Bones

by John Wilson

  “I’m not mistaken,” I say. “I saw you.”

  “You may think you saw me, but in the middle of a storm as violent as the one last night, who can be sure what they see?”

  “Percy almost knocked me over.”

  “Is it not true,” Battleford says slowly, “that your friend Darren has a similar breed of dog?”

  “He’s not my friend, and it was Percy and you.”

  “Hmm.” Battleford rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps I shall accompany you to the police station. You see, my Hummer was stolen last night. I should probably report it. I have to go and pick it up anyway. It’s damaged. Only slightly—a few scratches, a dent or two—but these vehicles are terribly expensive to repair. Actually,” he says, as if remembering something, “wasn’t it you who drove my Hummer to the party by the river?”

  “I was bringing an injured person down from the coulee,” I say with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Most commendable,” Battleford says again, “but failure to ask permission is theft nonetheless.”

  “So you admit you were in the coulee last night,” I say triumphantly.

  “Not at all.” Battleford is unfazed. “I was dining last night with a colleague in the precious-fossil business, a fact she will confirm. My Hummer was taken from town. Probably kids out joyriding, but that doesn’t alter the fact that you were seen driving a stolen vehicle with several thousand dollars’ worth of damage to it.”

  Battleford looks at me carefully. I feel trapped. I’ve seen what this man’s lawyers can do. If he wants me to be liable for the damage to his Hummer, I will be in a lot of trouble. And what do I have? My word that I saw him and his dog under less than ideal conditions at a place where no crime was committed?

  “I suggest we forget the whole thing,” Battleford says in his silky voice. “After all, no harm was done. You still have your fossil, and I was thinking of selling the Hummer anyway. It uses too much gas, and one must be environmentally conscious these days, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” I say.

  “Excellent. Excellent. I shall go and collect my vehicle, and we will say no more about this unfortunate event. Come on, Percy. Time for a walk by the river.”

  Battleford turns toward the cab.

  “What about Darren and Beetlebrow?” I shout after him.

  “Ah yes, Darren and Beetlebrow.” Battleford half turns and speaks to me over his shoulder. “It seems they were out for a drink on a pleasant evening when they saw someone driving a Hummer in a dangerous manner. Being good citizens, they followed the vehicle on its erratic course but lost contact and headed back to town.” He smiles broadly at me. “Goodbye, Sam. I enjoy our little conversations, but I hope this is the last.”

  I go back into the house to find Annabel sitting at the kitchen table. She has her right leg raised and an ice pack on her ankle. “How’s your leg?” I ask.

  “A bit better. I slept with it on a pile of pillows, and the swelling’s down this morning. Was I a real idiot last night?”

  I laugh. “You could reduce your IQ by ninety percent and you’d still be smarter than most people. You were great.”

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” she says. “My knight in shining armor. Where have you been?”

  “We had a visitor,” I say.

  “Who?”

  “Two visitors, in fact. Humphrey Battleford and Percy.”

  “What? Why was he here?” Annabel looks so agitated, I think she’s about to jump up on her injured leg and run around the kitchen.

  “He came to tell us not to talk about last night.”

  “We have to,” Annabel says. “We have to go to the police. He tried to steal the fossil.”

  “He did,” I agree, “but ‘tried to’ is the important part of that sentence. We have no evidence that he intended to steal the fossil, and the only crime committed was my stealing his Hummer. He’s not the one who’ll go to prison if we pursue this. Besides, he says he has an ironclad alibi for last night, dinner with some woman in the valuable-fossil business.”

  “But…” Annabel’s brow furrows in thought. “I guess you’re right. Battleford wins again.”

  “But he didn’t get the fossil,” I point out, “and Dr. Bob said they were collecting it first thing this morning. It’s safe now.”

  The furrows deepen. “Why do you suppose he went to the effort of telling us to keep quiet if no crime was committed? He had nothing to worry about.”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t like loose ends, I suppose.” We fall silent. As I think of loose ends, something else preys on my mind. I have to mention it before it drives me crazy. “How do you feel about Greg?” I ask, dreading the answer.

