Aileen pushes away from the table. “Who the hell are you anyway?” She pulls herself together, puffs away her exterior anger, then walks to the door and turns around. “I came down here to negotiate a partnership. Now I don’t know if I want you around me.” With that she is gone.
I sit for a while thinking about what just transpired, and wonder, as always, how I know these things. Sometimes I’m amazed. Other times the clues are so obvious I don’t know why other people don’t see them. I worry about the fact that I’m being pulled into the middle of this love-hate-lust thing. Aileen hates Victor because he’s giving the glory of a possible Pulitzer—his words, not mine—to me. Aileen hates me because I’m taking the glory from her. Victor doesn’t know it yet, but he is going to hate me as soon as he discovers that Aileen is taking on feelings for me. She doesn’t realize it herself, but to me, it’s plain as day. Thus, my days here may be numbered, which may not be a bad thing. After all, I’m married and don’t need the complications of an affair, nor the possibility that I might find myself loose in the sabre-tooth garden. I don’t know which would be worse.
Wow! I come bolt upright. Traci Strong and Doctor McCully were engaged, however the feelings Aileen had for the Doc may have been known to Victor. Maybe I’m doing a little too much fictionalizing. Maybe not. I see it just as strongly as I saw Aileen and Victor being lovers at one time, when he was still married. Still, if Victor somehow arranged for the Doc’s death, how would he have done it? Doctor McCully was killed by an animal in his own lab. How could anyone arrange that?
I settle myself down, toss out the entire notion and decide that I need to go apologize to Aileen. After all, her idea of teaming up on this project isn’t all that bad. It could benefit both of us. I pack everything together, pick up her book and head for my apartment. Despite the stupidity of the idea, I keep getting the vision of Victor Vandermill instructing Simon, the young sabre-tooth, to attack Peter McCully. What bothers me is that I realize I’m seldom wrong. Sometimes I don’t have the details exactly right, but I’m almost always in the ballpark. But Traci saw it happen, saw the animal come out of the cage and attack the doctor.
I arrive at my apartment with the intention of settling down next to one of the huge windows and getting into a couple chapters of Smilodon: Seven Inches of Death. Before long, though, I have a visitor.
Chapter 9
Saber-toothed carnivores—ferocious predators of the Cenozoic
—from the journals of Zechariah Price
The knock comes just as I pop the top on a can of root beer and lower myself into the overstuffed chair.
It’s Doctor Zitnik.
“I hope I am not disturbing you, Mister Price.”
“Certainly not. Join me in a root beer?”
“No thank you. This is not a social call. I simply want to reiterate how I feel about you being here, especially in light of Doctor McCully’s death.”
I hold up my hand. “I am not a get-the-story-at-all-costs tabloid reporter who’s going to run out and sell what I see to the highest bidder. I’m here at the grace of Sans Sanssabre and Victor Vandermill. My words belong to the company.”
“Well said. Still, I want to make my point. What we are doing here, our mission, is honorable and certainly worthwhile. That doesn’t mean it needs to be spread across the newspapers. I don’t want to see our reputation tainted by anyone, including our founder. I have no say in your being here, therefore I will ask of you to honor your contract. Remember who owns you.”
“Owns me! Those are fighting words in today’s world, Doctor Zitnik.”
“Yes they are. In this company, everyone is owned.”
“I’ve already come to that conclusion and I guess I’ll have to accept it. I’m curious though, how can you have a reputation when nobody knows you exist?”
“When the time is right we will be well-known.”
“When is that? You have at least five sabre-toothed cats, apparently healthy and well adjusted, except for a propensity to kill men. Are you waiting until they are full grown to present them to the world?”
“Yes, that was the plan. With this death there will have to be some rethinking on that. The public will have some notion we’re letting a man-eating animal in the wild.”
“In the wild? You’re not planning on letting them free, are you?”
“Certainly. Why not?”
“Did you see what one did to the doctor?”
