by Glen Craney
Come on, get to work.
Driven at last to the task, she plopped down in front of her computer and clicked on the icon to open the document containing her article in progress, an offshoot from her doctoral dissertation on the building blocks of life as they related to panspermia theory. These past weeks, she had been venturing more deeply into her work with the Stardust Project. Truth was, she knew precious little about NASA’s top-secret probe, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t plumb some of its declassified findings for a little journal cash on the side. She took another drink of beer, hoping for inspiration as she stared at the maze of conflicting theories and equations on the screen.
Why can’t I forget about that damn Stone?
Nearly fricasseed by the humidity, she decided to try an old trick from her undergrad days to ease herself back into the mood. She scanned the shelves and looked for something interesting to read, something to get the blood flowing back into her brain. She pulled down an old tattered textbook, Fundamentals of Planetary Science.
She rubbed her eyes and tried to focus as she sucked in the musty smell of the dull-gray pages. An entry about a British chemist named Charles Edward Howard caught her eye. In 1802, he proved that meteorites contained nickel from outer space; he had illuminated a sample meteorite with an electrical charge that simulated the stone’s entry into Earth’s atmosphere. According to his report on the experiment, the rock had glowed for forty-five minutes. After that, he never wrote another word about stones from space. She’d always wondered why Howard gave up his avocation and chose instead to run London’s biggest sugar refinery. Tragically, he died at age forty-two, suffering heatstroke after he walked into the refinery’s oven room.
Something always struck her as fishy about that story. Why would a chemist who knew the dangers of heat take such a risk? Had he really died by natural means? Or had someone murdered him to prevent the exposure of something else embedded in one of his sample rocks?
Geez, listen to yourself, Marly. You’re starting to sound like you-know-who.
Flipping randomly through her binder, she finally found the place where she had left off. She noticed that one of the mottled pages in the back had been torn and folded in. Two smears ran across the page. One looked like blood, dried black. She had never seen that before.
Maybe one of those Mossad goons who ransacked her apartment had cut his hand on the edge of the paper while rushing to find something inside the binder. The other smear resembled a shoe print. She ran her finger along the edge of the black sole pattern ground into the paper. Faint ruddy lines bordered its outline. She’d been through enough lab tests to know at once what that was.
Dirt.
She carefully traced the smudge and felt the roll of tiny granules. Some fell to the floor. She reached down to collect the minuscule grains and rubbed them between her finger and thumb.
Felt like clay.
No, it couldn’t be. Indigenous clay of this rusty hue had never been found in Manhattan. She gently laid the binder on her desk and hurried to the bathroom. Snatching scissors and tweezers from her medicine cabinet, she returned to the kitchen and rooted around for a plastic bag. Back at the binder, she carefully snipped the paper that held the reddish smear and dropped several pieces into the Ziploc baggy.
She ran out of her apartment and flew down the stairs.
TWO HOURS LATER, AFTER SNEAKING her way into the biology department lab by sweet-talking one of her former grad students, she returned to her apartment with the test results. She plopped back down in front of her computer and loaded the fresh data into her formula for revealing chemical compositions:
(K,Na)(Fe+++Al,Mg)2(Si,Al)4O10(OH)2
The sediment was glauconite.
That didn’t surprise her. The reddish hue, though, was baffling. Iron potassium phyllosilicate tended to be green and, in its natural habitat, shiny or silvery. Though this sample had many of the same characteristics, there had to be more to this story than what the database was telling her. She typed in more details from her observations, including weight and color. The mineral in the specks originated from the decomposition of potassium feldspar with iron. Most likely in water. These particles had to come from somewhere once underwater for eons. No way it was from Manhattan. Or even the Northeast.
But who had gotten this stuff on a shoe?
She clicked as fast as she could through the online databases of samples.
Finally, a match.
