Depends on how you kill someone. He took a quick glance at the cedar beams crisscrossing the white plaster barrel ceiling, half expecting lightning to strike him dead. But if God was going to punish him for his blasphemy, it would’ve happened the second he’d walked into the church.
The hard wood of the pew dug into his back, a painful reminder of his childhood. Stained-glass windows lined the sides of the church just like in the one his mother used to drag him to when she’d pray for his soul. But no amount of begging had kept him from being swept into a life of power, money, and—his eyes landed on the simple wooden urn—death.
In the middle of two large vases of flowers and three floral wreaths was a photo of Arthur Conway. According to the small piece of cardstock in his hand, Arthur was “eighty-five, a loving grandfather, father, and husband to Michiko. A physicist from UC Berkeley, Arthur ‘Artie’ Conway played an integral role in the progress of science.”
The progress of science.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, covering the scoff before it could draw attention to him. An understatement if there ever was one. Arthur Conway did more than that, and as of a few weeks ago was healthy aside from the dementia that had overtaken his mind in the last six months. Or so it seemed.
The modest oak box didn’t only hold the cremated remains of Arthur Conway. It held a piece of the puzzle in a decades-old game of power.
The pastor continued the eulogy, his words echoing off the gray stone walls of the Eighth Street Church and cushioned only by the occasional sniffle coming from the family sitting four rows in front of him.
Of the three people sitting there, only one truly interested him.
Elinor Mitchell. Twenty-nine. Her shoulder-length hair was twisted into an elegant knot at the base of her neck. Somewhere nearby an air-conditioning vent blew cool air, causing the loose pieces of her chocolate-brown hair to dance along her neckline. She’d chosen a charcoal-gray pencil skirt and a deep burgundy silk blouse instead of the traditional black attire. Smart choice. The jewel tone highlighted her creamy complexion and made her green eyes sparkle like emeralds. Or was that the tears?
“How long do these things last?”
The whispered question came from the woman sitting next to him. The strong scent of her perfume was more suited for a night on the town, but who was he to complain. He sent her a look that made her lips purse into a coy smile. Maybe he’d treat her to dinner—a small distraction in the plan wouldn’t hurt.
He scanned those in attendance as the pastor continued to offer platitudes of comfort to the family. He was at least several decades younger than most, putting them as either neighbors or friends of Arthur, but there were a few who fueled his curiosity. He’d overheard two women sitting in the second row talking about returning to Jefferson Oaks, the assisted living facility where Arthur Conway had resided. Probably his nurses. There were two couples who spent several minutes chatting with Elinor’s parents before the service started. Friends?
The pipe organ bellowed, and the people rose to their feet. He took the opportunity to shoot a quick glance behind him before he stood. His eyes stopped on a man across the aisle two rows back. He stood at the edge of the row, hands clasped in front of him as he sang. Besides the custom-tailored suit, nothing stood out to him and yet . . .
Picking up a white book from the back of the pew, he carelessly flipped it open. His eyes drifted to the domed fixture in the upper corner of the church ceiling. A camera. There was another across from it and a few, he’d noticed, at the entrance of the church. It wouldn’t take much to hack into the system and download the footage. Find out who the man was and why it mattered.
At the moment, the only person he should be interested in was Elinor.
Her shoulders slumped just slightly as she dabbed a tissue to the corner of her eyes. When she had walked in with her parents, he sensed hesitation but didn’t know what to read into it. Was it due to losing someone she loved . . . or was it something else?
The music slowed to a stop, bringing everyone back to their seats. He gave his watch a subtle glance. They would be waiting for his call.
As the pastor invited friends up to speak about the departed, he kept his ears attuned to anything that might be a clue. Unfortunately, when they were done, the only thing he learned was not to go fishing without a charged cell phone battery. Useless.
Agitation began to unfurl in his chest. Time was wasting and—
“Elinor” —the pastor’s introduction interrupted his thoughts— “Arthur Conway’s granddaughter, would like to say a few words on her family’s behalf.”
He sat up straighter, attention glued to the woman as she rose from her seat and walked to the podium next to the pastor. He gave her an encouraging nod before stepping aside.
Rolling back her shoulders, Elinor unfolded a piece of paper and looked out over the church. She seemed to be making eye contact with everyone, and he forced himself not to shrink back as her gaze moved past him. Or had it paused? Curious?
A trickle of sweat slipped down his spine just as she started to speak.
“On behalf of my family, we want to thank you all for coming today. My grandfather was a well-lived man. He always told me that. Said that when his time came, he’d be ready. I didn’t realize I wouldn’t be.” She sniffled. “I spent many years in the care of my grandfather, and while my fifteen-year-old self didn’t appreciate the many, many, many hours of nuclear theory stories, I did learn to appreciate his sense of humor, generous spirit, and faith. And oddly, I even learned to appreciate disco.”
