Abominable

by Alan Nayes

  Shelby dashed past the line of police and approached the fallen primate, tears running down her cheeks. She briefly took in the truck’s heavily damaged bumper and grille, the carnage around her. “Oh, Goliath, what have you done?” she lamented. What have we done? She saw one pinkish-brown eye open, seemingly look unfocused at her, and gradually shut. “Stay down, Goliath,” she said gently, though she doubted he could hear her.

  Twelve rifle barrels remained aimed at the giant’s inert form. “He dead?” one of the officers asked.

  Shelby stepped away, ignoring the street chaos, shouts, and police and ambulance sirens. “I believe so,” she said. “But just to be safe, I wouldn’t get too near.”

  She waved the institute’s large animal control specialists forward and backed away.

  CHAPTER 27

  Shelby watched the city of Fairbanks grow larger as the Boeing 737 broke through the slate gray late afternoon overcast and settled in for its final approach. To the south she identified the base of Denali while many miles north, she knew, were the rugged Brooks Mountains and the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. And Little Okpilak Glacier holding the secret behind more prehistoric bones. She’d arrived. Leaning back in her seat, she forced herself to take a deep breath and close her eyes, trying to put the brutal images from the last week back in a drawer to never open again. It wasn’t going to happen and she knew this.

  The only light at the end of this very long dark tunnel was that by some miracle Goliath had survived. Not just survived but his injuries had been relatively minor—cuts on his palms from broken glass and some blunt trauma contusions involving his chest wall where he’d impacted the semi. Of course, the defect in his skull from the surgery required repair and that was completed three days ago. If there was a primate god, it was surely looking down on Goliath.

  And now the giant seemed to be on his best behavior. Though sedated, he was eating well, making no threatening gestures, and by the time Shelby returned from Alaska he would be back in his enclosure cell at the Center. Thinking back to that final scene on Sepulveda with him lying in the street, Shelby almost got the idea the primate realized if he attempted to get up, he would be killed. And Shelby harbored no doubts he would have been. His final disposition remained up in the air. Reddic had informed her before she flew north that the ten-acre Arctic exhibit was on temporary hold. The primate was just too dangerous and unpredictable for public viewing.

  The news on casualties was not so good. Three dead, eleven injured, four critically, including Dr. Clark. She remained in an induced coma at county USC Medical Center with severe head and upper body injuries. The dead—both security guards who’d been unlucky enough to draw the black bean of being stationed in the OR that fateful day, and Dr. Sigmund Astor. She knew she would not be the only one reliving the psychological trauma of witnessing that.

  John was waiting for her in his Jeep Commander as she exited the terminal. The weather was colder than back in June and the dampness made it seem cooler than the registered forty-eight degrees F.

  He gave her a hug, quick greeting, kiss, and loaded her baggage in the back. Climbing behind the wheel, he said, “I called the Pikes Waterfront Lodge to check on your reservation.”

  Shelby looked at him funny. “I didn’t make a reservation.”

  He smiled. “I know. If you had I was going to cancel it.” Before pulling into traffic, he leaned across the console and kissed her again, longer this time. “You look great,” adding, “Better than on television.”

  She sighed. She needed that kiss, and what she knew would transpire later tonight. “I refuse to give one interview while I’m here.”

  “Vanessa Bayliss was asking about you.”

  “No.”

  John patted her thigh. “Consider me your Fairbanks bodyguard. Big day tomorrow but for now, let me get you home for a nice meal, wine, and…”

  Shelby interjected, “The meal and wine sound good, but I’m really looking forward to the and.”

  John brought out an extra jacket for Shelby and settled back on the porch chair. He knew he’d enjoy having her here but he didn’t anticipate enjoying it this much. He watched the flickering illumination from the propane torch lights reflect off her skin. “So how are you really?”

