by Karen Rose
“Call the police, Mommy. My teacher said so. I’ll call them. I know the number—911.”
“Smart kid,” Croft said, and Angelina glared at her.
“Go find Carmela, baby.”
A small foot stomped. “I am not a baby.”
“She’s got cookies,” Angelina said, ignoring the tiny tantrum. “Chocolate chip.”
“Okay!” The child ran, his footsteps growing softer as he raced toward cookie goodness.
Angelina turned back to face them, teeth bared. “Leave.”
Tom took a measured step back. “You should be protecting your son. With all due respect.”
“I am,” she snarled. “From the likes of you.”
“You know what your husband is,” Tom said softly. “You know the kind of enemies he makes. We’re trying to warn you about one of his enemies.” He didn’t know if that was true yet, but he had no doubt that DJ would turn on Kowalski’s family if he were cornered. “His name is DJ Belmont. You might know him as John Derby. He’s killed before and he’ll kill again. Don’t make the mistake of believing that he’d spare your child.”
The woman was breathing shallowly, her eyes flickering in fear for a moment before she shuttered her expression. “I’ve asked you nicely. Now I’m calling the police.”
Tom followed her quick glance skyward and noticed the security camera mounted above the door. She knows her husband is listening. “Well, if you think of anything or have any concern that this man will hurt you or your little boys, please call us.” He gave her his card and watched her rip it into pieces.
But she kept the pieces clenched in one closed fist. He hoped she would be able to reconstruct his number later. That would have to be enough for now.
“Thank you for your time,” he said. “We’re sorry to have troubled you, but this man is very dangerous.” He ventured another smile. “And your sons are very small.”
The door slammed and Croft shrugged. “Let’s go.” Back in the SUV, she belted up and turned to him. “Well?”
“She was being watched. There was a camera above her head.”
Croft nodded. “I caught that, too. Think she’s taping those pieces of your card together?”
“I hope so. Although she might be flushing them.” He checked his watch and made a decision. “Can we stop by the Sokolovs’ place on our way back?”
Croft started the engine. “Sure, but why?”
He sighed. “Liza has a lesson with Abigail today.”
“She’s still not answering your calls?”
I need more than that. He cleared his throat. “Something like that.”
The Sokolov house was unusually quiet. The only evidence of life was the security guard that Karl had hired to protect them when Mercy and her FBI protection detail were elsewhere.
Irina answered the door. “She’s not here. You can come in and check if you want.”
“No.” Tom sighed. “I believe you.”
Irina’s expression softened. “Good. You look tired, Tom. Come inside and have some tea.”
“I can’t now. Croft is waiting for me in the SUV. But thank you.”
“It is I who should be thanking you. Raphael told me that you are providing secure vehicles for Mercy’s birthday guests. We appreciate that, more than you know. Raphael is kicking himself for not thinking of it himself.”
Tom managed a smile. “He’s had a little bit on his mind.” He needed to try one more time. “Is Liza coming back today? Doesn’t she help with Abigail’s lessons?”
“Amos kept Abigail home today. Rafe told him to.”
Tom frowned. There was something Irina wasn’t telling him. “Where is Liza?” When she just shook her head, he glanced up, hearing a window open. Zoya looked down at him. “Care to share?” he called up.
“Nope,” she called back. “You’re walking the stalking line, Agent Hunter.”
Tom bit back a retort. Because the girl wasn’t wrong. “But she’s all right?” he asked Irina.
Irina’s smile was sad. “She’ll be fine, in time. But I do feel the need to ask why you keep bothering her. I haven’t known you long, but you don’t seem like the kind of man to push yourself on a woman who’s asked you to back off.”
Tom flinched. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, having no idea how to answer.
She patted his arm. “Think on that. Then we will talk further. Be safe.”
And then she shut the door in his face. Numbly, he walked back to the SUV, feeling Croft’s gaze with every step. He got in and closed the door.
