and nearly square.
She leaned to one side, briefly disappearing from view. When she straightened, she held a sheaf of papers, which she paged through, then stood.
Oh no. Amos stepped back, nearly tripping over his own feet as he crossed the room to the door, where he stood, still holding the rag around his bleeding finger. Think fast. ‘Sister Coleen?’ he called.
She appeared at the door, looking slightly alarmed. ‘Brother Amos. When did you get here?’
‘Just now,’ he lied. He held up his finger. ‘Need some help with this.’
She pulled the door shut, locking it with a key she wore on a string around her neck along with her locket, the same style that every woman in Eden wore. Even the healer wasn’t exempt from the marriage laws, having been given to a new husband after her first husband died from old age.
Amos had thought her like every woman in Eden, but clearly she was not. She had a . . . computer. It was too hard to believe. Where was she even getting the power to run it?
The compound had a generator, but it was used for things like Amos’s power tools. Not for computers. He was stunned.
She no longer held the papers she’d been reading. She must have left them in the office, because now she met him at the door, ushering him to the table next to the bed where Abigail’s mother had died.
Amos’s mind was reeling. The healer had a computer.
How long had she had it? How had she hidden it? He’d been in that office. He’d built that desk.
His breath stuttered as he realized that he’d built it to very exacting specifications – including a small locked cabinet that would have been the perfect size for the tall . . .
He couldn’t even remember the word.
‘How much blood have you lost?’ Sister Coleen asked. ‘You’re so pale, you might be going into shock.’
No, he thought. I’m already in shock. I’ve been in shock since I saw Ephraim kill three of my best friends. ‘A lot,’ he said weakly. ‘I’m a little dizzy.’
Sister Coleen gently peeled the bloody rag away. ‘Oh my, this is a deep one. I keep telling you to wear gloves when you’re working with your knives.’
He nodded numbly. ‘I will.’
She tsked. ‘That’s what you always say, Brother Amos. If you slice your finger off, I can’t fix it. Then how will you take care of that pretty little girl of yours?’
He mumbled something in response that seemed to please her, but he couldn’t hear himself speak over the pounding in his head.
They had a computer. Here. In Eden.
They also had a killer here in Eden.
And Amos had no doubt that if anyone found out what he knew, he’d be killed, too. God, please help me get my baby girl out of this place before they do.
Sacramento, California
Saturday, 15 April, 5.10 P.M.
‘Mercy!’ Rafe Sokolov lifted his cane to strike the man a second time, but his legs were unsteady. The man toppled him to the floor with one hard sweep of his arm, glaring, his face one that Rafe knew all too well.
Ephraim Burton, the devil himself.
Rafe had seen the photo of Burton, found two months before in a locket – silver, engraved with two children kneeling under an olive tree, all under the spread wings of an angel with a flaming sword. The symbol of Eden. Of evil. He’d memorized every line of the man’s face, hating him with every fiber of his existence. This man had hurt Rafe’s best friend, Gideon. And even though she’d never said so, Rafe was certain that he’d also hurt Mercy.
That he was the man who had raped Mercy when she was only twelve years old.
‘Mercy!’ Rafe shouted again, but she didn’t turn around. Didn’t move.
Burton scrambled to his feet, kicking Rafe hard in the hip. ‘You’re insane. Stay away from me!’ he said and moved to grab Mercy again. ‘Come along, dear. You’re okay. Let’s just leave.’
‘No!’ Rafe thundered. Lurching forward, he hooked the curve of his cane around Burton’s leg and yanked with all his strength.
Burton stumbled and cursed, but Rafe was already on his knees, yelling at the top of his lungs as he pulled his gun from his holster. ‘Police! Stop or I’ll shoot.’
Burton spun around to look at him, dragging Mercy around with him.
Rafe sucked in a breath that burned. He’d dreamed about Mercy throughout the long weeks since she’d run from Sacramento. From me. And from her brother. But she hadn’t looked like this, so lost. Remote.
Rafe had seen her like this one other time – on the security video that had captured her abduction by a killer two months ago. She’d gone blank then, like a zombie. She looked like that now. Standing there, in the clutches of a man who aimed to hurt her. Again. She wasn’t fighting.
She wasn’t even . . . there. She’d checked out of her current reality. The realization made Rafe’s blood run cold.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Burton snarled, shattering Rafe’s panic. Restoring his focus.
