Ejecta

by William C. Dietz

  The rifle clutched in Palmer’s hands plus the empty feeling in his gut and the almost supernatural acuteness of his senses were all reminiscent of night operations in Afghanistan. The only sounds to be heard as the geologist followed Guiscard up the trail were the occasional click of one stone striking another, the soft swish of a branch as his arm brushed by it, and the steady rasp of his own breathing.

  But Palmer knew how quickly that could change…. Because he could remember the deafening boom of an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) going off, followed by the sudden rattle of automatic weapons as insurgents opened fire on his platoon, and the screams as his men began to die. And each death was a broken promise. A personal failure. Sins for which he could never atone.

  Such were the memories running through the ex-marine’s mind as a helicopter roared overhead! The sound was so congruent with Palmer’s memories he thought he was back in Helmand Province for a moment, until the chopper passed overhead, and lights appeared directly in front of them. Headlights, judging from the glare, which were being used to illuminate an improvised LZ.

  The helicopter constituted a nasty surprise, but made such a loud racket that Damya was able to run forward, secure in the knowledge that any noise he and his companions made would be covered by the chopper, which had already begun to descend. And it was a pretty good bet that any sentries would be focused on the aircraft rather than peering into the surrounding darkness looking for infiltrators.

  A short sprint took the three men within five-hundred feet of the desert encampment, where a pile of tumble-down rocks offered a place to hide as the brightly illuminated EC-135 Eurocopter settled onto its skids. Palmer had a pair of binos out by then. So as the helicopter’s twin Turbomeca engines began to spool down he had an excellent view when a door opened and Police Chief Bahir Jann appeared. Ironically it was the Mog’s headlights that were focused directly on him, and judging from the way some of the bandits surged forward to greet the official, Jann was no stranger to them. “Uh oh,” Guiscard whispered from a few inches away. “What now?”

  “We wait,” Palmer replied pragmatically. “And hope for the best.”

  ***

  It was too late for “the best,” or so it seemed to Guiscard. There was no point in saying so however. But had the Chadian chosen to look skyward he would have seen a meteorite streak across the velvety sky. An omen perhaps had the engineer been able to understand it.

  Chapter Two

  Seattle-Tacoma International Airport

  After two-years in central America, following muddy trails through the hot, steamy jungle, the airport’s crowded corridors came as a real shock. It took the better part of half an hour for Sara Devlin to gather up her possessions and catch a cab. A shuttle would have been less expensive, but she was in no mood to be crammed into a van with six burly businessmen for the half hour trip into Seattle.

  It was raining, which made sense on a cold, gray November day, and the wipers made a persistent squeaking sound as they swept back and forth across the taxi’s windshield. The driver wore a burgundy colored turban, and judging from the snapshots fastened to the sun visor, was a dedicated family man. He glanced at Devlin in the rearview mirror as the taxi cleared the airport’s round-about and headed north towards the freeway. “Are you staying in a hotel?”

  It was a reasonable question given the fact that Devlin had given her destination as “…downtown Seattle.” Devlin shook her head and fumbled for the scrap of paper that had Marvin Leander’s address on it. “No. You can drop me at the 720 Olive building.”

  The driver nodded as he steered the Crown Vic down the on-ramp to the freeway below. The taxi merged onto I-5 northbound a few minutes later. And it wasn’t long before they passed Safeco Field, which never failed to remind Devlin of her father and the summer evening when they had gone there to boo the Yankees. It was the bottom of the 7th, and the score had been tied, when Alex Rodriguez fouled one back into the stands where a much younger Sara Devlin had miraculously been able to catch it.

  Strangely, from the scientist’s perspective at least, her father was as proud of that accomplishment as the moment when she graduated from high school at the top of her class. But that had been back during the run up to college, before a drunk driver killed her mother, and before her father’s fatal heart attack sixteen months later.

