Say Goodbye Read online

  DJ had immediately seen the benefits—some for Eden, but mostly for himself. Once Waylon was dead and DJ was in charge of supply runs, he’d met Kowalski, who’d taught him how to use software, how to manipulate photographs, how to use the surface web to sell Eden’s quilts and sundries, and, importantly, how to use the dark web to sell the drugs they grew.

  Once all of his old laptops were boxed up, he turned to the printers. There was no way he was leaving them. Cops could get copies of things a printer had produced by checking the device’s memory. If DJ was suspected in Mrs. Ellis’s death by virtue of being her “weird and antisocial” neighbor, the cops could come sniffing.

  If the cops got evidence from his electronics, Kowalski would drop him like a hot potato. DJ didn’t hold it against the man. He’d do the very same thing. Business was business, after all.

  DJ loaded everything into his truck and took a last look at his house before driving away. He didn’t think he’d be coming back. Even if Mrs. Ellis’s death was assumed to be from natural causes, Kowalski had wired his house with cameras. He had no intention of allowing the dealer to monitor his every move.

  He got enough of that from Pastor.

  NINE

  ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 9:10 P.M.

  From her front window, Liza watched Rafe sheltering Mercy with his body until she was safely in his Subaru. Something needed to give before Mercy broke. Liza had seen soldiers break under the stress, and Mercy wasn’t too far from that point.

  They needed a distraction, something that would take Mercy’s mind off the fact that DJ was out there without allowing her to lower her guard. Putting the leftovers that Irina had sent into the oven, Liza sat at the counter and dialed a known compatriot.

  “Liza!” Daisy Dawson sounded chipper as always.

  “Hi, Daisy. I hope I’m not calling too late. I know you get up early for work.” Daisy was the cohost of a morning radio show, and her bedtime was surely approaching.

  “It’s fine.” She laughed softly, a deep husky sound for which she was famous. “Even if you’d woken me up it would be fine. You saved Mercy’s life today. Gideon and I are grateful.”

  Daisy was Gideon Reynolds’s girlfriend and had inadvertently started the official investigation into Eden when she’d grabbed a locket from the neck of a killer who’d been trying to drag her away. Through the investigation, she and Gideon had connected.

  “I did what any of you would have done.”

  “We’re still grateful. What’s up, Liza?”

  That Daisy got to the point wasn’t a surprise. Their friendship was a cordial one, but not on the same level as Liza and Mercy’s. “It’s Mercy.”

  “What’s wrong? Has DJ tried again?”

  “No, it’s nothing physical,” Liza assured her. “This whole situation is starting to get to her.” She would not share Mercy’s desire to make herself bait. That had been said in confidence. “I know Tom got a few leads today, but everything is still moving too slowly, and Mercy’s going stir-crazy. I was hoping you’d have ideas about a distraction, something she can do that will make her feel like she’s still got some control over this situation.”

  “Like what?” Daisy asked, curious. “A hobby?”

  “I think Mercy’s too intense for that right now. I was thinking more in line with something she can do to contribute to the search for Eden or to prepare for when the people there are finally rescued. Channeling her energy into a positive endeavor might help her right now.”

  Daisy hummed thoughtfully. “Like I’m doing with the escapees.”

  Liza’s brows shot up in surprise. “What escapees?”

  “Well, you know about the Eden tattoos, right?”

  “Yes. Boys get them on their thirteenth birthdays. They’re the official Eden symbol, the children kneeling beneath an olive tree, all beneath the wings of an angel with a flaming sword.”

  “Exactly. I started searching for other people with this tattoo on Instagram, looking for keywords like ‘olive tree,’ ‘children praying,’ and ‘angel with flaming sword.’ ”

  Liza was intrigued. “Oh, wow. Did you find anything?”

  “I did. Initially I found two. One was a close replica. A college kid had copied it from his lover—an escapee who’d taken his own life. That shook Mercy up. The second was exact—and belonged to an escapee both Mercy and Gideon had known. His Eden tattoo had been done in Eden on his thirteenth birthday, but he’d added a tat of a dragon breathing fire, like it was going to destroy it. His name was Judah.”

