Say Goodbye Page 20

  She’d contact him first. If he had no relevant information, she’d let it go. If he could tell them who had gotten the Eden tattoo, she’d pass that information on to Tom.

  On finding the tattoo parlor’s website, she was pleased to see that they had an online appointment tool. “Sal Ibarra” had openings the next afternoon. According to Google, Monterey was about a three-hour drive from Sacramento. She requested a three o’clock session.

  She could leave after giving Abigail the reading lesson she’d promised and be back before dinnertime. Hopefully with information.

  And maybe a new tattoo. She had an idea now of what she’d like.

  She cleaned up her dinner dishes, then took her laptop and a spiral notebook up to her bedroom. Pulling on her pj’s, she stared at the place on the bed where Tom had so carefully perched that afternoon.

  It hadn’t been the first time he’d come to her room. He’d brought her chocolate once when she’d had cramps so bad that she couldn’t get out of bed. Another time he’d brought her some of Irina’s chicken soup when she’d had a cold. And more than once he’d come crashing through her door when he’d heard her scream while having a nightmare.

  The nightmare. The one where all of her friends bled out while she fruitlessly tried to save them. She’d woken those nights to find herself in Tom’s strong arms, his murmurs in her ear. He’d asked her to talk to him about the nightmares, but she hadn’t wanted to and he hadn’t pushed. At the time she’d been relieved.

  Now she wished he’d pushed. She could have told him about Fritz. About how she’d married him. About how she hadn’t loved him like she should have. How Fritz had been a substitute.

  At the time she’d worried that it might make Tom think less of her, that maybe he wouldn’t want her. Now she wanted him to know. It was wrong for her to keep Fritz a secret. He’d deserved so much more than that.

  She crawled under the blankets, able to hear Tom working. His home office was adjacent to her bedroom. Muted strains of Pavarotti made her smile sadly. Pavarotti was his “thinking music.” She’d mentioned once that she could hear it and he’d immediately offered to turn his music down. She’d told him that was ridiculous, that the music soothed her.

  Not so much tonight.

  She put in earbuds, turned up her Garth Brooks playlist, and opened the spiral notebook to a fresh page. She was no artist, but she had a few ideas about the tattoo she’d like. Sergio did good work, and having left the studio where he’d already built a clientele, he probably needed the money. If he turned her away after learning who she was and what she wanted to know about the Eden tattoo, she’d find another tattooist.

  It was time to lay her friends to rest, once and for all.

  MCARTHUR, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, MAY 25, 1:35 A.M.

  DJ scowled at his sat phone, knowing he’d put off calling Kowalski as long as he could. The man would be meeting with customers and suppliers soon. Most of their work was done in the wee hours when most people were asleep.

  He hated having to call Kowalski. Hated having to owe the man anything.

  Hated having Kowalski know where Pastor was, because he would if they used the doctor he recommended. He did not want Kowalski meeting Pastor and asking him questions, especially now, when the old man wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

  Gritting his teeth, he dialed Kowalski’s number, swallowing a snarl when the man answered, his tone smug. “Changed your mind about the doctor, huh?”

  “Yes. My father was hurt worse than I’d been led to believe.”

  “That’s too bad,” Kowalski said, his words dripping with mock concern. “The doctor’s name is Ralph Arnold. I’ll text you his number. Wait a few minutes before calling. I’ll have to let him know to expect you. He doesn’t take calls from just anyone. He runs a very private hospital.”

  “Thank you.” He swallowed the snarl that was crawling out of his throat. “I appreciate this.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll be able to return the favor at some point in the future.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of. “Of course. But . . . what do you mean by ‘private’ hospital?”

  “He’s a legit doctor, if that’s what you’re asking. His patients have one thing in common—the need for privacy. Most of his patients are celebrities looking to avoid the media. Others are . . . like us. People who don’t want their DNA falling into the wrong hands. He operated on my knee a few years ago and it’s as good as new now.”