  Maybe that explained her attachment to Professor Paul McCracken, and his attachment to her, since both had been orphaned in a way. She by her parents, and he by his beloved Mary, who’s death at thirty left the academic to live out the rest of his life as a bachelor. Until five days earlier that is, when, according to McCracken's attorney, the professor had draped sheets of clear plastic over his living room furniture, loaded one round into his old Colt .45 revolver, and put the weapon to his head.

  Because of Mary? No, Devlin found that hard to believe, since Mac had been able to live more than twenty-five years without her. So, why then? There was no way to know. The long distance call from Leander had certainly been a surprise, as was the news that McCracken had left his estate to her, and that she was to serve as executor. All of which forced Devlin to break off her research in Costa Rica and return home. Something she had originally intended to do six months earlier, but continued to put off, partly because of the on-again off-again romance with Mark Milano, and partly because there was so much work to do. By some estimates the central American jungles were home to thousands of parasites that had yet to be identified and cataloged. A task which, if completed, could deliver real benefits to medical science in the form of new drugs and therapies.

  The taxi slowed and came to a stop. The cabbie turned to look over his shoulder. He had quick brown eyes and a bushy black beard. “That will be $35.00 miss.”

  The twenties that Devlin had been given in San Jose were a bit greasy, but legal nevertheless, and the scientist said “No” to the cabbie's offer of change. Rather than the warm jungle rains that she had grown used to, the water that fell out of Seattle’s lead gray sky was cold, and impossible to ignore as Devlin opened the door and exited the car. Perhaps it was the five-dollar gratuity, or maybe the Sikh felt sorry for the bedraggled scientist, but whatever the reason the cabbie insisted on carrying Devlin’s luggage into the building’s lobby before wishing her a good day and going back outside.

  All of the building’s tenants were listed on a board that faced out into the lobby, so it was a simple matter to scan the list for Leander, and make a mental note of which floor he was on. By wearing the knapsack, and hoisting a bag in each hand, Devlin managed to carry everything into the elevator. A well-dressed professional held the door for her. Devlin couldn’t help but feel out of place as more business types entered the car and the elevator began to rise. The academic tried to picture the raggedy, largely unkempt, and often filthy men she’d been working with for the last couple of years showing up for work in suits. The thought brought a smile to her face.

  The car stopped, the doors whispered open, and people made room so Devlin could exit. After one false start Devlin chose the correct hall, spotted the glass panel that had “Marvin Leander, Attorney,” printed across it, and was forced to place her bags on the floor before opening the door and dragging them into the office one-at-a-time.

  The middle-aged woman who sat behind the reception desk watched with amusement as the young woman shrugged her way out from under the much repaired pack. “Can I help you?” she inquired politely.

  Devlin smiled. “Sorry about the luggage…. But I just came from the airport. My name is Sara Devlin. Is Mr. Leander in?”

  “Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist countered professionally. She was petite, pretty, and had light brown skin. In marked contrast to the woman in front of her every aspect of the paralegal’s apparel had been chosen with care.

  “No,” Devlin confessed. “I don’t.”

  “Please have a seat,” the receptionist said sympathetically. “Mr. Leander has a full schedule this afternoon—but perhaps he
can squeeze you in.”

  After disappearing into what Devlin assumed to be Leander’s office, the woman returned to say that the attorney would see her as soon as possible, and offered a cup of coffee which she accepted. It had been a long time since Devlin had been able to satisfy her secret appetite for People magazine, and she was about halfway through the latest edition, when the inner office opened and an elderly woman emerged. A well dressed man was right behind her. He had brown eyes, a broad nose, and hair so short that his dark scalp showed through. His shirt was glaringly white, his tie was secured by a Windsor knot, and his shoes were so shiny they seemed to glow. When he spoke his voice had a deep melodious quality. “Don’t worry about a thing, Mrs. Kanski…. I’ll have the contract to you by the end of the week.”