  Liza winced. “Was?”

  Daisy sighed. “He was killed in a car accident last year. I haven’t told Mercy yet. She’s been so sad, I didn’t want to add to it. Gideon took it hard enough.”

  Liza understood that. “You said you ‘initially’ found two tattoos. Did you find more?”

  “One more, another exact copy, but this one was done by the artist who posted it. The client who got the tattoo isn’t from Eden, as he’d have gotten it there, but he’s got to know someone who escaped. I found the tattoo artist on Instagram and we exchanged a few e-mails, but then he ghosted me after the Feds visited him at the studio where he worked. He’s taken down his Instagram page, so whatever happened, it rattled him. Artists use Instagram to advertise.”

  “Do you know where this guy is located? What’s his name?”

  “He was in San Jose. His name is Sergio Iglesias. He might have just changed studios.”

  “But he probably wouldn’t have taken down his Instagram if he only moved. Does he have a police record?”

  “No, but a lot of people get nervous when the Feds show up. They never actually got to talk to him. He skipped out the back door. He’s gone under, according to Gideon. He got the information from Tom, who got it from someone else because he wasn’t working that part of the case, but I’m not supposed to know any of that.”

  Liza’s chest warmed. Tom was a Dudley Do-Right, a stickler for procedure, but he had a huge heart. He was capable of bending rules if necessary to help someone. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  Daisy chuckled. “I would guess not, considering it would hurt your guy more than mine.”

  Not my guy. Roughly, she cleared her throat. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.” She thought she’d sounded pretty upbeat, but Daisy’s extended silence said that she had not.

  “I’m sorry, Liza. I just figured—”

  “It’s all right. Now,” Liza said briskly, “back to the tattoo artist, Sergio Iglesias. The Feds haven’t been able to get any whiff of where he went?”

  “None. I think the FBI backburnered their search because they figured that an adult who’d gotten an Eden tattoo wasn’t an actual escapee. And even if they know an escapee, that person won’t be able to give them a current location, because Eden moves around too much.”

  Liza started up her laptop. “I keep thinking about the guy’s Instagram account. If he continues tattooing, he’ll need one. When did he take his Instagram down?”

  “Three weeks ago. The day after he got a visit from the Feds.”

  “Did the Feds go looking for him? At his home, I mean.”

  “I don’t know.” She hesitated. “You’d have to ask Tom that question.”

  Which I’m not going to do. “Can you send me the screenshots you took of his old page?”

  “Sure, but tell me what you’re thinking, because I’m dying here.”

  “What if Iglesias started up a new Instagram account? If it were me, I’d post a few of my most popular photos under a different name.”

  “Oh.” Daisy sounded impressed. “I’m kicking myself for not thinking of that.”

  “Fresh eyes help. What were you planning to ask this guy if he hadn’t ghosted?”

  “The name of the person who got the Eden tattoo. They have to have known an esc
apee, because the design is an exact replica. It’s far too detailed to be a coincidence.”

  “And when you found the escapee?”

  “I’d make sure they were all right, because Gideon and Mercy sure aren’t. Maybe they can support each other, because none of us really knows what they went through. But I’d also ask how they got out and where their Eden was located. I’m frustrated that the FBI doesn’t seem interested in doing any of this.”

  “I agree.” That the FBI wasn’t looking for the man was both frustrating and puzzling. “Look, it’s late and you need to go to sleep. I’m going to do some searching online and I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “You promise? You won’t try to go alone if you do find him?”

  “No, I won’t go alone. I promise.”

  But she would go. Everyone else was either personally known to Eden—like Gideon, Mercy, Amos, and Abigail—or had been featured in the news stories about Ephraim’s murder spree.

  Liza had the only face that nobody would know. And she liked tattoos.

