James Rollins - THE DEVIL COLONY

"It's okay, Dad. Let's go inside."

He sagged, wobbling a bit on his bad leg. "I need a beer."

"We'll get you one."

Gray guided him toward the rear door to the house. His mother hung back, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Seichan stood a few paces off, unsure, uncomfortable.

His mother's gaze, brimming with tears, found her face. "I couldn't stop him," she said, needing to explain to someone. "He woke up all agitated. Thought he was back in Texas and was late for work. Then he came out here. I thought he was going to cut his hand off."

Seichan took a step toward her, but she had no words to comfort the distraught woman. Seeming to sense this, Gray's mother ran her fingers through her hair, took a deep steadying breath, seeming to draw a bit of steel into her back. Seichan had seen Gray do the same many times before, recognizing at this moment the true source of his resiliency.

"I should help Gray get him back to bed." She headed toward the house, crossing close enough to reach out and squeeze Seichan's hand. "Thank you for coming. Gray always shoulders too much alone. It's good that you're here."

His mother headed toward the door, leaving Seichan in the yard. She rubbed the squeezed hand, still warm from the touch. She felt an inexplicable tightness in her chest. Even this small bit of inclusion, this bit of familial closeness, unnerved her.

At the door, Harriet turned toward her. "Do you want to wait inside?"

Seichan backed away. She pointed toward the front of the house. "I'll be on the porch," she said.

"I'm sure it won't be long." With a small, sad smile of apology, she let the door close behind her.

Seichan stood a moment longer, then crossed back to the garage, needing to do something to steady herself. She turned off the light, pulled closed the door, then headed to the front of the house. She climbed the porch and sank onto a bench, bathed in lamplight from the front parlor. She felt exposed, her body limned against such brightness, but no one was about. The avenue remained dark and empty-yet so inviting. She had a momentary desire to flee. The streets were her only true home.

Eventually the lights in the house began to go off, one by one. She heard muffled voices but could not make out the words. It was the slow rumble of family. She waited, trapped between the emptiness of the street and the warmth of the home.

At last, a final light blinked off, sinking the yard into shadows. She heard footsteps; the door opened to the side. Gray came out, letting loose a long sigh.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

He shrugged. What else was there to say? He came and joined her. "I'd like to stick around for another half hour or so. Make sure everything stays quiet. I can call you a taxi."

"And go where?" she asked, letting a little black humor blunt the grimness.

Gray sat down next to her, leaning back. He remained silent for a long moment before speaking again. "They call it sundowner's syndrome," he said, plainly venting, or maybe he was trying to make sense of it himself, to give his pain a name. "Dementia symptoms get worse at night for some Alzheimer's patients. Don't really know why. Some say its hormonal changes that occur at night. Others that it's an unloading of the day's accumulated stress and sensory stimulation."

"How often does this happen?"

"Getting to be regular now. Three or four times a month. But he should be fine for the rest of the night. Outbursts like this seem to exhaust him. He should sleep well. And once the sun's up, he does much better."

"And you come out here every time?"

Again that shrug. "As often as I can."

A silence settled over them. Gray looked off into the distance, likely into the future. She suspected he was pondering how long he could keep it up on his own.

Sensing a distraction might do him good, Seichan turned the conversation toward their other problem. "Any word from your partner?"

Gray shook his head. His voice grew firmer; he was on steadier ground with this subject. "No calls. It'll probably take until morning for the archivists to do a thorough search. But I think I figured out why that letter-the one from Franklin to that French scientist-turned up amid all the Guild activity of late."

She sat straighter. It had cost her much, came close to exposing her, to retrieve a copy of that letter.

"According to what you told me," he said, "Franklin's note surfaced twelve days ago."

"That's right."

"That was just after the cave was discovered out in Utah."

"You mentioned that before, but I still don't see the connection."

"I think the crux comes down to two words found in Franklin's letter. Pale Indians ."

She shook her head, remembering the line from the letter. She'd read the translation enough times to memorize it.

With those deaths, all who had knowledge of the Great Elixir and the Pale Indians have pass'd into the hands of Providence.

She still didn't understand. "So?"

Gray shifted closer on the bench, as if physically trying to make his point. "Just after the discovery, an investigation began to identify the mummified remains found inside that cavern. Native American groups were claiming rights over the bodies, but ownership was in dispute, as the remains appeared more Caucasian in appearance."

"Caucasian?"

" Pale Indians," Gray stressed. "If the Guild-Franklin's old enemy-was involved in the past with some matter concerning white-skinned Indians, the sudden discovery of a cave full of such mummified remains, along with their relics, would certainly draw them out. Back then, Franklin and Jefferson were clearly searching for something, something that they believed threatened the new union. Apparently their enemy was after it, too."

"And if you're right, they're still after it," she added. "So what do you think? Did the Guild cause that blast out in Utah?"

"I don't think so. But either way, I've got to brief Director Crowe. If I'm right, he's stepping into the middle of a centuries-old war."

May 30, 11:33 P.M.

Provo, Utah

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness in the lab, Kai slipped her wrist from her uncle's grip. A weak glow flowed in from the hallway, coming from illuminated emergency signs.

She searched the maze of the dark lab, ready to run. It was her first means of defense. Passed among foster homes, she had quickly learned to read the warning signs around her. It was vital to survival, to sense the mood, to know when to walk warily and when to stand your ground in homes where you were unwanted or barely tolerated.

Professor Kanosh rose up from one knee, where he'd been calming his dog, Kawtch. "Maybe it's just an ordinary power outage," he offered.

Kai latched onto that hope but knew it was desperation. She looked to her uncle for some reassurance.

Instead, Painter crossed to a desktop phone and lifted the receiver. Kai flashed to the old stereotype of an Indian pressing his ears to the ground to listen for signs of danger. This was a modern version of that.

"No dial tone," he said, and replaced the receiver. "Somebody cut the lines."

She crossed her arms, holding tightly. So much for that hope...

Painter turned to the big man he'd come here with and pointed to the lab's door. "Kowalski, watch the hall. Be ready to barricade the door if necessary."

The hulking man moved to the exit, sweeping aside his long jacket to reveal a shotgun strapped to his leg. Kai was familiar enough with guns from her hunting days with her father, but there was something odd about the weapon, especially the extra shells mounted on the gun's butt. They were spiked at one end. Still, the sight of the shotgun made the situation all the more real. Her heart began to pound harder in her throat, her senses stretching to a keening edge.