The Dinosaur Chronicles

by Erhardt, Joseph

  “You really believe I had a brother?”

  “Yes. His story is tied to Diego’s.”

  “How?”

  “Diego died at the Bay of Pigs.”

  “I know that!” Just the mention of Diego’s death was enough to bring Greavey to an emotional edge.

  Brill said, “I think your brother was a recruiter for the CIA. He was always leaving on trips to D.C., to Miami and to points south of the border. His job was to find Cuban exiles and other Latins willing to fight Castro. When you found out he had recruited Diego, you blamed him for Diego’s death. You confronted him, there was a violent argument, and you killed him.”

  Greavey shook his head. “I don’t feel like a killer. I can’t see myself angry enough to kill.”

  Brill sighed. That’s because you forget the anger as well. “Look. Let’s take it step by step. First, you found out Diego was killed at the Bay of Pigs.”

  “All right. I did.”

  “And I suppose you began reading everything you could about the disaster, to find out exactly what had happened.”

  “I remember that. Yes.”

  A sharp clink sounded at the door, and Brill could hear the scrape of metal against metal.

  A voice trickled through the door. Greavey, shut up!

  Greavey turned his head, but Brill said, “Don’t listen to them, Dan. Listen to me.”

  Greavey looked at Brill.

  “You found out all you could about the invasion.”

  “I owed it to Diego!”

  “You found out how the landing force had been put on the beach and left to die—how President Kennedy had refused to allow the second round of air strikes.”

  Greavey leaned back on the bench. His eyes glazed, and he softly asked, “Who?”

  —

  The doorjamb screamed, metal cracked and the door flew open. Two men wearing Emergency Transport jumpsuits rushed in. From the crow’s-feet under their eyes and the folds on their necks, Brill saw they were old for ambulance attendants. One was tall, thin, with sharp features and grim lips. And despite the bulkiness of his jumpsuit, Brill could tell the man was muscular and powerful.

  The second man was shorter, stouter, with a dyed mop of dark-brown hair and a controlled movement that indicated thought and intelligence. He said, “Did this man molest you in any way, Miss?”

  Brill looked the man in the eyes. She was still recovering from Greavey’s unwitting revelation, but she gathered her wits. “No,” she said. “And you know he didn’t.”

  “No ma’am, I don’t know. I was told we were transporting a potentially violent patient.”

  The tall attendant had finished putting a pair of padded cuffs on Greavey’s wrists. Now he pulled the man to his feet and was pushing Greavey out the door. Brill got up as well.

  The tall man said, “We’ve got him now. You’re done.”

  Brill snorted. “I work here. I have access to all parts of the Institute. If I want to follow you out, I can.”

  The shorter, smoother man said, “Certainly. You’ll find we’re taking good care of Mr. Greavey.”

  Brill fell in behind Greavey and the attendants.

  A gloomy-looking Ogee Dennever moved to accompany her, but she said, “It’s time to call the Institute attorneys, Ogee. Do it now.”

  “Now?”

  “Now. Tell them what’s happened. Go.”

  Ogee blinked twice. The half-puzzled expression on his face made Brill fear he would figure it out—that Brill just wanted him out of the way. She would get no admissions from the phony attendants with a third party around.

  After a second, Ogee said, “All right. You seem to know what you’re doing.” He broke from the parade and walked to a desk phone.

  To the attendants, Brill said, “It was a mistake bringing in the second Eleanor to replace the first.”

  The attendants said nothing.

  “If the new Eleanor had simply said she was another relative—or a friend, instead of claiming to be the first Eleanor, I wouldn’t have noticed. But Greavey’s got a restricted visitors list. It would’ve taken a court order to modify it.”

  The tall attendant glared at Brill but said nothing.

  “But at the time you didn’t want to rock the boat by getting it. The Eleanors are probably sisters anyway, and favored each other enough to make you want to try the deception. And that wasn’t a face-lift the second Eleanor had—it was probably some minor plastic surgery.”