“Don’t ask. Please,” he said, pulling his seat belt on. “Let’s go back to the office, okay? We can figure out our next steps on Kowalski.”
“Okey-dokey.” She had started to back out of the driveway when Tom’s work cell began to buzz. “You are the most popular partner I’ve ever had,” she drawled.
Tom frowned. “It’s Gideon.”
Croft stopped the SUV and put it into park. “Answer it. On speaker, please.”
Tom wasn’t sure if she thought he’d given Gideon more Eden information or not, but he didn’t argue. “I’m with Croft,” he said by way of greeting. “You’re on speaker.”
“Someone tried to lure Daisy out of the radio station,” Gideon said, a tremble in his voice.
Croft’s mouth tightened. “What happened, Gideon?”
“I drove her in to work this morning. All this DJ Belmont stuff has had me rattled. About an hour ago, a man called asking if Poppy was still in the station.”
“Poppy is Daisy’s radio name,” Tom explained to Croft.
Croft rolled her eyes. “I know. I’m a listener. Go on, Gideon.”
“I’d already told the receptionist to let me know if Daisy got any calls. Daisy shot Belmont a month ago. If he knows that, he’ll be gunning for her, too.”
“Or he might use her to get to you,” Croft murmured. “And to Mercy through you.”
“Yeah,” Gideon bit out. “I figured that out myself. Another reason why I’m Daisy’s Velcro for the foreseeable future. The guy didn’t get anywhere with the receptionist, who taped the call. I checked it out and it came from a burner. An hour later, a bouquet of flowers arrived. The card said they were from one of the charities that she featured on the show last week.”
“But they weren’t?” Tom asked.
“No. I called, because my gut was in knots, and the flowers seemed too timely. The charity said that while they did appreciate Daisy’s shout-out, the flowers were not from them.”
“And then?” Tom didn’t think he was going to like the answer.
“And then I got mad. I took the flowers out to the dumpster and chucked them in.”
Croft winced. “And then?”
Gideon’s laugh was bitter. “And then the bastard shot me from a goddamn Lexus.”
Tom shared a tense glance with Croft. “Belmont? Did he hit you?” he asked, because Gideon was still talking. Therefore he hadn’t been hurt that badly, if at all.
“Vest.”
Croft’s cheeks flushed in anger. “Motherfucker. He shot you in the chest?”
“Yep. It’ll bruise, but I’ll live. I pulled my gun, but he drove away and there was too much foot traffic to risk shooting back. I called it in, but the license plates were another fake. Marin County issued the original plates to a Lexus in the same color six months ago.”
“He has access to private citizen information, then,” Croft said. “Not a surprise.”
“No, but also, he’s changed his appearance. It all happened so fast that I didn’t realize it until I watched the station’s security tapes. He’s dyed his hair dark. Has a goatee, too. His left arm was in a sling, so he’s still injured. Molina said she was updating the BOLO to reflect.”
“We need to roll, Gideon,” Croft said. “Do you need a ride
out of there?”
“No. We’re sitting tight here for a while. Molina arranged for a Bureau transport van to pick us up. It’ll be disguised as a delivery van and will back up to the door so that we can crawl in and hide. I fucking hate this guy,” he finished.
“You’re not the only one.” Croft ended the call. “Let’s head back. We’ve got work to do.”
NINETEEN
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, MAY 26, 12:15 P.M.
DJ exited the interstate and wound his way toward the zoo. He could lose himself in traffic there. Once he felt sure that no one was following him, he pulled into an alley, released his iron grip on the steering wheel, and sagged against the seat.
Oh my God, how could I have been so stupid? He wanted to scream. But he didn’t, drawing deep, even breaths instead, trying to calm himself.
He’d been frustrated when he’d noted that Daisy’s orange Beetle wasn’t in the parking lot, but she’d been live on the air, so he knew she was inside. He’d been annoyed when she hadn’t emerged from the building, but he’d still been okay. He’d been logical. Thought driven. His emotions had been in check.
