Nancy Herkness (4 page)

“The crust is intact. All analyses have been done without invasion of the meteorite. Yes, you can bring your own geologist to confirm that. I’ll fax you the verification reports today.”

A few more curt formalities, and Jack Lanett emerged back into the living room.

“I’m sorry; business intrudes. That’s the private line for folks who are seriously interested in buying Sahara-Mars.” He glanced at his watch. “I hate to end this delightful conversation, but I have an appointment at the Museum of Natural History. I hope you have enough for your article.”

Not nearly enough, but Charlie smiled sweetly.

“You’ve started me down some interesting paths. I’d like to find out more about the metalworking aspect of meteorite dealing. Would Mr. MacPherson be willing to talk with me? I’d also like to thank him again for picking up Major.”

It was hard to maintain her air of innocence when the man was looking at her as though she were a particularly venomous subspecies of cobra.

“Reporters are all alike,” he muttered as he pulled a card out of his wallet and scrawled a telephone number on the back of it. “Call him and see what he says.”

“Thank you,” she said, tucking the card in her blazer pocket. She gathered up her shoulder bag and headed for the door. “I’ll be in touch if I need clarification on anything.”

“Don’t forget your dog.”

“Oh. Of course!” Charlie felt heat in her cheeks. She was so frazzled she had completely ignored the dog limping after her.

Major caught up as she stopped.

“There’s a leash on the table, courtesy of the vet. Miguel said the young doctor sang your praises. Evidently, you have a reputation as a good foster home for emotionally disturbed strays. You straighten them out, and they get adopted.”

“Animals trust me,” Charlie said pointedly.

He laughed as he sauntered toward her. Giving the dog a hard look, he stepped in close and combed his fingers through her hair from the base of her skull to the base of her spine.

“Don’t ever cut your hair.” His voice was back in the South.

“No, no, I won’t,” Charlie stammered, flustered again as she felt the stroke of his fingertips all the way down her back. She grabbed the leash and hooked it on Major’s collar. Trying to end the meeting on a professional note, she held out her hand. “I enjoyed the privilege of holding a meteorite. Thank you for your time.”

A half-smile played over his lips as he bypassed her hand and brushed a strand of hair back behind her shoulder. “Consider it my contribution to the human interest angle.”

Four

Charlie walked as fast as the dog could manage down the hallway to the elevator’s open doors. After practically vaulting into the paneled cubicle, she pulled a tortoise shell clip out of her shoulder bag and twisted her hair into a torturously tight bun. She spent the rest of the brief ride to the first floor fussing over Major even as she wondered if Jack was watching on the security monitor.

He was and he chuckled when she snapped the clip into her hair. “I guess my little game worked.” Unfortunately, it had worked on him too. He knew he would spend the rest of the day trying to banish visions of that glorious hair spread across a black satin pillow … and worrying about what she meant by “interesting paths.”

He and Miguel had known publicity would be risky, but they both wanted the big payoff it would bring. Being subjected to the glare of the press would be worth it as long as some African country didn’t decide to lay claim to the profits—or some reporter didn’t unearth a past he had buried as deeply as humanly possible. He dialed Miguel’s number.

“Hey, amigo. I want to give you the heads-up. The ‘beautiful lady with legs and hair that go on forever’ is going to call you.”

“¡Que belleza! I envy you your interview.”

Jack snorted. “By the way, how do you know she doesn’t speak Spanish?”

“She may, but she could only be flattered by such a description. So, what do you want me to tell her?”

“Whatever you think is appropriate and safe.” Jack paused a moment. “Why don’t you invite her to our lecture on Wednesday?”

“Because you limited attendance to scientists only.”

“How bad can one reporter be? Tell her to sit in back and keep her mouth shut.” His drawl thickened. “Use that Spanish machismo of yours. Maybe she’ll write her article on you and then go away.”

“Perhaps I’d like her to come closer.”

“She’s a reporter. Don’t mess with her.”

“Ahhh.” There was a grin in Miguel’s voice. “Perhaps you’d like her to come closer.”

“Her dog might have something to say about that,” Jack muttered.

“Your favorite bio-astronomer was on the Today Show this morning.” Miguel smoothly changed the subject.

“Was Peter doing his usual rant?”

“Of course. Why don’t you explain to him what his entire career is based on?”