  Shelby set the Chardonnay down on the table and rested her chin in her palm. She locked eyes with him. “I’m good, really. Upset, yes. Was it traumatic, you bet. Wish it’d never happened, absolutely.” He watched her think a moment. “Actually I wish the powers that be had never pushed for the damn surgery. Then I’d be here, Goliath would be healthy and back in his cell, the Arctic Exhibit would be in all ahead steam mode, and three individuals would not have needlessly lost their lives. And scores injured physically and emotionally.”

  John gazed at the sky. A few stars twinkled in the evening twilight. “Poor Dr. Astor. He never saw that coming.”

  “Hell, I never saw that coming.” She winced and shook her head. “The news televised some of his funeral back in Oak Ridge. By the number of mourners, looked like the entire town turned out.”

  “Tennessee’s favorite son.” He paused, then asked, “Where is the…?” John tapped his left temple.

  “The octahedron? That’s what Bonds and NASA are calling it now.” Shelby watched John, now watching her. “That military colonel and Bonds arranged to have it shipped back to Virginia.”

  “Ground freight, I assume.”

  Shelby shrugged and reached for her wine. “Not sure. It was all so chaotic after Goliath went berserk, the octahedron was the last thing on my mind. But I will agree with Astor on one point. It was the origin of the mysterious signals that interfered with the electrical circuits. Somehow Goliath’s emotions could trigger an outburst. I believe that’s what happened outside the Copper River tunnel with the Fish and Game chopper and during the surgery when Dr. Clark began to remove it.”

  John agreed. “Alien.”

  “There’s no other rational explanation. Since it’s been in the hands of the military, I’ve heard nothing new. Oh, when Goliath was put back under to repair the temporal bone skull defect, an entire body scan was ordered.”

  “Any more unidentified objects found?”

  “Nothing,” adding, “he’s pure one hundred percent primate.”

  “Prehistoric earth primate.”

  “Yes.”

  “I read somewhere the Center’s rich benefactor was quoted in the news again.”

  “Rasheed Ahmen. I know. He’s tried calling me several times since the accident.”

  John couldn’t resist a smirk. “My guess he wants a date.”

  This made Shelby laugh. “Yeah, with Goliath. He’s also donated another hundred grand. He’s made it obvious to anyone with a notepad and recorder, he’s willing to put up whatever funds are required to own Goliath.”

  “A genuine primate fetish.”

  “Supposedly the exhibits in his Vancouver island estate would make the Smithsonian envious.”

  John didn’t miss Shelby’s frown. “What?”

  She seemed to choose her words carefully. “This is going to sound strange, but I almost sense that if Goliath had been killed during his rampage, the ones in charge would have been tempted to take him up on his offer.”

  “Turn over the rarest primate specimen in the world?” John’s expression evoked incredulity. “That would be commensurate to turning over a perfectly frozen mastodon to a private collector.”

  “Hey, money talks. And in the fossil world, purchases like that are not uncommon. Of course, that would be after all the research had been completed, samples collected and preserved. Still…it’s all kind of scary.”

  “And what do you want for Goliath?”

  Shelby didn’t hesitate. “I already told you. I want him free.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  Shelby stifled a yawn. “I know… Public opinion sure wasn’t affected by the ‘meltdown.’ In spite of the
deaths and injuries, and some of those wounded casualties were with Animal Pals, the number of protestors has grown. Everyone’s siding with Goliath.” She finished off the wine, changing topics. “So, what time are we getting up in the morning?”

  “Early. Weather window is good for the next three days.” John raised her empty glass. “More?”

  She shook her head. “I’m really looking forward to tomorrow.”

  John took her hand. “I’m really looking forward to tonight.”

  “Wow!” Shelby exclaimed, her breath frosting in front of her lips. “Your team has done a lot of work!”

  “We didn’t have a crevasse to work with, only solid ice.” John led her away from the military chopper toward a large tent constructed near the CH-53 Sea Stallion transport helicopter. The ride from Eielson had been smooth and had taken about three hours. John explained, “All the equipment was flown in by the Stallion. A smaller chopper dropped the crew off and we set up the camp.”

