“It took me over a week to put Eileen’s photo back together,” Cindy said. “Your completed puzzle, Daisy, was instrumental as a guide. I might have needed two additional weeks without it. Anyway, I got two prints on the photo. One is Eileen’s.” She gave Gideon a look of apology. “The coroner was able to get prints despite the condition of the body.”
Gideon nodded tightly, because he understood what she hadn’t said. Eileen’s body, exposed to the humidity and unpredictable airflow of the mine shaft, had been badly decomposed. “Skin glove?” he asked.
Cindy nodded and prepared to continue, but Daisy stopped her.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but what is a skin glove?”
When Cindy hesitated, Mercy answered. “It is what it sounds like. The outer layer of skin becomes separated from the body. The coroner removes it intact, wears it like a glove, and gets prints.”
Daisy’s expression was one of horrified fascination, heavy on the “horrified.” “Oh.”
“They wear gloves, of course,” Mercy added, matter-of-factly.
Daisy blew out a breath. “Thank you. I’m sorry for interrupting, Sergeant Grimes.”
Cindy was studying Mercy, curiosity in her eyes. “It’s fine, Miss Dawson. Have you studied forensics, Miss Callahan?”
Mercy appeared suddenly uncomfortable because all eyes had turned her way. “I’m a forensic investigator with New Orleans PD. I work in the lab there.”
Gideon’s mouth fell open. He was stunned. Shocked. “You’re what?”
Mercy nodded. “For the last two years.”
“But . . .” He shook his head, at a loss. “You never told me that.”
Her distress grew and her eyes dropped to her hands. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been very good at sharing.”
Still stunned, Gideon blinked to clear his head. “No, you haven’t.” He hadn’t known what his own sister did for a living. He felt . . . hurt, he realized. Hurt that it was such a huge area of her life that she hadn’t shared. That they could have shared.
Daisy cleared her throat when the silence grew awkward. “You were saying, Sergeant Grimes? About the fingerprints you got from the photo?”
“Right,” Cindy said briskly, and Gideon forced himself to pay attention. “The first print was Eileen’s. The second scored some hits in AFIS, but like the facial recognition search, there were quite a few.”
“But only one name was on both lists,” Molina said. “Harry Franklin.” She drew a mug shot from the folder on the table in front of her and put it on the table.
Gideon stared at it, his heart now racing like a runaway horse, his skin gone clammy and cold. All he could feel were Ephraim’s fists. All he could hear was Ephraim’s voice, saying he was going to die.
“Breathe,” Daisy murmured.
The feel of Daisy’s hand squeezing his brought him back, reconnected his brain. It was him. Ephraim Burton. He was younger, of course. At least ten years younger than Gideon remembered. But it was him. No question.
Tino’s age-regressed photos were uncannily close. So close that Gideon was amazed that the facial recognition software had brought back so many hits.
“Harry Franklin,” he murmured, giving a name to his nightmare. “What did he do?”
“Robbed a bank and murdered a guard, a teller, and a customer,” Molina said. “He and his accomplice, Aubrey Franklin, who went by Abe, and then later by Edward McPhearson, have been wanted for thirty years.”
“Brothers?” Rafe asked.
“Yes,” Molina verified.
“They were hiding,” Gideon said quietly. ‘‘In Eden. Harry Franklin still is.”
Molina nodded. “We opened the investigation into the Eden cult on the basis of the abuses that Agent Reynolds reported. But knowing that this ‘religious movement’ is harboring a murderer supports the formation of a bigger force and, importantly, gives us a place to start. We wanted Agent Reynolds and Miss Callahan to be the first to know.”
“What . . .” Mercy cleared her throat. “What do you expect from us?”
“For the time being, nothing,” Molina said.
“And for the time after the time being?” Rafe challenged, the tone of his voice making Gideon give him a harder look. Rafe’s gaze was locked on Molina’s face and he was . . . fierce.
Gideon blinked. Oh. Rafe was holding Mercy’s hand. Squeezing it, actually. Ohhhh.
“Will you expect them to be some kind of bait to draw these bastards out?” Rafe went on. “Because if that’s what you’re thinking, you need to think of something else.”
