Gregoire and Arris stood in the hallway of the University of Miami Hospital, watching a pair of police officers walk away. Gregoire and Arris regarded each other with curiosity as the two beat cops turned a corner.
“Your daughter?”
Arris shrugged. “She has no passport, no ID, no bank accounts, no anything as far as I know, so she has to become somebody, so why not my daughter? It’s the only way we’re going to be able to get her out of here, too.”
“Get her out of here to where?”
“Just thinking off the top of my head, I was figuring she could recover at my house until she’s well enough to do whatever it is she’s going to do now that she’s off that island.”
“How are you going to get her to your house? That’s just crazy, Dave,” Gregoire said, looking around to ensure nobody was listening. “You should just leave her here and let the authorities deal with her.”
Arris shook his head. “I’ve already got Dietrich working on the transfer papers and getting me some identification to prove she’s my daughter. We should be able to get her on the transport with us tomorrow morning: the wound is remarkably stable, so she should be able to travel.”
“What are you going to tell Dale?” Gregoire asked.
Dale Singer was their boss, the owner of the company for which they worked. Arris thought about it for a moment: Nereika wasn’t the first person he had brought out of a danger zone without prior authorization. Gregoire was. Arris looked at Gregoire for a long moment, briefly remembering the day in Africa years earlier when he had pulled Gregoire from certain death and brought him to America and, eventually, the company. Dale would understand, in time, again.
“Nothing. Not about her, anyway, not about the island,” Arris said. “Not yet, at least.”