Touching Eternity (Touch Series 1.5) (35 page)

No one spoke as the car rolled out of the driveway, but the hatred in Lew’s face screamed volumes. Isaiah ignored him, focusing instead on the drive. Miles of wilderness melted gradually into towering sheets of glass and steel as they broke into the city. The sight of it clenched around Isaiah’s gut the way it always did when he returned home. He wished he could find something new about it, something that didn’t remind him of the horrors he’d witnessed there. But time seemed to have frozen in that state of tragedy, a sick mockery of everything he wanted to forget.

“Where are we going, sir?” He ripped his eyes away from the rushing scenery to focus on the man across from him.

Lew bared his teeth. “That ain’t your business!”

Garrison lifted a hand, silencing him. “It’s all right, Lew. We’re going to visit some friends of mine. They need some convincing of my vision. Lew and Bruce have other matters to oversee.”

Lew snickered, cracking his knuckles. “That idiot Hobbs won’t know what hit him!”

Isaiah stiffened. “Why do you need to see him again?”

Garrison didn’t seem annoyed by the question, but Lew looked like the vein throbbing in his temple might explode. Isaiah focused on Garrison.

“Because the first warning didn’t seem to work on our good friend and he needs another more permanent one.”

He didn’t know if it was surprise, respect or pity that rose up inside him. The man was either very brave or very stupid. Whichever, Isaiah had a feeling he’d dug his own grave with this one.

They dropped Lew and Bruce off next to a squat, brick building. The gloomy winter light spilled over a sign, glinting off the gold, block letters that said,
Spring Valley Retirement Home.
Isaiah frowned as he watched the pair disappear down a concrete path and vanish from sight through a set of glass doors. Something told him they weren’t there to pay a visit to their cookie-baking grandmother.

Several minutes passed before anyone exited again. Isaiah was shocked to see Bruce trudging towards them once more, pushing an old woman in a wheelchair.

“Sir…?”

The door was flung open and the woman was lifted out of her chair and stuffed into the seat next to Garrison. Her chair was folded and stowed away into the trunk. Bruce and Lew slipped into the car, both squishing themselves into the seat beside Isaiah.

The woman was stooped and so frail in her flower printed dress and knitted sweater as white as the hair curled on top of her head. Her head wobbled a little on her head as she stared unseeingly into the distance with eyes that may have been blue once, but had faded to a soft gray.

“Let’s go,” Garrison said and Bruce slammed a meaty fist into the roof. The car began to roll away.

“Sir, who—”

“This is Margaret Hobbs,” Garrison introduced in a tone most reserved for discussing weather. “Our dear Mortimer’s grandmother and his only living relative. She raised him after his parents died in a car crash when he was four and has been like a mother to him his entire life. He spends every penny to make sure she’s taken care of in that retirement home.”

“Too bad he didn’t pay for security,” Lew cackled.

Garrison’s lips curved ever so slightly.

Isaiah felt physically sick. “Sir, what are you going to do with her?”

Garrison turned green eyes to him. “Me? Nothing.” But there was a glint behind the ghost of a smile. “Bruce and Lew, on the other hand, are going to take Ms. Hobbs to see her grandson. I’m sure once Mortimer sees just what his actions have caused me to do, he will follow my conditions very closely.”

“You’re not going to kill her are you?”

Garrison’s eyes widened. “Oh heavens I hope not, but that all depends on Mortimer. I would much rather dispose of him, truthfully. Unfortunately, I already have too many eyes on me at the moment. Killing him would be unwise. Margaret is our insurance policy. She will help make sure Mortimer understands that there are no limits to the lengths I will go to in order to silence him. If he wants his grandmother well and unharmed, he will cease his troublemaking.”

The car drew to a stop three blocks from Mortimer’s house. As the pair leapt out and began unloading Ms. Hobbs, Isaiah turned to Garrison.

“Is this a good idea, sir?” he asked. “What if someone notices she’s gone?”

Garrison scoffed, flicking a dismissive hand. “No one will even notice she’s gone until suppertime and by then, hopefully Mortimer will have made the right decision and she will be returned, unharmed.”

“But if it comes back to you—”

“It won’t,” Garrison said calmly. “Lew and Bruce are very good at what they do.”

“But, sir—”

A long, slim hand went up, cutting him off. “This is something you must learn, that not everything in this business is clean. Sometimes, you have to get your hands dirty. Mortimer had his chance. I was very fair.”

“Yes, sir, but—”

Garrison sighed, folding his hands neatly on his lap as he observed Isaiah from across the short distance. “Isaiah, you must trust that I am doing what’s best! If Mortimer continues, imagine what it could mean for us. My funding will stop and if that happens, I will be unable to help Amalie. My research is so important, now more than ever! I will do whatever it takes to ensure we succeed! I will not let anything get in my way.”

But it was wrong! He needed to do something. He needed to stop this. But what could he do? He didn’t stand a chance against Lew and Bruce, both armed to the teeth.

“Taking a life isn’t the answer, sir,” he murmured, feeling useless and exhausted.

A brow lifted on Garrison’s face. “And what is?”

Isaiah couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. He had no idea.

Forty minutes later, they were standing in a gold and glass elevator. The nauseating churn in his stomach had nothing to do with the fluid climb, but the anxiety of what was about to come once those doors opened. His anxiety didn’t lessen when Garrison suddenly turned to him, one hand reaching behind him.

