by Karen Rose
“I’ll try,” he said.
Pastor’s lips pursed, a sign of his displeasure. “She’ll tell someone about us. Luckily she’s so young that no one will believe her, and luckily she’s the only one to have gotten away.”
For a career criminal, Pastor was damn gullible. He actually believed that all the escapees had been rounded up over the past few years. To be fair, DJ had used surrogate bodies, like his father had before him. When the escapee couldn’t be found, he found a random person—usually homeless or a runaway—about the same size and coloring, then killed them, mutilating the body so that it couldn’t be identified.
Pastor believed that no one had ever escaped Eden.
Pastor was an idiot.
“Luckily,” DJ agreed. “I’ll get the supplies, scout out a new location, and search for Abigail Terrill. Is there anything you’d like to add?”
Pastor shook his head. “No, but I would like you to fix the satellite dish before you go. I haven’t been able to get online since we moved here to the caves.”
A move that had been necessary because Amos Terrill had been thick as thieves with the FBI. If Ephraim hadn’t spilled his guts, it was almost certain that Amos had. So they’d moved the community to their ultimate safe space, a series of caves just outside the border of the Lassen National Forest.
It had been DJ’s storage spot for their drug harvest for years and his father’s before that, the rock shielding their stash from government eyes in the sky. Neither conventional satellite imagery nor infrared cameras could find them here.
“I’ll try,” DJ promised, but he was lying through his teeth. There was no way he was fixing the Internet. He hadn’t allowed Pastor online while his wounds were healing, claiming he was too weak to manage it. But the truth was that Pastor could not know that Mercy and Gideon were alive, and, given the shoot-out the month before, they could still be in the news. “But the dish was damaged in the last move.” DJ threw an accusatory glance at Coleen. “She didn’t pack it correctly.”
Coleen looked down, her jaw clenched. “I did my best, considering how heavy it was, and that I had to move it into the truck by myself. I couldn’t ask for help, because you were hurt and Ephraim was dead and nobody else is supposed to know we have a satellite dish.”
She actually had done well. There was nothing wrong with their dish, but he couldn’t let them know it.
“We need to bring in another elder,” Pastor said thoughtfully. “One young and strong enough to help with things like that, but old enough to bring some wisdom.”
“Also one who won’t go crazy with rage, knowing we lied to them all these years,” Coleen added carefully.
Pastor chuckled, because Coleen was the only person allowed to be candid with him. She’d earned the right through thirty years of being Pastor’s lapdog, but even she tiptoed around the man. One never knew what mood he’d be in at any given time, on any given day.
“True.” Pastor studied his manicured nails, a sure sign that whatever he was about to say would not be what DJ wanted to hear. “I’m considering Brother Joshua. He was extremely helpful in coordinating our move, and considering we only had the one truck you brought back, DJ, this move was one of our most stressful. We packed the congregation into the truck like cattle, but with over a hundred people, plus the heavy equipment, he made at least ten trips.”
“And I had to keep everyone calm, because no one wanted to live in these caves,” Coleen added. “There was an unusual amount of unrest. It took us four days to get everyone settled. You don’t recall because you were unconscious.”
“Brother Joshua behaved admirably under pressure,” Pastor finished. “He would make an excellent elder.”
To an untrained observer, it might have seemed that Pastor was asking for input. DJ knew better. He exchanged a glance with Coleen, long enough to see her slight grimace, because she didn’t like Joshua. Well, mostly she didn’t like Joshua’s first wife, and if he was chosen as an elder, his first wife would be elevated in status as well. But Coleen’s expression was wiped clean by the time Pastor lifted his gaze from his hands. That was the purpose of him looking at his hands—to give the receiver of orders time to appear okay with his edicts.
“I’ll be ready to brief him when I return,” DJ promised. Like that was ever going to happen. Once he had control of Eden’s money, he’d leave Joshua and Coleen and all the other Edenites to do whatever the fuck they wanted.
