Ephraim held the bottle to the light to read the label. Ketamine HCl.

“Fucker,” he snarled under his breath. This was how Burkett had planned to keep him asleep for twelve hours. The sedative in his coffee would’ve been only the beginning.

He pocketed the bottle and syringes and searched Burkett’s pants pockets, finding his key ring. Adding Burkett’s gun to his duffel, he shouldered the bag and dragged the other man’s body to the garage, which held a chest freezer and an Escalade.

Perfect. The Escalade was shiny and new, and would blend into Sokolov’s neighborhood. It would also haul the honeymooners’ camper with no trouble at all. He opened the chest freezer, pleased to see it nearly empty. The doctor fit well enough, after Ephraim cracked a couple of his bones.

He dumped the body into the freezer, then stepped back, wincing as he rolled his shoulder. The guy was heavier than he looked. And I’m tired. At least he hadn’t reopened his wound. The bandage was still dry. No new blood. Time to get out of here.

Drawing a deep breath, he took a step toward the Escalade and froze. Then inhaled again.

Cigarette smoke. Fresh cigarette smoke.

Someone is here. Or was here. Drawing his weapon, Ephraim turned in a tight circle, searching the shadows for the smoker. But he was alone.

He hadn’t been, though. He took more deep breaths, scenting the air, following the smell of smoke, but it was already fading. Ephraim might have wondered if he’d imagined it.

Until he found the butt on the garage floor. Gingerly he picked it up and held it under his cell phone flashlight. Marlboro. Most of the name was visible and the butt was still warm.

His jaw tightened. DJ. DJ Belmont smoked Marlboros when he went off property—not many, because he managed to never smell of cigarette smoke when he returned.

But DJ couldn’t be here. That was impossible. There was no way that DJ could have tracked him here. Unless . . . Fucking hell. Fucking fucking hell.

Burkett had gotten Ephraim’s number from Pastor. Pastor could have sent DJ here to get him.

Except . . . Eden was almost six hours’ drive to Santa Rosa. For DJ to have beaten him here, he would’ve had to have left at four that afternoon at the latest. That was possible, depending on when Burkett had called Pastor.

I could call Pastor and ask him. Of course that would tip Pastor off if he had sent DJ.

Ephraim scowled, unable to think of a better way to discover when Burkett and Pastor had their little chat. He hadn’t found a phone in Burkett’s pockets and he didn’t want to hang around here to search. DJ was younger and Ephraim wasn’t at his fighting best. If DJ was lurking outside, Ephraim didn’t think he could win a face-to-face showdown. Not tonight.

Just go. If he shoots at you, shoot back. He stowed the duffel on the Escalade’s passenger seat and started the engine before hitting the button for the garage door opener.