  She looked down at the rose and musical note twined together and inked over her heart. The tattoo had given her ease. It had made remembrance of her family a physical part of her. A visible reminder that she’d been loved and had loved in return.

  She had a second tattoo that no one had ever seen. It covered the scar on her hip, the remnants of that awful day when her unit had been broken apart. It hadn’t been for comfort. She’d wanted to hide her scar, even from herself, out of guilt. But now she wanted comfort.

  She closed Daisy’s e-mail and stared at the desktop image on her screen. Arrayed in front of a Humvee, twelve people smiled at the camera. All were in uniform, all held their weapons.

  They’d all been happy that day. Even me.

  The next day, only five of the twelve still lived. We weren’t happy anymore. But they had been once, which was why she’d kept this photo to remember her military family. Even in her nightmares about the day they’d died, she knew they’d protected one another with their lives.

  Now she’d been invited into a new family. She’d protect them as well. Especially Mercy, who at times reminded her so much of her sister that it hurt Liza’s heart.

  She took one last look at the photo of the twelve smiling faces. They deserved permanent remembrance. She was going to find Sergio Iglesias. For Mercy. And for myself.

  Because she was considering a new tattoo.

  EDEN, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, MAY 25, 12:45 A.M.

  DJ parked the truck close to the cave entrance. There was a rocky path that many of their members had found difficult to climb, but they were all inside the network of caves now with no need to leave.

  Unless they got hurt. Way to go, Pastor, DJ thought with a sneer.

  He found Coleen waiting at the entrance. “I’m so glad you’re back,” she said in relief.

  “How is he?” DJ asked, because he didn’t want the old man dead just yet.

  “Conscious,” Coleen replied. “He’s talking, but he’s in a lot of pain.” She winced. “He’s babbled a little, but nothing I couldn’t explain away.”

  “Good. Is he ready to go?” It was then that DJ spied the small bag leaning against the cave wall. “Is that his bag?”

  “No, it’s mine.” Coleen met his gaze directly. “I’m going with you.”

  DJ laughed and it wasn’t a nice sound. “No, you’re not.”

  “I am. Pastor wants me there. The community wants me to go with him.”

  DJ stopped laughing. “You’re staying. I outrank you.”

  “Pastor outranks us all. The members will be displeased if he’s not getting the best care.”

  Oh, you fucking little bitch. “Are you threatening me?” he asked softly. Menacingly.

  She paled. “No. I’m letting you know that the community knows Pastor has asked me to come with him. He hasn’t left the confines of the compound for nearly ten years, except when we move. This last move was especially hard on him.”

  Because the old man had needed to pull his own weight for a change. Ephraim was dead, and DJ had been unconscious when they’d arrived in the caves the month before.

  “He’s in pain and frightened, DJ. Let him have his way in this.”

  DJ seethed. When he killed Pastor, he’d have to kill her, too. He’d make sure it was a car accident, so that their deaths could be explained away.

  The community might miss their healer, but Coleen was just a woman. Utterly replaceable. She was not meant to tell him what to do. None of the women were.

  None of the men, either. Between Pastor and Kowalski, he’d about had it with people telling him what to do.

  “Fine,” he snapped. “Be ready to leave in five minutes.” He stalked to Pastor’s quarters, opening the makeshift door without knocking. Pastor got a piece of plywood to give him privacy. Most of the members had only a curtain. Some didn’t have that much.

  “Close the door,” Pastor said weakly.

  DJ obeyed, startled at the old man’s appearance. He was . . . old. Frail, even. “How did you fall?” he asked, suddenly suspicious. “Did someone push you?”

  “No. I was coming down the mountain. I had to climb to get a signal for my cell phone. I had to call my banker. You wouldn’t set the dish up for me to e-mail him, so I had no choice.”

  DJ scowled. “So did you talk to your banker?”

  Pastor nodded absently. “I’ll call him again to make a financial transfer to whatever hospital you’re taking me to.”

