Anonymous Rex (20 page)

“But he hasn’t even hatched yet.”

“Of course not,” says Dr. Vallardo, still massaging Philip’s shell. “We’re nowhere near that stage.”

“But I heard—”

“—an incorrect report,” he finishes for me. “You must be referring to the rumor that I brought an egg to term, yes? As of yet, I have not been quite that fortunate. Innuendo goes a long way.”

Sure does. At the Council meeting, they had reported it as fact: Dr. Emil Vallardo had created a live mixed child, though its component
parts were unknown. I usually have little cause to doubt Council reports, but if Dr. Vallardo had indeed brought a mixed child to term, why wouldn’t he take the credit for something he’s been trying for decades to accomplish?

“How long before Philip here comes out of his shell?” I ask.

“If he comes out at all,” Vallardo says, “the struggle won’t begin for another three weeks or so. He’s almost fully formed, but now he needs his strength, yes.” Then, turning on a secondary light, a regular twenty-five-watt bulb recessed into the incubator’s side, he asks me, “Would you like to see him?”

All in the name of science. “Please.”

Dr. Vallardo delicately maneuvers the delicate egg toward the bulb—that left hand of his still trembling—handling it like a young child given permission to hold his mother’s favorite porcelain doll. The shell is thinner than I had assumed, and as it comes to rest against the light, a shadowy silhouette appears, floating comfortably in the center of the egg, surrounded by a chalky milkshake plasma.

“If you look closely over here”—he points to the larger, more rounded side of the egg—“you can see the ridged frill around Philip’s head, yes.”

“Looks like a Trike top.”

“Yes, yes, Philip is the product of a Triceratops father and a Diplodocus mother.”

Trike father—could this be his child? Physician, help thyself conceive? “Are you married?” I ask.

“I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Rubio, and no, the egg is not mine. But it is my brother’s. Philip will be my nephew, yes, yes.”

Whatever his lineage, Philip is going to be one big boy if he ever breaks out of that shell. Trikes are large enough already without Diplodocus genes amplifying things. Or maybe it doesn’t work that way. I have no idea, and to be honest, I don’t want to get embroiled in a two-day conference on the matter, either.

But I can see those Diplodod lines in young (very young) Philip, the soft curves of the back, the rounded head, melding and merging with the Triceratopical bony plates that are already beginning to form on Philip’s not-yet-infant hide. The tail, too short for a Diplodocus, too long for a Triceratops, is coiled like a Slinky beneath the fetal
body, ready to unfurl sometime within the next three weeks. The legs, too, are both long and stocky, a perfect blend of the two creatures, and I find myself wondering what kind of life Philip will lead if he makes it into the world alive: Will he be heralded as a wonder or as a freak?

Which reminds me—“Dr. Vallardo,” I say, drawing him closer, making my tone as conversational and nonconfrontational as possible, “are you the only one engaged in this type of research?”

Now he’s truly confused; this is no put-on. “As far as I know. Yes, yes, I would say I am the only one.”

“No rumors, no reports of renegade scientists, working outside the boundaries of accepted science?” I’m sounding kooky, looney-tunes, and I know it. There is, though, a point in the near future.

Dr. Vallardo shakes his head vehemently, spittle grenades launching themselves around the lab. “I assure you, I would know of any such research.”

“What about random mutation? Could it produce … well, something like Philip here?”

A chuckle. “Impossible. Mutations are indeed what drive evolution, Mr. Rubio, but they may not circumvent nature.”

“That’s your job, right?” Dr. Vallardo says nothing, and now it’s time to go fishing. “What if I told you,” I begin, stepping out onto the thin ice, ready to test the waters, “that some friends on the New York Council told me of some reports of mixed … creatures … on the streets of New York. Sightings—”

“What kinds of sightings?” he asks, the quick query betraying his interest.

“We’ve had a few different reports,” I lie. “One woman claimed to have seen an Allosaur with a Hadro bill.”

No response from the doctor. I move on.

“Another Council member was told—get this—of a fully grown Bronto with Ankylosaur spikes. Silly, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, quite.”

