“Follow me, Mister Price.” Ms. Bravelli’s voice sparkles with ice-crystals.
I suppress the vision of Frankenstein. Just before I turn to catch up with her at the door, I sense only one thing coming off of Victor Vandermill and it rises from the burning tingle where his hand rested on my shoulder. Power. Unreasonable power.
As we walk silently along the corridor and then down one flight of stairs I wonder why I’m not included in a meeting that Lance seemed in a hurry to get me to. Because there is still too much dissension as to my presence. I also wonder why she, this well proportioned woman leading me to my room, is not part of the meeting now.
We stop at a door. “This’ll be your residence the entire time you’re here.” She opens the door. “It may be a little small but. . .”
It’s huge.
“. . . it will have to do.”
I’m thrilled.
“You have a comfortable little living room, a small kitchen. . .”
Larger than what we have in Texas.
“. . .bedroom. . . bath is there. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable.”
“It looks great, Ms. Bravelli.” My bags are sitting on the bed. “Thank you.”
I expect her to say something like, please call me Aileen. Instead she says, “I’m not so sure you want to be thanking us, Mister Price. Nothing is as it seems.” I look at her eyes–light blue with green speckles–and expect her to follow the comment with something else. Instead she turns to the door. “Someone will be by to get you in an hour.”
I stare for a time at the void left behind, get a whiff of a familiar fragrance and then pick up my briefcase and go to the desk in the living room. I have a need for a shower and clean clothes, but first, always first, I must record my thoughts. I open the journal and take a few minutes to jot down my observations during the flight from Kalispell to Sans Sanssabre, plus my impressions since climbing off the helicopter.
I inhale the lingering fragrance of White Diamonds and remember her eyes. Light blue with green speckles, I write, and then finish with, nothing is as it seems.
I step into the shower and think about those last words. What did she mean by that? What isn’t as it seems? The hot stinging water drives all thoughts away. I mindlessly bask in the steam.
One wall of the bedroom has full-length vertical blinds running its entire width. I fumble for the cord, pull the blinds open and become mesmerized by the view, different from that in the boardroom, but wonderful nonetheless. I’m looking out across a snow-covered meadow, snow-covered trees and then on up to snow-covered mountain peaks against a deep blue, cloudless sky. After a time I realize I’m standing in front of a huge window, buck naked except for a towel around my neck. Who cares? There’s no one to see. Off to the right there is a huge glass-topped dome building. Is that where the Bengal tigers are? Is that part of my tour? Of course it would be. Isn’t that what I’ve been hired to write about?
What Lance told me was very vague. Purposefully vague, I got the impression. Back several hundred thousand years, he had said. What does their research entail if they’re reaching back that far, and why here, in Montana when the Bengal is anything but a northern animal?
Realizing the time is slipping by, I turn around and find a woman, at least twice my age, standing in the doorway. I don’t know whether to drop behind the bed or run into the bathroom.
“I’m Ulla, Mister Price. I’ll be your housekeeper while you are here.”
I casually pull the towel off my shoulders, wrap it around my waist and tie it at my hip. She doesn’t turn around, act shocked, or avert her eyes.
“My apologies for walking in on you but I didn’t realize you were here yet. I’m told I’m a little too bold. Maybe, but I’m sixty-three years old and too old to change. I had four boys and two husbands and figure I know what most men look like. Believe it or not, Mister Price, they all look the same.”
I close my gapping mouth.
“I keep house for everyone who lives in this building, men and women, whether long-term, short-term, or over-night, and I treat them all alike. I don’t care if you’re the CEO or the manure raker. If you live here I take care of your residence. If I walk in at a time like just now, ignore me. I’ll be ignoring you. If you are entertaining a young lady and have reason to not want to be disturbed, just slide the deadbolt on the door. That’s your only way of keeping me out. I doubt you’ll get the opportunity to entertain any ladies here, unless it should be Ms. Bravelli or Ms. Strong. Unfortunately, or fortunately, they’re already being entertained.”