Pastor stared at him through narrowed eyes. “Find Amos’s child. Bring her to me. I will not allow her to become a symbol of concern or discontent in my flock. Make it your priority.”
DJ gritted his teeth. The “or else” was always left unsaid. “Yes, sir. If she’s in foster care, it might take a while to find her and, once I do, extracting her will be a delicate operation.”
But DJ knew that the child wasn’t in foster care. Her father, Amos, had reconnected with Mercy and Gideon, and there was no way those two would allow Abigail to go into the system. Once he found Mercy, Abigail wouldn’t be far. It would, however, buy him more time to snip off all of his loose ends.
Pastor sighed, visibly irritated. “I suppose that’s true. How much time will you need?”
DJ pretended to ponder. “A week? Maybe more.”
Pastor looked to Coleen with a frown. “Do we have enough supplies to last us a week?”
Coleen shifted uncomfortably. “It’s going to be tight. We have the chickens that we’ve been using for eggs. We can slaughter them if we must. We’re running out of feed, so they’d starve soon, anyway. But we need fresh vegetables and milk. The children haven’t had milk in weeks.”
Pastor nodded grimly. “One week, DJ. And then you’ll return with supplies and news of Abigail. At least whether she’s alive or dead.”
“And a new location,” Coleen added meekly.
Pastor nodded again. “That, as well. Goodbye, Brother DJ. May God be with you.”
DJ managed not to roll his eyes. Pastor didn’t believe in God. He only believed in himself. The blessing was Pastor’s way of donning his pastoral persona, his signal that their business was completed.
DJ inclined his head wordlessly. Waiting until he was back in his quarters, he whispered, “Goodbye, Pastor.” Because this was the beginning of the old man’s end. Once Mercy and Gideon were no more, DJ would return to claim leadership of Eden.
He only wanted the money. The others could have the rest.
It would be the first time in a month that he’d left the compound. With any luck, Mercy Callahan would have let her guard down.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 8:45 A.M.
“Well?”
Special Agent Tom Hunter looked over his shoulder, unsurprised to see Special Agent in Charge Molina standing in the doorway of his office. He’d expected the visit from the SAC of the FBI’s Sacramento field office. Today was her first day back after the attack that had left her injured and several other agents dead. She looked paler than normal and tired. But determined.
He automatically rose, because his mother had raised him right. This put him more than a foot taller than his boss, which made her look up with an irritated glare. At six-six, he towered over almost everyone in the Bureau, which was a new experience. He’d been average height during his three years with the NBA. Shorter, in fact, than many of the men he’d met on the court. He hunched his shoulders a bit to offset the difference, but Molina’s glare did not soften.
As her chin lifted, her dark eyes bored into him. “What do you know?” she demanded.
Tom gave her a warm smile. “Good morning.” The woman wasn’t the coldhearted beast she wanted everyone to think she was. He’d watched her manage two crises in the past few months, and while she was quick-witted, with razor-sharp focus and an even sharper tongue, she did care. He suspected she might care too much and fought not to let it
show.
He knew the type. He’d been raised by a wickedly smart group of women. His mother’s friends were cops, social workers, and attorneys. When pressure was high and risk to humans they cared for even higher, they’d pasted on the same face Molina wore right now.
He held out the chair next to his desk, motioning her to sit.
She shot him a dark scowl but took the seat, tugging at the jacket of her suit unnecessarily. No fabric worn by Tara Molina would have the nerve to wrinkle.
“I know a lot of things about a lot of things,” he said, retaking his seat as he answered her question. “But I’m assuming you’re specifically referring to Eden.”
The cult he’d been actively seeking since mid-April. The cult that’d provided a hiding place for vicious killers for the past thirty years. Vicious killers who had abused two of the people who, in a short period of time, had become Tom’s friends. Both Gideon Reynolds and his sister Mercy Callahan had been children when they’d escaped Eden, but both were scarred for life, physically and emotionally.
