Wicked Game (33 page)

“They’re crooks, aren’t they?”

“Most of them, no. But my family was one of the best.” He looks at Lanham, who frowns. “One of the worst, I mean. I left them when I met your mother. But I kept in touch with them over the years, sent money when they needed it, on the condition that they leave you and your mom alone, which they were happy to do, since you were outsiders—’country folk,’ as they’d say.”

As he speaks, I notice the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the way his hands quaver as they illustrate a point. More than his hair has changed in eight years. But not his inherent swagger.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I knew enough about my family’s activities and whereabouts to help the feds win a racketeering case against them.”

Colonel Lanham clears his throat. “We thought this opportunity would appeal to your father, since it gave him a chance to be near you and the possibility of contacting you in the course of the operation.”

“And here I am.” Dad spreads his hands in one of his trademark expansive gestures, flicking his fingertips upward as if he’s conjured himself out of nothing.

“What about Mom?” I ask him.

“What about her?”

“She’s still in prison, right?”

“Of course. I always shielded her from any knowledge of my family, so she had no information to offer the FBI.”

“But why couldn’t you bring her with you?”

A corner of his eye twitches, and he glances at Lanham. “We’ll talk about that later.”

“Hmm.” David is leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “Mister O’Riley, how—”

“Please, call me Ronan.”

“Ronan. How did you escape Gideon’s compound?”

“We extracted him,” says Colonel Lanham. “Earlier today.”

A rush of heat runs up the sides of my neck. “If you could get him out, why not me? I almost died.”

Without moving his head, Lanham gives the impression of a nod. “Your father’s extraction was a coordinated, covert operation planned in advance. In a cult situation such as Gideon’s, a surprise raid to rescue you could have triggered a mass murder or suicide. We didn’t want another Waco on our hands.”

I consider this, wondering what would happen to Gideon’s guests—especially the children—if the Control stormed the compound.

“We can explain more later.” Colonel Lanham rises with a sharp exhalation. “Once we get you to the safe house.”

“What?” I think of all I have to do for Friday’s meeting. “I can’t go to a safe house. I have to work.”

“Just for a couple nights, Sweet Pea.” Dad squeezes my hand. “They’ll take you to the station in the morning, make sure it’s safe. Besides, this way we can catch up in private.”

The flood of questions comes surging back. “First I need to talk to David and Shane.” Without looking at my father, I get to my feet and head for the bedroom. Shane walks with me.

Behind me I hear David say to Lanham, “Watch this one. He’s new.”

In response, Travis mumbles, “No respect.”

David joins us in the bedroom. He shoves his hands
in his pockets and gives me a rueful look. “I swear I didn’t know your father was involved.”

He doesn’t seem to be lying. “But this Lanham guy, can I trust him?”

Shane scoffs. “I wouldn’t. He’s Control.”

“He won’t hurt you,” David says, “but don’t think for a minute he has your interests in mind. Everything’s a means to an end with these people.”

“Then my dad’s found kindred spirits.”

David frowns, then touches my shoulder. “You’ve been given a second chance with your father. Don’t waste it.” He leaves and shuts the door.

I turn to Shane. “So that’s my dad.”

“The guy who last night you called a ‘fucking asshole creep pig-weasel,’ if I remember correctly.”

“Because I thought he’d abandoned us.”

“And now?”

“He looks so old.” I stare at the floor. “I did that to him.”

“He just seems old because you haven’t seen him in so long. Humans age.”

“Not like that. Not unless they’re in prison, or a vampire farm.” I rub my face. “If they’ve drunk him every two weeks for two years, that’s fifty-two times. No wonder he’s so thin. You think he’s sick?”

“He doesn’t smell sick.”

“You can smell it?”

“Of course, just like an animal can. It used to help vampires find easy prey. Anymore, we use it to avoid fatal bites.” He reaches for my hands, but I pull away. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just—now would be a nice time for you to be normal.” I wince as soon as I hear my words. “Sorry.”

Shane puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me to face him. “I’m not one for giving advice, but here I’ll make an exception.” His eyes are cold blue and serious. “Just because someone gives you life doesn’t mean you have to give it back.”

