He glanced down at the plaster cast and quickly assessed the situation. “You,” he said to Del, “I would not expect to know any better.” But then he wheeled on Carter. “But how could you do something so obtuse?”
“This is the best lab on the premises, and we need to proceed with the work.”
“In full public view?”
“We keep it covered and out of sight during museum hours. We’ve only worked on it at night.”
Gunderson let out an angry breath and ran a hand back over his hair. “Dr. Cox, I know that the Page Museum considered it a coup to get you to come here. But I for one always had my reservations. I looked into the events that precipitated your departure from New York University, and I wasn’t exactly relieved. Your unorthodox research methods not only led to a massive lab explosion—”
Carter wondered if he was going to run down all the sordid details.
“—but also caused the deaths of two of your colleagues.”
Apparently he was. Carter looked over at Del—he’d never told his friend the whole story, and now he wished that he had. It’s just that it was something he tried, without much success, to put out of his mind.
“Now it looks like you’re up to your old tricks, and I won’t have it in my museum.”
When was it, Carter thought, that the Page had become his museum?
“I want this . . . specimen removed first thing tomorrow. I’ve already got the NAGPRA people swamping me with official queries and threats about our government funding. The last thing I want to do is give them any fresh ammunition.” He threw one last look onto the remains, much of them still concealed by the plaster cast used to preserve them during the recovery and transportation to the lab, and then turned abruptly on his heel. “The museum closes at six P.M., gentlemen,” he said on his way to the door. “The only person authorized to be in here is the night watchman.”
The door, on an air-hinge, slowly closed and latched behind him, and Carter and Del were left alone again, in the now brightly lighted lab. Carter wasn’t sure what to say.
“Two?” Del finally said. “I knew about your friend Joe Russo, but there was another guy who died, too?”
“Joe died from burns,” Carter said, “in the hospital. A young assistant professor, Bill Mitchell, was killed at the scene.”
“He was the one who started the laser?”
“Yes,” Carter said.
“Without knowing about the gas pockets in the rock?”
“He wasn’t even supposed to know about the project. He wasn’t supposed to be in there.”
“Where were you?” Del hadn’t meant to make it sound so accusatory.
“Upstate, at a friend’s house, for the weekend.”
Del rocked on his heels, as if pondering the data, then said, “Well, it sounds to me like it was one royal fuck-up.”
Carter couldn’t deny it.
“But it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t even there.” It was what Beth had tried to tell him a thousand times—what he’d told himself nearly as many. But it didn’t matter. He would carry the disaster in his heart to the end of his days, and he would mourn the loss of his friend Joe Russo always.
“So,” Del said, gesturing at the La Brea Man, “what do you want to do about our friend here?”
Carter wasn’t sure yet. He could set up a makeshift lab in the sub-basement, but it would take a few days of preparation. What he did know was that he wanted to spirit one piece of the find away immediately; now that he’d removed the mystery object from the man’s hand, he wanted to get to work on it first thing the next day. And he certainly couldn’t do that in here anymore.
“Let’s just cover it and leave it here until I can set something up.”
They drew the black sheath over the remains and tidied up the work area, and while Del was busy looping the extension cord around the boom box, Carter wrapped the object in his clean handkerchief (thank goodness Beth encouraged him to carry one) and slipped it into the side pocket of his leather jacket; although it was much heavier than he’d thought it would be, enough to make that side of his coat sag, he was hoping that Del wouldn’t notice.
On the way out, Carter suddenly stopped and said to Del, “I forgot something upstairs in my office.”
“You want me to wait for you?”
“No, you go on home to your balcony. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The security guard, Hector, let Del out, and then said to Carter, “Mr. Gunderson, he told me you’re supposed to go now, too.” He said it somewhat apologetically, as he and Carter had always been pretty friendly. In fact, when he and Del had eaten in the lab the night before, Carter had brought Hector a Big Mac and a large fries.
“I’ve just got to make one more stop,” Carter said, and Hector looked dubious. “In the sub-basement.”
Hector made sure the door was locked behind Del, then said, “You can’t go down there now. The elevator’s locked.”
Carter hadn’t thought of that. “But you’ve got the key, right?”
Hector looked as if he wanted to lie, but he knew it was too late.
“C’mon, Hector, we can be down there and back in five minutes.”
Hector surveyed the empty precincts of the first floor—the re-creation of the giant ground sloth rearing up on its hind legs, the skulls of the dire wolves arrayed on the wall, the skeleton of the saber-toothed cat snarling in its glass display case—and must have decided everything looked as though it might be alright for a while. Never underestimate, Carter thought, the power of McDonald’s.
“Okay, but we gotta be fast.”
“We will be,” Carter said, striding toward the elevator bank before the watchman could have any second thoughts.
Hector got in, hitching his belt up over his paunch, and inserted the master key into the control panel. Carter hit the button for the sub-basement, where most of the fossil collections were kept.
