He sagged as if bowing under a great mountain of weight.
Strange, she thought. There were definitely times as you got older when you began to see your parent as a person rather than Father or Mother. And this was one of them. The man in her kitchen was not the all-powerful lord of house and office . . . but someone who was caught in some kind of bear trap, the jaws of which were seen only by him.
"I need to go," he said roughly. "Stay here and don't let anyone in. Turn the security system on and do not answer the phone."
As he went to leave, she blocked his way to the front hall. "Unless you tell me what the hell is going on, I'm going to walk out that door the moment you leave and parade around Charles Street until I either get mowed down in traffic or am found by whatever you're so afraid of. Do not push me on this. Because I will do it."
There was a moment of glower-to-glower. And then he laughed harshly. "You are my daughter, aren't you."
"Through and through."
He started walking, doing laps around the granite-topped island.
It was time, she thought. Time to get the answers to all those questions that she'd wanted to ask about him and what he did. Time to fill the voids of mystery and shadow with tangible answers that were long overdue. God, as much as Isaac was a complication, he was almost like a blessing from above.
"Just talk, Dad. Don't be a lawyer--don't think everything through."
He stopped on the far side of the cooktop and stared over at her. "My mind is the only thing I've got, my dear."
After a moment, he returned to the stool he'd dropped onto earlier, and as he sat down, he rezipped the neck of his fleece--which was how she knew she was going to get the truth, or some measure of it: He was pulling himself back together, regaining who he was.
"When I was in the army as an officer, I served in Vietnam, as you know," he said in the direct, matter-of-fact tone that she'd heard all her life. "Then I went to law school, and I was supposed to go back to civilian life. But I didn't really get out of the military. I've never really been out."
"The people who came to the door?" she said, realizing it was the first time she'd ever spoken about them.
"It's the kind of thing that you never really leave. You can't get out." He pointed to the card. "I know that number. I've dialed that number. It takes you right into the heart . . . of the beast."
He went on to speak in general terms, offering loose description instead of clear definitions, but she filled in the blanks: It was government ninja-style, the kind of thing that justified the paranoia of conspiracy theorists, the sort of organization that you were likely to see in movie theaters and comic books, but that sane civilians didn't believe really existed.
"I don't want that"--he jabbed his finger at the card again--"anywhere near you. The idea of that . . . man . . ."
When he didn't finish, she felt compelled to point out, "You haven't really told me anything."
He shook his head. "But that's the thing--it's all I've got. I'm on the fringes, Grier. So I know just enough to be clear about the danger."
"What exactly did you do for . . . whoever `them' is?"
"Information gathering--I was strictly in intelligence. I never killed anybody." As if there were a whole murder department. "A big part of what drives the machine is information, and I have gone out and gotten it, and brought it back. I have also been called upon from time to time for my opinion on certain international figures or corporations or governments. But again, I've never killed."
She was incredibly relieved there was no blood on his hands. "Are you still involved?"
"Like I said, you're never truly out. But I haven't had an assignment in . . ." Long pause. "Two years."
Grier frowned, but before she could ask anything further, he got up and said, "Your former client is in over his head if he's gone AWOL from them. He can't save himself and you can't help him or save him, either. If that Isaac character shows up here again, call me immediately." He swept the card, the cloth strips, and the transmitter up and put them in the pocket of his fleece. "I won't let you get into this mess, Grier."
"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 Twenty-two
When night finally fell, Isaac was ready to scream, About f**king 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--