Say Goodbye Read online

  Kowalski hummed, amused. “Jason Burkett?”

  DJ’s internal alarms began to scream. “Yes. Why?”

  “Nothing. Just good luck with getting in touch with him. Not so sure that he’s getting good cell reception where he’s at right now.”

  DJ blinked. “You know Burkett?”

  “Not personally. He was all over the news a month ago. He was murdered in his home. Neck snapped like a twig. What’s really interesting, though, is that would have been less than twenty-four hours before you were shot.”

  “Do they know who killed him?” DJ asked tightly, because he was pretty sure he knew.

  “Some guy named Harry Franklin, who also went by Ephraim Burton.”

  Fucking hell. DJ hadn’t realized that Ephraim had killed the man. Fucking Ephraim.

  “Okay, then. I’m going to need to find another doctor.”

  “There’s the Yellow Pages,” Kowalski offered with faux helpfulness.

  “You know that’s not an option,” DJ growled. “We live off the grid for a reason.”

  “Which I’d love to hear more about,” Kowalski practically purred.

  “It’s . . . it’s not my story to tell.”

  “Bullshit,” the man murmured. “Bull. Shit. But your story can wait. I’m willing to help you with another doctor.”

  DJ bit his tongue, because he wanted to tell Kowalski to go to hell. “I think we’ll be okay.”

  Because he didn’t actually need to take Pastor to a doctor. He just needed Eden to think that he was. Pastor needed to stay alive long enough to give him the account information. Once he got the passwords, he’d take Pastor’s body back to Eden, lamenting that he hadn’t made it.

  “Fine,” Kowalski agreed affably. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  I won’t. “Of course,” he lied.

  “Uh, before you hang up, did you take care of that small matter we discussed?”

  Mrs. Ellis. “Yes.”

  “Then I guess I’ll see you after you’ve gotten your father to a hospital.”

  The call ended abruptly and DJ let his head fall forward, suddenly weary. But he didn’t have time to be weary. He had things to do before leaving for Eden.

  ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 8:15 P.M.

  Rafe tapped his notepad with a pen. “I’m sure you know everything I’m about to tell you.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. What do you know?” Tom couldn’t feed Rafe information, but he could confirm what the man had discovered.

  “I started with Terminal Island, where Pastor and Waylon met and where Edward McPhearson came after he was arrested for his first bank heist. It was after the second bank robbery that he hid in Eden. When they met in prison, McPhearson was Aubrey Franklin and Pastor was Benton Travis.”

  “Right.” Tom hoped Rafe’s review would at least trigger a new approach. “Keep going.”

  “Waylon was Pastor’s protector in prison, but McPhearson also saved Pastor’s life once and this seems to have cemented their friendship. Marcia came along later. She was part of a prison reform movement and connected with Waylon there. The visitation records show that Marcia visited Waylon every two weeks without fail.”

  “She was a devoted girlfriend,” Tom noted.

  “Who became a devoted wife. They got married as soon as Waylon was released.”

  Tom had also found the marriage license—and the divorce decree. “And divorced him shortly thereafter. McPhearson didn’t get out for a few more years.”

  “So we’re really going to do this dance? Me telling you what you already know?”

  “You might be able to fill in some blanks.”

  “I doubt it,” Rafe muttered. “Pastor changed his name a few months after his release and married Marcia himself.”

  “As soon as the ink on her divorce was dry,” Tom commented.

  Rafe nodded. “I saw that. It looks like she divorced Waylon so that she could marry Pastor. Maybe for love? Or maybe to help perpetrate their church scam. Pastor was born Benton Travis, but changed it to Herbert Hampton and applied to be the pastor of a small church outside L.A. He fabricated the backstory that he was a preacher, complete with phony ordination certificate and seminary diplomas.” He glanced up from his notepad. “All of this was in the newspaper because a decade later he was discovered to have lied about everything and embezzled tens of thousands from his parishioners.”

  “Helluva guy.”