When the damn receptionist had told him to leave a message for “Poppy,” and that she’d call him back at her earliest convenience, he’d only been mildly irritated.
He’d still been clearheaded when he’d come up with the idea to send her flowers, hoping she’d come to the door to receive them, but another woman did. Probably the bitch receptionist who’d told him to leave a message.
Still, the flowers would have been useful. He could have spotted her leaving the station from across the street. Also, the flower arrangement was so large that her vision would be impaired. She wouldn’t see him when he shot her.
What he hadn’t expected was to see Gideon Reynolds carrying the flowers from the station, as cocky and arrogant as he’d always been, even when he was a kid. And then Gideon Reynolds had thrown the flowers into the dumpster, vase and all.
He hadn’t expected his mind to flash back to the image of thirteen-year-old Gideon, covered in blood after shoving Edward McPhearson so hard that his head hit his own anvil. So hard that McPhearson had died.
And he hadn’t expected that image of Gideon’s face to morph into Waylon’s at the moment that DJ had smothered him to death with a pillow.
He definitely hadn’t expected the swell of rage that exploded inside him or the suppressed pop of the gunshot that followed. It was as if he’d been taken over, his actions not his own.
Gideon had staggered back against the dumpster, clutching at his chest, and DJ had felt that rage become a visceral jubilation.
He’d done it. He’d killed Gideon Reynolds. The fucker had finally paid.
But then the man had stood, chest heaving. Because he was still breathing.
Breathing. Gideon didn’t deserve to breathe. He needed to die. He’d needed to die seventeen years ago when he’d killed Edward McPhearson.
Just like DJ’s father had died for helping Gideon escape.
DJ remembered the look in Waylon’s eyes as he’d breathed his last.
The fear.
The guilt.
The acceptance.
Because Waylon had known that he deserved to die.
A sound cut through the storm in his mind, a wail, an animal howl. For a moment DJ wondered what it was that could make that sound. Until he realized.
It’s me. Shocked, DJ covered his mouth, his whole body shaking. His face was wet.
Shit. He was crying. Sobbing.
He hadn’t cried since the day he’d turned thirteen years old. Not since Edward McPhearson had welcomed him into the smithy as his newest apprentice. He’d been so proud of himself. Until Edward had . . .
DJ closed his eyes, hand still pressed tight to his mouth, muffling the cries that continued to spill from his throat.
It had hurt. God, how it had hurt.
And when he’d told Pastor, the bastard had smiled.
He’d smiled. And told DJ that he’d been honored by the love of a Founding Elder.
Love. There was no such thing as love.
DJ knew this, because he’d gone to his father, still bleeding. Still in shock, but believing that his father could fix this. That he’d help. That he’d make this right.
Waylon’s fists had clenched as DJ had haltingly told his father what Edward had done, every one of his father’s considerable muscles hardening as his body seemed prepared to rip someone up. But then Waylon had exhaled.
And told DJ that it was something to be accepted. That there wasn’t anything he could do. That Edward would tire of him and there would soon be another.
DJ had left his father’s house that night, never to return until four years later when he’d killed him. He’d gone back to Pastor’s house, because he’d had no other place to go.
And the next day he’d gone back to Edward. To work. Because he was Edward’s apprentice, and that was what apprentices did. They worked.
But work wasn’t all they did.
Waylon had been wrong. Edward hadn’t tired of him. Not until Gideon had turned thirteen, four long years later.
It was finally going to be over. There would be a new apprentice. DJ would be a blacksmith.
Edward would take Gideon to his bed. He’d said so. He’d said DJ was now “too old.” He’d even said that DJ could participate, if he wished.
DJ hadn’t wished that. But he had been happy that someone else was going to have to take it from Edward.
But that didn’t happen. Gideon had happened. Gideon hadn’t been raped, because he’d fought back.
Gideon had killed Edward. And he’d gotten away with it.