“Okay,” is all I think to say.
“Besides, I understand you’re a married man.”
“Yes.”
“I maintain the stock in your kitchen. I’ll leave a list of refrigerator and pantry products that I normally keep stocked. When you have an opportunity, put a check mark next to those things you would prefer. Also please put an X next to those for which you might have allergies or simply can’t stand. I can also supply your personal products–shampoo, soap, deodorant, whatever–or you can do that yourself. Just let me know on the list. Leave the list on the counter where you find it. Generally I am in every day, sometimes for serious cleaning, sometimes for minor chores such as trash pickup. I normally don’t come by after 6 P.M. or before 7 A.M.”
“Okay.”
“That’s about it.”
“Okay.”
“Nice meeting you, Mister Price.” She disappears.
“Nice meeting you too, Ulla,” I say loud enough to carry to wherever it is she went. I retreat to the bathroom to scrape away the hairs on my face.
I find the list Ulla spoke of lying on the counter in the kitchen. I choose to go through it later, opting instead, in the few minutes I have left, to pick up my journal.
I met the housekeeper–Ulla. She left me feeling naked, literally. Very unique woman, high energy, 63 years old. Many sons and husbands. Appears to be alone now and lives here fulltime. Have a hunch she only answers to the CEO. Maybe not even to him.
I like her. She would make a great character for a story.
I wonder how she would fit in my current working novel and then hear a knock at my door. I close the journal, slip it into a drawer, and then call for the person to come in.
It’s Ms. Bravelli.
I’m surprised. I expected Lance or anyone else. She’s wearing a parka–unzipped, the hood thrown back. She looks lost inside of it. She is carrying another, which she hands me. “Try this on. If it fits, it’s yours.”
“Thank you.” I put it on. I feel like she looks. “Kind of big.”
She turns me around and does some motherly adjustments. “It’s perfect. We still have to get you gloves.”
“I’ve got gloves.” She follows me to my luggage in the bedroom and watches as I slip my hands into faux leather with faux rabbit fur lining. A bargain at K-Mart.
“Those won’t work,” she says. “You’re better off leaving them where you found them, or dropping them into the trash. If I were you I wouldn’t want to be seen with them.” She pulls them off my hands and throws them on the bed. “We’ll find you something. Meanwhile, keep your hands in your pockets.”
I look at the gloves, and then back at her. “Women around here are rather brazen and commanding.”
For the first time I see a smile. “You must have met Ulla.”
“Yes. And I was wearing nothing but a towel, which fortunately was strategically covering my shoulders.”
She actually laughs. “You’ll get used to her. She’s a harmless old woman who none of us could do without. Shall we go, Mister Price?”
I look once more at the lonely gloves and then follow. She has softened up a little from our first encounter and I wonder what that means. Her aura is shifting.
I pause briefly to consider taking my camera and a note pad. As if reading my mind she says, “You don’t need anything right now. You’ll have plenty of time for photography later. This is only a get familiar tour.”
&
nbsp; I close the door, wonder about locking it and realize I wasn’t given a key. I catch up with Ms. Bravelli at the stairs and we descend two floors in silence.
Chapter 4
We pass through an expansive entry area—high ceiling, mildly ornate, busts and statues of wild animals—go down a hall past a door with a cipher lock, to another without a lock that opens as we approach.
“Ah, there you are,” Lance says from the door. We enter. “If you’ve no desire to haul your coat around inside the building, you can leave it in here when we come back in. This is the mud room.” He points to hooks on the wall where a few coats are hanging. “Mister Vandermill sends his apologies. He had something come up and couldn’t make it.” He opens the outside door and we step into the frigid cold again. It burns my face but the rest of me remains warm.