  The short attendant looked at Brill. “Lady, we don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “And now you’re panicking. That phony court order tonight means the whole business is unraveling. Back in the 60’s, you probably had enough people in the right places to cover your tracks. Now you don’t.”

  Brill went on. “One question that’s bothered me, now that I know what this is about, is why is Greavey still alive? And why bother moving him to nicer accommodations? It would have made so much more sense to kill him, or to let him rot in a state institution.”

  The attendants turned Greavey around a corner. Was it Brill’s imagination, or had their pace quickened?

  Brill said, “It’s all about trust and betrayal, isn’t it? The exiles were betrayed in Cuba and the avengers could hardly betray one of their own. Greavey was a part of the team and couldn’t just be abandoned. In fact, he was the most important part of the team. The boy who could shoot an abusive father between the shoulder blades at two hundred yards with a hunting rifle became the shooter in Dealy Plaza.”

  Now that she’d said it, even the cold tall attendant wavered in his step. The stout man said, “Lady, just let us do our business!”

  At this point, they had reached the building’s emergency entrance. Institute guards inspected Greavey’s transport order and waved them through. Brill followed.

  Outside the door, an ambulance sat flashing red and yellow. Diesel exhaust tinged the cool night air, and a wind brushed against Brill’s moist brow.

  They tried to be clever about it, to push Greavey into the back of the ambulance without letting Brill have a view of the interior, but Brill wasn’t having any. She grabbed the truck’s rear door handle and pulled.

  In the deep end of the ambulance, propped on a stool and sucking oxygen from a plastic mask, sat the shattered husk of the woman Gladys Brill had first known as Eleanor Greavey. One side of the woman’s face sagged, making all the sadder the smile the woman made. With her good arm, she dropped the mask and said, “Hello, Gladys. Come to see Dan off?”

  Brill had liked the first Eleanor. But now the knowledge of what the woman had done hardened her. “I’ve come to see all of you off,” Brill said. “To jail.”

  The first Eleanor looked at the stout attendant, who nodded silently. The woman blushed. “Gladys, you don’t understand. Different times, different feelings—”

  “Quiet!” the tall attendant ordered as he strapped Greavey into a harness. “No one says a word!”

  “That’s it, then?” Brill asked. “You think if you don’t admit anything, I can’t do anything? But Eleanor One’s presence here is all I need to prove a violation of Greavey’s visitors list, which is a contempt of court.” Brill opened her purse and pulled out her cellphone.

  But before she could dial 911, the stout man grabbed the phone out of her hands and heaved it into the night.

  Brill said evenly, “So you grab my phone and toss it into the shrubs. I can now add assault. You are under arrest.”

  The tall man laughed. “You got no arrest powers!”

  “I’m a citizen. You’re under arrest. Resist, and I’ll add resisting arrest to my charges.”

  “We don’t need to resist. All we gotta do is drive off. C’mon, Earl, close the door and drive.”

  Brill said, “You’re pulling Greavey out under a phony court order. The guards will do as I say and stop you.” With that, she turned her back and made to walk off.

  “Hold it.” The soft-spoken command was punctuated with a metallic
click.

  Brill turned around. In his hand, the stout, smooth-spoken attendant held a snub-nosed semi-automatic.

  “So you’re going to shoot me? You think you’ll get away any easier with a body lying on the pavement?”

  “No. But it’ll still be your body.” The man waved the weapon. “Inside. Now.”

  Slowly, Brill climbed into the ambulance. Eleanor One sat on the stool next to the small window to the driver’s compartment. Dan Greavey was buckled into a seat to her left, and the tall attendant sat next to him. Brill took a seat on the other side of the ambulance, next to the woman. Through the window, Brill noticed an auburn and gray head shifting places in the driver’s compartment.

  The doors slammed shut. A moment later, the ambulance lurched into gear.

  Brill said, “I will add kidnapping to the list of your offenses.”

  The tall attendant snapped, “Kidnapping—murder! What does it matter?”

  Eleanor One coughed and sucked from her oxygen mask.