Gideon leaned back to get a better look at his sister. Mercy was pale. Really, really pale. And trembling.
Molina looked affronted. “I have no intention of using any civilians as bait, Detective,” she snapped, then drew a breath, her composure once again intact. “Agent Reynolds and Miss Callahan, I may ask you to speak to our investigators, to answer questions and provide background knowledge. And there may be occasions I’ll ask you to speak to the press, if it should come to that.”
Gideon winced, but nodded. “We can do that,” he said at the same time that Mercy said, “No.”
All eyes swung to her and Mercy stood, hands shaking as she buttoned up her coat. “I am not okay with talking to your investigative team. I am definitely not okay with talking to the media. Thank you for informing us about Harry Franklin and his brother. But my involvement ends here.” She started to walk to the door, then returned for Rafe, who looked as shocked as the rest of them. “Can we go?” she asked Rafe.
His shock quickly morphed to concern. “Of course.”
Gripping the handlebars of the wheelchair, Mercy rolled him out, then carefully closed the door so that it made no sound at all.
Gideon stared. “I’m . . .” He shook his head. “I guess we’re not okay with that.”
Molina frowned. “I didn’t mean to upset her. I should’ve realized.”
Gideon came to his feet. “I need to go after her. Are we done, Agent Molina?”
“Yes.” Molina surprised him by grabbing on to the sleeve of his suit coat. “Please tell her that I’m sorry.”
“I will. Daisy?”
She’d already risen and positioned Brutus’s bag on her shoulder. “Right behind you. Thank you, Sergeant Grimes,” she called, reminding Gideon that the forensic investigator was still at the table, watching their private stories unfold.
“Yes, thank you,” he added, then took Daisy’s hand and they all but ran for the elevator, breathing a sigh of relief as they approached.
Mercy sat on a bench next to the elevator. Rafe sat in the wheelchair, his face filled with helpless worry. Because . . . Shit. Mercy was crying, her face in her hands.
Gideon knelt in front of her, panic tightening his chest. “Hey. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything was okay without asking you. Nothing will happen that you don’t want to. Please don’t cry.” Please don’t leave.
“I can’t,” she sobbed, rocking herself as she cried. “I just can’t.”
“I know,” Gideon murmured. He hesitated, then, hoping he was doing the right thing, sat beside her and put his good arm around her shoulders, drawing her head to his shoulder. “I know you can’t. You don’t have to.”
She turned into him then, touching him for the first time as she buried her face against his chest, her body racked with sobs that broke his fucking heart. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed that way, but finally Mercy quieted.
She shuddered out a breath. “I’m sorry. I cried all over you.”
“I don’t mind,” Gideon murmured, resting his cheek on the top of her head.
“If you want to talk to all those people, you can. I just . . . can’t.”
“You won’t have to. But . . .” He was choking on the words, he wanted to say them so badly. “Will you talk to me? A little?”
She nodded slowly. “But not right now, okay?”
“Okay.” He tried not to let his disappointment show.
“What are you doing this afternoon?” she asked, shocking him.
“Daisy and I were going to drive up to Macdoel and spread Eileen’s ashes. Would you like to come?” he asked, knowing she’d say no.
“Yes,” she said, shocking him yet again. “I think I should.”
MACDOEL, CALIFORNIA
THURSDAY, MARCH 2, 5:40 P.M.
“It’s beautiful,” Daisy murmured, staring out at the mountains, the urn with Eileen’s ashes firmly in her hands. Gale Danton had led their little caravan up a small rise to a gorgeous overlook—Gideon and Daisy, and then Mercy and Rafe, who’d driven separately. Gideon had been a little hurt that his sister continued to put space between them, but Daisy had figured Mercy wanted to be able to leave if she changed her mind about returning to land with a view of Mt. Shasta.
Gideon had understood then.
“She liked it here,” Danton said gruffly. “Sammie or I’d bring her up here and she’d just sit and stare at the mountains. I asked her what she was thinking about and she said she was imagining a world far away from Eden.”
“I can see why,” Daisy told him.
At fourteen thousand feet, Mt. Shasta dominated the view, making the surrounding peaks look like mere hills. But the three mountains to the north and east were all over eight thousand feet and covered in snow.