Harmless, still water.
Besides the Harpeth, I hadn’t been near a river in months, and now I was heading for New Orleans and its neighbors, the Mississippi, Lake Pontchartrain, and the Gulf of Mexico.
“I think it’s going to be okay.” I hoped it was. “But don’t expect me to spend a lot of time by the water.”
Liam stared straight ahead, his eyebrows puckered in concentration. “I won’t leave you in a circumstance you aren’t comfortable with. That’s a promise.”
“I know that.” I adjusted the seat belt again, and tried to change the subject. “What I’m not comfortable with is you leaving Ivy Springs. Grace needs you.”
Liam’s wife had just come out of a nine-month-long coma.
“Hallie Girard needs us, too. I’ll only be away for a day. Two, max.”
All I knew about Hallie was that she was seventeen, and for some reason, really isolated. I’d done more than one Internet search on her. She didn’t have any social media profiles. I wondered if being the Infinityglass had affected her life in some horrible way.
“What’s her dad going to think when you offer up a tech geek to him?”
“Luckily, he and I have a history, even if it’s only because we met through Teague. Her betrayal didn’t surprise him. She abandoned her family long ago. It’s heartbreaking, honestly, especially for the daughter.” Liam switched lanes. “As far as the Infinityglass, he knew about it, but believed the same thing we did. That it was an object.”
“How did he take it when you told him it was his daughter?” I asked.
“Hard. But he believed me.”
I wondered what being an all-powerful, mythical “thing” could do to a girl. I wondered if she had symptoms.
Liam exited for the airport, heading for short-term parking. After he picked a spot and killed the engine, I got out and removed our suitcases from the back of the truck.
“If it doesn’t work, if you have any qualms, you come back home with me,” Liam said. “Deal?”
I looked up at the Nashville International Airport and answered the only way I could.
“Deal.”
Dune, Mid-November, New Orleans
There were already Christmas decorations up in the airport.
We left baggage claim and waited on the sidewalk for a taxi. Tourists were everywhere. Groups of tipsy college kids who’d gotten an early start on Bourbon Street, married couples ready for a getaway weekend, and us.
I tried to take in as much of the city as I could on the cab ride, but nerves and the smell of the water kept my gut twisted. Ivy Springs had its share of history spread out over a lot of mileage, but the Garden District’s history was dense and compact.
Dormers and gables, porches and columns, all layered with intricate detail. Everything was white or pastel, except for the bark of the massive oaks and the leaves on their branches. The tree roots grew so large that the sidewalk broke into pieces above them.
Among all that beauty, the Girard house was best described as nouveau riche penitentiary.
A big guy with a holstered firearm buzzed us through the gate and inside the front door. The air smelled like money. After a few seconds, we were led to Paul Girard’s “library.”
It was grandiose, an obnoxious kind of new South. Everything was shiny, or new and dulled down to look old. I was used to Liam’s home office, which was nice enough, but dusty and full of books and his personal collection of hourglasses. Liam’s office looked like he worked in it. Paul Girard’s library looked like he posed in it.
“Come in.” Girard stood. He was your basic slick-haired, shifty-eyed, moneyed gangster, with excellent taste in suits.
After introductions, Girard asked about our flight and general well-being, but the chitchat didn’t last long. Liam sat down, and so did I, balancing on the edge of a masculine couch.
“You’re the guy who’s supposed to help my daughter?” Girard sounded doubtful.
“Yes, sir.” I nodded.
He looked me over, summed me up. “Try to relax.”