  Rafe turned the page in his notepad. “Amos provided a list of the parishioners who sold everything and joined Pastor in Eden. I assume you have this as well.”

  “I do. He told me which ones had died over the last thirty years. It was most of the original members, because most of the people who followed Pastor from the L.A. church after the financial scandal were already retired thirty years ago. Pastor picked the right congregation to fleece.”

  All of the parishioners had had money, some more than others. When they’d sold their land and cars and belongings, then signed the proceeds over to Pastor, it had been the start of the Eden nest egg that had grown into fifty million dollars.

  “I talked to a few of the L.A. church members who didn’t follow Pastor,” Rafe said. “They still hate him, thirty years later.”

  “It was a huge breach of trust,” Tom agreed. “They were betrayed by their spiritual leader. But at least they weren’t also fleeced out of their savings and land.”

  “True.” Rafe flipped a few pages in the notebook. “People in the church remembered Waylon. He did handyman-type work for the church and for Pastor personally. Most of the congregation was afraid of him because of his tattoos and his appearance. But Pastor looked like a college professor and was very charming.” He looked up from the notebook. “Almost every person used that word. ‘Charming.’ ”

  “Charisma is important for cult leaders,” Tom said dryly. “After sociopathy and narcissism.”

  Rafe scowled. “And plain old evil.”

  “In Pastor’s case? Yes, definitely.”

  Rafe flipped a few more pages in his notebook. “I’ve been looking for Pastor’s wife, Marcia, and the kids—who were named Bernice and Boaz. I found their birth certificates.”

  This surprised Tom. “Why? Amos said they were dead. Gideon said they were dead. They both saw their bodies and . . .” Oh.

  Waylon had brought back the bodies of Pastor’s wife and twins after they’d fallen into a ravine, but the remains had been so decomposed that they were unrecognizable.

  Waylon had also brought back a body—also unrecognizable—claiming it was Gideon’s.

  “You think that Pastor’s wife and kids escaped like Gideon and Mercy did,” Tom murmured.

  Rafe lifted a brow. “He shoots, he scores!”

  Tom was still reeling. Why hadn’t he thought of this himself? “What have you found?”

  “Nothing. It was easier to become someone else twenty-five years ago,” Rafe commented.

  “It was easier even twenty years ago,” Tom said, nodding when Rafe’s gaze immediately met his. “My father was an abusive sonofabitch who beat my mother and physically abused me as well. My mother tried to escape several times, but he kept finding her.”

  Rafe looked surprised. “I thought your father was an NBA star turned history professor.”

  Tom smiled. “Max Hunter is my stepfather, and yeah, that’s him. But my biological father was . . . well, he was a murdering bastard. My mother finally escaped after he tossed her down the stairs and broke her back.”

  “Oh my God,” Rafe whispered. “Is she all right now?”

  “Yeah. Mom is amazing. She knew he’d kill her if she stayed and that I’d be left alone with him. She had to go to rehab for her back, and made friends with one of the nurses there. The woman slipped her the name of a shelter in Chicago that helpe
d women start over, find new identities. So Mom did that. She became Caroline Stewart and I became Tom.”

  “What was your name before?”

  Tom’s smile faded. “Robbie Winters. Mom was Mary Grace and the sonofabitch we lived with was Rob Winters.” Old hatred rose to burn in his gut, and he had to draw a deep breath before burying it back down where it never seemed to die. “My mother got her name off a gravestone in St. Louis. The shelter where we hid got us the necessary documents.”

  “So you used fake social security numbers?”

  “We did—until Rob Winters went to prison. Then we legally changed our names and took our old socials back.”

  “Rob Winters,” Rafe said hesitantly. “Is he still in prison?”

  “No.” And the single word gave him immense satisfaction. “He was killed soon after he was incarcerated. Got shanked in the shower. News got around that he’d been a very dirty cop.”

  “Good,” Rafe said simply. “I’m glad.”

  “Me too.”

  “Does Liza know?”

