The Judas Strain - James Rollins [198]
Painter freed his hand, put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close. His other hand found hers again. He knew where her heart lay at the moment. His voice dropped to a soft rumble, setting aside some of his playfulness.
“You heard we were interviewing all the survivors of the Mistress of the Seas.”
She didn’t answer, just slid her arm around his waist. She knew the news to come was bad.
The island was still under quarantine, a joint venture between Australia and the United States. Australian commandos had been able to orchestrate a massive evacuation of the ship as it burned and sank. Most of the Guild’s work now rested a thousand feet underwater, a new addition to the deepwater home of the predatory squids. It made diving on the wreck extremely dangerous. The squids had been classified as a new species of Taningia, granted the name Taningia tunis in the memory of Susan’s husband.
Yesterday Lisa had spoken over the phone with Henri and Jessie at the refugee camp on Pusat. They had survived, managing to protect most of the patients and WHO staff, aided by the cannibals during the chaos. Everyone was now undergoing treatment, and so far, faring well. The only exceptions were those few who had passed into a full maddened rave. The brain damage appeared permanent. Most of the afflicted had died when the ship sank. Not a single member of the Guild team made it off the ship alive.
Except perhaps one.
Jessie had told Lisa a story of the evacuation. He had come upon a padlocked hold. He heard children crying inside. He had broken through in time to rescue the children, who told the story of a strange angel who came and gathered them all together, locking them up out of harm’s way. This angel had then led a group of the ravening patients away from the hold, using herself as bait.
The children had described their angel.
Flowing black hair, dressed in silk, silent as the grave.
Surina.
She had vanished away.
Painter continued. “We interviewed everyone in camp.”
“About Monk,” she whispered.
“One of the WHO doctors had been hiding out on the ship’s deck. He had binoculars. He watched your escape in the Sea Dart. Through binoculars, he saw Monk fall, witnessed the net dropping over him, dragging him down.” Painter paused to take a tired breath. “He never resurfaced.”
Lisa closed her eyes. She felt something burst inside, spreading a burning acid through her veins, weakening her. A part of her still had been hoping…some thin chance…It was why she had knelt outside before one of the Buddhas.
She had been praying he was still alive.
“He’s gone,” she murmured, fully admitting it to herself.
Oh, Monk…
Lisa hugged tight to Painter. Her tears soaked through his shirt. Fingers clenched to him as she assured herself with his physicality. “Have you told Kat yet?” she mumbled, resting her cheek against his chest.
Painter remained silent.
Lisa felt him tremble.
He had.
She pulled his hand from her shoulder and kissed his palm.
He spoke in a whisper, coarse and deep. “Don’t you ever leave me.”
Lisa remembered why she had gone on this mission. To evaluate her life outside of Painter’s shadow. To get some perspective as their lives merged together, professionally and personally.
She had learned her answer.
From cannibal attacks to the tortures of madmen.
She knew she was strong enough to stand alone.
But…
She leaned up, kissing his lips, whispering.
“This is where I belong.”
12:02 P.M.
GRAY CROSSED DOWN the hospital’s garden path. He had changed into jeans, boots, and an untucked shirt with a tropical print. It was good to be in regular clothes, to shed the hospital gowns. It also felt good to be outside, under the sun, though his lungs still felt heavy and the bright light stung his sensitive eyes. He was still healing, but his restless energy after a week indoors had built to an edgy irritation.
His pace quickened, his stride lengthening. He had circled the entire garden, full around the building. He