  As soon as the door closed behind Mrs. Kanski the attorney turned toward Devlin. The smile appeared to be genuine and the handshake was firm. “I’m Marvin Leander…. And you must be Dr. Devlin.”

  “Everyone calls me Sara,” Devlin said, as she came to her feet. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Leander said agreeably. “I’m glad you came by…. Let’s adjourn to my office and get the process started.”

  Devlin followed the lawyer into his office where she chose one of two guest chairs. With the single exception of the attorney’s back table, which was piled high with paper, the rest of the room was just as impeccable as the man himself. The cherry wood table reflected his image, the thousand-dollar chair sighed happily as he sat in it, and floor to ceiling book shelves were positioned as if to protect his left flank. Only the view, which looked out onto the I-5 corridor, hinted at the fact that while already successful, Leander had a ways to go before he arrived at the very top of the legal food chain.

  “How was your flight?” Leander wanted to know as he arranged a yellow legal pad and a sleek looking pen in front of him.

  Devlin toyed with the idea of telling the attorney about the strip search, and asking if the procedure was legit, but decided to let the matter go. “I had a center seat next to a crying baby. Need I say more?”

  “Nope,” Leander replied sympathetically. “You don’t. I’m sorry about this—I really am. The professor was a very nice man.”

  “Yes,” Devlin agreed soberly. “He was. I took one of his classes when I was working on my masters and we hit it off. He was the perfect mentor…. Part parent, part coach, and part Attila the Hun.”

  Leander laughed. Originally, when McCracken had come in to discuss his estate, the attorney had assumed that there was some sort of sexual relationship between the aging academic and the young Sara Devlin. Now the lawyer wasn’t so sure. Devlin was pretty in a rough and ready sort of way, but certainly didn’t come across as a gold digger, and the lawyer warmed accordingly. “Yes, I was fortunate enough to have a mentor like that. Except he was my father—and more Attila the Hun than coach.”

  Devlin smiled. “Well, it worked!”

  “Yeah,” Leander agreed. “I guess it did. We might as well get started. I have some good news and some bad news…. Which would you like to hear first?”

  “I’ll take the good news,” the parasitologist said hopefully. “Maybe it will outweigh the bad.”

  “Okay,” the attorney said noncommittally. “Here’s the good news…. The house that Mrs. McCracken inherited from her parents, and passed along to Professor McCracken at the time of her death, continues to appreciate. We’ll have to get an official appraisal of course, but given its size and location, I suspect that the home is worth something in excess of $750,000.”

  Devlin’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, but I am,” Leander assured her. “And, even though the professor’s life insurance was nullified when he committed suicide, he made some pretty good investments. Plus there’s a couple of vehicles. So, once everything is tallied, I won’t be surprised if you inherit something in excess of a million-dollars.”

  Outside of the modest amount of money inherited from her parents, all of which had gone to pay off student loans, Devlin had never had very many material possessions. Nor had she spent much time thinking about money, other than the never-ending need to find grants, which are the life’s blood of scientific research. So the revelation not only left her stunned but brought an unexpected flood of tears as the scientist thought about Mac and the manner of his death. Leander had a box of Kleenex ready for such occasions and passed it across. Devlin took two tissues and dabbed at her eyes. “Sorry…. You said there’s some bad news.”

  “Yes,” Leander said reluctantly. “I did. You see Professor McCracken didn’t leave a suicide note—not in the normal sense of that term. What he did leave were some rather detailed instructions.”

  Devlin frowned. “And?”

  The attorney placed both forearms on his desk. “And, even though the professor knew what the cause of his death would be, he left orders that a private autopsy be conducted subsequent to the one required by law. That’s unusual, but what’s even more remarkable, is his insistence that you be present during the procedure.”

  Devlin sat up straight and frowned. “Me? Why?”

  Leander shrugged. “I don’t know…. There’s no need to go of course—and it would probably be better if you didn’t.”

  Devlin’s eyes fell, but when she looked up again, they were filled with determination. “If Mac wanted an autopsy, then there was a reason. Give me a time and place, and I’ll be there.”