“Then the last one—really, I shouldn’t even waste your time with this—”

“No, no,” he says, and I’m thrilled I finally got him to say something other than yes, yes. “Go on.”

“It’s a bit muddled, actually. I spoke with the poor guy myself, and lemme tell you, I’ve never seen a Raptor this pale before. Frightened right outta his guise. Seems he’d been in a fight, attacked, no less, by a dino—and let me point out that this is how he put it, not my terms, mind you—a dino straight from the depths of hell.”

“Oh my,” says Dr. Vallardo.

“Oh my, indeed. Most likely a fruitcake, but lemme give you the whole bit. He said this thing had the tail of a Stegosaur—big ol’ spikes and all—the claws of a Raptor—I’d take off my gloves for a visual demonstration, but you get the idea—the teeth of a Tyrannosaur—many, and large—and the length of a Diplodocus. That would be long, of course. Now have you ever heard anything so insane? My guess is he’d been tossing back a few at the local basil bar.”

I am laughing. Dr. Vallardo is not. “Where was it?” he asks.

“The attack?”

“The attack, the creature.”

“Does that make a difference?”

“No—no—of course not,” he stammers, and I can feel myself slipping around that mental wall already. “Curiosity.”

“Said there was an alley, lots of graffiti there. One of the poorer areas of town, I guess.”

“The Bronx?” says Dr. Vallardo, a mixture of hope and denial creasing the wrinkles around his eyes. Aha—maybe now I have a borough in which to search for that health clinic.

“The Bronx,” I say, “Brooklyn, Queens, I don’t even think the guy knew where he was. You’ve seen one blurry alleyway …”

“Yes, yes. You are probably right. He must have been drunk.”

“Wasted outta his mind, that’s my guess. He sounded pretty convincing, though, describing the ugly thing. Wooo, Creature from the Black Lagoon.” Interesting note here: The more often I poke fun at that thing from the alley, the more upset Dr. Vallardo seems to become. There’s a definite causal relationship between my jabs and his blood pressure. I try a new one: “Betcha if we ever found the thing we could get a lotta money for it from the traveling circus.”

I may be pushing it now; Dr. Vallardo’s guise skin is turning blue, which means the geneticist is practically purple beneath that costume. Neat trick, but I’d better calm him down before a stroke pops
him out of the world and out of my case. “Hey, what the heck, you say it can’t be, it can’t be. You say there’s no mutant dino-creatures roaming New York City, then there ain’t any mutant dino-creatures roaming New York City. You’re the doctor in the know, right? The man with the genetic plan.”

He blinks, slowly getting himself under control. The blue tint leaves the guise, which eventually returns to a medically acceptable shade of beige. “Um … yes. Yes.” He’s winded from the effort.

Now I remember why I used to love this job.

Dr. Vallardo suggests we take our leave of the incubation chamber—“… the eggs need their rest, yes …”—and I am more than willing to follow him back upstairs. My fishing expedition has paid off well; I’ve got a few more minnows in my boat than I did at the start, and though I don’t know how Dr. Vallardo fits onto the fisherman’s platter, at least now I’m pretty sure he’s one of the side dishes.

As I prepare to take my leave, I toss out a few more questions about Dr. Vallardo’s work, scientific points he can clarify with a host of technical mumbo jumbo that will leave him in a good mood once I have departed. I may wish to return to the geneticist’s laboratory in the near future, and if I expect to be allowed easy access once again, I can’t have him calling Council headquarters to complain about my visit as soon as I take off.

“It has truly been an honor,” I fawn, “a big honor. Big.”

“Please, it was nothing, yes.”

“No, really, quite the experience. I understand much more now.” I tap my notebook, making a big show of waving it around the office. Little does he know it contains nothing but a few notes on the Evolution Club fire, the words
Judith, J. C.
, and
Mama
, and a couple of partially erased erotic sketches I made of the stewardess on the flight over.

We say good-bye and part ways. But I am no more than three steps down the hall when I hear him jogging up to me—the sound as ugly as the sight must be—and feel a rough hand upon my shoulder.

