Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) by Karen Rose

            He sighed. No, he’d send it to Raeburn first and call Molina right after. He didn’t want her kept in the dark, and it seemed that Raeburn was capable of doing just that.

            Ralph Arnold MD, he typed into the search window. Then whistled softly when his screen filled with links, all referencing Arnold’s very private practice. He operated a surgery out of his home, which was well guarded. He accepted U.S. dollars, euros, rubles, pesos, and yuan.

            References abounded—many from satisfied former patients with code names like Coyote and Scarface and Moll. The man appeared to be a doctor to both Hollywood celebrities and the stars of organized crime.

            Having sufficient information for the moment, Tom dialed Agent Raeburn.




SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

            THURSDAY, MAY 25, 4:40 A.M.

            DJ pulled the truck through the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to Dr. Arnold’s home. He’d received a call from Dr. Arnold’s office manager confirming that payment had been received and that the address had been texted to his phone only minutes before.

            Way to leave things till the last minute, he thought, feeling manipulated, distrusted, and surly. Most of which had been caused by Pastor, the bastard.

            The house was located in an upscale neighborhood about fifteen minutes from the airport. DJ figured that made transport more convenient for the celebrities and crime bosses coming from out of town.

            He half-expected to see Kowalski at the doctor’s house, waiting for them, but the drug dealer was nowhere in sight.

            DJ drove around to the back as he’d been instructed and stopped the truck in front of a large garage. The doors rolled up, revealing an ambulance, two nurses in white scrubs, and a muscled man about the size of a gorilla who held a rifle in his arms.

            “Mr. Belmont?” one of the nurses asked. Her name tag read Jones.

            “Yes. My father is in the back of the truck. His wife is with him.”

            “We’ll get your father checked in and have your mother fill out his paperwork.”

            “She’s not my mother.” DJ had to bite back a wince, because he hadn’t intended to say that aloud. The less information he provided, the safer he’d stay. “What paperwork? I was assured the doctor would require no paperwork.”

            The woman smiled. “Just his medical history. No identification required.”

            A hundred thousand bucks seemed to be enough identification for Dr. Arnold.

            DJ opened the back of the truck. Coleen looked exhausted and Pastor was either asleep or unconscious.

            “Asleep,” Coleen said, reading the question in DJ’s expression.

            Nurse Jones climbed up into the back of the truck, the muscled man taking position at the open truck door. She knelt beside Pastor and took his wrist, frowning. “His pulse is very weak.”

            “I know,” Coleen told her, her manner as professional as DJ had ever seen. “I’ve been monitoring it since we left home. The ride was difficult for him.”

            Coleen was not, to DJ’s knowledge, a real nurse. Her first husband in Eden had been both a Founding Elder and the compound’s actual doctor. He’d taught her to be his assistant. When he’d died they’d been unable to get a replacement and Coleen had become the healer.

            Pastor was moved to a stretcher and the second nurse began setting up an IV. “We’re going to run some scans before the doctor scrubs in,” she said. “We need to know the extent of his injuries before he’s put under anesthesia. Has he received anesthesia before?”

            “Not that I know of,” Coleen replied. She climbed down from the truck, her body swaying a little. Probably from exhaustion. “I’ve been our community’s healer for thirty years.”

            Both nurses lifted their brows at the term “healer.”

            “We live in a remote town and we don’t have a board-certified physician,” DJ hastily explained, shooting Coleen a warning glare. “We’ve learned to be self-sufficient. This injury was outside our expertise.”

            Coleen dropped her gaze to her feet, folding her hands at her waist. The picture of female subservience. Just as Pastor demanded. “Can you help him?”