‘The man who’s going to kill you if you don’t let her go right now,’ he snarled back, aiming his gun at Burton’s fucking head. Then, raising his voice again, Rafe shouted, ‘Someone call 911. I need police assistance!’
Burton looked at his gun, took a quick, frantic look at the crowd gathering around him, then pushed Mercy so that she fell into Rafe and took off, pulling people to block the path he’d taken. He was out the door before Rafe could catch his breath.
Shouts of ‘Gun, he has a gun!’ rang out, sending people screaming and falling to the floor, hands over their heads. Parents threw themselves on top of their children. It was chaos.
But Mercy didn’t move.
‘Mercy?’ Rafe moved her so that she sat beside him. She just . . . stared.
‘Put down the gun!’ a man ordered, running up to them, his own gun drawn. He was young, maybe twenty-five, and the gun in his hand trembled.
Rafe carefully laid his weapon on the floor, his hands in the air.
‘I’m an off-duty cop,’ he said. ‘ID’s in my inside pocket.’
Visibly shaken, the airport officer patted his pocket and pulled out the ID. ‘Detective Raphael Sokolov,’ he said, panting slightly. ‘What the hell is this about?’
‘That man.’ Rafe pointed at the door. ‘He left through there. He’s wanted by the FBI for bank robbery and murder. I need to get my phone, okay?’
The cop nodded warily. ‘Go ahead.’
Rafe held up his phone, then called 911 himself. While it rang, he tilted Mercy’s chin up as gently as he could. She was catatonic. Her gaze blank, she sat up on her own, but she was motionless. Like a robot whose battery had run down.
And . . . ‘Oh shit, she’s bleeding.’ Blood had seeped through her white blouse and was spreading from her side to her back.
‘This is the operator. What is your emergency?’
‘This is Detective Raphael Sokolov.’ He told the woman his badge number. ‘I need a BOLO for a fugitive escaping from the American terminal at the Sac airport. He assaulted a woman and ran when I tried to stop him. He’s about six one, two hundred fifty pounds, muscular, dark hair, black eyes. He was on foot, but he might have a vehicle. His name is Harry Franklin, but he goes by Ephraim Burton as well.’ Harry Franklin was Burton’s real name. The name on the FBI’s most wanted list. ‘I also need an ambulance. The victim is bleeding and unresponsive. Conscious, but not cognizant.’
The airport cop had flagged down two other officers, who were now exiting the airport, w
eapons drawn. Rafe didn’t have too much confidence that they’d catch him, but at least they were in pursuit.
‘Rafe? Rafe?’ Sasha pushed through the crowd that had once again begun to gather now that the airport police had arrived. She carried two small carriers, one in each hand, and was followed by a tall African American woman who looked terrified. She must have been the friend that Mercy had told Sasha she was bringing. The brief relief that her friend wasn’t male was quickly shoved aside as Sasha dropped to her knees, carefully setting the two carriers aside. ‘Oh my God, Rafe. Are you okay? What happened?’
In his ear, the operator was speaking. ‘Are you there, Detective?’
Rafe held his hand up to Sasha, silently asking for her patience. ‘I am.’
‘I have an ambulance en route and I’ve notified the airport security to send any medical personnel they have on duty. I’ve also put out a BOLO on Harry Franklin, aka Ephraim Burton. Is he armed?’
‘He must have been. His victim is bleeding from a wound in her side.’ He looked around and saw a blade on the floor, having skittered up against the wall when he’d taken Burton down. He pointed it out to the officer, who’d returned and was doing a good job with crowd control. ‘Make sure no one touches it. Please.’ To the operator he said, ‘He had a switchblade. He dropped it. It’s here and needs to be taken into evidence.’
‘I’ll inform the first responders. Can you stay on the line?’
Rafe had to focus, a difficult task with Mercy sitting beside him like a doll, staring at nothing. ‘I need to contact the FBI. They’ve been searching for him. But I can use my sister’s phone for that.’ He held out his hand and Sasha dropped her phone into his palm. He almost called Gideon but decided against it. Gideon would be too frantic to think clearly if Rafe blurted out that Mercy was here and had been hurt. Rafe had known that Mercy was coming because Sasha had told him, but they’d agreed not to tell Gideon, as Mercy had specifically asked that she be allowed to contact him herself when she arrived.
She hadn’t told Sasha anything about informing Rafe, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. All of his anxiety had been wrapped around seeing her again – would she be glad to see him or would his presence cause her to run back to New Orleans again?