“I don’t think he’d be grateful,” Jack said. “Why don’t they get bored with him saying the same thing all the time? I’m certainly tired of hearing that meteorites are the rightful property of scientists, etc., etc., etc.”

Miguel sighed heavily. “He looks good on television, and he’s got that irresistible southern charm. Reminds me strongly of someone else I know. You should suggest a face-to-face debate.”

“Too risky.”

“If you included me, no one would be looking at you and Peter.”

Jack snorted again. “I’m leaving for the museum now, Miguel.”

Jack underestimated Charlie’s ability to focus. After helping Major into the back of her Volvo, she pulled out a pad of paper and furiously scribbled the notes she had filed in her mind during the interview. She finished with a list of follow-up questions, and called Miguel MacPherson to set up a time for them to speak the next day.

He was surprisingly willing to meet with her.

“Lanett must have called him as soon as I walked out the door,” she said to the dog as she pulled out of the parking garage. “Otherwise he would have been cagier. He’s not going to tell me anything new, I know it.” Major whined sympathetically. She eased out into traffic, and used the drive to speculate on the less factual aspects of her interview.

Lanett obviously has a long-hair fetish…. Trying to use it to pry more information out of him had backfired, partly because she seemed to be developing a Jack Lanett fetish. How could I possibly enjoy being called “sugar”! “It’s that damned southern accent, nothing else,” she swore out loud, glancing at the dog. He wagged his tail. Not to mention that those blue eyes were lit with intentions I should have been insulted by…. To her own horrified amazement, when he had mentioned tying her to his bed, she had been far more tantalized than outraged. “What am I thinking?” she said. “I don’t even like the man, and he certainly doesn’t like me!”

But even as she said it she knew one of those statements wasn’t entirely true.

Major preceded her into her house. Twinkle took one look at the monster and streaked off down the hall to Charlie’s bedroom.

“Oh—now that’s not a good start,” Charlie said, dropping her keys on the hall table. “I’m going to have to introduce you two more formally.” Major was sniffing the chair where the cat had been sitting. Suddenly, he put his head down on the cushion and gave a soft yelp. “What’s the matter, boy? Do you like cats? Or hate them? There’s no time like the present to find out.”

They walked slowly to Charlie’s bedroom, where the cat was cowering under the antique four-poster bed. Charlie pushed aside the crocheted dust ruffle and slid under the mattress on her stomach to try to coax him out. Twinkle backed up hissing and spitting, and Charlie realized Major had wedged his head and shoulders under the bed beside her. “I don’t think Twinkle wants you here just yet,” she said, starting to push the dog backward as gently as possible.

Major dropped his chin to the floor and gave a low whine.

Twinkle stopped hissing. Major inched a little farther forward and whined again. The cat’s ruffled fur smoothed out. Another whine and Twinkle stretched forward to delicately sniff the big dog’s nose. Charlie held her breath. Twinkle rubbed her head along the dog’s snout and strolled out from under the bed. Charlie and Major had to wriggle backward to make their undignified exit.

“What are you? Some kind of cat whisperer?” Charlie asked, smoothing loose strands of hair away from her face with one hand as she scratched the dog’s ears with the other. Twinkle was sitting on the rug, calmly bathing herself not two feet away from the enormous Kuvasz. The dog lay with his head on his paws and watched. Animals never cease to amaze me. “I’ll leave you two to establish whatever relationship this is blossoming into while I play my phone messages.”

The first recording was the editor at the New York Times checking on the status of her article on Jack Lanett. Charlie groaned. The second was Allan Schumann from the animal shelter asking about Major’s health and inviting her out to dinner. Charlie sighed. The third was Rhonda Brown scheduling a home study for Friday at ten o’clock. Charlie grabbed her calendar from her shoulder bag and scrawled “HOME STUDY!!!” over the two appointments she had already written down for Friday.

The cat and the dog emerged from the bedroom side-by-side to see their human spinning and leaping around her living room.

As Charlie drove to the Rose Center for Earth and Space the next evening, she reflected that the interview with Miguel MacPherson had gone surprisingly well. He described Jack Lanett as a new breed of meteorite hunter, one who developed a network of contacts all over the world to notify him of falls and finds. She learned that Jack spoke seven languages and even more dialects, all self-taught. Miguel told her several entertaining if unrevealing anecdotes about meteorite hunting with his partner, and described his own role in the business. He even flirted with her in a very mild way, but she found, to her relief, she had no interest in being tied to his bed.