  DJ’s phone buzzed with the incoming texted contact information. “I got the doctor’s number, thank you. I’ll wait to call him. I need to go. Road’s dicey here.”

  Ending the call, he set the phone aside, gripping the wheel with both hands to navigate a hairpin turn. He hated driving this big truck on these curves. He didn’t know how drivers of semitrucks did it without careening over the cliff to instant death, but they did, so he could, too.

  The pickup in which Waylon had taught him to drive had been a standard Ford F-150. This box truck that he’d stolen from the itinerant farmhand was considerably bigger.

  The road evened out after a few minutes, and DJ tapped the doctor’s contact information to dial his number.

  “Yes?” The voice was deep and musical.

  “I’d like to speak to Dr. Ralph Arnold,” DJ said.

  “Speaking. Is this Mr. Belmont?”

  “It is. Can you help my father?”

  “I won’t know until I see him. But I will see him, as Mr. Kowalski has vouched for you. Head toward the Sacramento airport. When I get your payment, I’ll text you the address.”

  DJ rolled his eyes at the cloak-and-dagger approach. “What is the payment?”

  “One hundred thousand.”

  What the fuck? A hundred thousand dollars? DJ opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  “Mr. Belmont? Are you still there?”

  “Yes.” DJ cleared his throat because the word had come out hoarse. “I am.”

  “Can you afford my services?”

  Uppity sonofabitch. “Yes. Of course.” Pastor had fifty million bucks. A hundred thou was nothing. He hoped. “If you can text me the transfer instructions, I’ll get that underway. It might be a little while. We’re still in the mountains and unlikely to have a cell signal.”

  A short pause. “But you are talking to me.”

  “This sat phone is my business line. My father will be arranging the payment himself on his cell phone. He is . . . unaware of my business relationship with Mr. Kowalski.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, that’s fine. We won’t be revealing any information to him. We’ll be focused on fixing what’s broken.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be wiring the payment as soon as I can.”

  It was another hour before DJ could safely pull off the road into a gas station. He stuffed the sat phone into his pocket and zipped the pocket closed. He did not want Pastor or Coleen to see it. Looking both ways to ensure that they were alone, he opened one of the back doors.

  The old man lay on the floor, eyes closed, his head in Coleen’s lap. The healer looked up, her skin even paler than it had been in Eden. She looked a little green. “Are we there?”

  “No,” DJ replied. “But the curvy parts are over.”

  “Thank God,” she breathed. “Pastor didn’t do well. He’s thrown up a few times, which is going to dehydrate him. When will we arrive?”

  “Not for another three hours, if there’s no traffic on the freeway.”

  She gasped. “Three hours? DJ, he’s in pain now.”

  “And I’m sorry,” DJ said. Even though he really wasn’t. “But we can’t just take him to a regular hospital. They’ll ask for his insurance card and ID. Things are much different now than they were when you entered Eden. It’s much harder to fake your identity. Especially when insurance is involved. We don’t have insura
nce cards and they might not treat him without one.”

  That was probably not true, but DJ wasn’t taking any chances. Pastor needed good care, because if he died, the codes died with him.

  “I know,” Coleen fretted. “I just hate seeing him in pain.”

  DJ didn’t mind at all. “Is he conscious?”

  “Yes,” Pastor wheezed. “Why?”

  “I need you to authorize a transfer from our bank account to the doctor.”

  Pastor’s nod was barely perceptible. “How much?”

  “A hundred grand.”

  Coleen gasped again and Pastor turned his head to glare at DJ. “Are you insane, boy?”

  “I am not,” DJ said levelly. Insane or a boy. “Hospitals are very expensive now.”

  “Coleen, please give the phone to me. DJ, have the information ready.”

  DJ took another look around. Luckily, it was early enough that no one was around.

  “It’s Ben,” Pastor said a moment later, and DJ blinked. He’d never heard Pastor called anything but Pastor. Once or twice he’d heard Waylon call him Brother Herbert.