Because the killers hadn’t simply hidden in Eden. They’d thrived there, starting a cult that condoned—no, encouraged—the rape of twelve-year-old girls by middle-aged men, calling it “marriage.” They condoned the rape of thirteen-year-old boys, calling it an “apprenticeship.”
Gideon and Mercy had been only two of their victims.
“Yes. I’m talking about Eden.” Molina rolled her eyes. “And here everyone said you were some wunderkind,” she drawled, but her tone was light. Almost teasing.
“I don’t know about that,” Tom muttered, his cheeks heating. He was good at what he did—specifically hacking. He was very good at what he did, in fact.
The fact that he still hadn’t found the cult’s compound after months of searching left him thoroughly irked. But they had made progress.
“I got into their offshore bank account,” Tom stated. Which, under most circumstances, would have been cause for congratulations and maybe even a promotion. Or a prison sentence, if he hadn’t been working for the good guys. Either way, it had been damn difficult to do.
“You did that three weeks ago,” Molina stated flatly, popping any hope he might have had for an attaboy. “My temporary replacement briefed me weekly. What have you learned about Eden recently?”
Tom could only imagine what Molina’s temporary replacement had told her. He and Agent Raeburn had not gotten along well at all. “From their bank account, not much,” he admitted. “No money’s been moved either in or out, not since they pulled all of Ephraim’s money out of his personal account and back into the main Eden coffers, three days before he was killed.”
It was Molina’s turn to grimace. “I must say that I hate the sound of that man’s name. All of his names,” she added bitterly.
Ephraim Burton, a Founding Elder of the Eden cult, had been born Harry Franklin, under which name he’d earned a record as a bank robber and murderer, before going into hiding thirty years ago. Burton had other aliases that had allowed him to mingle in the real world during the times he left Eden.
Which wouldn’t be happening ever again, because Burton was dead. Tom wished that he’d been the one to do the honors, but one of the other cult elders had killed Ephraim Burton, possibly to keep him from telling the FBI of Eden’s whereabouts. A lot of people had died in connection to Eden. The stakes were high. Its bank accounts held in excess of fifty million dollars.
It was more likely, though, that the other elder had killed Ephraim to keep him from spilling the biggest secret—that two of the cult’s runaways hadn’t died trying to escape but had been living free for more than ten years.
Gideon and his sister, Mercy, had been abused by Eden in their youth but were fighting back now, helping the FBI track down Eden and end it, once and for all. Tom respected the siblings more than he could say.
“I put an alert on the offshore accounts,” Tom said. “If they move any money, we’ll know.”
“But they haven’t yet.”
“Not yet. However, someone resembling DJ Belmont did withdraw some cash from a different bank account outside Mt. Shasta an hour after Ephraim Burton was shot.”
“Belmont?” Molina hissed, anger flashing in her eyes.
Belmont was second-in-command to Eden’s leader, a charismatic man known only as “Pastor” to his followers. Luckily the FBI had learned a bit more than that. Pastor’s name prior to his starting the Eden cult had been Herbert Hampton. Prior to that he’d been Benton Travis, serving a sentence in a federal penitentiary for forgery and bank fraud.
They knew the identities of the cult leaders. They just didn’t know where the cult was. It was a small community that moved around remote sections of Northern California, and they were clever at evading detection.
Belmont was more than Pastor’s second-in-command, though—assuming he was still alive. He was a dangerous, ruthless, alarmingly competent killer who’d taken out five federal agents, most of them SWAT. He’d also fired the bullet that had taken Molina out of commission for the past month, so her reaction to his name was understandable.
Tom pulled up a file on his computer, then turned the screen to show her the photos taken from surveillance cameras. “The resolution of the bank’s drive-through camera is good, but he was wearing a bandana over his face, sunglasses, and a cap with a wide brim. Facial recognition couldn’t pick up anything useful. The body type and size fit Belmont’s description, though.”
“If he didn’t withdraw cash from Eden’s offshore account, which account was it?”