  “Greg?” Annabel drags herself away from her thoughts. “How do I feel about Greg? What do you mean?”

  “Do you…like him? Prefer him to me?”

  Of all the reactions I’d imagined, laughter was not one. Eventually, Annabel gets herself under control. “Why would I prefer pirate boy to you?”

  “He’s cool. He’s smart. He knows a lot about the same stuff you do—Pi and all that. He’s the same height as you.”

  Annabel shakes her head. “For an intelligent person, you sure are dumb sometimes. Greg is a pompous twit with way too high an opinion of himself. Sure, he knows some stuff that makes him interesting to talk to. This can also be said of Dr. Bob. Are you jealous of him, too?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Come here.”

  I move around the table and Annabel struggles to stand. I reach out to help and she falls into my arms. We hug, and she kisses me on the cheek. “I find nothing remotely attractive in Greg,” she whispers in my ear. “I like my men shorter and a little bit dumb. That way I can feel superior to them.”

  I laugh and hug Annabel back. A sense of relief washes over me.

  Then Annabel pushes me away. “Wait,” she says. “What if a crime was committed?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We have to go to the museum.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to check something.”

  “How? The bikes are destroyed, and even if they weren’t, you can’t ride with your ankle.”

  As if on cue, my mother bustles into the kitchen. “Some of us are going into town in the van,” she announces cheerfully. “You guys want to tag along?”

  “Yes. No,” I say. “Can you drop us off at the museum?”

  “Sure,” Mom says. “You up for that, Annabel?”

  “I’m fine,” Annabel says. “I just need my crutches.

  Confused but happy, I follow the others as we all pile into the ancient Volkswagen van and chug off toward town.

  Chapter Twelve

  “We need to see Dr. Bob.” Even on crutches, Annabel is an unstoppable force of nature. I don’t think the receptionist even considers not doing as she’s asked. Within minutes, Dr. Bob appears through a nearby Staff Only door.

  “Good morning,” he says cheerily. “You both look better than last night. How’s the ankle?”

  “Fine. Did you collect the fossils this morning?”

  Dr. Bob looks taken aback by Annabel’s abrupt question. “Yes,” he says. “We went up first thing and loaded them. They’re in storage in the back.”

  “Can I see them?”

  “Sure, but why?”

  “I want to see something.”

  Dr. Bob shrugs, as much in the dark as I am, and leads the way. Annabel clumps impatiently along behind him.

  The three lumps of white plaster are at eye level on the blue shelving. Annabel leans forward and studies the one that contains the skull for a moment. “They’ve been switched,” she announces, stepping back.

  Dr. Bob and I stare at her.

  “This isn’t the fossil. The casts have been switched.”

  “That’s impossible,” Dr. Bob says when he finds his voice. “They were where we left them. They’re the right size and shape. They even have the correct ident
ifying information on them.” He points to the location and date information written in black marker on the top.

  “They don’t have any Pilish on them.” We both stare stupidly at Annabel. “Greg and I made up a Pilish saying and wrote it along the edge of the skull cast. Now I find a skull anciently in clever rocks. He said you wouldn’t mind,” she finishes weakly.

  “I don’t,” Dr. Bob says, peering at the cast. “Where did you write it?”

  “Here.” Annabel runs her finger along the bottom edge of the cast.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Dr. Bob leans forward and taps the cast several times. Then he scratches the surface with his fingernail. “You’re right,” he says eventually. “The composition is different from the mix we use at the museum.” He takes a pocket knife out of one of his many pockets and digs a small hole through the cast. “Not even the right kind of rock,” he says. “Looks like this is a boulder from some farmer’s field.” He folds the knife and steps back. “How did they do this? They are the same size and shape as the real casts. There wasn’t enough time to make these fake ones last night.”