  Pastor motioned for DJ to come up into the back of the truck. Drawing his weapon, DJ complied, closing the door. If anyone got nosy, he’d blow their head off and ask questions later.

  “No, I’m not fine,” Pastor snapped to his banker. “I’m on my way to a private hospital. I need you to wire a hundred grand to the following account ASAP.” He listened for a moment, then turned his gaze up to DJ. “He says that a hundred Gs is pretty cheap for private treatment.”

  The grudging acknowledgment was as close to a “please,” “thank you,” and “I’m sorry” as Pastor would ever give.

  Pastor put the phone on speaker. “DJ, give the man the information.”

  DJ read the account and routing number aloud. “The doctor’s name is Ralph Arnold.”

  “Good,” Pastor muttered. “An American name. Don’t want a foreigner working on me.”

  “But you find a foreigner handling your money acceptable?” the banker asked congenially in lightly accented English. Not for the first time, DJ wondered who this man was and why Pastor trusted him with that much cash.

  Pastor’s expression chilled at the veiled criticism. “You know I’m not talking about you.”

  “Of course not,” the banker said dryly. “I’ll need your authorization code.”

  Pastor glanced up at DJ before saying, “B-e-B-o-11,” into the speaker.

  The code. That was the code. Short for Bernice-Boaz-11. The names of his dead twins and their age when they died. DJ tried not to let his excitement show, keeping his expression bland.

  Inside he was jumping up and down and screaming in triumph. Until Pastor spoke again.

  “Delete that code from our approved list. The new code will be the next in the cipher series.”

  Cipher series? What the hell? The bastard hadn’t merely memorized some passwords, DJ realized. He and his banker had some kind of prearranged code. Meaning I can’t break it. Motherfucking sonofabitch. DJ couldn’t contain his glare. Damn you to hell, old man.

  Pastor’s lips twitched. He knew what DJ had assumed and had enjoyed cutting him back down to size.

  Once I get that money, you are dead, old man. Dead. And it’s going to fucking hurt.

  “Understood,” the banker replied. “I’ve sent the wire. It might be a few hours before it goes through.”

  “That’s all right,” Pastor said. “Apparently I’m a few hours from this Dr. Arnold. I’ll check in again before I go into surgery to ensure the wire transfer was successful.”

  Pastor ended the call and gave his phone to Coleen, who still sat, looking shocked at the amount of money he’d so casually transferred. It appeared the healer didn’t know about the fifty million that Pastor had been hoarding and building for thirty years.

  DJ wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but it was certainly something he’d use for his own benefit if he could.

  “Water, Coleen.” The old man still managed to sound like a pompous king.

  “Of course. I’m sorry, Pastor.”

  “As you should be,” the old man muttered, closing his eyes. “Hurry up, boy. Get us there.”

  “Absolutely,” DJ promised. And he’d make sure he hit every damn pothole along the way.

  TEN

  EDEN, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, MAY 25, 3:05 A.M.

  Hayley missed indoor plumbing. At least at the last Eden site they’d had outhouses. Here in the caves, the toilet was basically a bench with a hole cut into it. They literally peed in the pot that was stuck beneath the hole.

  The smell . . . She had to fight not to gag, because if she gagged, she puked. Which just made it all worse. Plus, she didn’t know if throwing up might start up her labor.

  She didn’t think so, but she didn’t know. She didn’t know because she didn’t have access to a damn doctor. Even the healer was gone, having accompanied Pastor to the hospital in the city.

  Because, of course, Pastor got to go to the hospital. She had to stay here, in a fucking cave.

  She was having this baby in a fucking cave. Cameron wasn’t coming. Nobody was coming. Nobody could help. She’d considered an escape attempt, but Graham had told her that there was a guard at the entrance—with a rifle. Graham might be able to slip out, but she wouldn’t be able to, not as big as she’d become.

  I’m going to have this baby and she’s going to be taken away from me. To give to Sister Rebecca, the vile whore. She thinks she’s gonna steal my baby? No. Not gonna happen.