  For the first time Leander became conscious of the fact that her eyes were green, very green, and ice cold. He nodded gravely. “We haven’t known each other for very long…but for some reason I’m not surprised.”

  ***

  The dim winter light had already begun to fade by the time the taxi delivered Devlin to what she still thought of as Professor McCracken’s house. A tall, dignified three-story structure, that had been built by his wife’s grandfather back when many of Seattle’s wealthiest families lived along the east side of Capitol hill. A vantage point from which they could look out across Lake Washington to the snow capped Cascade mountains beyond. In later years the area had fallen on hard times, and had been the scene of race riots back in the sixties, but those days were over. Now the area was fashionable again—as could be seen from the well kept houses which lined both sides of the street.

  Unlike the Sikh, this cab driver was content to pop the trunk from the inside, and let Devlin remove her luggage herself. Then, having received his fare, he left without so much as a goodbye.

  Devlin lugged both bags up to the imposing porch where she shrugged her way out of the day pack, and opened an outer pocket. There were at least fifteen keys of various vintages on the old fashioned ring that Leander had given her, and she tried six of them before finding one that fit. Devlin heard a click as the door swung open and hit a stop. Every house has its own peculiar odor and so did McCracken’s. Except that in place of stale pipe smoke, and the smell of Mexican food that Devlin remembered so vividly, the sharp odor of disinfectants lingered in the air. Two days had passed before someone from the university came looking for the professor and the corpse had begun to smell by then. So a team of professional cleaners had been brought in to deal with the situation.

  Devlin felt like an intruder as she hauled the bags inside, closed the door behind her, and turned the lights on. She was standing in a formal entry. McCracken’s study was off to the left, a large living room could be seen through the opening to the right, and a flight of stairs took up the space directly in front of her. To the left of the stairs a narrow hallway was visible. It led back to the kitchen. A room Devlin knew well, since that was where most of the action had been, back in the days when grad students flocked to Dr. Mac’s place for his famous Christmas parties, beer drenched Cinco de Mayo celebrations, and the mock funerals that were held when a particularly good grant expired.

  But while Devlin was familiar with the first floor, the rest of the house was a complete mystery,
a fact that bothered Devlin more than she thought it would. Leander had clearly been surprised when his newest client chose to stay at what would eventually be her house, but was far too polite to say so, as he handed her the keys. The truth was that Devlin had nowhere else to go, other than one of Seattle’s hotels, and they were expensive. Now, still frozen in the middle of the foyer, Devlin wondered if she should have spent the money.

  But any thought of leaving disappeared when Devlin heard a plaintive meow, and turned to discover that the professor’s black and white cat had appeared, and was rubbing himself against the door frame on the living room side of the hall. Devlin dropped to one knee as the animal came over to nuzzle a leg. She tried to remember the cat’s name but couldn’t. “Are you hungry?” Devlin inquired sympathetically, scooping the animal up into her arms. “Let’s go find some food.”

  At that point it seemed natural to make her way down the hall, past the stairs that led down into the basement, and into the kitchen. It was a large space, plenty big enough for the fancy high-end look that was so popular, but little changed from the last time Devlin had been there. Mac had been determined to do the work himself, to “play with the tools” as he put it, except very little had been accomplished. Wooden lathes could be seen where several wheel barrow loads of water damaged plaster had been stripped off the walls, but that was the extent of Mac’s remodeling efforts. The old beat-up cabinets still hung on the studs, there were holes in the linoleum floor, and the avocado colored appliances were at least thirty years old. Tools, all layered with dust, were stacked in the corners.

  There were two bowls on the floor next to the refrigerator. One was half full of water—the other was empty. A brief search revealed a bag of Friskies which, when removed from a grimy cabinet, was sufficient to produce an excited response from the cat. The food rattled as it tumbled into the metal bowl and some of it wound up on the floor as the feline’s head got in the way.