She scanned the scientific history of the sediment. The grains had been deposited during the Ordovician era, one of the second Paleozoic geological divisions. Greenhouse gases had contributed so much heat to the Earth’s atmosphere at that time that much of North America was covered by ocean. Only later in the period, after mass extinctions, did the Earth cool to one of its coldest periods in six hundred million years. And when things began warming up again, the Ordovician era laid the groundwork for one of Earth’s most productive, life-giving stages: the Cambrian. There was only one region in the United States where such iron-rich samples with this particular range of color had been found.
She leaned back into her chair, now more confused than ever. This dust had come from rocks that were around a billion and a half years old. Even more intriguing, the ruddy smudge had gotten into her apartment … by way of Texas. She stared through rounded eyes at her scribbled notes: The residue was known as Hickory Sandstone. Found only in Llano County. She punched in Mapquest on her web browser and searched for its location.
Damn. Four hours southwest of … She pulled at her hair in disbelief. Dallas?
Those men who broke into her apartment weren’t Mossad! That slimy Israeli agent had lied to her! But why would anyone from Texas want to—she froze, the blood draining from her face.
She zippered the plastic bag and slid it with her test results into the top drawer of her desk. Inside, her fingers happened across something smooth. She stared down at the sliver of Black Stone that she had secreted away while at that Dallas industrial park. She’d completely forgotten she still had it. She could never remember where she had put it after cleaning out her office. Some hiding place.
The ancient Meccan meteorite fragment stared back at her in a dare.
She took a deep breath. Don’t do it, Marly
Despite her better judgment, she typed a few words into Google. When a telephone number appeared, she picked up her cell phone and dialed.
“Malibu Chamber of Commerce,” a voice answered.
“I’ve got a rather strange question,” she said. “I’m looking for the nastiest bar in Malibu. One where the lowest form of beach life would hang out.”
“That’s probably The Fish Tank. But we don’t usually recommend it to tourists. There tend to be, uh, altercations there from time to time.”
“Sounds like the place I want. Could you please give me that number?”
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Malibu, California
CAS ROLLED HIS SWOLLEN TONGUE across his dry mouth, checking to see if he could still salivate. His upper palate felt like a Bedouin sand carpet, and his teeth were coated with a sticky saccharine glaze. And those were just the first of several worrisome developments now coming to his addled consciousness. Aside from the fact that he couldn’t breathe through his nose, his left calf was beginning to cramp and his bladder was sending stinging alarms that it needed draining.
Wiping the sleep gunk from his eyes, he turned to find a young blonde lying next to him. Oh, right.
He had met her the night before at the Fish Tank bar, after his third Mai Tai. Hadn’t she been blabbering on about being from Indiana or Illinois or one of those lost continents? He also vaguely remembered having convinced her that he was the producer of an upcoming Rambo movie in which Sly Stallone would recruit a bunch of geriatrics to save the world against the enemies of Social Security. He always knew that military techno-mumbo-jumbo knowledge would come in handy one day.
He quietly slipped out from under
the sheet and stumbled to the kitchen to make a pot of java. Clearing a spot on the counter amid the detritus of empty rum bottles and cigarettes, he found the bag of stale grounds and poured a handful into the Mr. Coffee. A fraying decal of Joe DiMaggio gripping a steaming hot cup stared back at him.
Damn, am I that old? What next? A Baby Ruth candy bar in the fridge?
While waiting for the coffee to brew, he excavated his cell phone from the mess on the table and quietly eased through the sliding-glass door, hoping some fresh air might ease his pounding headache. He settled into a cheap lawn chair on his wraparound deck overlooking the Pacific and lifted his puffy face toward the sun. Shading his cell phone with one hand, he squinted to check for messages. Nada, as usual.
Out of booze, he thumb-texted his bartender pal Goobs, who was always good for a free nooner Bloody Mary. Which was helpful, seeing as how his financial situation was getting even grimmer, thanks to that bastard Earl Jubal double-crossing him on the Black Stone payment. If he weren’t so hung over, he’d race back to the Mojave Desert and kick that toy soldier’s ass all the way from CrossArrow’s headquarters to the nearest bank.
