hosts: cattle, snail, and ant. But what it does in the
“And that is?”
“Inside the ant, the fluke controls the insect’s nerve centers, changes its behavior. Specifically, whenever the sun sets, the fluke compels the ant to climb a blade of grass, lock its mandible, and wait to be eaten by a grazing cow. If not eaten, the ant returns to its nest at sunrise — only to repeat the same thing again the next night. The fluke literally drives the ant like its own little car.”
“And you think the virus is doing that?” Devesh said.
“Possibly in some manner. But I mostly bring this up to remind you how insidious nature can be in finding territory to exploit. And the brain, sterile and off-limits, is certainly virgin territory. Nature will try to exploit it, like the fluke with the ant.”
“Brilliant. Definitely an angle to pursue. But there may be a fly in that particular ointment.” Devesh returned to the computer. He had been uploading a Quicktime video. “I mentioned that the virus has been penetrating into the cerebrospinal fluid of all the patients that survived the initial bacterial assault. Here is what happens when it does.”
He clicked the play button.
A silent video began to run. Two white-smocked men struggled to strap down a writhing naked man, his head shaved, wires running from electrodes attached to skull and chest. He fought, snarling and frothing. Though he was plainly debilitated, with sores and blackened boils, one arm ripped free of the tied cuffs. A clawed hand raked one of the restrainers. The patient then reared up and bit deep into the same man’s forearm.
The video ended.
Devesh switched off the monitor. “We’re already getting reports of similar manic responses from some of the patients, those earliest exposed.”
“It could be another form of catatonia. Catatonic
Devesh stood and turned back to the hospital bed. “Two sides of the same coin,” he mumbled, and studied the prone woman.
“The man in the video,” Lisa asked. She had noted the background in the video. The film had not been taken aboard the cruise ship. “Who was he?”
Devesh nodded sadly toward the bed. “Her husband.”
Lisa tensed at the revelation. She stared at the woman sprawled on the bed.
“The pair were exposed at the same time,” Devesh said. “Found on a yacht that had become grounded on a reef near Christmas Island. Your John Doe below, with the flesh-eating disease, must have swum to shore. We recovered these two, still aboard the yacht. Too weak, near to death.”
So that was how the Guild first learned about all this.
Devesh nodded to the woman. “Which of course begs the question, Why did her husband have a complete schizoid breakdown, while our patient here is on the way to healing her external wounds and remains happily complacent and catatonic? We believe a possible cure for everyone lies in that answer.”
Lisa did not argue. She was no fool. Despite what Devesh claimed, Lisa knew the Guild’s operation was not motivated by altruistic reasons. Their search for a cure was not to save the world. They had plans for this virus, but before they could utilize it, they needed to fully understand it. To develop an antidote or cure. And in this regard, Lisa was not at cross-purposes with the Guild. A cure
Devesh turned on a heel and headed toward the door. “You’ve made excellent progress, Dr. Cummings. I commend you. But tomorrow is another day. And we’ll need more progress.” He glanced back at her, one eyebrow raised. “Is that understood?”
She nodded.
“Most excellent.” He paused again. “Oh, and our cruise ship’s esteemed owner, Sir Ryder Blunt, has invited everyone for afternoon cocktails in his suite. A small celebration.”
“Celebration for what?”
“A welcome as we come into port,” Devesh explained, gathering up his cane. “We’re almost home.”
Lisa was in no mood to toast such an event. “I have much work here.”
“Nonsense. You’ll come. It won’t take long, and it will help recharge your batteries. Yes, the matter is settled. I’ll have Rakao escort you. Please wear something appropriate.”
He left, Surina trailing in his wake.
Lisa shook her head as they departed.
She glanced back to the bed.
To Dr. Susan Tunis.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
For the woman’s husband and for what was to come.
Lisa remembered her earlier comparisons to the patient, how their two lives had followed similar paths. She pictured Susan’s husband, wild-eyed and feral. Reminded of her own love, she hugged her arms around herself and wished for the thousandth time that she was back home with Painter.
She had spoken to him again this morning. At another of their assigned debriefings. She knew better than to attempt any subterfuge this time, reporting all was well. Still, she had been in tears by the time she was yanked from the radio room.
She wanted his arms around her.
But there was only one way to make that happen.
To be useful.
She crossed to the tray of examination tools and picked up the ophthalmoscope. Before she proceeded to the cocktail party, she wanted to follow up with an aberration, something she had kept from Devesh.
Something that was surely impossible.
One step behind.
Painter descended the stairs two at a time toward the lobby of the Phoenix Park Hotel, too impatient even to wait for the elevator. A Sigma forensic team was still a floor above, sweeping room 334. He had left a pair of FBI field agents arguing with the local authorities.
A pissing contest for jurisdiction.
This was insanity.
Either way, Painter doubted any solid evidence would be found.
An hour ago he had been woken from a catnap in the dormitory of Sigma Command. One of their tracers had finally hit. An order for a prescription refill for Jackson Pierce. The Social Security number had matched. It was the first hit since Gray and company had fled the firebombed safe house. Painter had tagged all of Gray’s aliases, along with his parents’ names, coordinated through NSA’s tracking network.
Painter had sent out an emergency response team to the pharmacy while joining another team headed to the delivery address on the prescription. The Phoenix Park Hotel. The pharmacy had confirmed the order, but the delivery person had not yet returned. An attempt to reach him by cell phone had so far failed. The pharmacy had even tried calling the hotel, but no one picked up at the extension for the room.
Upon arriving here, Painter learned why. The room was deserted. Whoever was here had already bolted. The register was signed under Fred and Ginger Rogers, an elderly couple according to the desk clerk. They had checked in alone. And paid cash. Gray was apparently not with them. Besides which, Gray would not have made such a blatant mistake, ordering a refill, triggering an alert.
And if so, what made his parents make such a risky move? Harriet was a bright woman. The need must have been dire. So why didn’t they wait? What made them cut and run? Was it meant merely to misdirect? To send them all along a false trail?
