“We’re not going to let her wake up for a while. After that, she’ll be here in the hospital for at least a few days. With this much damage, it’s going to take her a while to heal.” The surgeon rubbed her face. “No visitors until this afternoon, so go home and get some sleep, eh?”

Tears prickled Frankie’s eyes at the disappointment. But she found her manners somewhere. “Thank you, doctor.”

The surgeon nodded, smiled back, and disappeared into the surgical suite.

Feeling as if she was ready to sack out on the floor, Frankie turned to the special agents. “Can I go now?”

“Yes. For now.” After handing her phone back, Acosta gave her a conciliatory smile. “We might have more questions later, but you’re half asleep.”

Thank heaven. She forced her brain to work long enough to ask her own question. “What are you guys going to do about the Patriot Zealots?”

“We have agents and police talking with the women you brought out. And the children.” Acosta’s mouth flattened. “We’re still coming up with charges. Unlawful imprisonment is a given. Kidnapping has been added. Assault, battery.”

“And the list goes on,” Langford said. “The state troopers discovered the arsonists who burned your cabin were hired by the Patriot Zealots.”

Sheer fatigue blunted the revelation. And really, she wasn’t all that surprised. Those bastardi.

“It’ll take time to figure out who to charge with what,” Langford added with a sigh.

“If you can even get to them.” Frankie scowled. “They’ll probably either hole up in a siege or disappear like cockroaches when the lights come on.”

“They already took the cockroach approach.” Acosta growled, then smiled slightly. “However, the unfortunate Reverend Parrish with his wife and children were intercepted in a Texas airport an hour ago. He’s under arrest.”

“Really?” Frankie realized she was smiling. Maybe the PZs had scattered, but the bastardo who’d created the fanatical cult would be doing his praying behind bars.

Hawk was showered, dressed in sweatpants, and had pulled an aged sweatshirt over his favorite long-sleeved T-shirt. He needed the familiarity of the old clothes that were worn to softness.

Opening the fridge, he saw the six-pack of beer and grunted. Uh-uh, that’s not what I need.

The oblivion of alcohol was a fucking trap. Besides, the last thing a vet needed was to lose track of his surroundings. Or himself. Better to deal with the ugly memories—and yeah, those he had in plenty.

He shut the fridge door and headed for the deck, picking up his violin on the way. Leaning against the railing, he started to play—no real song, just the music that came to him. A tune to join with the way gray-gold mist rose off the dark waters, how the mountains glowed in the dawn.

Slowly the music changed, the strings turning to a dirge for the man he’d killed, worthless bastard that the guy had been. The dead man was another weight to carry until Hawk answered for him in the next life, whatever the fuck that would be. Guilt for the PZ wasn’t all that heavy, though. The bastard had been kicking a woman to death.