When the doors opened, the endless corridors, lined with metal cases and file drawers, were in almost utter blackness; only a couple of emergency lights were on, way off across the floor. Hector said, “Hold the door open,” and he stepped out to hit the bank of light switches. All down the corridors, fluorescent tubes flickered and hummed into life, but even then the light was uneven and insufficient. It was like entering a great, gray cave, one that didn’t want you there.
Hector said, “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Maybe we could come back tomorrow.”
Carter wondered if Hector was one of the security personnel who’d reported the strange noises in the museum at night. “It’s right down here,” Carter said, marching off. The spot he was heading for was all the way at the far end of the floor, but he didn’t see any need to mention that just now.
His shoes had rubber soles, and they squeaked on the linoleum as he walked; his shadow moved ahead of him, and then behind, as he passed under each of the overhead lights. Many of the green and gray metal cabinets, undisturbed for years, were coated with a fine film of dust. Hector followed a few steps behind him.
There was a burbling in his pocket, and he took out his cell phone. Carter knew, before answering, that it would be Beth.
“So you are still alive,” she said, her voice faint.
“Barely, I’m down in the sub-basement.”
“Where?”
He repeated himself; the connection was, predictably, pretty bad.
“. . . coming home?”
“Yes, I will be coming home. I swear.” As much for Hector as Beth, he said, “I’ll be gone in a few minutes. Everything alright?”
“Fine.” There was a burst of static, then he heard, “. . . an invitation.”
“You’re breaking up,” he said. “We got an invitation?”
“Yes,” she said. “From al-Kalli. Dinner, at his estate.”
That was interesting, but Carter wasn’t terribly surprised. Al-Kalli was expecting a lot from Beth—and for some reason expecting it fast—and this was probably just one more way to k
eep tabs on her. And so far, Beth had told al-Kalli nothing of the secret pages she had found under the front cover of the book; Carter had agreed with her that it was best to get them entirely translated and annotated before breaking the news, because once she had, it would be just one more thing al-Kalli would be breathing down her neck about.
“I hope I don’t need a tux,” Carter said. The lights down here seemed even dimmer than ever.
“I’m sure a . . . get you past the door.” She said something else, too, but it was no longer audible.
“Beth, I’m losing you.”
There was nothing at all but static now.
“I’ll see you in about a half hour,” he said, though he wasn’t sure she could hear him either. He put the phone back in his pocket.
“You sure you know where we’re going?” Hector asked.
“Absolutely,” Carter said, though even he could feel the strange oppressiveness of their surroundings. It wasn’t often that you found yourself deep underground, surrounded by millions of bones and petrified artifacts. He doubted that Hector ever made this floor a part of his regular rounds.
The object he’d retrieved from the grasp of the La Brea Man hung heavy in the other pocket of his jacket, and he looked forward to coming back the next day and examining it—down here, away from Gunderson’s prying eyes.
At the end of the corridor, under a bank of fluorescents, there was a wide table with a couple of glass jars holding some basic tools of the trade—chisels, scalpels, brushes, razor blades—and a pair of metal stools. It was here that Carter had examined the remains of the La Brea Woman.
“Why’d you need to come down here now?” Hector asked, a peeved note in his voice. “What couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
“I’ll be done in a minute,” Carter said, taking his keys out of his pocket and searching for the small one that unlocked the padlock on the top drawer of the cabinet.
“One of the other guards,” Hector said, “he told me he saw Geronimo.”
“Really,” Carter said, noncommittally, finding the right key.
“Yesterday.”
Carter fitted the key into the lock and said, “That seems pretty unlikely, doesn’t it? Geronimo—William Blackhawk Smith,” he corrected himself, “has been dead for over a week.” Carter removed the padlock and put it on the worktable behind him.
Hector shrugged. “Funny things happen around here all the time.”
And one of them was happening right now, Carter thought. Before he’d had a chance to touch it, the drawer containing the remains of the La Brea Woman was sliding open, as if on rails. Normally, these drawers were pretty sticky and you had to tug on them a bit. But not this one. This one was opening as if of its own volition.
The crushed skull lay back in the center of the drawer, its empty eye sockets angled up at the ceiling.
Hector, who hadn’t seen the drawer open, came around to Carter’s side now, crossed himself, and stared down at the ancient skull. “That’s the woman they found in the pits? All those years ago?”
“Yes.” Carter drew the white handkerchief containing the object from upstairs out of his pocket. It would have been better if Hector had not witnessed this, but there didn’t seem to be much of a choice. Carter removed the hankie, which fluttered to the floor, and placed the tar-covered stone, or whatever it would prove to be, in the drawer. This was the safest and most secure place he could think of.
Something stirred in the air, blowing the handkerchief, now smudged with tar, over their feet.
Hector’s head snapped around. He pulled the flashlight off his utility belt and flashed it in all directions.
“It’s just the vents,” Carter said, picking up the handkerchief and tossing it into the drawer.
But Hector didn’t appear convinced. “Something moved,” he said, “over there.” He motioned at the next aisle.
“If something did, it was probably a mouse.”
Carter started to push the drawer closed again, but now it did stick. As easily as it had come out, that was how hard it was to get it closed. He asked Hector for the flashlight, who surrendered it reluctantly, then played the beam over the front and sides of the drawer. There were long lateral scratches on the metal, and even a couple of small dents at either end. Some of these cabinets were decades old, but Carter didn’t remember this one looking quite so battered.
