Never left a witness alive. Not until tonight.
A little of the euphoric peace and satisfaction disintegrated as he once again thought about the blonde. Tomorrow. He’d start looking for her tomorrow, after work.
Needing to regain the satisfaction he’d lost, he opened the cabinet on the wall next to his bed. He normally let his guests see the contents because it eroded their resistance, but he’d gotten carried away with Kaley.
The cabinet opened like a triptych, with display shelves covering the back and sides. His souvenir cabinet, ten years in the making. It was impressive, if he did say so himself.
He slid Kaley’s driver’s license into the next open slot, then scowled at the empty hook beneath Eileen’s. He should be hanging the damn locket on that hook, but it was gone. Stolen by the blonde.
But, thanks to Kaley, he had a new trinket—a crystal horseshoe, ironically enough. Her neck was too slim for him to use her chain, so he used a longer chain from his stash. Standing tall, he put the chain over his head, the charm hitting level with his heart. He drew a breath, feeling like himself again as he closed the cabinet doors.
Shutting the basement door, he listened for the click of the lock, then nearly tripped over Mutt. The dog lay on the floor just outside the basement door, just like he always did.
He leaned down to scratch behind Mutt’s ears. “Let’s go to sleep.”
SIX
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 8:00 A.M.
Gideon straightened his tie nervously. Calm down. He’d talked to his boss hundreds of times and never once had been nervous, but it had never been personal before. Now it is.
He rapped on the door and entered when he heard a muffled “Come in.”
When he did so, he found Special Agent in Charge Tara Molina at her desk. “Special Agent Reynolds. Good morning.” She pointed to a club chair and Gideon sat down, willing his hands to be still.
“Thanks for seeing me on short notice.” He met her eyes directly. She was about fifty and angular. Every movement she made was economical and he’d never known her to mince words or waste anyone’s time. So he wouldn’t waste hers. “I have a friend on the SacPD force. He’s a homicide detective. Last night he asked for my assistance on a case.”
Her brows rose. “Not the usual way SacPD requests help. Why didn’t your detective friend go through channels?”
“Because he knew that my connection to his case is personal. My friend is Rafe Sokolov. I’m kind of part of his family. They . . . helped me out when I was a teenager.”
One side of Molina’s mouth lifted, surprising him. “The family you make, as they say.”
“Yes, ma’am. Exactly.” Even though he’d decided what to tell her, Gideon still hesitated. “Have you heard of the Church of Second Eden?”
“The cult where you grew up,” Molina said, surprising him again. She rolled her eyes. “I read your file, Agent Reynolds. I read the files of everyone who works in my field office. I know you grew up there and escaped. I know you’ve made allegations of abuse that were substantiated by hospital records. I know that you reported them to SacPD, but they found no evidence of the community. I know you reported them again after joining the FBI, but the search yielded nothing. I know you’ve made several requests to reopen the investigation in the years since, but there was no new evidence to support reopening the case. Are you asking to reopen the investigation?”
He was impressed. “Yes. I am.”
She folded her hands on her desk. “I assume you have new evidence this time?”
“Yes, I do. Last night a woman was attacked on J Street. While fighting off her attacker, she pulled a locket from the man’s neck. It was a locket worn by the women of the community. I’m requesting to both reopen the investigation into the community and that I provide security for Miss Dawson, the woman who was attacked. If this man comes back for her, his apprehension could lead us to the location of the community.” And, as a side benefit, he’d be watching over Daisy. That would take a load off the collective mind of the Sokolovs. Yeah. Right. The Sokolovs. He wanted to roll his eyes at his own bullshitting self but forced himself to focus because Molina was watching him.
“How did you know it was a locket worn by a woman from the Second Church of Eden?” she asked.
“Because I recognized the engraving on the front—two children praying under an olive tree guarded by an angel with a flaming sword.”
She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them, nodding. “I remember mention of that in the file. Was there a name on the back?”
“Yes. ‘Miriam.’” On his phone he found the photo he’d taken of the locket and the photo inside and passed it to her. “That’s the locket and the photo inside.”
Molina’s eyes flashed with sympathy. “She’s so young. Twelve, right? The age that the girls were forced to marry.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know this girl?”
Gideon swallowed. “Yes. Her real name was Eileen. ‘Miriam’ was forced on her by the community.”
“How did your friend know to call you?” she asked. “Had you told the Sokolovs about the community?”
“Not really. It was . . . painful to remember. I don’t talk about it often.” Reaching into his pocket, he found the photo of him and Rafe by the river and wordlessly passed it to her.
Molina studied the photo for a few long seconds, then her gaze flew up to meet Gideon’s. “They tattooed you?”
He nodded. “On my thirteenth birthday.”
“That wasn’t in the file.”
“I . . . don’t like to think about it.” The tattoo. The day he received it. What had happened afterward. I killed a man. And had nearly been killed himself. “I’d hoped the description of the locket and the abuse and forced marriage of twelve-year-old girls would be sufficient to get the FBI involved. It was, so I kept the rest to myself.”
She didn’t look away and neither did he, the two of them in something of a standoff until Molina dropped her gaze to the photo of the locket on his phone. “They’re not exactly the same,” she murmured. “Twelve branches on the locket’s olive tree, thirteen on the tattoo’s. For the age of maturity?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he managed. His throat was thick and swallowing physically hurt.
“You were thirteen when you escaped?” When he only nodded, she sighed. “You’d been beaten badly according to your hospital records.” She gave him a scrutinizing look. “Your medical records had been sealed, along with your foster records because you were a minor, but you gave us permission to access them when you joined the Bureau.”
“I wanted the community found. Desperately.” For Mercy. For Mama. And for me. “I’ve been searching for them for seventeen years.”
Molina leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. “But you left the records sealed from the time you were eighteen until you joined the FBI, six years later. Why, if you wanted them to be found so desperately? Why didn’t you report them sooner?”
He’d never been asked this question. He should have known that Molina would catch the small—but critical—fact. “Early on, I guess I figured the SacPD hadn’t really believed me. That they thought I was just a kid, making up fantastic stories. I never thought of contacting the FBI on my own then.”
“But later? The file from your initial FBI interview says that you always wanted to be a special agent, that you’d chosen your college degree in linguistics after consulting the FBI’s Web site. So you thought enough of the Bureau at eighteen to want to join, but you didn’t think to report this case?”
Of course he had. But he hadn’t reported the community because of Mercy. Because she’d begged him not to. And because he’d been afraid enough for her mental health at the time that he’d agreed. He didn’t think Molina would accept his excuses. “Can I expect confidentiality, ma’am?”
She considered it. “Unless you violate policy.”
“I didn’t even tell my friend this part of it last night. I’ve never told anyone.”
She nodded once. “I understand. You’re asking me to keep your secrets.”
“Just this one, ma’am, because it’s not my secret to share. My sister was also raised in the cult. She didn’t get out at the same time as I did.”
“So when you searched, you were looking for her.”
“Yes. I eventually found her.” But not where he’d been looking. Finding Mercy had been the doing of Irina Sokolov. Just one more thing he had to be grateful for. “My sister had also escaped, but she wasn’t as lucky as I was. I was beaten. She was . . .” He swallowed hard, cleared his throat. “The words are easier to say when the victim is a stranger.”
“She was sexually assaulted?” Molina asked gently.
Gideon’s jaw clenched and he fought back the wave of emotion that always followed thoughts of Mercy’s ordeal. “Yes, ma’am.” Repeatedly. For years. “She won’t make a formal report. I can tell you this before you ask. She’s . . . dealt with it. Kind of.” Not really.