Gray faced the others. “She’s right. They’re tightening the noose. We have to leave now.”
Kowalski confirmed this assertion. After being chastised by Gray’s mother, he had crossed to the lone window, peeking through the blinds. “Folks, we’ve got company.”
Gray joined him. The window faced the main hospital. The curve of the ambulance bay was visible. Four police cars careened into view, silent, lights twirling. Local authorities had begun canvassing hospitals.
Turning, he faced his mother’s former teaching assistant. “Dr. Corrin, we’ve asked much of you, but I’m afraid I must ask more. Can you get my parents somewhere safe?”
“Gray,” his mother said.
“Mom, no argument.” He kept his eyes on the doctor.
Corrin slowly nodded. “I own a few rentals. One off Dupont Circle is currently furnished but vacant. No one would think to look for your parents there.”
It was a good choice.
“And, Dad, Mom…no outside communication, use no credit cards.” He turned to Kowalski. “Can you watch over them?”
Kowalski sagged, plainly disappointed. “Not goddamn guard duty again.”
Gray started to order, but his mother cut him off. “We can take care of ourselves, Gray. Seichan is still in poor shape. You may need an extra pair of hands more than we will.”
“And the apartment building has around-the-clock security,” Dr. Corrin added, a bit too briskly. “Guards, cameras, panic alarms.”
Gray suspected the doctor’s support was less for his parents’ security than to keep Kowalski off his property. Even now, Dr. Corrin was careful to remain a few steps away from the man.
And his mother was right. With Seichan compromised, they might need the large man’s strength. He was Sigma’s muscle, after all. Might as well put him to work.
Kowalski must have read something in Gray’s expression. “About time.” He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get this party started then. First, we’ll need guns.”
“No, first we need a car.” Gray turned again to Dr. Corrin.
The doctor did not hesitate. He pulled out a key chain. “Doctor’s lot. Slot 104. A white Porsche Cayenne.”
He was more than happy to part with their company.
Another was not.
His mother hugged him hard and whispered in his ear. “Keep safe, Gray.” Her voice lowered to a breath. “And don’t trust her…not fully.”
“Don’t worry…” he said, agreeing to both.
“A mother always worries.”
Still in her arms, he whispered one final instruction, meant only for her ears. She nodded, and with a final squeeze, she let him go.
Gray turned to discover his father’s hand out. He shook it. It was their way. No hugs. He was from Texas. His father turned to Kowalski.
“Don’t let him do anything stupid,” he said.
“I’ll try my best.” Kowalski nodded to the door. “We ready?”
As he turned away, his father placed a hand on Gray’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, followed by a pat good-bye. It was as close to
Without another word, he led the others out.
“Still no word on Commander Pierce’s whereabouts,” Brant reported over his intercom.
Painter sat at his desk. The lack of news both disheartened and relieved him. Before he could analyze his own internal reaction, Brant continued.
“And Dr. Jennings has just arrived.”
“Send him in.”
Dr. Malcolm Jennings, head of R&D, had called half an hour ago, eager for a meeting, but Painter had to put him off because of the crisis at the safe house. Even now, Painter could only give him five minutes.
The door opened and Jennings strode into the office, a hand already up. “I know…I know you’re busy…but this couldn’t wait.”
Painter motioned to the seat before his desk.
The former forensic pathologist lowered his lanky frame into the chair, but he remained perched at its edge, plainly anxious. A file folder was clutched in his hand. Jennings, close to sixty years old, had been with Sigma since before Painter took over as director. He adjusted his glasses, whose half-moon lenses were tinged a slight shade of blue, better to prevent eyestrain during computer use. They also complemented his dark olive skin and graying hair, giving him a hip professorial air. But right now, the pathologist merely looked worn from the long night, though there remained a manic vein of excitement in his eyes.
“I assume this meeting is about the files Lisa transmitted from Christmas Island,” Painter began.
Jennings nodded and opened the folder. He slid over two photographs, gruesome shots of some man’s legs, riddled with what appeared to be gangrene. “I’ve gone through both the toxicologist’s and the bacteriologist’s notes. Here is a patient whose skin bacteria suddenly turned virulent, consuming the soft tissues of his own legs. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Painter studied the pictures, but before he could even ask a question, the doctor was back up on his feet, pacing.
“I know we initially classified the Indonesian disaster as a low-level priority, merely a fact-gathering operation. But after these findings, we need to upgrade. Immediately. I came here in person to petition for a promotion of the scenario to Status Critical Level Two.”
Painter sat straighter. Such a classification would mean diverting massive resources.
“We need more than two people poking around,” Jennings continued. “I want a full forensic team on the ground as soon as possible, even if we have to outsource with the general military.”
“And you don’t think this is jumping the gun? Monk and Lisa are due to touch base in”—Painter checked his watch—“in a little over three hours. We can strategize then, when we have more data.”
Jennings took off his glasses and rubbed a knuckle into an eye. “I don’t think you understand. If the preliminary conjectures by the toxicologist prove to be true, we may be facing an ecological disaster, one with the potential to alter the entire earth’s biosphere.”
“Malcolm, don’t you think you’re overstating your case? These results are preliminary. Most of it mere conjecture.” Painter waved to the photographs. “All this could just be a onetime toxic event.”
“Even if that were the case, I’d recommend firebombing that island and cordoning off the surrounding seas for several years.” He faced Painter. “And if this threat proves in any way transmissible, we’re talking about the potential for a global environmental meltdown.”
Painter gaped at the pathologist. Jennings was not one to cry wolf.
The doctor continued. “I’ve compiled all the necessary data and written a brief abstract to summarize. Read it and get back to me. The sooner the better.”
Jennings left his folder on Painter’s desk.
Painter placed a palm atop it and pulled it toward him. “I’ll do it now and get back to you in the next half hour.”
Jennings nodded, grateful and relieved. He turned to leave, but not before adding one last warning. “Keep in mind…we still don’t know for sure what killed the dinosaurs.”
With that sobering thought, the pathologist left his office. Painter’s eyes settled to the gruesome photographs still on his desk. He prayed Jennings was wrong. In all the commotion of the past hours, he had almost forgotten about the situation out in the Indonesian islands.
Almost.
All night long, Lisa had never been far from his mind.
But now new worries flared, ignited by the pathologist’s urgency. He tried not to let it rule him. Over the course of the morning, Lisa had not reported in again. Apparently nothing had escalated over there enough to
