James Rollins - Altar Of Eden

“You were just a child,” his mother had said, taking her hand. “You poor thing. Such a burden to bear all these years.”

The door to the room finally swung open, and a cluster of white coats and nurses flowed out. The neurologist came over. Lorna tried to read some clue from his face. Jack’s family joined her.

“We’ve taken him off the infusion,” the doctor explained with a sigh, “but we’re going to maintain a low-dose benzodiazepine drip as he wakes. We’ll also be monitoring his EEG and vitals.”

“Can we sit with him?” Lorna asked.

The doctor frowned at the large group. “One at a time.” He admonished them with a finger. “And not for too long.”

Lorna turned to the family.

Jack’s mother patted her arm. “You go on in, dear. You’re family now, too. Besides, if my boy wakes, he should see a pretty face first.”

Lorna wanted to argue, but she allowed herself this moment of selfishness.

She hugged Jack’s mother, then hurried through the door. Inside, a nurse stood by a bank of monitoring equipment. Lorna crossed and sat on a bedside chair. She had spent the night in that same seat, holding Jack’s hand, talking to him, praying.

She stared over at his pale face. She watched his chest rise and fall. Lines and tubes ran from under his sheets to machines that beeped and blinked. She leaned forward and took his hand.

“Jack…”

His hand twitched-causing her heart to jump. But was it in recognition or were the seizures starting again? Fearful, hopeful, she stood up, still grasping his hand. She leaned over him and stared down.

His chest rose heavily, then he sighed loudly.

His lids fluttered open, but his eyes remained rolled back.

“Jack,” she whispered down at him. She placed her other palm on his cheek. “Please…”

He blinked slowly-once, twice-then she found him staring back up at her. “Hey,” he whispered groggily.

She squeezed his hand. “Hey yourself.”

A ghost of a smile shadowed his lips. They just stared at each other. His eyes seemed to drink her in. Then his fingers tightened on hers with surprising strength. His expression became a mask of regret.

“What I said before…” he said hoarsely, his voice raw with exhaustion and maybe something more.

She stopped him. She understood the guilt buried in those two words.

Tom’s gone.

It had haunted both their lives, but it was time to free that ghost.

She leaned down, brushed her lips against his, and whispered into his breath. “But we’re here.”

Three months later, Jack was speeding down the waterway in his cousin’s airboat. The wind whipped his hair. His only companion, Burt, sat in the bow, his tongue lolling, his ears flapping. Jack guided the craft with deft ease and a light touch on the stick. He sat high in the pilot’s chair. The height allowed him to see over rushes, reeds, and bushes.

It felt good to get away from the city, from the station house. He was also tired of needles, rehabilitation appointments, and psychological tests. Besides a residual numbness in his left hand and the need to take a low-dose anticonvulsant tablet once a day, he had fully recovered.

Still, the best therapy of all could be found out here.

As the midday sun glared off the water he took a deep breath of the rich bayou air, heavy and humid, redolent with brackish water, yet sweetened by sedges and summer flowers.

As he raced deeper into the swamplands he again appreciated the stark and primeval beauty of these wide and trackless lands. He watched white-tailed deer bound away from the roar of his boat’s propellers. Alligators slipped deeper into nests. Raccoons and squirrels skittered up trees.

Rounding a bend, he slowed the airboat and let the engine die.

He needed a private moment to collect himself.

He let the boat gently rock as he listened to the life around him. Some considered the swamps to be a desolate and quiet place. That couldn’t be further from the truth. He closed his eyes, taking in the buzz of gnats, the chorus of frogs, the distant bark of a bull gator, and woven throughout it all, birdsong from hundreds of warbling throats.

After the events of last spring, Jack took moments like this to stop and appreciate the wonders around him. It was as if he had new eyes. In fact, all his senses seemed sharper. Not because of any residual effect from his illness, but simply because of his renewed appreciation for life.

This particular moment was especially significant for him.

His life was about to change in ways he couldn’t imagine, and he needed to prepare for it. But he also sensed the pressure of time.

Lorna was waiting for him-secretly summoned out here under mysterious circumstances-and he dared not keep her waiting any longer than necessary. She still had much work to do over at ACRES as the new facility was under construction.

“Better get going,” he said to Burt.

His hound thumped his tail in agreement.

Taking a final deep breath, Jack started up the airboat’s engine and shot down the waterways and channels. It was a maze through here, but he knew the way by heart. Skirting around an island, he reached a channel that ran straight toward a large log home, newly rebuilt after the fires.

He flew straight for the pier, then, at the last moment, angled the craft broadside and raked the bow to a perfect stop alongside the dock. A familiar round shape dressed in coveralls and an LSU ball cap rose from a chair and helped him tie off the airboat.

Burt bounded onto the dock and greeted him like an old friend.

“ ’Bout time you got here, Jack. Your little filly was growing restless. Thought I might have to tie her down.” With a final tug, he cinched the mooring rope to the pier’s stanchion.

“Thanks, Joe. Where is she?”

“Where do you think?” He waved beyond the log home, to the grounds of what was formerly known as Uncle Joe’s Alligator Farm. “She’s off with Stella and the kids.”

LORNA STARED IN amazement at the sight. She never grew tired of it. She stood on the observation deck above the spread of ponds and elevated walkways. A glass of lemonade sweated on the log rail. Below, children ran and played, bounded and jumped. Several hung from trees.

The ponds no longer held any alligators. They’d all been moved, including Elvis, who now was a star attraction at the Audubon Zoo in the city. To support his acquisition, a major marketing campaign was under way. Its slogan could be found emblazoned on billboards, buses, and streetcars all across New Orleans. It was only two words: Elvis Lives!

Stella climbed the steps with the youngest child in her arms. Only three months old, the girl was already walking on her own-though she plainly still liked to be carried.

“Eve is getting heavy,” Stella said, hiking the child higher in her arms.

“I can see that.”

“We’re weaning her off the bottle like you suggested, but she’s fighting it.”

“They always do.” Lorna smiled and nodded below. “I have to say, you’re doing a great job. They all look so happy.”

Stella matched her grin. “Oh, they have their usual scrapes and bruises like any kids, but I’ve never seen a more loving bunch. You should see how they dote on Igor, Bagheera, and the two little monkeys. They keep stuffing them with treats.”

Lorna laughed. She had never doubted the brood would find a good home here, but she was surprised how quickly they had adjusted to their new environment and circumstances.

Before leaving the Thibodeauxs’ boat, Lorna and the others had made a pact to keep the existence of the children secret-at least until they were strong enough and the world ready enough to handle such news. The Thibodeauxs had proved skilled at getting the children through the bayou in secret. No one appeared to be any the wiser, and when it came to keeping things hidden from sight, there was no better place.