Now he was the one clearing his throat. “The Jeremiah guy invited me to come work for the government. He said he was with the military and they were looking for guys like me. I was all, ‘Farm boys? Y’all looking for redneck farm boys?’ And I’ll never forget it . . . He stared right at me and said . . . ‘You’re not a farmer, Isaac.’ That was it. But it was the way he said it—like he knew a secret about me. Whatever, though . . . I thought he was a moron and I told him so—I was wearing mud-soaked overalls and a John Deere hat and work boots. Didn’t know what the hell else he thought I was.” Isaac glanced over at Grier. “He was right, though. I was something else. Turned out the government had been monitoring
“What made you decide to start . . . working . . . for them?”
Nice euphemism.
“I wanted out of Mississippi. Always had. I left home two days later and I still have no interest in going back. And that body was of a kid who’d run his motorcycle off the road. At least, that’s what they told me. They switched my ID and my Honda for his and there you go.”
“What about your family?”
“My mother . . .” Okay, he had to really clear his throat here. “Mother had moved on from us before she died. Pop had five sons, but only two with her. I never got along with any of my brothers or him, so leaving was not a problem—and I wouldn’t approach them now. Past is past and I’m okay with it.”
At that moment the front door opened and from down the hall, her father called out, “Hello?”
“We’re back here,” Isaac answered, because he didn’t think Grier was going to: As she checked the security system, she suddenly looked too self-composed to speak.
As her father came into the room, the man was the opposite of his daughter: Childe was unraveled, his hair messed up like he’d been tearing at it with his hands, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy, his coat off-kilter.
“You’re here,” he said to Isaac in a tone full of dread. Which seemed to sugget whatever mind game Jim’s buddy had played out front hadn’t just been for show.
Nice trick, Isaac thought.
“I didn’t tell him why I wanted him to come,” Grier announced. “The cordless phone isn’t secure.”
Smart. So damned smart.
And as she remained quiet, Isaac decided he’d better drive the bus. Focusing on the other man, he said, “Do you still want a way out?”
Childe looked over at his daughter. “Yes, but—”
“What if there was a way to do it where . . . people”—read: Grier—“were safe.”
“There isn’t one. I’ve spent a decade trying to find it.”
“You ever think of blowing the doors off Matthias?”
Grier’s dad went stone still and he stared into Isaac’s eyes like he was trying to see into the future. “As in . . .”
“Helping someone come forward to spill every single thing he knows about that fucker.” Isaac glanced at Grier. “ ’Scuse my mouth.”
Childe’s eyes narrowed, but the McSquinty routine wasn’t in offense or mistrust. “You mean testifying?”
“If that’s what it takes. Or shutting them down through back channels. If Matthias isn’t in power anymore, everyone”—read: Grier—“is safe. I’ve turned myself in to him, but I want to take it one step farther. And I think it’s about time the world got a clearer picture of what he’s been up to.”
Childe looked back and forth at him and Grier. “Anything. I’ll do anything to get that bastard.”
“Right answer, Childe. Right answer.”
“And I can come forward, too—”
“No, you can’t. That’s my one stipulation. Set up the meetings, tell me who to go to, and then disappear from the mess. Unless you agree, I’m not going to do it.”
He let dear old Dad put up a fight about that and spent the time looking at Grier in his peripheral vision. She was staring at her father, and though she stayed quiet, Isaac was willing to guess that the great chill was defrosting a little: Hard not to respect her old man, because he was dead serious about blabbing—if given the chance, he was prepared to spill everything he knew as well.
Unfortunately for him, however, the choice wasn’t his. If this plan went tits up, Grier didn’t need to lose the only family she had left.
“Sorry,” Isaac said, cutting off the chatter. “That’s the way it’s going to be—because we don’t know how this is going to go and I need you . . . to still be standing at the end. I want you to leave as few fingerprints as possible on the rollout. You’re already more involved than I feel comfortable with. Both of you.”
Childe shook his head and held up a hand. “Now, hear me out—”
“I know you’re a lawyer, but it’s time to stop arguing. Now.”
That gave the man pause, as if he wasn’t used to being addressed in that kind of tone. But then he said, “All right, if that’s what you insist.”
“It is. And it’s my only nonnegotiable.”
“Okay.”
The guy paced around. And paced around. And . . . then he stopped right in front of Isaac.
Holding up a hand to his chest, he formed a circle with his forefinger and thumb. Then he spoke, his words crystal clear and tinged with appropriate anxiety. “Oh, God, what am I thinking . . . I can’t do this. This is not right. I’m sorry, Isaac . . . I can’t do it. I can’t help you.”
Just as Grier opened her mouth, Isaac caught her and squeezed her wrist to shut her up: Her father was now surreptitiously pointing in the direction of what had to be the basement stairs.
“Are you sure,” Isaac asked him in a warning tone. “I need you and I think you’re making a huge mistake.”
“You’re the one making a mistake, son. And I’d be calling Matthias right this second if you hadn’t already done it yourself. I will not be a part of any conspiracy against him—and I refuse to help you.” Childe let out a curse. “I need a drink.”
With that, he turned away and headed across the room.
At which point, Grier grabbed the front of Isaac’s windbreaker and yanked him head-to-head with her. In a nearly silent hiss, she said, “Before either of you even
Isaac popped his brows clear to his hairline as her father opened the door to the cellar.
Shit, he thought. But she obviously was not going to budge on this one. Besides, maybe being involved would help her and her father patch things up.
“Ladies first,” Isaac whispered, indicating the way with a gallant hand.
CHAPTER 30
Nigel granted an audience to his two favorite warrior angels not out of the goodness of his heart and not with anticipation—and in spite of the fact that he and Colin, Bertie, and Byron were in the midst of a repast. There would be no turning these visitors away, however: He knew why Edward and Adrian were coming and they were not going to like what he had to say.
Thus he felt as though he should handle them in person.
And indeed, when the two angels took form far across the lawn, they strode o’er to the grove like the avengers they were.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Nigel murmured to his advisors, “but will you please excuse me for a moment.”
He folded his damask napkin and rose, thinking there was no reason to ruin the meal for the others—and what was about to transpire verbally was going to be a gastronomic murder of the very bloodiest sort.
Colin got up as well. Nigel would have much preferred to do this alone, but there would be no dissuading the angel. No one and nothing could change Colin’s mind about what to have for his pudding, much less on matters of import.
