Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) - Karen Rose Page 0,76

DJ replied. “But the curvy parts are over.”

“Thank God,” she breathed. “Pastor didn’t do well. He’s thrown up a few times, which is going to dehydrate him. When will we arrive?”

“Not for another three hours, if there’s no traffic on the freeway.”

She gasped. “Three hours? DJ, he’s in pain now.”

“And I’m sorry,” DJ said. Even though he really wasn’t. “But we can’t just take him to a regular hospital. They’ll ask for his insurance card and ID. Things are much different now than they were when you entered Eden. It’s much harder to fake your identity. Especially when insurance is involved. We don’t have insurance cards and they might not treat him without one.”

That was probably not true, but DJ wasn’t taking any chances. Pastor needed good care, because if he died, the codes died with him.

“I know,” Coleen fretted. “I just hate seeing him in pain.”

DJ didn’t mind at all. “Is he conscious?”

“Yes,” Pastor wheezed. “Why?”

“I need you to authorize a transfer from our bank account to the doctor.”

Pastor’s nod was barely perceptible. “How much?”

“A hundred grand.”

Coleen gasped again and Pastor turned his head to glare at DJ. “Are you insane, boy?”

“I am not,” DJ said levelly. Insane or a boy. “Hospitals are very expensive now.”

“Coleen, please give the phone to me. DJ, have the information ready.”

DJ took another look around. Luckily, it was early enough that no one was around.

“It’s Ben,” Pastor said a moment later, and DJ blinked. He’d never heard Pastor called anything but Pastor. Once or twice he’d heard Waylon call him Brother Herbert.

Pastor motioned for DJ to come up into the back of the truck. Drawing his weapon, DJ complied, closing the door. If anyone got nosy, he’d blow their head off and ask questions later.

“No, I’m not fine,” Pastor snapped to his banker. “I’m on my way to a private hospital. I need you to wire a hundred grand to the following account ASAP.” He listened for a moment, then turned his gaze up to DJ. “He says that a hundred Gs is pretty cheap for private treatment.”

The grudging acknowledgment was as close to a “please,” “thank you,” and “I’m sorry” as Pastor would ever give.

Pastor put the phone on speaker. “DJ, give the man the information.”

DJ read the account and routing number aloud. “The doctor’s name is Ralph Arnold.”

“Good,” Pastor muttered. “An American name. Don’t want a foreigner working on me.”

“But you find a foreigner handling your money acceptable?” the banker asked congenially in lightly accented English. Not for the first time, DJ wondered who this man was and why Pastor trusted him with that much cash.

Pastor’s expression chilled at the veiled criticism. “You know I’m not talking about you.”

“Of course not,” the banker said dryly. “I’ll need your authorization code.”

Pastor glanced up at DJ before saying, “B-e-B-o-11,” into the speaker.

The code. That was the code. Short for Bernice-Boaz-11. The names of his dead twins and their age when they died. DJ tried not to let his excitement show, keeping his expression bland.

Inside he was jumping up and down and screaming in triumph. Until Pastor spoke again.

“Delete that code from our approved list. The new code will be the next in the cipher series.”

Cipher series? What the hell? The bastard hadn’t merely memorized some passwords, DJ realized. He and his banker had some kind of prearranged code. Meaning I can’t break it. Motherfucking sonofabitch. DJ couldn’t contain his glare. Damn you to hell, old man.

Pastor’s lips twitched. He knew what DJ had assumed and had enjoyed cutting him back down to size.

Once I get that money, you are dead, old man. Dead. And it’s going to fucking hurt.

“Understood,” the banker replied. “I’ve sent the wire. It might be a few hours before it goes through.”

“That’s all right,” Pastor said. “Apparently I’m a few hours from this Dr. Arnold. I’ll check in again before I go into surgery to ensure the wire transfer was successful.”

Pastor ended the call and gave his phone to Coleen, who still sat, looking shocked at the amount of money he’d so casually transferred. It appeared the healer didn’t know about the fifty million that Pastor had been hoarding and building for thirty years.

DJ wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but it was certainly something he’d use for his own benefit if he could.

“Water, Coleen.” The old man still managed to sound like a pompous king.

“Of course. I’m sorry, Pastor.”

“As you should be,” the old man muttered, closing his eyes. “Hurry up, boy.