  Shelby saw three other tents set off from the main one, their flaps moving in the brisk breeze. A heavy-duty metal tripod with a pulley system and harness had been erected over several large holes in the ice. Four men in arctic military wear waved at them before returning to the operation. Shelby returned the wave. Though she could feel the vibration of a gasoline generator running next to the tripod, she did not recognize the pair of machines sitting on a shallow platform adjacent to the tripod. She gazed around her at the high escarpments rising on either side of the glacier. Each beautiful and imposing in its rugged desolation. It didn’t take much of an imagination stretch to picture a family of prehistoric Ice Age primates hunkering down in what would have been a deep valley 28,000 years ago. What happened to your family, Goliath? The Little Okpilak ice reflected the brittle blue sky and she saw no evidence of the overcast that had blanketed Fairbanks when she’d arrived. She knew John had been working on the recovery project for over a week. She tucked her Gore-Tex coat tighter around her neck.

  John asked, “Cold?”

  She smiled, happy to be on a dig in spite of the thirty-eight-degree midday Arctic temp. “I’ll get used to it.”

  “Wait till the sun goes down.”

  She leaned into him. “Thanks for that reminder.”

  She was impressed with the progress. “I wasn’t aware this was such a priority.”

  John held open the large tent door flap and let Shelby enter. “They want that second skull you believe is down there.”

  Shelby allowed a trace of cynicism to creep into her voice. “I want that second skull. They want what may be inside it.”

  “You still believe it’s Goliath’s mate.”

  “I do. Unless the glacier turns up a third skeleton.”

  If the outside excavation had impressed her, the collection and storage set up inside was more amazing. She noted the long table holding rows of plastic specimen tubs, magnifying lights, and on one end a large tool chest. Some tubs held objects of various sizes ranging from less than a few inches to several over three feet in length. “You’ve already brought some remains up!”

  John appeared pleased. “Two days ago we reached the first bones.”

  Shelby removed a glove and lifted one of the larger bones. “A femur. Definitely belongs to an adult primate.”

  John compared it to his thigh. “Not near as big as Goliath’s.”

  Shelby returned it and lifted a sample from a second tub. “Rib. You have to realize all the great apes exhibit sexual dimorphism. The males are much larger than the females.”

  Outside, John introduced her to the excavation crew. An airman named Ramirez seemed to be in charge. “Still nothing on radar,” he reported. “Sonar says it’s there. We’ll reach the target by four this afternoon.”

  While Shelby watched jets of steaming hot water enter one of the thirty-inch-diameter holes, John explained the process. “The radar wasn’t able to pick up anything—meaning nothing metallic—so we went with the sonar. That indicated there was something in the ice. We used the ice-melter to dig a shaft down to the bones.”

  Shelby leaned across the safety tape and gazed down. The shaft’s edges appeared smooth and a much deeper blue than the surface ice. “Who climbs down?”

  John grinned at the men. Ramirez pointed at John. “He’s the glacier expert. We just cut the holes.”

  Ramirez was off by only twenty minutes. Shelby watched John climb into the harness and rappel down the shaft. He carried a second winch hook with him. He wasn’t down in the glacier long enough for Shelby to be worried, though she realized anyone with any tendency toward claustrophobia would have real issues with descending into the narrow multistory ice shaft.

  She heard his voice on the radio. “It’s secure. Bring me up.”

  Up top, John climbed out of the harness.

  He met Shelby’s questioning gaze. He nodded. “It’s in great shape,” was all he said.

  Shelby felt her anticipation rise as the electric winch wound. She couldn’t resist an exuberant “That’s it, you did it!” when the large well-preserved skull cleared the shaft. Immediately, she noted the double bony crest running over the top from front to back. Just like the juvenile, only much larger.

  Two men carefully placed the skull on a metal table. Ramirez ran a portable radar device over the cranium. He looked at John and shook his head. “Nothing foreign. I’ll radio Lieutenant Mendle.” He eyed the frightening-looking specimen. “That the same kind as the ape we’ve seen on the news?” he questioned Shelby.