“What happened to your friend?” he asks me, and for a moment I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about.

“The one who was attacked?” I say.

“Yes, what happened to him?”

“As far as I know, he’s seeing a therapist.”

“Ah. Yes, yes …” We stand in the hallway, both of us silent. He’s gearing up for something, but I refuse to speak until he does. Then, preceded by a throat-clearing grunt, comes the question Dr. Vallardo truly wanted to ask—“And the … creature? The dino mix?”

“Yes …?” I know what he wants.

“What … what happened to it?”

I could lie and say it limped into the night, bleeding but otherwise healthy, or claim to have no knowledge of the situation whatsoever, but I am so darned curious to finally see a true emotion on Dr. Vallardo’s face that I can’t help but tell him the truth.

“You’d have to ask the cleanup crews,” I say. “They usually handle the skeletons.”

I tell you, it was a Kodak moment.

I
t’s nearing rush hour as I leave the Cook Medical Center, and the cabs shoot by, unconcerned with my outstretched arm. What the hell—everyone else in this town is a willing pedestrian, and as I’m feeling paunchy around the midsection, I figure I could stand to do a little bit of walking. I secure directions from a candy striper in the lobby and set out on the road. The journey back to the Plaza will take a little longer this way, sure, but maybe I’ll get some time to think about the case, go over it in my head, see if I can spot any inconsistencies. At the very least, I’ll save a fin on cab fare.

I have just returned to the beginning, ready to mentally replay the scene at the Evolution Club on the Betamax of my brain, when a sleek Lincoln Town Car pulls up beside me. I would think nothing of this, except for the fact that it continues to stay by my side, puttering along at five miles an hour. It’s going to get horrible mileage that way.

There’s no way to get a good look at the driver; the windows have been tinted mine-shaft black, far beyond the boundaries of the law and good taste, making identification impossible. I’m getting a bad feeling about this, but I get bad feelings about everything. Maybe his car is breaking down. Maybe he’s lost. Maybe the driver simply needs directions, and assumes that since I’m walking, I must be a native. Maybe I’m just paranoid.

I’m not. A moment later, I am flanked by two dinos gussied up in their best Sunday guises. Neither is much larger than I, but the message I’m receiving from their less-than-gentle way of grasping my elbows tells me I should probably listen up.

“You wanna get in the car?” asks the one on my left, reeking of Old Spice and stale helium. Something familiar there.

“Thanks for the offer,” I say, “but I was just getting the hang of walking around.”

I’m trying to catch the eyes of the other pedestrians on the street in order to send out a warning, a danger signal. But though we’re surrounded on all sides by the civic-minded citizens of New York City, not a one looks me in the face; every nose is pointed down, every speed control set to full throttle.

“I think you’ll enjoy a nice car ride.” This comes from the dino on my right—bigger than his partner, but his scent is nothing more than a weak dose of children’s cough medicine. Hardly threatening, kinda fruity.

I glance over again at the Town Car, its tinted windows, its gleaming hubcaps, its brand-new paint job—Intimidation Black, Color 008—and reaffirm my decision to keep walking. A little faster, maybe …

Still keeping pace with me, Old Spice places an arm around my shoulder. Were I watching this from a distance, I’d take it as a friendly gesture, a frat-boy hug of camaraderie and good cheer. But that arm is not so benign—he’s pulled back one of the latex fingertips on his costume glove, and I can feel the claw beneath poking earnestly at my tender neck. That’s why the smell is so familiar—deodorant and chewing gum—these are the goons from the park, the ones who killed Nadel.

“Do a lotta bicycling?” I say.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time real nice,” mumbles the assassin, his breath pounding into my ear, “and then I’ll have to drop you. Get in the car.”

Okay, okay, I get in the car. Ernie’s Rule #5: Dead dicks can’t investigate.

We drive along for some time in complete silence. The driver, who I cannot see very well due to a gauze partition between the front and rear of the automobile, refuses to turn on the radio. At the very least,
they could entertain me with some tunes. The two thugs who muscled me into the Town Car sit to either side of me, and despite the roomy backseat, our shoulders are pressed tightly together.