Between us and the dome building stands a fence, at least fifteen feet high, topped with a mass of barbwire. Ms. Bravelli flips up a plastic cover on a box, removes a glove and punches a code into a key-pad. An inch or so of snow fell during the previous night, Lance tells me. I cannot see over what is already stacked on each side of the cleared walkway. I am awed. I am also hoping it is somewhat warmer in the building we’re going to. My eyeballs are starting to hurt, and my legs are getting cold. The gate rolls open on rails and we go through.
My dreams are answered. If I didn’t know better by the Eskimo dress in evidence on everyone, I’d say we’re in a tropical jungle. Ms. Bravelli opens a door to reveal a large closet.
“We can leave coats and heavy garments here. There’s no need for the burden.”
I reluctantly hand off my coat and then feel a movement of warm air from somewhere. I track it down and snuggle up to a vent, willing the air to drive deep into my bones. I momentarily forget about whatever it was we have come in here to see. “Let’s go,” Lance says.
I linger for a few more seconds near the blowing warm air before following.
“In here are the tigers,” Lance says as we walk.
I look around, nervous.
“Don’t worry, Zach. They cannot get to you and you cannot get to them. Let’s go this way and we’ll see if we can find Mister Oberlin. This building is roughly the size of a football field and will accommodate four Bengals. We currently have three.”
“I prefer call it garden.” We turn toward the voice to see a large man appear from around a big-leafed tropical tree. Initially I see no face, just hair and a dark green and yellow variegated jumpsuit.
“Pardon me!” Lance corrects. “Garden. I’d like you to meet Wolf Oberlin, the Keeper of the Cats. Wolf, this is Zach Price, our newly hired journalist. He’ll be with us for a while.”
Long unruly black hair and beard leave me expecting razor sharp teeth and long pointed nails. My hand disappears into a hairy mass as we shake. The word walleyed jumps to mind, only because it showed up in something I was reading not long ago. It was used as an eye color description. I had to look it up. It meant whitish. Whitish, deep-set eyes; an odd contrast against all the black.
“A pleasure meet you, Mister Price.” His voice, deep and scratchy, brings to mind Wolfman Jack with broken English.
“Likewise,” I say. “You’re the Keeper of the Cats? But the Bengals are tigers.”
Lance laughs. “Actually, he is the Keeper of the Cats & Tigers. We just like the shorter phrase better. Something romantic in the name, Keeper of the Cats, that the word ‘tigers’ removes. Don’t you think?”
“Certainly,” I nod. “Lance mentioned you can accommodate four tigers. Do you expect to get another?”
“At this time, no. Introducing another tiger at this late date not be good. They establish already their territory.”
“Territory?”
“I may see it as garden. The Bengals see it as several territories.
“So what is your research entailing? Are you attempting to breed them? I’ve read where they are becoming an endangered species.”
Wolf looks at Lance somewhat like Victor did when he realized I wasn’t completely up to speed yet.
“First things first, Wolf,” Lance says. “We’re getting there. A live picture, in this case, is worth much more than a thousand words.”
Wolf looks between Lance and me. “Okay. You the boss. Duchess is up and around. Maybe she not be shy today.”
We follow Wolf back around the tree. Ms. Bravelli tells me it is a banana tree and that it does produce bananas. I stop and look at it and then up. There is only minor evidence that there is a roof over our heads and I get to thinking about where we are, unable to fathom how this place can exist in this harsh climate.
“The Bengal have difficult time survive Montana. We create climate more better for him and his cousin, the cat, although this cousin not need it.”
“Cat?” I say. “I know there is the Siberian tiger, but what kind of cat could survive here?”
Lance answers. “Interesting that you say Siberian. We did consider using the Siberian tiger, but in the interest of our research we needed to work with the largest animal that could fit our needs, which of course is the Bengal of Eastern India. Our cat, though found in Southern California, cannot claim uniqueness to its region. He’s been found in all climates. We’re certain that he’ll easily survive in this climate.”
“It must have cost a fortune to build this. . .” I point all around me.