Because of DJ’s own piece-of-trash father. The howl clawing from his throat had subsided, leaving whimpers in its place.
He hadn’t understood when he’d witnessed Waylon in the bed of his truck, a steel claw gripped in his fist, hastily ripping at the face of a dark-haired kid. Only slivers of tattooed skin on his chest remained, tendons and bone mostly visible. The kid’s eyes were gone.
Now, seventeen years later, DJ understood why his father had been doing that—because Gideon’s were green and Waylon hadn’t found a boy with eyes to match. Now, seventeen years later, DJ realized that his father must have tattooed the nameless boy’s chest to make it look like Gideon. His father had been the first tattoo artist in Eden. He’d done DJ’s tattoo, after all.
Now, seventeen years later, he knew it had all been a farce, because Gideon was not dead. He’d escaped.
But then, DJ had been so shocked that all reason had fled from his mind. It had been the first time he’d seen the claw, which he’d later learned was responsible for all the mutilations of Edenites who’d been “devoured by wolves” because they’d “strayed too far from the compound.” In reality they’d questioned, dissented, or tried to escape.
He’d been out searching for Gideon, who’d gone missing after running from his punishment for murdering Edward McPhearson. Everyone had been searching—everyone except his father, who’d disappeared some time during the night with his truck. Pastor had told them that Waylon was searching the forest road.
DJ had believed him—until he’d come upon his father’s truck in the forest near the river. Gideon’s mother had been curled up in a corner of the truck’s bed, sobbing. His father had looked up, wild-eyed and equally shocked to see DJ as DJ had been to see him.
And in that moment of unguarded shock, guilt had flashed across Waylon’s face, crystal clear in the dim glow of dawn.
What are you doing? Where have you been?
Driving around the forest. Go home, DJ. Go back to Pastor.
But DJ had been suspicious, so he’d checked the odometer. Waylon had gone more than two hundred miles since his last trip from Eden. DJ knew because he’d been tasked wi
th keeping Waylon’s truck running. He knew every nut and bolt of the old vehicle.
No way you drove two hundred miles around the forest. You went into the city. Why?
Waylon had swallowed then, a grotesque sight all covered in blood and gore. Go home.
No. Tell me. And then a terrible thought had occurred to him. You were helping him?
His father’s guilty expression was the only answer DJ had needed. Why? he’d demanded. Why did you help him?
Waylon had stared at him miserably. Because I couldn’t help you, he’d said.
With McPhearson. DJ had known exactly why Gideon had been fighting the blacksmith.
Why wouldn’t you help me? It had been an agonized cry. Much like he was doing right now.
They know things. I’ve done things. Waylon had been babbling. All but confessing.
And then it had all clicked. His big, bad enforcer father had been afraid of what Edward McPhearson would say about him. He was afraid of what the bastard would reveal. Waylon’s fear of Edward had been stronger than any love he’d ever felt for his son.
You gave me to him, DJ remembered saying the words, dry-eyed and steel-spined.
I had no choice.
You had a fucking choice. You always had a choice. You just didn’t choose me.
Listen to me. I wanted to help you, but I couldn’t.
So you helped him? DJ had spat the words, pointing to the body that he now knew had not been Gideon’s after all. Why did you take him to the city?
Waylon’s gaze had flicked to the body. He died by the time we got there. They beat him bad.
Like that made the betrayal better, somehow. Easier to accept.
DJ had stepped forward, fists clenched. And if he hadn’t died? What would you have done?
His father’s silence was his answer, once again.
You would have let him go. You would have set him free.
That had been the brutal truth. His father had risked Pastor’s wrath for Gideon Reynolds. Because of some misplaced sense of guilt, of responsibility that he hadn’t felt for his own flesh and blood.
“But not for me,” DJ whispered into the quiet of the car. Waylon hadn’t acknowledged his accusation. He’d merely jumped from the truck bed, leaving the body destroyed and unrecognizable to wade into the river and wash away the blood and gore.