He tried closing it again, and this time the drawer almost seemed to push back. There was a screeching sound—the drawer refusing to return—and Hector said, “What’s the problem? We got to go.”
“I can’t get the drawer closed.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Hector said. “Nobody else is coming down here tonight.”
“I’m not going to leave this open,” Carter said, shimmying the drawer to either side. “These bones are too valuable.”
“I won’t let anybody down here,” Hector insisted, his head swiveling in all directions. “Come on!”
And then, even though Carter had stopped trying to force it, the drawer began to shake. Carter stood back, staring, as the ancient artifacts rattled against the bottom and sides of the drawer. It was as if an unseen hand was rocking first the drawer, and then the whole cabinet.
“It’s an earthquake!” Hector shouted. “We got to get out of here—now!”
Was that it? Carter hadn’t been in California long enough to experience a quake yet. But this couldn’t be a quake—nothing else was shaking. Not the floor, not the ceiling lights, not the table or stools.
Just this one cabinet, with the bones of the La Brea Woman—and the artifact he had just placed among them.
Hector had already taken off in the direction of the elevators, and Carter waited, watching. The air stirred again, and this time he wasn’t so sure it was a vent, after all.
When the shaking subsided, as it did after a minute or so, Carter gently tried closing the drawer again, and this time it slid closed effortlessly—as if whatever force had been resisting him had given up, or run out of strength.
He put the padlock back on, and studied the scratched surface of the cabinet. What had just happened here? Had some unseen force been at play? He tugged on the padlock to make sure it was secure. Had he sealed something in that was trying to get out . . . or had he kept something out that had been trying to get in?
“I’m holding the elevator!” he heard Hector calling from the far end of the floor, his words echoing eerily around the closed walls. There was barely controlled panic in his voice. “But I’m not going to stick around forever, okay?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HOW COULD SHE stay so fat, Greer wondered, with nothing but low-fat, low-carb, low-cal crap in all the cupboards? He rummaged around on the shelves looking for a can or a box of anything edible. A bag of baked, salt-free veggie chips fell out and onto the counter and his mother said, “What are you looking for?”
“What do you think?” Greer said.
His mother picked up the chips and stuffed them back where they belonged. “Just tell me what you want and I’ll find it for you.”
“What I want, you don’t have.”
“Then maybe you should try shopping for yourself sometime, buster.”
She was in almost as bad a mood as he was. Greer had just gotten up—it was a little past noon—and he knew she thought it was a crime to sleep that late. But what else did he have to do? It wasn’t as if he held a job anywhere. And the night before, he’d been back at the Blue Bayou till all hours, drinking, popping pills, and trying not to think about the one thing he couldn’t stop thinking about.
Why hadn’t al-Kalli called him yet? He must have gotten the letter. Greer had put his cell phone number under his signature, and he hadn’t gone anywhere without the phone now for days. He even slept with it on the pillow next to his head.
“How about cheese?” Greer said. “We got any cheese?”
His mother, who already had her head in the fridge, yanked open a plastic drawer and handed h
im a pack of low-fat—big surprise—American singles. If he could rustle up some bread, he’d be halfway to a grilled cheese sandwich.
The phone on the wall rang and his mother picked it up. She still had the TV blaring in the living room—Greer could hear a talk-show host noisily welcoming Katie Holmes—and right after “Hello,” she said “Who?” And then she stood there, in what she called her housecoat—a big wide hunk of cloth in vertical, “slimming” stripes—listening to whatever crap the guy on the phone was no doubt trying to sell her.
Greer elbowed past her and found some cracked-wheat bread in the breadbox.
His mother was still listening to the caller. And then she said, “Yes, I am,” in a markedly different tone.
Christ, Greer thought, she’s buying it, whatever it is.
“I’m very pleased to hear that,” she said. “I had no idea.”
Greer nudged her to one side so he could put a frying pan on the stove; he thought about just nuking the thing in the microwave, but he wanted that crispy flavor you can only get on the stove. Man, this kitchen—kitchenette, to be more accurate—was small. Once he’d finished shaking down al-Kalli, the first thing he was going to do was move out and find a place of his own.
He poured some oil into the pan, and was just about to put the bread and cheese in, when his mother said, “Yes, he is—I’ll put him on. And thank you.”
She held out the phone to him, and Greer said, “Who the fuck you talking to?”
She slapped a hand over the receiver and whispered, “Watch your mouth in this house. It’s your commanding officer, from Iraq. He was just telling me what a fine soldier you had been there.”
Greer stared at the phone as though he’d never seen one before. His commanding officer, from Iraq? He didn’t even know who that’d be. Major Bleich? General Schuetz? President Bush?
And why would he be calling here?
The oil in the pan started to sputter, and his mother reached over and turned off the burner, while urging the phone on him with the other hand. “I’ll go in the other room and turn off the TV,” she said. “And don’t you be impolite with him. He might have some work for you.”
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