“Garden paradise in Flathead Forest?” Wolf finishes my sentence. “Very astronomical, yes. Bigger fish take care of that part.”
Lance says, “Wolf tells us what he needs and we make sure he gets it. Money is not an object on this project.”
“I guess not!” I say. I’m very curious what kind of Southern California cat they have here.
I follow along behind Wolf; the other two hang behind me. We wind through the jungle and I see some birds of a type I have only seen in exotic pet stores, or in National Geographic. I step off the path a few feet to get a better look at what appears to be a snake in the shadow of a tree. I hit a barrier I don’t realize is there; a wire fence effectively melds into the landscape. I come to realize at the same time that the snake-like thing wrapped around the tree limb is in fact a snake. “Wow!” I say and back away.
“No worry,” Wolf says. “Nothing in here deadly except for the Bengals.”
Wolf walks on a little farther and then looks to his right. His voice drops to a whisper. “We have luck. Very quiet. Try not show face. Only peek around bush.”
I ease forward as he instructs and see my first live Bengal. She is lying under the cover of a low hanging tree with leaves the size of a turkey serving platter. Compared to her, however, the leaves seem more like desert plates. Suddenly she stands and steps sideways several steps. She is a good fifty feet away, but I can tell she is almost tall enough that I could look at her face to face, eye to eye; I would rather not.
“Duchess watch us but not really look at us,” Wolf tells me.
I remember reading that they don’t like to look a human in the face, especially when attacking or eating them. “This is amazing. What do you charge for people to come through? This has got to be one hell of a tourist attraction.”
Wolf looks past me, to Lance, his walleye eyes turning a little less whitish.
“One thing I haven’t mentioned as yet, Zach, is the confidentiality of this project, actually of the existence of Sans Sanssabre as anything but a non-descript research company. Everyone who works here, even the crews that built this complex, was brought in from out of state. This reduces the chance of leaks into the local community. I’m afraid we will not be found on any ‘visit Montana’ brochures or literature. I must remind you of your contract at this time. All words you write will belong to Sans Sanssabre. There shall be no mention of what we do here to anyone outside this company—not even Mrs. Price.”
We expect a best seller out of this and it will all be yours. I mention Victor Vandermill’s statement.
“Sometimes Mister Vandermill speaks before he thinks. I
assure you, you’ll not be publishing anything without our consent, if at all. Thus, if you should choose not to accept this assignment—even though you’ve signed the contract—nothing you have seen from the front gate on, or will see, shall be spoken or written of outside this compound.”
“Why so secret?” I ask.
“We are breaking new ground in genetics and so far have successfully kept it out of the probing eyes of other genetic research companies, and the press. Basic industrial secrecy.”
I consider Lance’s earlier words when he introduced Aileen Bravelli–historical research back hundreds of thousands of years. “Are you meaning something like Jurassic Park?” I expect a laugh, or maybe a little grin. I get nothing except for Wolf’s eyes; the white turns dark again, and I slip even further toward his wrong side.
“Jurassic Park is make believe, Mister Price.” I expect to see fangs protruding from the corners of Wolf’s mouth any second. “Comparing us to Jurassic Park like comparing United States space program to Star Wars movie.”
“My apologies.”
Lance grabs my arm. “No harm done. What we do here is as serious as it is secret. We don’t joke about it.”
“Certainly.” I suppress any further thoughts at humor.
“We’re now at a turning point. If you do not feel you can maintain the requirements of the contract, now is the time to say so and we can turn around. We have no problems with flying you back to Seattle and paying you for your time. No bad feelings. It’s only business.”
I look away from Lance to Wolf and then to Ms. Bravelli. I have a sneaking suspicion that the last two would be happy to escort me back to my room to retrieve my bags and then see me onto the helicopter, probably put a paper sack over my head right now so I don’t see any more.
Maybe I’m obstinate.
Maybe I’m curious.
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 3