“That was a freak. We’ll probably find there is a medical condition in the animal that caused him to attack. There is no evidence that they are a threat to man. Once they have an abundance of wild game, deer, elk, whatever, they won’t have a reason to bother man.”
I don’t believe that for a second. “What about man’s livestock? When a couple cattle ranchers’ prize bulls get their throats ripped out, every hunter within a thousand miles will be looking to hang a sabre-tooth head on his wall. The ranchers will be looking to hang yours and Mister Vandermill’s.”
Apparently Zitnik likes to talk up close. From the time he came in I’ve been backing away, trying to protect my space. My posterior is to the window. He looms over me with onion bagel breath.
“They’re nothing different than a grizzly bear or mountain lion,” he says. “And because they would begin as an endangered species the government won’t allow them to be hunted.”
I resist the urge to shrink away. “Law or no law, Montana would be overrun with big-game hunters looking for the chance to bag one of them.” I brush past him and fetch a second chair to add to the easy chair I dragged close to the window earlier. I sit down and gesture to the easy chair. “Have a seat. I gather you disagree with me on the hunters. You don’t think that will be a problem.”
I can tell he doesn’t want to sit. He can’t look down at me when he’s sitting. He lowers himself into the chair anyway. It’s too big for me but appears just right for him. I relax. I have control of my space again, and we are closer to the same vertical level. He takes a long time to respond to my last comment.
“To be truthful, I hadn’t considered the hunter’s point of view. There probably would be a few who would try; however, I am sure both the state and federal governments will protect my cats.”
“In that I have no doubt. Their way of protecting them may be to not allow you to let them free. Every zoo in the country will be clamoring for a couple and they’ll wind up being turned into a public display.”
“We’ve thought about zoos. We’ll have to be very selective, ensure the environment is ideal for them.”
“If they offer you enough money . . .”
“Money is not of a concern to us, Mister Price. We cannot be bought. Victor himself built and continues to underwrite this company. His wealth is staggering, in the ten-figure range.”
Ten-figures! I lay a one and nine zeros along a line in my mind’s eye. One billion! I shut that vision away. “What’s to keep the government from stepping in and deciding it’s in the interest of the people to begin controlling your operation, maybe take it over. You would be working for Uncle Sam.”
He glares at me and then shakes his head. “No! I don’t think so. Victor would not allow it.”
“Despite what you and many people might think, not all of the government can be bought,” I say.
“But they can be swayed. Public opinion is strong. With the right marketing we can have people storming capitol hill yelling, ‘Free the sabres,’ or some such thing.”
I lean forward, rest my elbows on my knees and look out at the sunny brightness. Only a short time ago I was out there, scared that I was dying. How can the sun shine so brightly and yet the temperature be so cold? “What is the mission of Sans Sanssabre, Doctor Zitnik? It must be more than just resurrecting the sabre-toothed cat. Do you have some long-reaching objective to better the human race? Or is it more diabolical, like cloning a master race?”
Zitnik laughs, and then gets serious. “That is what I would expect of you, Mister Price. You’ll
put words in where words don’t exist.” He stands and steps within a few feet of me. I imagine what Jack felt like when he met the giant at the top of the bean stalk. “We are not here for, as you say, some diabolical reason.” His spitting words rain down on me. My butt starts to slide out as I lay back and look up at him. “I personally want to see every word you write before it goes anywhere.”
I pull myself upright and physically push him away with one hand as I wipe my face with the other. I expect him to shove me back into my chair. He doesn’t. Instead he backs up. “First of all, Jacob Zitnik, I don’t care who my words go to, but I’ll not be bullied. I was hired by Lance Evans under the direction of Victor Vandermill. What I write will go to them, unless I’m otherwise directed by them. I recall no verbiage in the contract that said I work for you. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll guarantee you I’ll write only the facts, but I’m going to ask some probing questions. Sometimes that is how we, meaning journalists, get to the real truth. I have found, Doctor Zitnik, that what we see on the surface is not always the truth, that often times there are other agendas. What is the agenda here at Sans Sanssabre, besides creating and raising sabre-toothed cats from the genetic remains of their ancestors?”
