“What are you going to do with all that?”
“I’m going to make sure it is clear that you no longer represent Isaac Rothe, that you are going to have nothing to do with him, and that if you see him again, you will be contacting me directly. I will explain that you chose none of this and that you are eager to move along. And most important, I will state emphatically that you were told absolutely nothing by him. Which is the truth, isn’t it?”
The hard look in his eye told her that even if that wasn’t the case, she’d better be damned sure to maintain it was.
“He never said a word to me about what he’d done or why he was on the run. Not one word.” As Grier watched her father sag with relief, her frustration eased up. “Dad . . .”
She went to him, slipping her arms around his waist and hugging him for a long moment.
“I’ll call you in one hour,” he said. “Turn the system on.”
“The phone lines are tapped.”
“I know.”
Grier stiffened. “How long have they been?”
“Since the very beginning. Some forty years ago.”
God, why was she even surprised . . . and yet the violation left a bad taste in her mouth. Like so much of this did.
After she showed him the door, she locked herself in and hit the alarm, then went into the study and peeked out the window to watch his Mercedes pull away from the curb and take off down Pinckney Street toward Charles.
When she could no longer see his taillights, she put her hand into her pocket and got out the things she’d taken from his when they’d embraced: The Life Alert and the business card and the strips of cloth had not in fact left with him.
Alistair Childe had been absolutely correct about one thing: She was nothing if not his daughter.
Which meant she wasn’t going to be sidelined in this.
You’re crazy, you know that, her ghostly brother said from beside her.
“Not a news flash.” She glanced over at him. “I’ve been talking to a dead guy for the past two years.”
This is serious, Grier.
She looked down at the things in her hands. “Yes. I know.”
CHAPTER 22
When night finally fell, Isaac was ready to scream, About fucking time, at the top of his lungs. But instead of going the Tarzan route, he ducked out the back way of the townhouse, slipping from the window he’d unlatched that morning, closing it up behind himself, and dropping without a sound onto the rear brick terrace.
He was lucky that it was a cloudy night, because that drained the light even faster from the sky. And yet he was screwed, because the neighborhood was lit up like a goddamn jewelry store: From the streetlamps to the fixtures around all those shiny black doors to the headlights of cars, he was going to have hell’s own amount of trouble hiding himself.
He made the trip to Grier’s at turtle speed, finding all the shadows to be had and taking advantage of them.
Forty-five minutes.
That was how long he spent going no more than twenty yards across the street and into her backyard. Then, again, he went up the hill two blocks and doubled back before dropping down another street past her and taking an alley over to her walled garden.
A jump up . . . a quick hard grip on the top of the brick lip . . . a full-bodied swing . . . and he was in among her rhododendrons.
He froze where he landed in a crouch.
There was no one that he could see or sense. Which meant he could scope the place through the glass panes—
As Grier entered the kitchen, he took a deep breath, the kind that gave him a powerful shot of energy and focus in spite of the fact that he hadn’t eaten or taken a drink in almost twenty-four hours.
It felt like forever since he’d seen her last, and he hated how exhausted and pale she looked as she paced around, like a bird in the wind searching for a branch to perch upon. She was on the phone, talking with animation, gesturing with her hands. . . . Then she ended the call and tossed the receiver across the counter.
He waited to see if anyone came to check on what had undoubtedly been some noise. When nobody did, he assumed she was alone—
Something moved. Over on the left.
His eyes shot across the garden, but his head didn’t shift and his weight didn’t pivot. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what had changed positions, because there were a lot of—
Jim Heron stepped out of the darkness. And wasn’t that a surprise, given the wall that ran around everything. Then again, maybe he’d been there before Isaac had come—which was even more disturbing because Isaac should have teased out his presence.
Although the guy had always been very, very good at making like the landscape.
“What are you doing here?” Isaac demanded, his hand finding the butt of a gun as he straightened.
“Looking for you.”
Isaac glanced around and didn’t see anyone else. “Well, you found me.” And shit, maybe Heron could help on a limited scale. “Your timing is good, by the way.”
“And yet you didn’t call? I gave you my number.”
Isaac nodded up to Grier. “Complications.”
Jim cursed under his breath. “Without even knowing the particulars, I can tell you your solution. Leave. Now. You’re worried about her? Let me put you on an airplane.”
“They gave her something.”
“Fucking hell. What.”
“I don’t know.” He stared through the glass at Grier. “And that’s why I’m not leaving.”
“Isaac. Look at me.” When he didn’t comply, Jim grabbed his biceps and squeezed. “Now.”
Isaac slid his stare over. “I can’t have her . . . hurt.”
Another curse. “Okay, fine, so let me clean up the mess. You’re too valuable to sacrifice. We need to get you to somewhere safe, far, far away from anyone or anybody who knows you or could find you. I’ll take care of her—”
“No.” God, he couldn’t explain it and he knew it wasn’t logical. But when it came to Grier . . . he couldn’t trust anyone.
“Be reasonable here, Isaac—you’re the gun pointed at her head. You’re the trigger and you’re the bullet and you’re the shot that’s going to kill her. You hang around here? You’re putting paid to her tombstone.”
“I’ll get myself in between her and Matthias. I’ll—”
“The only way to save you both is for you to get the fuck out of here. Besides, maybe if we can keep you hidden for long enough, he’ll give up—he won’t be able to afford the diversion of resources for an endless search.”
Isaac slowly shook his head. “You know what Matthias has been like the last couple of years. He’s running XOps like a clubhouse, moving his own agenda. He used to take orders . . . but lately? He’s been making them up. He’s out of control. The assignments now are about . . . something else. I don’t know what. And that means he’ll hunt me until he dies. He has to—it’s the only way to protect himself.”
“Then let him track you all over the globe. We’ll make sure you stay two steps ahead of him for the rest of your natural life.”
Isaac refocused on Grier through the glass. She was bracing herself against the counter he’d sat at, her head dropping down, her shoulders bowing as if they bore all her weight. Her hair had been left loose and the long, wavy lengths nearly touched the granite.
“I’m beginning to think that I made a mistake,” he heard himself say. “I should have stayed in XOps.”
“Your mistake is staying in this garden.”
Probably. But he wasn’t leaving.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jim bit out. “Take this.”
At the sound of a rustling, Isaac glanced over and found a paper bag being held out to him.
“It’s a turkey sandwich,” Jim said. “Mayo. Lettuce. Tomato. And a cookie. From DeLuca’s on the corner. I’ll even take a bite to prove I haven’t poisoned it.”