I nod, wondering if he learned that from his own parents, or Regina, or both.

We head back down the hall. David is in the kitchen, gathering cat supplies. My dad stands in the dining room, examining the tag on the collar Shane left on the table. The white beast rubs against his ankles. Dad looks down and smiles.

“Hey there, Antoine. How’s a kitty?”

David drops the bag of cat food on the kitchen floor. It bursts open, scattering kibble across the stone tile. He steps forward, crunching. “She named him Antoine?” He glares at the collar, then at Shane. “You knew. You said it was a rabies tag.”

“I didn’t want to upset you,” Shane says in a low voice, glancing at Lanham and my father. “Besides, I thought you might not want him if you knew his name. The cat needs a home, and he wouldn’t last a day at our place.”

Impressed as I am by Shane’s conniving compassion, I keep my attention on my father. He’s squatting down petting the cat, but his eyes are on David, evaluating him.

I know that look. It seeks weakness.

Dad’s gaze trips between the animal and David, and I can almost hear the calculations running through his head. He must know who Antoine is to Gideon. But does he know who Antoine is to David? How long will it take him to figure it out? It might not matter, but I can’t take that chance.

“Ready, Daddy?” I pipe up to distract his thoughts.

His eyes light up in my direction. He straightens with a grunt and offers his arm in a gallant gesture. “Let’s go, Pumpkin.”

He always was a sucker for the “Daddy” thing.

Due to Colonel Lanham’s presence, my father and I keep the conversation casual on the way to the safe house. I tell him about school, the basics of my job, and he tells me about life in a minimum security federal prison. It sounds a lot like Gideon’s lair, minus the bloodletting.

We pull up to a split-level home on a tree-lined street in Silver Spring, a suburb that is neither silver nor springy. The garage door opens as we approach.

I admit, I’m a little disappointed that the “safe house” isn’t surrounded by armed guards with radioactive Rottweilers. I hope it’s more secure than it looks.

Lanham opens the car door for me. “The bedroom on the top floor should have everything you need.”

I pass through a family room, then up a short stairway to the cozy, inviting kitchen. Another turn brings me to another staircase. I grab the railing and bounce up, buoyed by the novelty. The only house I ever lived in was my foster parents’. Before that was mostly motels; after that was dorms and apartments.

On the top level is a large, neat room with homey-looking furniture. The bed is wide and low and bears a faded patchwork quilt. The air’s a bit stuffy, so I switch on the wicker ceiling fan, then exchange Elizabeth’s suit for a T-shirt and pair of jeans I find in the closet.

As I head downstairs, a man in a black shirt and pants
slides back into the shadows of one of the bedrooms. I wave to him.

“Evening, ma’am.” His clipped voice says he doesn’t want to chat.

I grab a soda and an egg salad sandwich from the fridge and go down to the family room, where my dad is watching Jay Leno and eating a bowl of cereal.

He beams at my casual clothes. “Now you look like the Ciara I knew.” He pats the sofa next to him.

Instead I sit in a chair across the room. I need distance for what I’m about to ask. “You said you’d tell me why you didn’t take Mom.”

His head jerks back in surprise. “What did we teach you about small talk? When did you get so direct?”

“Just tell me.” I try a smile. “Please.”

He scoops the last of his cereal into his mouth, then wipes his face with a paper napkin and sets the bowl on a side table. “First, you should know that this place is bugged.”

I take a bite of my sandwich, pretending the surveillance doesn’t bother me.

“But don’t worry,” he says. “The Control already knows everything I’m about to tell you.” He mutes the television, then sits back on the cushion with a sigh. “I couldn’t take your mother into Witness Protection because she’s not my wife.”

The sandwich goes dry in my mouth. “You got divorced?”

He puts a hand to his chest, as if my words are more shocking than his. “Divorced? No. My goodness, no. We were never married.”

“What?”
I brandish my sandwich at him, still chewing. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

His eyes widen. “Language, Ciara.”

I struggle to swallow. “Am I really your daughter? Am I Mom’s daughter?”

“Of course you are.” He holds up both index fingers. “Let me explain. When I was eighteen, I married another Traveller. It was an arranged thing, the way marriages often are among my people. She was only fifteen.”