  The attendant pointed a long, accusing finger. “If this overeager busybody hadn’t stuck her damned nose into things, everything would be just fine!”

  Brill said, “Greavey’s not going to DeSanger Hospital, is he?”

  Greavey’s eyes widened. “What? Where’m I going now?”

  Brill answered the question. “They’re all leaving. I think I saw Eleanor Two on the driver’s bench when I sat down, so every member of the team is accounted for. They’re pulling out. Going into hiding. And you’re going with them, Dan. Everything’s falling to pieces and it’s the only thing left to do. They’ll probably dump this borrowed ambulance soon and switch to another vehicle.” Brill turned to the tall attendant. “Are you going to kill me first?”

  Greavey turned to the attendant. “Don’t hurt her. She’s been good to me.”

  “She knows too much,” the man said, “and with some research she can prove too much.”

  “Yes,” Brill admitted. “I probably have enough to get a court order to open the files of the attorneys who have been paying Dan’s room and board, and it should be pretty interesting to find out just where the money leads—perhaps to the funds of an obscure office in the Department of Agriculture.”

  Between puffs on her oxygen, Eleanor One said, “Dammit, Gladys, are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  Brill swayed as the ambulance turned and picked up speed. “Pengold found out about the break-in at his office, you know.”

  The attendant grinned. “That washed-up old drunk?”

  “He’s better than his looks,” Brill said. “He’s in a dangerous business, where just staying alive requires smarts and ingenuity. He’s a good friend to have.”

  Eleanor One said, “What’s the point you’re making?” but she turned and banged on the glass window before Brill could answer. “Earl, are you crazy? Turn off the siren!” Then Eleanor turned back to Brill, her one good eye wide and staring, her mouth open with shock as she realized the siren wasn’t coming from the ambulance.

  Brill opened a button on her blouse, reached in and pulled out a microphone. “I’m sorry, Eleanor. I’ve been wired and transmitting ever since I arrived at the Institute this evening. My idea, to which Pengold gladly agreed. So it’s over. The whole cursed business is over.”

  As the sirens wailed and the ambulance slowed to a stop, Dan Greavey looked from one person to the other and asked, in a small child’s voice, “Please, please tell me what this is all about!”

  Afterword

  It’s been said that if you were alive during the Kennedy assassination, you remember where you were and what you were doing. As that generation passes, stories like “Edges of Memory” will become rarer and rarer. Although, when you think about it, even today we see tales fictionalizing the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, so perhaps I’ll be wrong here.

  Conspiracy theories and alternate histories are plentiful in the literature. Some even in the fictional literature. Writing such pieces requires both research and honesty. For example, if you were to write a “The South Wins” story, you’d need to base it on a critical juncture in history—here, often the Battle of Gettysburg—and then follow up on the logical consequences of an alternate result. In this instance, I’ve found that “The South Wins” stories are often unbelievable. Think about it. If the South had won at Gettysburg, much would have depended on exactly how they would have won.

  Had it been a marginal victory, I really can’t see that it would have had much of an effect.

  Had it been a severe victory—a slaughter—I believe the North would have responded angrily, and in a much quicker and brutal fashion, and the South would have lost the Civil War much earlier than it did.

  Had it been a rout and an embarrassment, the South might have been able to sue for peace and have seceded as a new nation.

  In no conceivable fashion could the South have actually won and taken over the entire country. As a noted historian of this era has noted, the North was actually fighting the war half-heartedly, with one hand tied behind its back. The North’s population and industrial base was simply too much for the South to overcome.

  One issue, as writer, that I’d like to point out about “Edges of Memory”: This was my first serious attempt at putting on bra and panties—namely, writing a tale from the point-of-view of a female protagonist. Many writers find writing “outside of their gender” difficult. If you’re an honest writer, you’ll admit that it is difficult. With practice, you get better. Analytically, Gladys Brill is more of a generic “good guy” who happens to be female, than a female in essence. Samantha Fisher, in the upcoming “Crawl Ice” story, though not the main protagonist, seems much more real to me.