  Tom nodded. “My mom’s best friend is a woman named Dana Buchanan. Dana ran the shelter where we hunkered down for quite a while. She got us IDs and helped us start a new life.”

  “You have good people in your life,” Rafe said.

  “Yeah. I think your mother would love my mom and Dana. Anyway, Liza . . . You know about her background, right? How her sister was murdered?”

  Rafe nodded sheepishly. “My mom and I looked her up.”

  “Somehow, I’m not surprised. Well, after Liza’s sister’s killer was caught, she was all alone and still only seventeen. Dana and my mom took her in. Dana and her husband Ethan have been her primary family all these years. But then she joined the army to pay for school.”

  Which still annoyed the hell out of him.

  “And you went on to the NBA.”

  “I did,” Tom said.

  “So . . . I’ve been wondering. How did you get from the NBA to the FBI?”

  “I was recruited during college. Do you know what DEF CON is? The hacker conference?”

  “I’ve heard of it. It’s in Vegas, right? I read that they’re super paranoid about attendance. No registration. You just show up with cash, so there are no records. The FBI recruited you there?”

  “They did. The FBI would try to infiltrate the con so that they could either arrest the criminal hackers or recruit the ‘good’ ones. They wanted me to work for them then, but I was already on the watch list for the NBA draft. I told them to give me a few years. That I wanted to play for a while, but I’d join when I was ready.” He’d done some contract work for the FBI in the off-season to keep his hand in, but that wasn’t something he could talk about with Rafe.

  “What prompted you to be ready?”

  The sorrow returned, and with it all the guilt that still plagued him. “I was at the end of my contract with the league. Tory and I talked about me retiring at the end of the season.”

  “Then you could go public and she could keep her job.”

  “Exactly. We wanted to go public. I still wasn’t sure if I was ready to make the leap, though. I had a few good years left in me. But then she was taken and . . .” He shrugged. “I couldn’t focus.”

  “You’d been a secret, so you couldn’t grieve openly.”

  Tom nodded, grateful that Rafe understood. “I got hurt again, this time worse. It was kind of like a sign, I guess. I called my Bureau recruiter, asked if there was room in the next training class at Quantico. He said if I got my knee in shape, then yes. So I opted out of my contract, took an early retirement, then did what I had to for my knee. I made it to Quantico for the August class and graduated in December, right before Christmas, then started here in January.”

  “Liza was discharged from the army about that same time, wasn’t she?”

  “She was. She got home on Christmas Day. It was like . . . I don’t know . . . almost fate that we ended up in the same place after only seeing each other on Skype all those years.”

  Rafe looked away for a few seconds. When he looked back, his expression was tentative. “You and Liza . . . Were you ever—”

  “No,” Tom interrupted. “No. She was seventeen, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, then she was,” Rafe allowed. “She’s certainly not seventeen now.”

  Tom found himself taking a mental step back. “I was with Tory.”

  “But Tory’s gone,” Rafe said gently. “Liza’s right here.”

  He knew that. Goddammit, he knew that.

  Tom slid from the stool and grabbed the plate of untouched cheese. He slammed a few drawers before finding the plastic wrap and covering the plate. After shoving it into the fridge, he felt calm enough to face Rafe. “It’s only been a year,” he said stiffly. Actually, fourteen months, nineteen days, and two hours. Our baby would have been seven months old by now. “So no. Whatever you’re suggesting . . . no.”

  Rafe sighed. “I’m sorry. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “Yeah, you should have. I think Mercy might be wanting to get home.”

  Rafe closed his notebook. “I can take a hint, Tom. We can compare more notes later.”

  “Eden notes.”

  “That too,” Rafe murmured. “I’ll see you later.” He started for the door, then turned. “Life is short, Tom. If you find someone who makes you happy, don’t let society tell you how long is ‘proper’ to wait. That someone may move on, and then you’ll be alone.”

  Tom didn’t answer. He didn’t think he could. He watched Rafe leave, then reached for the beer he’d set aside. It was warm now. He really wanted to throw the bottle against the wall, but curbed his temper.

