He stopped with a curse, well aware that his version of talking shop was hardly like some tax attorney yammering on about the IRS code.
"It was . . . shockingly uncomplicated for me." He looked at his hands. "It was like something came over me and put a lockdown on my emotions. Afterward? I just went out to eat. I had a steak with pepper--ate all of it. Dinner was . . . great. And it was while I was having that meal that I realized they'd chosen wisely. Picked the right guy. That was when I threw up. I went out the back of the restaurant, into an alley just like the one I'd murdered that man in an hour before. You see, I hadn't really believed I was a killer until it didn't bother me."
"Except it did."
"Yeah. Fuck--I mean, hell, yeah, it did." Although only that once. After that, he was good to go. Stone-cold. Ate like a king. Slept like a baby.
Grier cleared her throat. "How did they recruit you?"
"You won't believe it."
"Give it a shot."
"sKillerz."
"Excuse me?"
"It's a video game where you assassinate people. About seven or eight years ago, the first online gaming communities were getting big and integrated play had really caught on. sKillerz was created by some sick bastard--no one's ever met the guy, apparently--but he's a genius at graphics and realism. As for me? I had a head for computers and I liked"--to kill people--"I liked playing the game. Pretty soon there were hundreds of people in this virtual world--with all these weapons and identities in all these cities and countries. I was at the top of all of them. I had this, like . . . knack for knowing how to get to people and what to use and where to put the bodies. It was just a game, though. Something I did when I wasn't working on the farm. Then, about . . . about two years into it . . . I started to feel as though I was being watched. That went on for, like, a week, until one night this guy named Jeremiah showed up at the farm. I was working the back rails, mending fences, and he drove up in an unmarked." "And what happened?" she asked when he paused.
"I've never told anyone this before."
"Don't stop." She came over and sat beside him. "It helps me. Well . . . it's disturbing, too. But . . . please?"
Right, okay. With her looking up at him with those big, beautiful eyes, he was prepared to give her anything: words, stories . . . the beating heart out of his chest.
Isaac rubbed his face and wondered when he'd become a sap--oh, wait, he knew that one: the moment he'd been escorted into that little room back at the jail and she'd been sitting there all prim, and proper, and smart as hell.
Sap.
Wuss.
Nancy.
"Isaac?"
"Yeah?" Well, what do you know--he could still answer to his own name and not just a bunch of ball-less nouns.
"Please . . . keep talking to me."
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 sKillerz online and that's how they found me."
"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 f**ker." 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."