“Yuck.”

He ignores this. “Your mom and I met when we were twenty-two. Her grandmother was a, er, customer of mine.”

“A mark, you mean.”

“The usual scam.” He dramatizes the process with almost hypnotic hand gestures. “Go to an old person’s house, convince them their roof desperately needs fixing, offer to do the job, then disappear with their cash deposit.” He grins. “Your mom tracked me down on my way out of town and ... well...”

“Kicked your ass?”

“In a sense. A week later, I left everything to be with her—my family, my religion, my home.” He gives a sly smile and flicks up his fingertips. “After I fixed her grandmother’s roof.”

“Why didn’t you just divorce your first wife?”

“Even if I’d asked, she would have refused. The Travellers are strict Catholics.” He heaves a sigh. “It’s the way we were brought up. Divorce is a terrible sin.”

A fuse just blew in my head. “More terrible than adultery?”

“Yes. I would’ve been excommunicated.”

“But you just said you changed religions for Mom, so why would you care?”

“When you’re born a Catholic, especially among my
people, you’re part of a body. Being cut off from that body is like losing a piece of yourself.”

“I don’t get how that’s more important than marrying the woman you love.”

“I don’t expect you to understand. We raised you as a Pentecostal, like your mother. For you, and for most of the people who came to our revivals, living in sin is worse than divorce. That’s why we never told anyone.”

I wave my hands. “Don’t assume anything about what I believe. As far as I’m concerned, the lies are the worst part of it.” At least until the next thought hits me. “Do you have children with this woman?”

“I do not.”

I squint at him, wishing I could play back his reply to search for the deception. “Four years and she never got pregnant? I’m assuming no birth control, of course, since that would be a sin.”

He scratches his ear, face reddening. “That’s more detail than I want to discuss with my daughter.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth when I was a kid?” As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I know the answer. They figured I’d blab to someone, and they’d be exposed as sanctimonious hypocrites.

“I’m sorry we never told you. It came out in the trial, but you were only allowed in the courtroom long enough to testify.” His pause swells the tension. “Since you were the key witness against us.”

I take a sudden renewed interest in my sandwich. “They made me testify. I couldn’t lie on the stand.”

I feel his gaze on me as I pick the flaxseeds off the crust of the multigrain bread. For some reason they’ve always bothered me.

My father doesn’t speak, and in his silence lies the accusation I can’t deny.

I wasn’t just the key witness; I was the fink. I gave the cops the anonymous tip that started the entire investigation.

If I could reach the remote, I’d un-mute the TV to crack the oppressive hush. There’s a band on the
Tonight Show
I don’t recognize, with a female lead singer in a red muumuu.

I can feel my father watching me, waiting for my confession. Now I know why Shane’s silence last night tore up my insides. I’m tired of being on trial.

I turn to look him in the eye. “Are you going to do this for the next eight years, too?”

“Do what?”

“Not talk to me.”

He shifts his weight. “I’ve been undercover. I haven’t talked to anyone on the outside.”

“For two years. And the six years before that, you were in prison, not calling me. Not writing.”

“Not being called. Not being written to. Not being visited by my own daughter.”

My stomach twists at his victim voice. “Illinois is a long way from here.”

“Your foster parents were an hour’s drive from the prison, and I know they offered to bring you.” His voice rises, bludgeoning the air between us. “In the eighteen months before college, you never came to see me. Not once.”

“Because you never called.”

“Why was it my job to call you? You were the one who put me there.”

“And that’s why I needed you to call me. To tell me I was forgiven.” My voice cracks on the last word.

He looks away. He can’t say it.

My throat grinds out a whisper. “Mom forgave me.”

His jaw clenches. “Yes, she was good at that. Not like you and me.”

I enunciate each word. “I’m not like you.”

He lifts his head to meet my gaze. “You’re exactly like me. We hurt people even when we don’t mean to. And when we do mean to ...” His smile is both proud and diabolical. “The Control told me all about your last con. A masterpiece.”

My hand clenches around the sandwich, squeezing egg salad over my fingers. “I needed money for college.”