The Judas Strain - James Rollins [82]
“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.
2:02 A.M.
Washington, D.C.
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?
Painter knew better. Gray would not use his parents like that. He would get them to hole up anonymously and lay low. Nothing more. Something was wrong here. No one had seen the elderly couple leave.
And then there was the question of the missing deliveryman.
Painter shoved through the stairwell door and into the lobby.
The night manager nodded to him, wringing his hands. “I have the security footage from the lobby pulled and waiting.”
Painter was led into the manager’s back office. A television with a built-in VCR stood atop a filing cabinet.
“Key it to an hour ago,” Painter said, checking his watch.
The manager started the tape and fast-forwarded to the time-stamped hour. The lobby was deserted, except