Tom gave her a sideways glance. “I thought you got weekly briefings from Agent Raeburn.”
Molina’s eyes narrowed. “I did. I want to hear your version.”
Tom managed to hide his wince. “My version?”
“Yes,” Molina said coolly. “Agent Raeburn’s version was less than satisfactory.”
Well, damn. “I figured as much,” Tom muttered. “He’s . . . well, he’s not very flexible.”
Her brows lifted. “He is a damn good agent.”
Careful, careful. “Never said he wasn’t.”
“You thought it.”
Tom pursed his lips, unsure if Molina was amused or upset. It was often hard to tell. But of course he’d thought it. Raeburn was by-the-book to a fault and left no wiggle room for the humanity of any situation. He wasn’t going to say that out loud, though. He was aware that Molina knew he bent the rules every now and then.
He had, in fact, bent the rules often since his first day on the job. Which seemed like it had been a year ago, even though it had only been five months. There was something about Gideon Reynolds and Mercy Callahan that made him want to help them, to ease their fears—even when he technically wasn’t supposed to. But the brother and sister had been through too much abuse.
Tom knew abuse. He still bore the scars from his own biological father’s cruelty. He knew heartache, far more recently. He knew that sometimes rules needed to be bent or even broken in order to do the right thing.
But he also knew that if he wanted to continue helping Gideon and Mercy, he’d need to toe Molina’s line. Or appear to, at least. Which meant not badmouthing her temporary replacement, who was still technically his direct supervisor.
He bent his mouth into a smile that was convincing because he’d practiced making it so—a side benefit of heartache. People didn’t ask you questions if you smiled and looked happy.
“The account Belmont withdrew money from at the ATM was an individual checking account in the name of John Smith,” he said, shifting them back on topic. “Assuming this is him in the photo, he withdrew the cash about ninety minutes after he fled the scene at Dunsmuir.”
DJ Belmont’s shooting spree in the forest two hundred miles to the north had left five bodies on the ground that day—the FBI SWAT members and a special agent named Schumacher. Molina had been lu
cky. Her injuries at Belmont’s hand had “only” hospitalized her for a week and required physical therapy for three more.
Unfortunately, Belmont had also taken out Ephraim Burton that day. They’d hoped that Burton might have led them to Eden, to the people who lived under Pastor’s authoritarian rule.
The adults who’d followed Pastor had perhaps been misled, but they’d made their choice. The children of Eden, however, had not chosen and many were being abused every single day.
But federal agents hadn’t been Belmont’s only victims that day. Tom pointed at the ATM photo. “Belmont was driving an old box truck that was later reported stolen by the surviving family of an itinerant farm picker. He was shot in the head twice with Agent Schumacher’s service weapon.”
“So he didn’t shoot Schumacher from afar, like he did us.” From a tree, far enough away that the SWAT team hadn’t been able to locate him before he’d shot them all. Far enough away to reveal Belmont’s impressive, albeit terrifying, sniper skills. “He took her weapon after he killed her.” Molina swallowed hard. “She was a good agent. A good person.”
“I know. He killed the picker, stole his truck, and hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”
“Maybe Belmont’s dead,” Molina said hopefully.
“Maybe.”
She studied him. “You don’t think so, though.”
“I don’t know,” Tom said truthfully. “We can’t assume it, though. He wanted to kill Mercy and Gideon that day. If he is alive, he has too much at stake not to try again.”
“You’re right that we can’t assume. Did the picker’s truck have GPS?”
“It didn’t. It was twenty-five years old.” Tom had to draw a breath, the memory of the man’s grieving family still clear enough to make his chest ache. He’d accompanied Agent Raeburn to inform the victim’s wife and five kids. It had been his first time delivering such news, and Raeburn hadn’t been overly sympathetic. Tom figured that was how the man coped, which might be better than the nightmares that still plagued his own sleep. “The family was poor. The truck was all they owned.”