  “Greg helped,” Annabel says.

  “Greg?” Dr. Bob and I say together.

  “Not intentionally,” Annabel says, “but remember his daily blog? He posted photos of every stage of the process. With those and the details Darren had from hanging around, plus what Beetlebrow knows of fossil casts, they could make copies. The exchange on the coulee wouldn’t have taken long. Then they loaded the real fossils into Darren’s truck.”

  “So the fossils will be in Darren’s barn,” I say.

  “Not necessarily,” Annabel says. “Remember Battleford’s alibi for last night?”

  “Dinner with someone,” I say.

  “A woman in the valuable-fossil business, you said,” says Annabel.

  “The woman from Precious Fossils and Gems,” I say.

  “It seems like a fair bet,” Annabel agrees. “Battleford must have seen her at some point after they took the fossil, if only to get his alibi straight, and I bet he’d rather leave something valuable with her than with Darren and Beetlebrow.”

  “Luela Harmsworth-Lewis,” Dr. Bob informs us. “She would know where to send the fossils for preparation. Probably even which courier company to use. I’ve often had suspicions about her. She has too many high-quality specimens. We need to call the police.”

  “Yes,” Annabel agrees, “but that might not be enough. It’ll take time to get a search warrant for Precious Fossils and Gems.”

  “You think Battleford will take the fossils away as soon as he gets the Hummer back?” I ask.

  “Possibly, but he likes to distance himself from the shadier dealings of his associates. I doubt he’d want stolen fossils in the back of his vehicle, especially if he has to cross the border.”

  “So they’ll be in the back room of Luela’s shop,” I say.

  Annabel is not listening. She’s clumping toward the open overhead loading door at the back of the storage area.

  “I doubt Luela will want stolen property on her premises for long,” she says over her shoulder. “She’ll want to get rid of them as soon as possible, probably using a courier service.”

  Annabel stops on the edge of the loading dock and points at the panel van parked to one side. The dark red with gold lettering on the side reads Paterson Scientific Courier Service—Nothing Too Big or Too Small.

  “Beetlebrow’s van!” I exclaim.

  “I’ll bet you a supersized full-meal deal the fossils are in there,” Annabel says.

  “Then let’s go and see.” Dr. Bob jumps down and hauls on the van’s back door. It’s not locked, and it doesn’t take us long to find the three plaster casts, complete with Pilish writing.

  “How quickly can the police get here?” I ask.

  “I don’t think we need the police,” Annabel says. We both stare at her. “Battleford has expensive lawyers. We know that,” she says to me. “No one went to prison for stealing the Loch Ard peacock. No one will go to prison for this. There isn’t enough hard evidence.” Annabel turns to Dr. Bob. “Remember Sue?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Bob says thoughtfully. “That case dragged through the courts for years. Different situation, but good lawyers can make simple matters complicated.”

  “If we don’t go to the police,” I say, “Battleford gets away with it.”

  “Not if we switch the casts back,” Annabel says with a smile.

  “Perfect,” Dr. Bob says. “We get the important fossil back, Battleford gets nothing and Beetlebrow ends up looking for another job. We’d better hurry. I’ll get some help.” He runs off to round up a few summer students.

  It only takes minutes for a sheepish Greg and a couple of others to make the exchange and close up the van. Moments later, Beetlebrow shows up, looks around sullenly and drives off.

  “I’d love to be a fly on the wall when the lab cuts off the plaster to find only boulders inside,” Dr. Bob says as we watch. “Come on, I’ll buy you two lunch.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “And she’s buying a stairway to Heaven.” The last chords of “Stairway to Heaven” drift off into the warm prairie evening.

  “It’s not Led Zeppelin,” Annabel says, “but a very decent cover.” Tomorrow we drive into Calgary for the long flight back to Australia. Dr. Bob has organized this farewell barbecue on the banks of the Red Deer River.