  Crawl Ice

  Evan Fisher lugged the suitcase down the walk, across a spray of ice and snow, and heaved it onto the opened tailgate of his neighbor’s pickup truck.

  “That’s the last of it,” Fisher said, stuffing his gloved hands into his jacket pockets.

  “Thanks, Evan,” Hank Stricker said, shoving the suitcase crosswise. He latched up the tailgate and added, “I just wish you’d get out of here along with the rest of us.”

  Fisher looked back and watched as Hank’s wife locked the front door of their house. “Don’t see a need, Hank. I’ve got wood for the fireplace and enough gasoline to run the generator—when I need it—for two weeks. Power should be back by then.”

  “There could be aftershocks,” Hank said. “Slides. If Mountain Electric can’t get their trucks to the lines—”

  Fisher put his hand on his neighbor’s shoulder. “Hank, you worry too much.”

  Snow crunched as Hank’s wife came alongside.

  “Hank’s a worrier, all right,” she said, winking at her husband. “It keeps him out of trouble.”

  Hank blushed but added, “So how’s Samantha feel about this?”

  Fisher hesitated. “She’s not crazy about staying.” Then he grinned. “But I told her it would be romantic—just the two of us, all alone in town. Almost like pioneers.”

  Hank’s wife laughed. “Evan, a weekend in a nice motel is romantic. Two weeks in a cold, dark valley in Colorado is a nightmare.”

  —

  Fisher watched Hank’s truck crawl up the winding north road. From time to time, the early-afternoon sun flashed across the tailgate, giving it one last lick before the truck finally disappeared into a cleft.

  Fisher turned and trudged slowly up the block, to the rancher he shared with his wife. He wondered if the coming isolation would be a good thing or a bad thing for his marriage. Samantha had complained about being ignored, being neglected. For at least the next week, he figured, there would be no one else to “nore” or “glect.”

  She should appreciate that.

  As Fisher turned from the street into his walkway, he staggered as a sudden loss of traction threw him aside.

  He righted himself and looked down.

  A six-foot area of his front walk had iced over.

  Ic
e in the middle of a Colorado November was no surprise. But he’d cleared the walk just that morning, and it had not gotten warm enough for any melt.

  For a moment he contemplated the idea that Sam had poured water on the walk to spite him or—and his gut twinged at the thought—to deliberately injure him.

  Sam might’ve changed her mind about staying, Fisher thought, but she’s not crazy.

  Fisher walked to his door and let himself in.

  The front door opened into the living room.

  Sam’s voice carried out from the kitchen. “Evan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sonofabitch!”

  Fisher rushed into the kitchen. His wife sat in jacket and panties, her bare right leg elevated on the kitchen table. A bloody bandage and a bag of ice lay across her knee.

  Sam spat out the words: “You said you cleared the walk!”

  “I did!”

  “My ass! There’s a patch of ice—”

  “I know! I nearly fell on it myself!”

  Sam’s voice dropped to a menace, and she bared her teeth.

  “Do you really mean to get rid of me?”

  “Dammit, Sam, it’s winter out there! You’ve got to watch for the hazards, always!”

  “You said you cleared the walk!”

  “And I did—this morning. I don’t know how the ice happened. It couldn’t have happened. It never got above freezing today!” Fisher took off his gloves and reached for her knee. “Does it hurt? A lot?”

  Sam sliced her fingernails across the back of his hand. “Do. Not. Touch. Me!”

  Fisher pulled back, gasping at the sting of the welts. “Look,” he said, “there are hot springs in the area. Maybe the earthquake opened up other channels, and one opened under our lot. That could explain the ice. It’s not my fault!”

  Sam narrowed her eyes to sharp, cutting slits. “Evan Fisher, as soon as the painkillers I took kick in, I’m taking the car and driving to Pineway. I’ll spend the week in a motel there, and you can spend the week here and rot. And you damn well better hope by the end of that week it’s me who comes back and not a notice from some lawyer!”