  His father would have thrown the bottle. Rob Winters. Not Max Hunter. Never Max.

  Eyes burning, he reached into one of the cabinets for the bottle of Jack he kept for company. He’d never been much of a drinker, because Winters had been a vicious drunk. But tonight he needed a little something to settle his nerves.

  He poured himself two fingers’ worth and tossed it back, wincing at the burn. Then he picked up his phone and hit the first number on his speed dial. It was answered on the first ring.

  “Tom? Hey, honey. How are you?”

  Tom’s throat burned, but not from the whiskey. He blinked back the tears and drew a huge breath. “Hey, Mom. I’m doing okay. I just called to see how everyone is back home.”

  His mother was quiet. “We’re fine, sweetheart. The kids are in bed and I’m making coffee.”

  Tom winced at the time. “I’m sorry, Mom. I forgot about the time zones.” It was two hours later in Chicago.

  “Silly boy. I always have time to talk to you.” He heard the clink of mugs and the hiss of the coffee maker and pictured her in her kitchen, all smiles and love and . . . home. “How is Liza?”

  He hesitated for just a heartbeat. “She’s okay.”

  His mother’s hesitation was five heartbeats. “That’s good. Give me a minute, I’m taking my coffee into the living room.” He heard the quiet creak of the rocking chair where she loved to sit and read and wished he could go home. Just for a few hours. “Okay. Tell me everything.”

  Oh no. He wasn’t telling her anything. “I’ve been busy at work, and you know I can’t talk about that. Tell me how everyone is doing there. Is Gracie still mooning after that boy?” His younger sister was nine years old and currently in love with a boy in her class.

  His mother’s chuckle was soothing. “Oh, that’s a story and a half. How long do you have?”

  “As much time as you’ll give me.”

  This time her hesitation was longer, her voice softer. Warmer. Like a blanket right out of the dryer. “Well, get comfortable, son, and I’ll tell you a story.”

  Tom did as he was told, grabbing another beer before settling into the corner of the sofa. Wi
thout thinking, he pulled an afghan over himself, flinching when Liza’s scent hit his nose. She’d crocheted the damn thing and liked to cuddle in it when she came over to watch TV. Rafe’s words pinged around in his head and he tightened his jaw.

  I’m not ready. Even if she were interested, I’m not ready. He contemplated switching out Liza’s afghan for the throw on the back of the love seat. It was within his reach, the love seat and the sofa arranged in an L. He only had to stretch a little to the left to grab it. But he didn’t.

  Instead he pulled Liza’s afghan closer, inhaling her scent. “Okay, Mom. I’m ready.” Again he flinched, this time at the words that had fallen from his mouth. “What’s up with Gracie?”

  YUBA CITY, CALIFORNIA

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 8:40 P.M.

  DJ did a final sweep of the house, looking for anything that might be incriminating in case the ME suspected foul play and the cops came sniffing around.

  He’d already swept the basement twice. It smelled like weed, but there wasn’t even a leaf on the floor and Kowalski had already cleared out all of the product that DJ had harvested before he’d been shot. He’d planned to take some of that back to Eden with him and store it in the caves. Their mushroom production had been disrupted with the last two moves in such quick succession, and they’d had no Eden-grown product to sell all winter. DJ had sold most of the pot he’d skimmed from what he owed Kowalski, just to keep revenue coming in.

  That money was supposed to have been his. He wasn’t supposed to have shared it with Eden. But Pastor had demanded an accounting of their income and DJ hadn’t wanted him to see that he’d been siphoning money from the community for years. So he’d dipped into his own stash to keep Eden’s coffers full so that Pastor wouldn’t go looking.

  This room had no product, just DJ’s electronics. He packed up his laptop and the hard drives he’d collected over the years. He knew the Feds could find stuff, even on wiped hard drives. So he’d never thrown anything away.

  He’d learned his way around computers on the old machines. His father had never been interested in the Internet. Had never understood what it could do.