His phone came to life, and he covered the screen with his hand to read Goobs’ text reply:
Yeah & u got a msg here frm last nite. Smbody who nu yr real name.
He sat up with a start. Who could possibly know to leave him a message at the Fish Tank? His corner stool at that bar was more classified than the bunker under the White House. Hearing the coffeemaker sputtering, he stood with a groan and shuffled back into the kitchen. He poured the new brew into an old thirty-two-ounce Styrofoam cup from some distant Cherry Slushee and coagulated it with a stream of sugar and some questionable milk. Armed with his usual caffeine-calcium fix, he walked outside again, settled back into the lawn chair, and proceeded to work on the mystery at hand. He returned Goobs’s text, taking three attempts before finally getting the letters correct:
msg from?
“Hey, baby,” a husky voice purred behind his ear.
He craned his neck to see the voluptuous blonde in his men’s double-X-sized “Eat It Raw” T-shirt standing over him. Soft, velvety and … so freakin’ young. Please tell me you’re at least sixteen! Please tell me that of all the things I could go to jail for… Her soft, supple hands massaged his sunburned shoulders, and felt the beginnings of a tingle in his groin. He smiled and reached down to guide her hand to …
“You’re cell phone’s buzzing,” she said, laughing at his disappointment.
He’d forgotten the phone in his lap. So much for that loving feeling. He brought the phone screen an inch from his red eyes and read Goobs’s answer:
ur call came frm a betty rubble.
While the young blonde pawed at him, Cas punched back a text reply: wtf? Then, he looked over his shoulder and told his nubile guest, “Fresh coffee’s on the … uh, hey, listen.” He brushed her hands away. “Y’know, I really, uh … I gotta … I’ve got some appointments today, so—”
She got the drift. “Yeah, appointments. No worries. I had a great time. You’re weird and crazy, but you’re nice, in a kind of weird way.”
Betty Rubble? Distracted, he nodded the blonde off and out through the screen door. He scratched his head, baffled by Goobs’s texts. Before he could even try to make sense of them, the phone vibrated again with another incoming: msg sez to call her @212-555-9845. sez they r hiring @ llano quarry.
For God’s sake, what did she want?
Dr. Marly McKinney, specialist in petrified hearts. How did she even… geez, those booze hounds at the Fish Tank must have told her where he spent most mornings—late, late mornings, afternoons really.
Betty Rubble? Cute. And Llano? What was that all about?
What could she possibly want from him? He scratched his head and took another long slurp of his cloying coffee. Hmm, yanking the professor’s chain might be good for a few laughs. He dialed the number Goobs had texted.
After multiple rings and a few agonizing seconds of some ungodly Southern beach music, a screaming female voice banged his eardrum, “You think I’m swimming in the Benjamins here? I can barely make my rent, thanks to you!”
He grinned, amused to hear Marly sounding just like him now. He was always glad to leave a legacy. “Hey, you’re the one who texted me to call you. I’m not exactly living the trust-fund dream myself.” He tried to stifle a laugh while leaving her hanging through a long pause. “Listen, I’m pretty busy. What’s so urgent?”
“You’re busy. That’s hilarious.”
“You miss me, don’t you?” he said. “You still kick yourself for not letting me come up to your room that night. I knew you’d come around—”
“Shut up for once, and listen!” When he had finally piped down, Marly said more calmly, “I think that Mossad guy was lying to us.”
“What Mossad guy?”
“Isserle, you moron! Damn it, take the cotton swabs out of your brain holes!”
“Isserle? Oh, yeah. Gee, a spook lying. You’d better call the Consumer Protection Agency and alert them.”
She huffed over the phone, “I don’t even know why I’m bothering.”
“Take it easy,” he said. “It’s three hours earlier out here. Most of us don’t get out of bed until noon. So just slow down for a breath and tell me what meds you forgot to take this morning.”
