He brought the glass of scotch to his lips, glad that it had been a smooth ride, and that no one had caught his error in bringing the rocks on board. At least, not yet. The top layer of each was made of looser dirt, not packed in by eons of hard rain and pressure and walking animals. Yet it still had the tiniest amount of scrap iron in it. Not as reliable as the riverbed sediments. River silt would line up as the poles dictated. In water, the magnetic shards were free-floating and excellent indicators even hundreds of thousands of years later. But these loose pieces should have had just an overall trend that was statistically significant.
These had far more than that. No one had to crank the numbers to see it. Students had pointed it out as they analyzed layers for him. “Wow, Dr. Carter. Where’d this come from? Near an MRI machine?” The cores were from Wharton’s dig site; they showed hotspot activity from sixty-five million years ago. And today. The mystery kept growing the more he looked at it.
After he got off the plane, it was only thirty minutes before he was on interstate 75 headed north. It was all getting too familiar, and he found himself at the little run-down motel on the outskirts of Farragut, which was on the outskirts of Knoxville. The Whippoorwill Inn sported a sign that clearly revealed it had once been a Best Western. David was certain that the Best Western Corporation had disowned this bastard stepchild a long time ago.
The man behind the counter remembered him though as he walked up to the front desk and inquired about a room. For a brief moment he panicked that maybe they were full, and then what would he do? But he almost laughed out loud as the thought slipped away. Farragut was hardly a convention center. The only thing that might fill this place up was a wedding. And he had serious concerns that most of the weddings around here involved shotguns and noticeably pregnant brides, so he pushed that idea out of his head.
His watch said it was barely 5pm home time, and he was already exhausted. He shook his thoughts out as he turned the key and let himself into the room. It was as stale and washed out as he remembered it, and he decided that he should take his luck escaping the airports with his specimens intact as a sign from the Gods. He would only do what the Gods told him to do for the rest of the day, and right now they were telling him to get some sleep.
He had just stepped out of his shoes when his cell phone rang, the clear digital tones strangely discordant in the time capsule room. When he didn’t see a name on the panel he almost refused the call, only his close co-workers and a few friends knew this number, and the phone should have recognized them. But he let the phone go through another whole cycle of ring and wait before he remembered that 865 was the local area code, meaning someone here was calling him and that was just too freaky to not answer.
“Hello?”
“Yes, I’m looking for a Dr. David Carter the second.”
“This is he.” This is weird. The combination of his personal line and formal name. The tight, upper-classy sound of the female voice speaking to him.
There was a soft sigh on the other end of the line before the voice resumed the formal words that weren’t telling him much. “My name is Dr. Jillian Brookwood. I work with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and we’re running a survey regarding McCann, Tennessee. There are credit card receipts and several residents that state that you visited recently.”
She paused and David realized that he was supposed to fill the space with an affirmation or rejection. He cleared his throat. “Yes, I was there.”
“I’m going to record this call if that’s all right with you?”
The CDC was on the phone with him and wanted to record the call? And weren’t they in Atlanta, not Tennessee? So why was the call from a local number? He felt stupid saying it, but rather than badger her with his misgivings he just said “sure.” If it was a prank he would have detected that thick southern accent in the air, right?
There was a small click and she resumed speaking. “One moment. Dr. Jillian Brookwood, of CDCP Lab G12067 . . .” Her voice faded away from him as he realized that she was recording all the information for the call. It was about as interesting as the legal disclaimers after commercials, but he snapped to when he heard his name. “Dr. Carter, you were recently in the town of McCann, Tennessee, correct?”
“Yes.”
“What was the purpose of your visit?”
That made him pause. This was likely someone trying to get information out of him regarding his dig. “It was personal.”
“About how long ago were you here?”
Here. She was in McCann.
“About three weeks.”
“And how long was your stay?” Her voice came over the line cool, professional, detached.
“About three weeks.” He barely paused before speaking again and making a point to interrupt her. “May I ask what this call is about?”
“Certainly. Have you had any nausea in the past few weeks?”
“Wait. What is this about?”
“We’re doing a survey-”
He cut her off again. “Why don’t we do this face to face?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I won’t be able to get to Chicago in the near future.”
“I’m in Farragut.”
“Now?!”
He almost laughed at the surprise in her voice. With just her tone she seemed to agree with his feelings, Who the hell would want to be in Farragut? “Yes. I’ll be in McCann tomorrow.”
“I can come to you, tonight even. Where shall we meet?”
He only knew of one place and it was a hole in the wall right next to his cheap motel, so he gave her an apology before he gave her the address. She told him she’d be there at eight and she hoped he was staying close to his hotel. Then he hung up and lay back on the old creaking bed. That was just too weird.
What the hell did the CDC want in McCann?
Probably a brain scan of anyone idiotic enough to visit. Probably they had classified living there as a disease and wanted to isolate the gene. See if he was maybe a carrier or something.