His silence and posture create suspect.
“Or is it just you who has some other agenda?”
He steps toward the door. “I think this conversation is over, Mister Price. My invitation to you to tour my lab is hereby rescinded.”
“It’s not your lab, Jacob,” I yell at the closing door. “It belongs to Sans Sanssabre!” I fetch a cold beer and sit in the easy chair staring at the landscape. I wait until the hops settle me and sooth my nerves before I retrieve my journal. It takes nearly an hour and a half to record the remaining day’s events. When I read it back I am shocked at what has happened in just the day and a half since I’ve arrived. I finish by writing the name of each person I have met, followed by a short first impression description. My description of Aileen Bravelli doesn’t wind up being so short. In the brief period of time in the library I learned enough about her to fill many pages. Although I start to, I decide not to abridge. When I finish I realize my interest level in her is rather high and I find myself questioning myself as to the motives for that interest.
No motive, myself tells myself. I take that on faith and go call my wife.
Chapter 10
It surprises me that I haven’t talked to Tanya since before Lance’s initial visit in Seattle. Although she knows of my new assignment—I sent her most of the advance—she doesn’t know what or where it is. She says we need to communicate better. I kind of know that. Doing it is an entirely other matter.
“I picked up another clinic,” she tells me after we get through the, “How are you, I’m fine,” stuff.
“That’s four. Can you handle that okay?”
“I think so. It’d be nice to get in with a partnership of dentists so I wouldn’t have to juggle a schedule from one office to another, but for now, this works. I’m building a nice resume.”
Tanya is a dental hygienist. Four means she spends time in four different dental offices scraping encrusted garbage out of peoples’ mouths. “Who’s the dentist?”
“A new office. Small cliental so only a few hours a week right now. His name, believe it or not, is Gerald Ford. No relation, he says. Fresh out of dental school and single.”
“Should I be jealous?” I say it like a joke but I feel a tinge of serious run down my spine.
“Hm. I’ll have to think about that.”
I hope she’s joking back.
“Rebecca fell and cut her knee open on the playground yesterday. Now she’s acting like a paraplegic, sucking up the attention.”
“Will she be alright?”
“It’s nothing major. Lots of blood. Minor damage.” Tanya has never been one to get overly concerned with the girls cuts and bruises. I, on the other hand, could easily freak out.
“Is she there? Can I talk to her?”
“Reba!” Tanya yells. “Do you want to talk to your father?”
“Reba? Who is Reba?”
“Oh! I forgot to tell you. She doesn’t like Becky any more. She wants to be called Reba now.”
“You let her?” I am astonished.
“Certainly! Why not? It’s her name. Just because we assigned her Rebecca, doesn’t mean she has to be stuck with it and our versions all her life. She’s growing up and is looking for her individualism.”
“She’s only eight years old,” I remind my wife. “She can’t even spell individualism let alone know what it means.”
Tanya makes that laughing sound I really like. “You ask her.”
“Ask her what?”
“Ask her to spell individualism.”
“Okay. I will.”
The next thing I know Becky, or Reba, is on the phone. “Hi, Daddy! I’m a cripple.”
Cripple! That gives me pause for a few seconds.
“Daddy? Are you there?”
“Yes, sweetie. I’m here. So you hurt your knee, your mom tells me.”
“Yeah. I was runn’n and I tripped.”
“It’s yes, not yeah,” I say, “and you were running, not runn’n.”
“Yeah, I was running. There was lots of blood and Mrs. Rugin had to carry me into the nurse’s office. I didn’t cry very long.”
“It’s okay to cry. Sometimes we have to cry.”
“You never cry, Daddy.”
“Yes, I do.”