  And then DJ would learn the access code. He kept his voice calm, even though he wanted to shout with excitement. “All right.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  Straight to hell, motherfucker. “I’m not sure yet. I need to find a doctor who’ll take cash.”

  “My banker has my personal papers.”

  DJ blinked. “What?”

  Pastor struggled to open his eyes. “Specifically my will that states you are my heir.”

  Yes. He bowed his head so that Pastor couldn’t see his glee. “I see.”

  Pastor huffed, a weary, sick little sound. “I’m sure you think you do, but you’d be mistaken. If I don’t show up at a hospital by morning, my banker is instructed to mail all of the sealed envelopes in his possession. I send him a new one every year detailing everyone’s personal sins. Including yours. He also knows to place my money in a series of trusts if I’m declared missing or dead. One trust is for the people of Eden. One is for you. You will get a stipend once a year.”

  Motherfucker. “I see,” DJ said levelly. Because he did. The old man was ever cagey. “You said a series of trusts. Are there more?”

  “Yes. One goes to my wives. One to my banker.”

  “Your banker gets a trust?”

  “He’s served me well.” Pastor coughed, moaning at the resulting pain. “The point is, I better show up at a hospital. If I don’t, you’d better hope it was an accident and we all died, otherwise your face will be on an FBI wanted poster.”

  Too late, asshole. The FBI already had his prints. If there was camera surveillance in the office building he’d used Wednesday morning, his face was now known to the Feds as well.

  Then a detail popped up, distracting him. “Wait. How does your banker know all of this?”

  “I told Coleen to call him. Gave her a onetime code.”

  “Where are the other codes?”

  A crooked smile. “In my head. Better hope I wake up from surgery, or they die with me.”

  And then the money would be divided and put into trust. He had killed Ephraim in part to keep from having to share that money with anyone. Unless he could find another way, he’d still be sharing it. Despite being bruised and bloody and frail from his fall, Pastor looked smug.

  It took every ounce of DJ’s self-control not to ball h
is hands into fists and beat the fucker into a bloody pulp. Instead DJ breathed until he could be sure his voice was steady. “Is that why you want Coleen to come with us? To make sure I don’t do anything—”

  “Evil?” Pastor interrupted with a laugh that sounded more like a geriatric bark. “I don’t need to give you any reason, but if you must have one, then yes, that is why. When do we leave?”

  DJ gritted his teeth. “As soon as you’re ready. I’ll ask some of the men to carry you down to the truck. I need to make arrangements for a hospital.”

  Pastor closed his eyes. “Good boy.”

  Not a damn boy. Not anymore. He had been once, before Pastor had given him to Edward McPhearson. DJ had been his apprentice. Edward had been a brutal master. Once Edward was dead, McPhearson no longer owned him. But Pastor still did. Not sexually, but DJ was owned.

  And he still owns me.

  Because Pastor knew that the lure of fifty million dollars was too strong for anyone to ignore.

  DJ turned to go. “I’ll be waiting at the truck.”

  ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, MAY 25, 1:15 A.M.

  Finding Sergio Iglesias didn’t take as long as Liza had thought it would, at least compared to the hours Daisy had spent identifying him to begin with. A week after the Feds visited his old studio, fifteen of Iglesias’s photos had appeared on Instagram under the account of Sal Ibarra, the new name allowing Iglesias to continue using his initials as his signature.

  According to his profile, Sal Iberra was an artist, located in Monterey. His last location had been San Jose, so he hadn’t gone all that far. At least he hadn’t skipped the state. Which made her wonder why.

  She found her answer in one of the screenshots that Daisy had made of Iglesias’s old Instagram account. The photo showed a woman in profile, hands cupping her pregnant stomach. The photo was captioned, My beautiful wife, Felicidad. It was originally uploaded six years ago.

  “Yes,” Liza whispered aloud. Sergio Iglesias had a good reason for staying close by.

  Liza knew she had to tell someone what she’d found, but she didn’t want the man to feel like he needed to run again. He had a family. Sending him running again seemed cruel.