He closed his eyes and the alarm immediately malfunctioned and went off, causing him to swear. He smacked it and got up, going into the tiny bathroom to retrieve an alarm that actually worked. He pulled it from his bag and stared at it for a moment, 6:50. That was . . . 7:50 local time. Shit, he’d actually been asleep. A lot of good it had done him, too.
He had all of ten minutes to get himself together and go convince the CDC lady with the tight-assed voice that he was not diseased. At least she had sounded offended about being in McCann. That was a definite bonus in his book.
David set the clock back down and looked into the mirror. That was all it took to convince him that he needed to wash his face. If for no reason other than to wake himself up. If this CDC chick was the real deal, then maybe there was something interesting going on and he should pay attention, and he headed next door to the greasy spoon.
When he entered, an older woman said hello to him. Clearly as friendly as she could be, but she didn’t offer him a seat, or ask what he needed. He was expected to seat himself. Each seat looked about as appealing as the next, and that wasn’t a compliment. David crossed the small room and pulled out a vinyl covered chair that allowed him to see the door. And by the time the lady had walked up to him and asked, “Unsweetened tea, right?” and he had been shocked that he was remembered, a woman was walking in the door who looked as out of place as he did.
The waitress smiled her toothy grin and said, “Hi, honey,” to the woman, then walked off to get his tea. David stood, surprised by what he saw. As she came closer, clearly unsure who he was but guessing correctly, she tilted her head and examined him. She was much younger than he had expected, and while her voice had been all authority and questions, now on sight she was unsure, clutching the notepad and pen she held to her chest just a little too tight. “Are you Dr. Carter?”
“Yes, I am.” He stood up and stuck out his hand in a gesture that was way too formal for the setting. “And you must be Dr. Brookwood.”
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“It’s nice to meet you.” She shook his hand, a firmer grip than he had expected from someone so young. They settled into a formal position, looking ridiculous, trying to keep an air of business decorum over a plastic tablecloth that looked like it had lived a past life as an abused picnic blanket.
He was going to say something, but the waitress lady, who still had yet to introduce herself, turned up at his side, and asked Dr. Brookwood “What can I bring you, honey?”
The doctor’s black eyebrows went up. “Do you have any bottled water?”
“Sorry, honey. But we got bottled coke.” The waitress didn’t even have the wherewithal to be offended by the unspoken suggestion that the water should be imported.
“That would be great, thank you.”
He glanced at his own glass of tea, a tall old yellow glass that had the lemon pre-squeezed into it. The CDC chick wasn’t drinking anything handled here. And suddenly he wasn’t quite so thirsty.
David swished at the tea, wondering what came next. But he didn’t wonder for long. Dr. Brookwood opened her pad and spread out a few sheets of a questionnaire. He was having trouble reading it upside down, and was interrupted by her voice, softly clearing her throat. “Shall we get down to brass tacks?”
And that was it. The good doctor was in her element and was off and running. She started up a tape recorder, a small silver thing that looked like a missing part from an alien space ship in this out-of-date setting. She re-questioned him about his whereabouts and the reasons for his visit. He re-lied about it being personal.
Then she asked him all kinds of questions about his feelings. Fever? Nausea? Dizziness? Disorientation? Gastrointestinal upset?
Within three minutes the woman who looked and acted as though she was anywhere but Podunk, Tennessee, knew more about him than his mother ever had. Then she started asking him more and stupider questions. “Has your stomach felt queasy in the past several weeks, since you returned?”
David felt the frown move into place on his face. “Didn’t you already ask me that?”
The professional mask broke form and the side of her lip curled just the slightest amount. “You wouldn’t believe how many people can answer the same question five or six times, but on the seventh try they suddenly remember that yes they do have a life threatening allergy or yes, they did have exactly those symptoms. My favorite thing to hear when I’m interviewing someone is: ‘come to think of it . . .’”
He almost laughed. Then he heard the words coming out of his mouth and was powerless to stop them. “Come to think of it, my friend and I did feel a little sick to our stomachs just before we left.”
“This would be . . .” She flipped back through her paperwork, scanning for the answers she had jotted down earlier. “Dr. Greer Larson?”
“Yes.”
“Was it mild or severe? How would you rank it?”
Dear God, she was insane. All this writing and she wouldn’t tell him what was going on.
He sat at the table, studying her intently and answering all her questions as best as he could. While she looked up at him only to ask another stupid question and another, and furiously recording his answers. Finally she thanked him as she stood up. “Please stay in touch. And please call daily with an update on your condition if you do go into McCann city. Thank you.”
He glanced down at her card making sure he had enough information, and looked back up to ask her if McCann actually qualified as a city, but she was gone. There were a few bills on the table, and the bell that had been hung over the door was letting the world know that someone had left this little hole.
Becky knew in her heart that the birds were the next in line to be magnetically freaky, and that the project was no longer hers. She could only hope that they would recognize her efforts and give her a good billing on the paper that likely she would write every word of.
