“Holy . . . crap . . .” He leaned in to make sure he was seeing right.
All down the guy’s stomach there were deep scars that formed a pattern, and as Jim took a looksee and started in on another round of cursing, Isaac kept going with a fast pat-down. Cell phone, which he put aside. Wallet with a hundred in cash and no ID. Ammo. Nothing in the boots except socks and soles.
Stepping over the body, he headed for the kitchen to get a trash bin. As he was pulling the thing out of its cabinet and wondering how many arms and legs would fit in it, he heard footsteps behind him. Obviously, the peanut gallery had followed, but come on, people. No more talk; they needed action. Grier was locked in the damn closet upstairs and he had to get the shit cleaned up before he let her out—
“You lied.”
Isaac froze and cranked his head around. Grier was standing on the far side of the island with the cellar door just shutting behind her. How in the hell had she . . . Crap, there must be a hidden stairwell that linked to the basement. He should have guessed there would be multiple escape routes.
As she stared at him, she was white as Kleenex and shaking in her shoes. “You never intended to come forward. Did you.”
He shook his head, not knowing what to say and all too aware of what was in her front hall. This situation was totally out of control. “Grier—”
“You bastard. You lying b—” Abruptly, she focused over his shoulder. “You . . .” She pointed at Jim, who’d come to stand in the archway. “You were the one in my room the other night. Weren’t you.”
An odd expression filtered across Jim’s features, kind of a fuck-me, but then he just shrugged and looked at Isaac. “I will not allow you to turn yourself in.”
“Your new theme song is getting on my nerves,” Isaac bit out as he decided to bag the bin and go unstructured with some of Hefty’s best.
Chatter, a lot of chatter from just about everyone—and all of it directed at him. But whatever. Selective deafness was something he had excelled at as a kid, and what do you know, the skill set came back to him without a hint of rust.
Isaac bent down under the sink and prayed that the most logical place for more trash bags was in fact— bingo. He took out two of them along with a broom and dustpan that were not going to survive this particular job.
God, he wished he had a hacksaw. But maybe with some rope, they could fold the bastard up tight and carry him out like a sloppy suitcase.
“Stay with her,” he said to her father. “And keep her in here—”
“I saw it happen.” As Isaac froze, she glared at him. “I watched him do it.”
There was a long, silent pause, as if she had snapped all the chains of the men in the room.
She shook her head. “Why did you even pretend to go along with it, Isaac?”
As she stared at him, the trust was gone from her eyes. And in its place, there was a cold regard that he imagined people in laboratories wore as they watched the results of petri-dish cultures.
There would be no talking to her, no denying the shift he’d made. And maybe that was for the best. They had no business being together anyway—and that was before he layered on his professional pursuit of excellence in the field of deading up people.
Isaac got his Merry Maid on and headed for hall. “I need to move the body.”
“Don’t you turn away from me,” she barked out.
He heard Grier coming behind him as if she had every intention of yelling at him some more, so he stopped short and pivoted around just as he got to the archway. As she pinwheeled to keep from running into his body, he pegged her in the eyes.
“Stay here. You don’t want to see—”
“Fuck. You.” She shoved past him, marching by until—“Oh . . . God . . .” She choked off the word, her hand coming up to her mouth.
Bingo, he thought grimly.
Fortunately, her father was on it, going over to her and gently maneuvering her out of eyeshot.
Cursing himself and everything about his life, Isaac continued down the hall, more determined than ever to take care of the problem . . . except his urgency took a time-out as he came up to the body.
A cell phone was in the corpse’s hand and the thing was sending a message; the little screen on the phone was glowing with a picture of an envelope going into a mailbox over and over again.
Okay. Time to back the bus up, here: Guys who had no frontal lobe geeeenerally speaking didn’t reach out and touch something with their T-Mobile.
A little glowing check mark appeared, indicating success.
“Isaac, you’re going to need more than a dustpan to handle that.”
At the sound of Jim’s voice, he looked over his shoulder. And had to blink a couple of times. The man was standing in the dark part of the hall, well away from the light that came through the arches of the study and library . . . but he was illuminated, a glow surrounding him from head to foot.
Isaac’s heart did a couple of jumping jacks in his chest cavity. Then seemed to take a little breather.
There had been a number of times when he’d been out in the field, in the middle of an assignment, and things had gone tits-up on him: You thought you knew your target’s patterns and resources, weaknesses and protective covers, but just as you were about to move on him, the landscape changed sure as if someone dropped a bomb in the middle of the town square of your perfect plan. Weapon malfunctioned. A potential witness fucked your timing up. The target stepped out of range.
What you had to do was a fast recalibration of the situation, and Isaac had always excelled at that. Hell, that video game he’d unwittingly trained himself on had made his mind totally open to the lickety-split.
But this shit was out of his expertise. Big-time.
And that was before Jim took out a long dagger . . . that was made of crystal. “You’re going to let me handle this now. Step away from the body, Isaac.”
CHAPTER 40
Matthias spent way too much time in the stone embrace of that church. And when he finally forced himself to leave, he assumed he’d been there a good hour or so, but the instant he looked at the sun’s position in the sky, he realized he’d wasted all of the morning and most of the afternoon.
Yet he would have stayed longer if he could have.
He was hardly a religious man, but he’d found a shocking and rare peacefulness beneath the stained glass gallery and before the glorious altar. Even now, as his mind told him that it was all bullshit, that the place had been just another building, and that he was so tired you could have put him on a Disney ride and he would have fallen asleep, his heart knew better.
The pain had stopped. Shortly after he’d sat down, the pain in his left arm and chest had disappeared.
“Whatever,” he said out loud as he got in his car. “Whatever, whatever . . .”
Getting back in the game was something he felt compelled to do, and there was a pleasurable, needling sting to it, as if he were picking a scab. On some level, he was captivated by what he’d found in the church, but his job, his deeds, his very way of life was a whirlpool that sucked him in and kept him down and he just didn’t have the energy to fight it.
Still . . . maybe there was a middle way, he thought, when it came to Isaac Rothe. Maybe he could get the guy to keep working only in a different capacity. The soldier had obviously responded well to the threats against Grier Childe—that could be enough to keep him in line.
Or . . . he could let the guy go.
The instant the thought crossed his mind, some inner part of him slammed it down as if it was an utter blasphemy.
Annoyed with himself and the situation, he started the engine and checked his phone. Nothing from his number two. Where the hell was the bastard?
He sent a text demanding an update and giving his ETA, which would be well after dark at this point. Out of