  “Yes sir, I believe it is.” Shelby moved closer. She could see tufts of hair stuck in a few isolated patches over the occiput. These appeared better preserved than the hair samples she’d sent for DNA analysis. The almost white color made her consider more seriously the possibility albinism had been a natural trait of the Goliath species in general because of the Ice Age snowy world they evolved in.

  But the hair wasn’t what held her attention. The double well circumscribed holes penetrating the thick bone above the right orbit did.

  “The smaller juvenile skull had only one,” John observed. “Why two in this one?”

  Shelby thought she knew the answer. “Because she was much larger. And a frightened mother is harder to kill.”

  CHAPTER 28

  The private indoor shooting range had been built by the prior owner of the Vancouver Bear Island estate and could accommodate weapons ranging from the fifty-caliber Desert Eagle down to a twenty-two rifle and pretty much any firearm in between. Rasheed Ahmen didn’t use the range much, mainly only a month or two before a hunt and that was just to reestablish his relationship with the weapon he planned on using to acquire his target.

  Ahmen carried his latest weapon acquisition into the long room and set it on the shooting counter next to the firearms lockboxes. In the years since owning the mansion, Ahmen had amassed quite a collection of rifles and revolvers—30.06, 357H&H, 308 Winchesters—the 30.06 being his favorite. He owned over twenty pistols and revolvers, his favorites being the Syrian army’s Makarov PM and Tokarev TT-33. The eight-round Tokarev he’d used to bring down the lowland silverback and his family now preserved in his Primate House. He’d taken down other species of trophy big game—cape water buffalo to lions and tigers. But primates remained his undying passion.

  For just a moment he gazed down the fifty-meter indoor range to where the ballistic rubber tiles caught the bullets. Targets in various primate silhouettes hung from the tactical shooting system, allowing rapid deployment of stationary or moving subjects. Some of the most difficult species to hit were the smallest—mouse lemur and Vietnam’s Delacour’s langur—whereas the largest, such as the gorillas and orangutans, would be the most dangerous especially when wounded and cornered. Recently he’d begun collecting with more primitive weapons—though what he used was a universe away from what the Native Americans had used. He enjoyed stalking as close as possible and using his seventy-pound Prodigy compound bow to drop his targets. The
taxidermists he hired had no difficulty concealing the wounds from his broadhead arrows.

  His latest endeavor, though, he decided would require a special weapon, one he’d never used before in the field. Only indoors at his range.

  He lifted the Barnett Ghost compound crossbow capable of firing a 400-grain bolt at 410 feet per second. He ignored the target range door opening behind him as he practiced an aim.

  “You really are serious, aren’t you,” a male voice said.

  Ahmen sighted on the nearest target, a medium-sized ripe cantaloupe set on a wood pedestal thirty meters down the range. “Pop,” he murmured and lowered the imposing medieval-appearing weapon. He set the crossbow down and shook Jimmy John Ralston’s hand, looking the tall man up and down. “I see you survived.”

  Ralston found a chair behind the shooting counter. He rubbed his mustache and pointed at the crossbow. “You plan on using that?”

  Ahmen grinned and nodded gamely. “It always comes down to me against them.”

  “My cousin once shot a black bear with a bow. Had to trail the damn animal for over a mile before it died. Hit it too low in the gut.”

  Ahmen sat on the counter. “I’ll aim for the head, heart, or lungs.”

  The APA man thought a moment. “You haven’t seen this thing up close. I have. I watched it rip a man’s head clean off without even trying. It busted through a metal frame like it was tinfoil.”

  Ahmen chuckled. “That’s what I want to hear.”

  “It’s a fucking eleven-foot monster. Rumor’s floating around it’s as smart as we are. Did you hear they dug its mate’s skull out of a glacier in Alaska?”

  “I did. Interesting but doesn’t change the big picture.”

  “Reports state whoever captured the giant thousands of years ago killed his mate and child. So not only do we have a monster from primate land, but a goddamned angry sonofabitch.”