“When?”
“I cried the day you were born, I was so happy.”
“Oh, Daddy. That’s not the same.”
“And the day Christi was born too.”
“Oh, Daddy.” She giggles.
“Your mother tells me you can spell individualism.”
She takes a deep breath and spells it from memory. “It means the quality of being an individual; self-reliance and personal independence.”
I wonder how much of that she understands. I decide to not pursue it. I don’t want her to grow up that fast. “How is school?”
She goes on another five minutes under my probing questions before her sister gets on.
“I am halfway through first grade and I am reading real books,” Christi says. “I miss you, Daddy,” she finishes, and then I’m talking to Tanya again.
“We all miss you,” she says.
“I’m coming home after this assignment.”
“Oh!”
I think the words surprise me as much as they do her. “It’s going to pay pretty well.”
“Thank you for the check. What kind of writing are you doing? What are you writing about?”
I start to tell her about the sabre-toothed cats and then realize I can’t, at least not over the phone. I simplify it down to a genetic research company needing a technical writer.
“Are you that kind of writer?” She knows I’m not.
“I’m learning. It’s more like creative journalism or maybe creative technical writing.”
“Ah.”
We talk for a few more minutes about getting an oil change on her car, the cooler than normal temperatures—it’s in the 60s, nearly a hundred degrees different from where I am—and her sister’s newest boyfriend. She slips in the question, “Have you found what you’re looking for?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think it matters anymore.”
“Of course it matters. Don’t come home because of us.”
We say our loves and misses, and hang up.
I sit for a while with the phone in my lap. Don’t come home because of us. Is there another reason I should go home? It has turned dark, but the moon illuminates the snow almost like daylight. What was it I was looking for when I decided to go off on an adventure away from my family?
A Job? Had that in Dallas.
A better job? What was wrong with being a copywriter, being stuck in the same chair at the same computer, working for the same jerk creative director . . . forever, doing everything for
the needs of the agency, and the client?
Self worth? Certainly. We all need that. I wasn’t getting it as a copywriter. When I saw an ad on television to which I contributed greatly, it was always done by the Blushneck Advertising Agency or sometimes by Joseph Manski, the creative director. Never did Zechariah Price get credit for it, even from the director.
Independence? I sure don’t feel so independent. I’m dependent on anyone who’ll buy my services.
Individualism? I smile at that thought; wish it was as simple as changing your name to Reba.
I turn off all the lights and return to my chair overlooking the moonscape. This is another first for me. In a way it’s like daylight through heavy dark glasses. Although there’s a desire to go out and stand in it, I easily resist. The memory of the morning is still imbedded in every cell in my body. How does wildlife survive in these temperatures? What do they do? Where do they go? What do they eat? I try to visualize being burrowed down in the protection of bushes, rocks and caves. I try to imagine what it would be like to be a deer in one of these places, knowing there is a mountain lion lurking near. The instinct must be to flee but the snow is too deep outside of the hiding place. I see the cat stop, ears and nose peaked, looking for any sound such as a racing heartbeat, or any smell such as the odor of fear. He senses nothing and continues picking his way along the edges of the snow. Knowing the danger has passed, the deer settles once again. With the birth of spring will come the birth of her baby. She curls tight to protect her unborn.
The next time I open my eyes my neck hurts and my right foot is asleep. It is 9:30. My stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten. I limp to the kitchen, put on the macaroni and cheese I started the night before—I don’t want to think about anything more complicated—and go throw some water on my face. After dropping a notebook on the table, I slice some hotdogs into the boiling noodles, wait a minute and drain it all, add the milk and cheese and then sit at the table. While I eat I write my thoughts about the deer and mountain lion, embellishing on it, making it a story. Eventually I’ll build on it some more after doing a little research on winter survival. When it’s done I’ll give it to Rebecca, probably as a short chapter book. She should be getting ready for chapter books pretty soon.
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 7