  “Dr. Bob is certainly a man of many talents,” I agree. “Have you enjoyed the holiday?” After the first frantic days, our two weeks in Alberta have been calm. With a few day’s rest, Annabel’s ankle has improved dramatically. Not enough to hike in the Rocky Mountains, but Dr. Bob took us to the incredible Dinosaur Provincial Park at Brooks. Mom took us to renew our psychic energy at Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump. With trips to see the sights of Calgary, we have had a full time.

  “It’s been great,” Annabel says. “I love your Mom, and I learned a lot at all the places we’ve been. There’s only one regret.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, concerned at the sad expression she’s suddenly wearing.

  “Well,” she says, close to tears. “I really would have liked to spend more time with Greg.”

  I dig her playfully in the ribs and we both laugh. Greg has kept a low profile since he discovered that his blog had helped the attempted theft. “One thing bothers me,” I say. “Back in the Museum store room, if Battleford had written the Pilish on the cast, what would you have done?”

  “Smashed it open,” Annabel says matter-of-factly.

  “You were that certain?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Never underestimate Battleford.”

  Dr. Bob strolls over and sits beside us.

  “Awesome,” Annabel says.

  “Thank you,” Dr. Bob says with a smile. “Compliment indeed from someone your age. I do think I shall move away from classic rock and check out some of the indie rock bands around”

  “Any news on the police investigation?” I ask.

  “They’ve questioned Beetlebrow, and he’s leading them to a ring that illegally sells valuable fossils. I think Luela will be in serious trouble.”

  “Nothing that leads back to Battleford?” Annabel asks.

  Dr. Bob shakes his head. “He’s Teflon-coated, nothing sticks to him. That reminds me, this arrived for you at the museum this afternoon.”

  Dr. Bob produces a gift-wrapped box from his bag and hands it over. It feels heavy for its size, but there’s nothing written on it. Annabel unwraps it. Nestled in tissue paper is a beautiful coiled fossil shell, its polished surface gleaming in the firelight.

  “That’s a lovely ammonite,” Dr. Bob says. “Jurassic in age, I would guess. Who’s it from?”

  Annabel lifts a gold-edged embossed card from the box. “For my two young friends. Thank you for the entertainment and the scratches behind the ear. All the best, Percy.”

  “It’s from Battleford,” I say. “He’s taun
ting us.”

  “I think he enjoys almost getting caught,” Annabel comments, turning the fossil over in her hands. “Life must get boring when you’re rich enough to have anything you want. I wonder if we’ve seen the last of him.”

  Author’s Note

  The Royal Tyrrell Museum in Drumheller, Alberta, has one of the best collections of fossils in the world, and it is possible to look into a T. rex’s jaws. It is also possible to climb inside the world’s biggest T. rex and look down on the rest of the town. The badlands also exist, and at places like Dinosaur Provincial Park near Brooks, Alberta, it is sometimes difficult to walk around without stepping on a dinosaur bone washed down from the surrounding slopes.

  I in no way mean to suggest that the fossils you can find in any rock shop are stolen. The vast majority are collected perfectly legally from sites that have been well researched by scientists and prepared by people who love making these incredible remnants of the past visible and available for people to see and own. Unfortunately, however, there is also a thriving underground business in rare and exotic fossils, and some wonderful specimens only exist in the basements and houses of people like Humphrey Battleford.

  The characters in Bones are fictional, as are some of the locations, such as the back rooms of the Tyrrell Museum and the coulee on Sam’s mom’s farm. But who knows? Maybe one day a storm will wash out the strange bones of a smart dinosaur from the walls of a coulee somewhere.

  John Wilson is the author of numerous stories for young people, including Stolen, the first Sam and Annabel adventure in the Orca Currents series. He travels the country extensively, telling stories from his books and getting young readers (particularly but not exclusively boys) energized and wanting to read and find out more about the past. For more information, visit www.johnwilsonauthor.com. For more information on all the books in the Orca Currents series, please visit www.orcabook.com.

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