Gray reduced his pace so she could catch up to him. “We could’ve caught that cab.”
“Needed to stretch my legs. The more I keep moving, the faster I’ll heal.”
Gray wasn’t so sure that was the case. He’d overheard one of the doctors warning Seichan to take it easy. But he noted the feral glint behind that medicated glaze. She hadn’t liked being cooped up underground for two hours any better than he had. It was said sharks couldn’t breathe unless they were constantly moving. He suspected the same was true of her.
Together, they crossed Madison Drive. Her left foot slipped as she stepped from the curb. He caught her around the waist to keep her from falling. She swore, balanced herself, and began to push off of him — but he pulled her back, took her hand, and placed it on his shoulder.
“Just hold on.”
She started to lift her hand away, but he frowned at her. She sighed, and her fingers tightened on his shoulder. He kept his hand on the small of her back, under her open jacket, ready if she needed more help.
By the time they crossed the street and cut between the Natural History Museum and the National Gallery of Art, her grip was digging deep into his deltoids. He slid his hand around her waist, resting it under her rib cage to support her.
“Next time, the cab…” she gasped out, offering him a small grin as she limped along.
At the moment Gray was selfishly glad they had walked. She leaned heavily against him. He smelled the peach scent of her hair, mixed with something richer, almost spicy from her damp skin. And down deeper, he was enough of a primitive male to appreciate this rare moment of weakness, of her need for him.
Her pressed his hand harder against her, feeling the heat of her body through her blouse, but such intimacy did not last long.
“Thank God we’re almost there,” she said, leaning away but keeping one hand on his shoulder for balance.
The National Archives Building rose ahead of them. They were to meet the curator and his assistant down in the research room. Shortly after reaching Sigma, Gray had had a photocopy of the old journal’s pages hand-delivered to them. The original was safely secured in a vault at Sigma. They weren’t taking any chances with it.
Out on the street, Gray easily spotted the two agents assigned to watch the Archives. Another pair should be inside. They were keeping close track of even the photocopies.
As he helped Seichan with the steps, his phone jangled in his pocket. He reached in and pulled it out enough to check the caller ID. He’d left Monk with Kat. The pair was overseeing events in Iceland, trying to determine if they’d triggered another Laki eruption. But as was the case in Utah, the heat of the eruption likely killed the nano-nest out there, but would that exploding archipelago lead to another global catastrophe like the one Fortescue had witnessed?
As it turned out, the call was not from Monk, but from Gray’s parents’ home phone. He’d already talked to his mother after he’d landed in D.C., checking on his father after that bad night. As usual, his dad was fine the next morning, just his usual forgetful self.
He flipped it open and held the phone to his ear. “Mom?”
“No, it’s your dad,” he heard. “Can’t you tell from the sound of my voice?”
Gray didn’t bother to tell him he hadn’t said anything until then. He let it go. “What do you need, Dad?”
“I was calling to tell you… because of…” There was a long confused pause.
“Dad?”
“Just wait, dammit…” His father shouted to the side. “Harriet, why was I calling Kenny?”
His mother’s voice was faint. “What?”
“I mean Gray. Why was I calling Gray?”
Well, at least he got the name right.
He heard some jabbering in the background, his father’s voice growing gruffer and angrier. He had to stop this before it escalated.
“Dad!” he shouted into the phone.
People looked in his direction.
“What?” his father groused at him.
He kept his voice calm and even. “Hey, why don’t you just call me back? When you remember. That’ll be fine.”
“Okay, yeah, that sounds good. Just have a lot going on… ’s got me all messed up.”
“Don’t worry about it, Dad.”
“Okay, son.”
Gray flipped the phone closed.
Seichan stared at him, silently asking if everything was okay. Her hand had shifted from his shoulder to his hip, as if helping to hold him upright.
He pocketed the phone. “Just family stuff.”
Still, she stared a bit longer, as if trying to read him.
He pointed to the door. “Let’s go find out what Fortescue thought was so important that he had to hide his journal in Iceland.”
Seichan lowered herself onto one of the conference chairs, leaning her weight on her good hip and kicking her right leg straight out. She tried her best not to moan with relief.
Gray remained standing. She studied him, remembering the strained look on his face, the glimmer of fear in his eyes as he spoke with his father. There was no evidence of it now. Where had he bottled it away? How long could he keep doing that?
Still, he was in his element now, and for that she was relieved — almost as much as she was about the weight off her leg. But both their burdens would not stay away for long.
“So what can you tell me about Fortescue’s journal?” Gray asked.
Dr. Eric Heisman nodded vigorously as he paced the room. The space was even more of a shambles than before. Documents and books had trebled in number on the table. Someone had wheeled in another two microfiche readers from a neighboring research room. Other people in the building must be wondering what was going on in here, especially with the armed guard posted at the door. But considering all the valuable documents preserved in the Archives’ expansive vaults and helium-enriched enclosures, maybe the sight of a guard wasn’t that unusual.
Still, by now, Heisman looked more like a mad scientist than a museum curator. His shirt was rumpled, rolled to the elbows, and his white hair stuck up like a fright wig. But the impression came mostly from his eyes, red-rimmed and wired, shining with a fanatical zeal.
Again, though, the latter might have come from the pile of empty Starbucks coffee cups filling the room’s lone trash bin.
How long had the man been up?
“Truly astounding stuff in here,” Heisman said. “I don’t know where to begin. Where did you find it?”
Gray shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s classified, as is our conversation.”
He waved the words away. “I know, I know… Sharyn and I signed all the necessary documents for this temporary clearance.”
His assistant sat at the other end of the table. She hadn’t said a word when they’d entered. Her dark eyes merely lifted long enough from the photocopied pages to nod at them. At some point, she had changed out of her clingy black dress and into a smart blouse and casual slacks.
Wary, Seichan kept half an eye on her. There was nothing the woman had done to warrant suspicion, beyond her stunning looks, with her smooth skin, petite features, and flatironed black hair. What was someone so beautiful doing as a mere assistant to a curator in a vault of dusty manuscripts? This woman could easily be walking down a runway in Milan.
Seichan also didn’t like how Gray’s eyes lingered on her whenever she shifted in her seat, to turn a page, to jot a note.