“Before I forget,” he said coolly, bringing his arm around.

The suddenly too bright lights above them glinted off the polished steel resting almost weightless in Garrison’s hand. The cold gray contrasted horribly against the pallor of the man’s skin. Isaiah was no stranger to weapons, having been trained in most of them, but the meaning behind this made him flinch.

“Sir?”

“Take it!” It was thrust towards him, nearly knocking him in the gut.

He took it, the metal feeling like a chunk of ice in his clammy grip. He nearly dropped it.

“Careful!” Garrison barked. “The safety isn’t on. Now put it away.”

If it made him sick before, the very sight of it made him want to throw up now. Where exactly were they going that he would need a gun?

“Put it away!” Garrison hissed again, nudging him.

Clumsily, but careful not to blow his backside away, he stuffed the barrel into the waistband of his pants. He dragged the hem of his shirt over it, concealing it from sight just as the lift arrived at their floor and the doors swept open.

Garrison checked his watch. “Right on time,” he mused, stepping out of the box. “Now I need you to look professional.”

Isaiah had no idea what that meant. “What?”

He could have sworn Garrison sighed as he turned to face him. “Isaiah, I need you to pull yourself together right now, do you understand? This is very important and I need you to support me. Can you do that?”

The weapon pressed into his spine burned through his skin, making him sweat, shift, swallow. “Yes, sir.”

Garrison slapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. Come on. Just look like you mean business.”

Still, the words flew straight over Isaiah’s head, but he squared his shoulders and this seemed to please Garrison. With another pat, the other man marched on ahead, leaving Isaiah to follow.

The enormous ivory doors met them the moment they left the elevator. It was the only thing there in the narrow corridor aside from a potted plant next to it. Garrison stopped in front of the doors, glanced at Isaiah over his shoulder.

“Intimidating,” he hissed.

Not waiting for a reaction, he knocked, giving Isaiah no time to do anything except quickly straighten out his features to a cool blankness.

Blinding white light burst through the crack when the door opened. It was so staggering, Isaiah had to squint. The room opened into a wide circle with grand windows all around. Everything gleamed, the white floors, the long, rectangular table, the bald scalps of the men sitting around said table. Isaiah tried not to gawk, but he’d never seen so much shine. It was all so clean, so pristine. He was almost too afraid to step on the floor.

“Gentlemen!” Garrison stalked into the room and went directly to the empty spot at the end of the table. There was no chair, but he stood looking down the length of the table at the thirteen faces staring back at him. “Thank you for waiting.”

“Who’s your guest?” a withered, ancient man at the other end inquired, eyeing Isaiah.

“This is my son Isaiah.” The pride in his voice had a lump forming in Isaiah’s throat. He suddenly wished he’d had time to dress in something other than day old clothes, rumpled and creased from sleeping in them. He was sure his hair was all over the place too and resisted the urge to run his fingers through it to tame it. The most he could do was raise his chin and stare the man down, daring him to contradict the statement.

The man didn’t. He made a sound that was half contemplating, half amused, before turning to Garrison once more. “I wasn’t aware you had a son, Garrison.”

“My private life was never up for discussion,” Garrison answered smoothly. “And I’m sure that isn’t why we’re here now is it, Hugo?”

The wrinkle infested man leaned back in his enormous chair, steepling his bony fingers beneath his pointy chin. “No. It isn’t.”

Garrison waited, seemingly patient enough to wait forever if need be.

Hugo appraised Garrison with shrewd, watery eyes before speaking, “We’re here to discuss the future of our partnership. I think I speak for everyone here when I saw we are quite concerned by the disturbing news that has reached us.”

Garrison never so much as flicked an eyelash at the sharp words. “And what news is that?”

“The death of Gabriel Tomas and his family.”

Isaiah stiffened, recognizing the name.

Garrison continued to look perfectly collected, if not a bit annoyed. “From what I understand, Gabriel Tomas was killed in a tragic plane accident. I’m not sure what that has to do with me.”

“That is what I told the detectives as well, but then news of Mortimer Hobbs began to circle around the university. I’m sure you’re aware of the allegations Mr. Hobbs is making against you?”

“I am aware,” Garrison said evenly. “But that is what they are, allegations. I wouldn’t put any stock in what Mortimer Hobbs has to say. The man is raving mad.”

Hugo arched a white brow. “The university seems to be taking him quite seriously. They cancelled your seminar, didn’t they? Mr. Hobbs seems to be telling anyone who will listen that you threatened him. That you sent goons to his home to attack him. Is this true?”

Bile roiled in the pit of Isaiah’s stomach. His body broke out in cold sweat. He tried not to fidget, not to look at Garrison with accusation, but the task was becoming impossible.

“If that were true, I don’t think Mortimer would be alive now, and why would I put so much time and energy into such a ridiculous matter? My research takes all of my time. I don’t have time to go around bullying people of non-importance.”

“But are his allegations true, Garrison?” another voice piped up, thin and raspy as old parchment. “Are you experimenting on children?”

“I have never kept what I do a secret,” Garrison said, outrage and offense coloring his tone. “There are those who disagree with my methods, but every child that comes to me has been admitted by their parents who have signed the disclosure. Am I experimenting? With the little knowledge that we have regarding the human mind, yes, I am. I am learning with each patient that comes my way. Is it simple? No, it isn’t, but I take great pride in what I do, which is helping those who cannot help themselves.”