“Or at least to discover its source,” Gray added.
Vigor stared out toward the city, his face limned against the rising sun. “And there are other unanswered questions. What became of Father Agreer? What scared the papacy?”
But Gray had a more important question of his own. “Exactly where in Indonesia did this new outbreak happen?”
“At a remote island, luckily far from any large population.”
“Christmas Island,” Gray filled in.
Seichan’s eyes widened in surprise.
Confirmation enough.
Gray shoved up. Everyone stared at him. Monk and Lisa had gone out to Christmas Island to investigate the same disease. They had no idea what they were about to confront — or of the Guild’s interest. Gray’s breathing grew heavier. He had to get word to Painter. But with Sigma compromised, would his alarm put his friends in more danger, paint a bull’s-eye on them?
He needed more information. “How far along is this Guild operation in Indonesia?”
“I don’t know. It was difficult learning what I did.”
“Seichan,” Gray growled at her.
Her eyes narrowed with concern. In his agitation, he almost believed it was genuine. “I…I truly don’t know, Gray. Why? What’s wrong?”
With a hard exhalation, Gray crossed to the railing, needing an extra second to think, to let everything he’d learned settle through him.
For the moment, he knew only one thing for certain.
He needed to get word to Washington.
Harriet Pierce struggled to calm her husband. It was especially difficult as he’d locked himself in the hotel bathroom. She pressed a cold damp rag to her split lip.
“Jack! Open the door!”
He had woken two hours ago, confused and disoriented. She had seen it before. Sundowner’s syndrome. Common with Alzheimer’s patients. A condition of heightened agitation after sunset, when the familiar surroundings become confusing in the dark.
And it was worse here. Away from home.
It didn’t help that the Phoenix Park Hotel was their second accommodation in less than twenty-four hours. First, Dr. Corrin’s apartment, and now here. But Gray had been firm when he whispered his good-byes and added a private instruction to her. Once Dr. Corrin left them at the apartment, she had been told to leave, cross the city, and check into another hotel, paying cash, using a false name.
An extra precaution.
But all the moving had only worsened Jack’s status. He had been off his Tegetrol mood stabilizer for a full day. And he had finished the last of his Propranolol, a blood pressure medication that reduced anxiety.
So it was no surprise that Jack had woken earlier in a panic, disoriented. The worst she had seen in months.
His shouts and heavy-footed blundering had woken her. She had inadvertently fallen asleep, seated in a chair in front of the hotel room’s small television. The channel had been tuned to Fox News. She had the volume on low, just loud enough to hear if Gray’s name was mentioned again.
Startled awake by her husband’s shout, she had hurried to the bedroom. A foolish mistake. One didn’t surprise a patient in his state. Jack had slapped her away, striking her in the mouth. With his blood up, it took him a full half minute to recognize her.
When he finally did, he had retreated to the bathroom. She’d heard his sobbing. It was the reason he had locked the door.
Pierce men didn’t cry.
“Jack, open the door. It’s okay. I’ve called a prescription into the pharmacy down the street. It’s all right.”
Harriet knew it was a risk, calling in the prescription. But she couldn’t take Jack to a hospital, and if untreated, his dementia would only grow worse. And his shouting threatened to draw the wrath of the hotel’s management. What if they called the police?
With no choice, her teeth aching from the blow, she had made a decision. Using the phone book, she had called a twenty-four-hour pharmacy that delivered and ordered a refill. Once the medication arrived and her husband was treated, she would check out, move to a new hotel, and disappear again.
The doorbell chimed behind her.
Oh, thank God.
“Jack, that’s the pharmacy. I’ll be right back.”
She rushed out of the bedroom and across to the front door. Reaching for the dead bolt, she paused. She leaned forward instead and peeked through the door’s peephole. It offered a fish-eye view of the hallway. A lone woman, black hair cut into a bob, stood outside the door. She wore a white jacket with the pharmacy logo on the lapel and carried a white paper bag, stapled with a clutch of receipt.
The woman reached out of view. The bell chimed again. The woman checked her watch and began to step away.
Harriet called through the door. “Hold for a moment!”
“Swan Pharmacy,” the woman called back.
To be extra cautious, Harriet crossed to the telephone on an entryway table. She caught a look at herself in the wall mirror above it. She looked haggard, a melted wax candle of a woman. She tapped the button on the phone and rang the front desk in the lobby.
It was answered immediately.
“Phoenix Park. Front desk.”
“This is room 334. I wanted to confirm a pharmacy delivery.”
“Yes, ma’am. I checked her credentials three minutes ago. Is there a problem?”
“No. Not at all. I just wanted—”
A crash sounded from the bedroom behind her, followed by a spat of cursing. Jack had finally opened the bathroom door.
The receptionist spoke in her ear. “Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am.”
“No. Thank you.” She hung up the phone.
“Harriet!” her husband called, a note of distress behind the anger.
“I’m here, Jack.”
The doorbell chimed again.
Frazzled, Harriet undid the door’s dead bolt, hoping Jack would not fuss about taking his pills. She pulled open the door.
The delivery woman lifted her face, smiling — but there was no warmth, only a feral amusement. A shock of recognition froze Harriet. It was the woman who had attacked them at the safe house. Before Harriet could move, the woman kicked the door the rest of the way open.
Startled, the edge struck Harriet in the shoulder and knocked her into a stumbling fall onto the hard tile. She tried to absorb the impact with an outstretched arm — but her wrist exploded under her with a sharp snap. Fiery pain shot up her arm.
Gasping out, half on her hip, she rolled away.
Jack stalked out of the bedroom, only in his boxers.
“Harriet…?”
Still addled, Jack took too long to register the situation.
The woman stepped over the threshold and raised a thick-barreled pistol. She pointed the weapon at Jack. “Here’s your medication.”
“No,” Harriet moaned.
The woman pulled the trigger. A snapping pop of electricity exploded from the barrel. Something spat past Harriet’s ear, trailing wire. It struck Jack in the bare chest, sparking and crackling blue in the dim light.
Taser.
He gagged, arms flying out — and crashed backward.
He didn’t move.
In the stunned silence a Fox News announcer whispered from the half-muted television: “Metro police are still continuing a manhunt for Grayson Pierce, wanted in connection to the arson and bombing of a local D.C. home.”
Alone at the roof rail Gray struggled to think of some secure channel to communicate to Washington. About the dangers at Christmas Island. He would have to be circumspect, some private communication that would not spread beyond Painter. But how? Who was to say that the Guild was not monitoring all manner of communication?