“That American man you chased to Israel. I think his name was Seth something.”
Cas flipped through his memory’s rusty Rolodex. “Cohabit?”
“Cohanim! That’s the name. Where was he from?”
“Cowboy hat … Texas, I think.”
“Where in Texas, dammit!”
“Geez, take a Valium with some wine. You’re wound tighter than when I dumped you.”
“You didn’t dump me! Is that what you’ve been telling people?”
“Yeah, just last night, I happened to mention it to Jimmy Fallon.”
“Oh, for the love of God! Cohanim! Where from? Just try to put those two Legos together.”
“Hell if I know.”
“Could it be Llano County?”
Cas shrugged as he glanced longingly toward the kitchen table in search of a bottle that might still contain something distilled. “Never heard of it. Listen, I have a black-tie dinner party to prepare for, so, if you’re done updating your scrapbook, I need to get back to my life.”
“Listen to me! We have to find out if this Cohanim—”
“Sayonara, rock lady! Do me a favor, and don’t call before noon.” Cas pressed the End button on his phone and smiled, imagining the tantrum that Marly was throwing right now.
Yawning, he checked his list for the day. Oh yeah, he’d been meaning to expunge all of his old computer files, a little overdue digital hygiene. With those Anonymous and Wikileaks freaks on the loose, he figured it’d be the better part of valor to clean up some of the classified stuff that he had accumulated on his hard drive over the years. These days, you never knew how or when the damned stuff would be featured on a TMZ segment. The last thing he needed was a couple of U.S. District attorneys showing up at his door with a cease-and-desist order.
Feeling a bit more chipper after his shouting match with the Medusa of Morningside Heights, he strolled back inside and moved to the cooler side of the house. He settled into the director’s chair in front of his laptop. He hadn’t turned that thing on in a week. Probably just a bunch of spam email waiting for him anyway. Maybe he’d get lucky and find a Groupon ad for a half-off happy-ending massage.
The computer booted up, and as he tried to focus to see the little icons on his desktop, one caught his eye: a shortcut to an mp4 file labeled Hilbert.
When the hell did he put that there?
Without thinking, mostly because his head still hurt, he clicked on the file. In the next instant, flickering black-and-white images from the Dallas traffic cam filled the screen. He smiled at the memory of those two bumbling cops trapped in that burger-joint bathroom. Those w
ere the good old days, back when he still had his chops. He shook his head several times, trying to clear the toxins and cobwebs.
The mp4 stopped on an image of a license plate. Under the number … did that say … ? He tried to recall what that Dallas dispatcher had told him about the license plate that day when he impersonated Officer Hank. On a whim, he opened his phone again and dialed the LA County Sheriff’s Department on Agoura Road, just up the mountain.
“Lost Hills Station. McKenzie.”
“This is SAC Emerson,” he said, using the FBI’s acronym for Special Agent in Charge, and praying the guy wouldn’t check the directory online. “Federal ID number oh-seven three-eighteen lima-alpha.”
“What can I do for you, Agent?”
“Just a license check. I happened to be up here in your lovely jurisdiction and saw some suspicious activity involving a black BMW with a Texas license plate. Down on Pacific Coast Highway a few minutes ago. Looked like the doors might have been bullet-plated.”
“That’s not illegal here in California.”
“Yeah, I know,” Cas said. “Call it a gut feeling, but I’m thinking it might be a target we’ve been watching for a while. You know, one of those Mexican-cartel types, Texas plate and all.”
“Right,” the officer said. “Be happy to help. Did you get the full number?”
He remembered that Dallas dispatcher telling him the plate was registered to some mysterious “Light” outfit, but he hadn’t thought to ask which county. He leaned into the still shot captured from the mp4 file and read off the license number on one of the sedans that had ambushed him and Marly in the industrial park: “Yep. Bravo Alpha Two, Alpha Eight Forty-Niner.”