She drove herself to work in the old Jetta, hearing the wheezes from the engine that was never quite fully repaired. Her office smelled just a little stale, and she wondered for a brief moment if any of her colleagues had been in. But she pushed herself down into the wooden rolling chair and leaned over the desk. U.T. had sent her to Georgia, and several birds had been brought back to the school labs, using school equipment. She would call the birdwatchers from her U.T. phone providing a record of the conversation. It was officially out of her hands. Marshall Harfield answered on the first ring. And he recognized her name right away.
“We were wondering when we would hear any news about our Bradys.”
She tried to keep her voice light, even though she already knew what he would find. “I actually have a task for you if you can help us out, then I’ll be able to give you more information.”
The man was overly eager to help in any way he could, and it brought back memories of being in the woods surrounded by the ABA group, all talking at once. “I need you to gather your birdwatchers and to give everybody a compass and check out the areas where the birds first migrated and where they’re settled now. Do you think that you can get everybody together for that?”
“I can do it today.” She could almost see him puffing with pride. The manners her mama had drilled into her told her to let him know that it wasn’t necessary no matter how much she was anxious for the results. But he stepped in before she could have gotten a word in edgewise anyway. “We’re having a meeting at three and we can just change our agenda a little bit.”
“Is that okay? I don’t want to bother-”
“Just tell us what you want us to do.”
Becky was glad that he was so happy to help. She felt a little less like she had put a chore on him. And she spent a good while explaining how they should map and record the electromagnetics of the area and what they were looking for.
Mr. Harfield concluded with a sniff and a “we’ll know it when we see it, right?”
“Yes, if there is any activity you won’t be able to miss it.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell me why it is that we’re looking for this?”
She smiled. The man was a goon and always overeager, but he was a sharp tack. “I can. I hope it will be within the next several days. And the information you get this afternoon will help me gain the authority to share what I know.”
Becky hung up with a sigh, dragged herself to her feet and gathered a few supplies. The walk to visit the Warblers wound down a long hallway and around behind several labs. An undergrad was hunched over, muttering to himself when she entered. It took only the briefest of explanations to get him to agree to a break from mucking the crates. “I’m trying to figure out why they’re so creepy.”
“Well,” He laughed, “that’s a noble endeavor. But one I doubt you’ll be able to solve.”
“Why is that?”
“Because Dr. Jenkinson has been at these guys since you brought them in. We’ve been testing them with everything we know and can’t come up with squat.”
“Ahhh,” Becky sighed. “But I have the inside track.” She went back outside the doorway and gathered up the magnets she had set down just before entering, in a few moments he had one of the warblers out and Becky had the magnet in front of it. It turned when the magnet was moved.
“Ho-lee shit. You win. You do have the inside track.”
They tried bird after bird and then finally entered the room with their pockets loaded with as many of the magnets as they could find. The birds followed their movements, becoming obviously agitated when they separated, taking the magnetic pull in two different directions.
“So that’s why they were all staring at me when I entered.”
Becky nodded. “Actually they stare at the door all the time. What direction is that? Do you know?”
He looked around a little, orienting himself inside the building as the thought clearly formed for the first time. After a few motions that Becky couldn’t decipher, his brows knit together and he said “West northwest.”
Becky was ready to smack herself in the forehead. Why hadn�
��t she brought the compass? There was something about the way she had come down the hall. The undergrad followed patiently while she mentally retraced her steps backward from the birdroom, winding up in her office. Sitting in her chair with the empty shelves behind her.
The shelves are empty. Becky sighed. And only as he responded did she realize that she had spoken.
“Why are they empty?”
“Because I took the frogs home.” The breath rushed out of her. “The frogs were facing the same way.”
“Jilly.”
Jordan’s voice broke her reverie and she snapped to with a feeble excuse. “I was just thinking . . .”
Jordan waited, looking at her, watching, as though he might see her thought process. She knew she was a mystery to him, how her mind functioned, what she saw, and how she lived with such a singular drive. But at times like these, he sat, waiting for whatever she would come up with. And she felt the pressure of him expecting more of her than she was probably capable of producing. McCann was turning out to be more than she could handle.
She shrugged at him, giving up. “I don’t have any idea what to tell Landerly, but we have to phone this in. We hit criteria.”
Jordan nodded. “Do you want to make the call or me?”
“Are you serious?” She would have laughed if she hadn’t spent the day fielding the six new patients down with this illness - two already at a coma state before she and Jordan got to them. All their families had said was that they were ‘under the weather’ or ‘feelin’ a little down’. Good God, one family seemed to think the father would just come out of it.
Jordan had sent her back to re-dress the first morning when she had declared herself ready in her suit and labcoat. He had said the good people of McCann wouldn’t tell her anything if she dressed like that. He had made her dig through her bag until she produced jeans and the oldest looking top she had brought. What Jillian understood was that people would open up to Jordan no matter what he was wearing. Dirty little children just asked if they could hug him.
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