Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) - Karen Rose Page 0,75

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,”