Peter was too stunned to answer.
“Your work is critical. Political disagreements shouldn’t get in the way of national security,” Whitaker said. “Here’s what I’m prepared to offer.”
“General,” Peter said, “I don’t?—”
“I make a point of never turning down a proposition until I hear what it is. I recommend you do the same.”
He considered saying there was no offer the Pentagram could make that he would accept. But that seemed unnecessarily combative.
“Very good,” Whitaker said into the silence. “Now: If you don’t want it known that you’ve returned, I will personally ensure that it remains closely guarded information. You can work with anyone of your choosing, or no one. You will be allocated reds to commute directly from your home.”
Whitaker paused just long enough for Peter to open his mouth, but not long enough for him to get out a “no thank you.”
“Also, we will cover any outstanding hospital bills you may have,” Whitaker said.
Peter grabbed onto the counter for support. “What?”
“If you have any bills from your hospital stay, we will pay them. Yours and your wife’s, naturally.”
The general paused. Peter’s heart thudded in his ears.
“I don’t want an answer now,” the man said. “Sleep on it, Blackwell. I’ll call back tomorrow morning at nine sharp.”
Click.The line went dead.
He stood there, phone in hand, until it began squawking at him and he came back to his senses. He hung up, reminding himself that he couldn’t accept the offer. Obviously, he couldn’t. Just for starters, he wasn’t capable of holding down a job meant for a qualified wizard, for God’s sake.
Except … he wouldn’t have to cast. He could design the spells and have someone else cast them, a wizard of his choosing. He could insist that somebody ferry him to and from work—plenty of wizards had trouble with teleportation.
He shook his head to clear it. No,no, he refused to go back. The only thing worse than not figuring out a way to neutralize his weapon was to reconvene his earlier work to make it more deadly. If he stayed out of there, the spells on the sabotaged duplicate he’d left them would degrade, theywould recast using the plans he’d altered, and then, at least, the weapon’s explosive capability would shrink.
Except … Beatrix would be overwhelmed with debt that wasn’t her fault. Rosemarie and Lydia might end up homeless. The women could move in with them for now, but how long would that last when they couldn’t afford the brewing ingredients they needed to justify their use of the omnimancer’s house?
He retreated to the attic and sat on the floor, in the room where he’d failed to defeat the weapon, and considered accepting the job. He turned it over and over in his mind until he could see himself doing it. Then he considered that Beatrix might rather face ruin than watch him go back to that work.
Yes, that was possible. Likely, even. But it was just as likely that she would come to regret it, because she had never experienced the level of poverty he had.
Ought he to protect her interests by accepting first and telling her afterward?
Would she forgive him if he did?
Therat-tat-tat-tat-tatof assertive knocking on the front door brought him out of his miserable reverie. He met Beatrix on the stairs and walked the last flight down with her, saying nothing and getting nothing in turn, because “good morning” would hardly be accurate. But she took his hand, grip tight.
“It’s Hickok,” she said, looking out the peephole.
He groaned. Not now. No. He couldn’t bear the thought of an interview, not even one conducted by a reporter he liked.
But Beatrix had already opened the door. “Hello?”
“You look rather surprised to see me.” Hickok stepped inside, lips turning up in an ironic smile. “You didn’t think it would be a sufficient enticement? I almost came out last night just to find out what it was all about.”
He stared at her for a second before looking at Beatrix, who appeared just as befuddled.
“I’m going to take a wild guess, judging by your blank looks, that you had no idea Sue Clark called me,” Hickok said dryly.
“No, none,” Beatrix murmured.
He bit back a few choice words. Why in the hell would Mrs. Clark think that what they required was media coverage of how their lives were falling apart?