  Except that she might not have a choice. She needed to think. But all she seemed able to do was sleep, cry, and pee. She caressed her belly. “I’m so sorry, Jellybean,” she whispered. “This isn’t your fault.”

  It’s not mine, either. She laid the blame of this nightmare directly on her mother’s shoulders. If they ever got back to civilization, Hayley was going to have her charged. Because this was kidnapping. This was a crime.

  Her ire fizzled, exhaustion retaking her. This is my new life. Sniffling back tears, she stepped away from the toilet, pulled the curtain closed, then lifted the lantern to find her way back.

  A lantern, goddammit. A real one, not battery powered. It had actual fire inside it. At least most of the caves were wide and had decent airflow throughout. Otherwise, between the fumes from the toilet and the smoke from the lanterns, they’d all suffocate.

  “Psst.”

  Hayley jumped, spinning around, barely holding on to the lantern. “Graham,” she hissed. “You scared me to death. What are you doing here?”

  He grinned, the flickering light giving him a devilish appearance. “Came to empty the pot. I’m on duty today.”

  Her stomach roiled. “You did it yesterday.” She frowned. “And the day before. Why?” The disgusting jobs were rotated among the younger boys, unless someone was being punished.

  “Gets me outside. I can breathe fresh air.” Graham leaned closer and whispered, “And search for stuff. And hide other stuff.”

  Stuff. Like the computer. And the drugs he’d found the day before. Her heart clenched. “You’re doing this for me?”

  Graham shrugged. “More for Jellybean. Gonna be her favorite uncle.”

  Hayley’s eyes stung. “I love you, Cookie.”

  His lips curved up. “I know.” He hesitated. “You know.”

  She smiled at him. She did know that he loved her, too. “You need to go back to bed.”

  “After I dump the pot.”

  “Gra—,” a shrill voice said before cutting away. “Achan,” their mother whispered. “Why are you whispering to Magdalena?”

  The thief and the whore, Hayley thought, having to close her eyes. She couldn’t look at her mother anymore. The bubbling rage was just too much.

  “Sh
e had to pee,” Graham said, somehow hiding his contempt for the woman who’d brought them here. “Because she’s pregnant. I’m dumping the pot, because it’s my job.” He darted into the toilet area, returning with the pot, full and foul. “Do you need to pee in it, Mother?”

  Hayley gagged. “Graham. Oh my God, that reeks.” Then her head snapped back as her mother slapped her. Hard.

  “His name is Achan. Your name is Magdalena. You will be respectful, and you will follow the rules. Do you understand?”

  Hayley worked her jaw, tasting blood. “Fuck you,” she spat, suddenly not caring who heard.

  Her mother gasped, and Graham winced. “She’s hormonal,” he said. “It’s not her fault.”

  “It most certainly is her fault. She had relations with a man who is not her husband. Whatever happens to her is her fault.”

  Hayley clenched her fists. “Why, you smarmy little bi—”

  “Mother,” Graham interrupted, taking a step closer to their mother, holding the pot up so that the old bitch took a giant step back. “Let my sister go to bed. She’s tired and scared. You had both of us in a hospital, didn’t you? You had an epidural and a real doctor. She won’t, and she’s scared. You would have been, too, don’t you think?”

  “No. I was fine, and she will be, too. Unless God’s will is otherwise.”

  Hayley took a step back of her own, partly to get away from the pot Graham held and partly so that she wouldn’t drop her mother to the cave floor with an uppercut. Cameron had taught her how as part of her self-defense lessons. Fat lot of good those had done her, because she couldn’t defend herself now. And if she couldn’t defend herself, how could she defend their baby?

  Longing for Cameron and a bone-deep sorrow hit her hard. She missed Cameron’s mother. The woman had been a true mother to her. Not like the evil sack of shit that was trying to scare her by insinuating it might not be God’s will for her or her baby to survive. “I’m going back to bed,” she said, teeth clenched.

  “I’ll walk you there,” her mother said silkily, taking her arm and digging her fingers into Hayley’s flesh.