A few chuckles spread through the church. Even from this distance, her natural beauty stood out. Unlike the woman who’d edged closer to him in the last several minutes, bringing his gaze to her skirt that was hiked a little too high on her long legs. When would women realize the thrill was in the chase?
“I felt like he could explain almost anything to me. Almost. There were many times he’d start a story and I would get lost in the magnitude of his brilliance. But he never stopped trying to explain—” Her voice caught. She swallowed, pressing the curled edges of the paper flat. “He encouraged my curiosity, encouraged me to keep asking questions. So you can imagine how it felt to realize the very person I should’ve been asking questions of was my very own grandfather.” She gave a half smile. “There was so much I didn’t know about him, but it’s like he’s still encouraging me to learn.”
The polished wood beneath him creaked, and he realized he’d begun leaning forward. Anxious to find out what Arthur Conway wanted his granddaughter to know about him.
“I took for granted the time I had with my grandfather, but I’m blessed to know that he gifted me a way to read his words. It gives me comfort that every time I open one of his notebooks, it feels like he’s right there with me, sparking my curiosity and teaching me.”
His attention snagged on Elinor’s words. Notebooks. There were more? His agitation swiftly morphed into anxious energy. He pressed his palm to his knee to keep it from bouncing.
Constance and Peter Mitchell, Elinor’s parents, shifted. Were they uncomfortable with Elinor’s emotional words? What he knew of them, they spent very little time in the US and even less time with their only daughter. It made sense that any of Arthur’s belongings would be passed to Elinor. He’d basically raised her.
And yet Arthur seemed to have kept some things from his granddaughter. She’d only recently learned he worked at Los Alamos National Labs, one of the most top-secret facilities in the US, when she’d found a photo stashed away in a notebook.
What else would she find in those notebooks? What had Arthur left behind for her to learn? The information he’d known . . . the role he’d played . . . he had to have known the danger it presented to himself and his loved ones. Did Arthur Conway knowingly put his granddaughter’s life in jeopardy?
He would find out.
Bzzt. Bzzt.
His cell phone vibrated in his coat pocket, and he pulled it out. It was a message with a photo of a dark-skinned Middle Eastern man with thick black hair hanging low over his eyes. Four words were typed beneath it:
The ISA is here.
It didn’t surprise him that Iran was now involved. It ticked him off. In Elinor’s zealous excitement, she shared her discovery with the world. A deadly mistake?
It was for Ralph Bouchard.
A week ago, Ralph’s body had been discovered, and an investigation was already underway. Elinor had unknowingly fired the gunshot that started the race. A deadly one. It wouldn’t be long before they learned about Elinor.
She shared in Arthur Conway’s brilliance. Graduating from Georgia Tech summa cum laude was enough to warrant the interest of major aerospace companies like Lockheed Martin and Raytheon, but in the end she chose Lepley Dynamics.
And in the last few years, her work had secured several multimillion-dollar contracts that made her very valuable to the company . . . but would that keep her alive?
He eyed his target. If she had the answers—maybe. Otherwise, Elinor was the one in danger of feeling death’s sting next.
Elinor finished speaking and returned to her seat as the pastor offered a concluding prayer. Elinor and her parents stood as the fifty or so guests formed a line to offer their condolences. If he left now, it could elicit unwanted attention. He stood, swinging a quick glance over his shoulder. The man from earlier was gone. Interesting.
He took his place next to the woman, and leaning over her shoulder, he whispered, “They say death makes you take stock of what’s most important in life.”
She barely glanced back. “That’s true.”
Oh, now she was playing the game? He stepped closer to her, nearly choking on her perfume. “Do you know what’s important to me?”
The shudder that raced down her body was almost imperceptible, but from this angle he caught the edge of her full lips pull into a smile for a second. They stepped forward with the line and were only a few feet away from Elinor and her family.
“Are you going to keep me waiting?”
He pressed his hand to the small of her back and leaned in. “Twenty-four ounces of melt-in-your-mouth beef at Ted’s.”
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out just enough to see the new message. He stared at Elinor’s photo before his gaze slipped to the price beneath her name. Jaw clenching, he slid the phone back into his pocket.
“Are you asking me—”
“Another time.”
He kept his voice low, eyes fixed on Elinor. He could see the shadow beneath her eyes. The brave attempt to smile and assure those talking with her about her grandfather that she would be okay. She had no idea she’d just become a pawn in the game of life.
They had started with five. Two were dead, but now . . . with Elinor . . . there were four, again.
Approaching her, he knew it wouldn’t take much. A little pressure, a little discomfort, and people were quick to talk. Quick to reveal their deepest secrets. And if Elinor had one, he’d find out.