The Judas Strain - James Rollins [203]
All because of him.
He had almost lost it in the hospital.
What security could he offer his parents if he continued? The Guild certainly knew who he was, where to find his folks. The only way to keep them safe was to resign. Painter tried to assure him that the Guild would back off. That retribution and retaliation were not their methods. In future missions, Painter had assured Gray his parents would be secured before he left.
But some missions came crashing up your driveway in a motorcycle.
There was no way to plan against that.
“Gray,” his father pressed, “what you do is important. You can’t let worries about us stop you.”
“Dad…”
He lifted his hand. “I’ve said my piece. You make your own decision. I have to figure out if I like these rims or not.”
Gray started to turn away.
His father reached out, grabbed his shoulder, and pulled him into a one-armed hug. He gave him one squeeze—then pushed him away a bit. “Go see what your mother is burning for breakfast.”
Gray crossed to the back door and met his mother coming out.
“Oh, Gray, I just got off the phone with Kat. She said you were heading over there this morning.”
“Before I go to the office. I have some of Monk’s stuff on the front porch. Dad’s letting me borrow the T-bird so I can run some errands for Kat this afternoon, too.”
“I know the funeral isn’t for another two days, but I have some pies. Could you take those over, too?”
“Pies?” Gray asked doubtfully.
“Don’t worry. I bought them from the bakery down the street. Oh, and I have some toys for Penelope. I found this cute jumper with elephants and…”
He just kept nodding, knowing eventually his mother would stop.
“How is Kat holding up?” she finally finished.
Gray shook his head. “Good days and bad.”
Mostly bad.
His mother sighed. “Let me get those pies. Last time I saw Kat she was thin as a rail, that poor girl.”
Gray soon had a paper grocery bag stacked with boxed pies. He headed through the house to the front porch. He pushed outside and crossed to the stack of boxes. They contained everything from Monk’s locker and a few things kept at Gray’s apartment.
Gray also had a box to take to the funeral home. Ryder Blunt, the billionaire, had returned Monk’s prosthetic hand, having to cut through the wing strut of his seaplane to free it. Kat had refused to even look at it. And Gray didn’t blame her. But she did ask that the hand be added to the empty casket that would be lowered into Arlington National Cemetery. They were each supposed to also bring tokens of remembrances to include in the casket.
Gray had found a copy of Monk’s favorite movie. The man had left it at Gray’s apartment after a pizza-and-popcorn night. Sound of Music. Monk knew all the words, singing along as he bounced Penelope on his knee. Monk had the biggest heart of any man he knew.
He would’ve made a great father.
Gray crossed to the porch swing. He pulled out his letter of resignation folded into threes, crumpled a bit. He straightened the crinkles between his thumb and forefinger. He wished he could talk to Monk about this.
As he sat, he heard something scratching among the boxes.
The neighborhood squirrels were fearless.
Oh, damn, the pies…
Gray got up and crossed to the stack. But the noise wasn’t coming from the bag of pies. He frowned. He shifted around until he found the right box.
What the hell?
Gray removed the top.
Painter hadn’t only commissioned the repair to his father’s leg and trashed T-bird. He had not wanted to send Monk’s hand into the ground all charred. So he had the prosthesis meticulously restored. It rested in a foam mold.
Only now one of the fingers was digging at the foam.
Gray lifted the hand. The index finger wiggled in the air. Gray felt a shudder pass through him. What if Kat had seen this?
Must be a short