By far his most valuable contribution was an invitation to the scientists-only lecture where she was now headed.

Before the interview, she had pulled every string she could find to get in, but no one could get past the dragon lady who controlled the guest list.

She wondered if Jack knew about his partner’s breach of his defenses.

She already had a pretty good first draft of her Times article; this exclusive would put it over the top. She’d add her take on the lecture, give her prose a final polish, and send it off with the beautiful photo of Sahara-Mars Miguel had presented to her. The science editor was going to swoon with delight.

Parking took longer than she expected, and Charlie strode into the lecture hall with only minutes to spare. She found an empty seat in the back row and sat down. Flipping open her leather portfolio to a yellow pad of paper, she glanced around the room. Almost all of the fifty or so seats were occupied. The spectators were mostly male, but a few women were sprinkled in the mix. Charlie noticed her ensemble of navy blue blazer and slacks and blue-and-white striped shirt was among the more formal outfits there. The auditorium was endowed with a raked floor so all the seats had a clear view of the empty podium and table standing on the raised platform at the front of the hall. Two men stood by the lower entrance, checking their watches every few seconds. When they relaxed and smiled, Charlie sat up straighter and waited for Jack Lanett to appear.

He walked in with his hand outstretched. As he shook hands with his hosts, Charlie could just catch the rich tones of his voice but not his words. He was dressed in a silver gray suit that clearly had been tailored for him. His shirt was light blue and his tie swirled with blue and gray. He looked more like a corporate vice president than a renegade meteorite hunter. Then Miguel MacPherson walked through the door, carrying a large, shiny, dark cube that he placed on the empty table. Miguel had on jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. Charlie chuckled at the obvious statement he was making. She stopped laughing when his jacket gapped open to reveal a gun holstered underneath.

Jack stepped up to the podium, and tapped the microphone. “I’m Jack Lanett. This is my colleague Miguel MacPherson. And this,” he gestured toward the cube, “is Sahara-Mars.”

Miguel touched a switch and the cube lit up.

A collective gasp arose from the audience.

The glittering black rock still seemed to be blazing through the Earth’s atmosphere. The meteorite was large enough that even from where she sat, Charlie could see the cone shape and flow structures. Miguel had suspended it pointing diagonally downward, creating the illusion of flight. The display case’s lighting shifted subtly every few seconds, making the fusion crust sparkle.

Barnum and Bailey couldn’t have done it any better, Charlie thought.

Jack let everyone in the auditorium stare for several moments, and then introduced a Dr. Wayne Fletcher who would summarize the results of the analyses conducted on the Mars rock. Dr. Fletcher quickly plunged into incomprehensible scientific jargon, and Charlie put down her pen. She watched Jack and Miguel instead.

Miguel stood behind the meteorite looking large and menacing. She could see him scanning the room and concluded that he had neglected to mention security was another of his responsibilities in the firm of Jack Lanett Meteorites. Jack, on the other hand, had taken a seat behind the speaker and appeared totally absorbed in the description of thermographic scans, chemical comparisons and new developments in X rays. He nodded occasionally, and once jotted down a note on a small pad he pulled from his breast pocket.

Dr. Fletcher registered the complaint that his team had not been permitted to probe inside the meteorite, and so his conclusions were incomplete. Jack frowned. But the doctor stated his conviction that this stone was an achondrite from Mars, similar in age and composition to the famous ALH 84001.

Jack returned to the podium. “Thank you for that fascinating report, Dr. Fletcher. I appreciate the thoroughness of your examination, given the constraints placed upon you by the exigencies of economics.” He looked out over the crowd. “You were threatened with a lecture,” he continued, eliciting a few cautious chuckles from the audience as he picked up the microphone and walked out to the front of the platform. “But you already know what you want to know, so I’m going to open up the floor to questions instead.”

After a moment, an astronomer stood and identified himself. Charlie couldn’t quite follow his question, which dealt with comparing Sahara-Mars to another meteorite, but she did catch the condescending tone in which it was asked. Jack answered pleasantly and without hesitation. After a follow-up question, the astronomer sat down. There was a brief pause, and then two people stood. Jack knew one of them and, presuming on their acquaintance asked him to yield to the unknown scientist.

The man left standing was an astro-geologist. His question was so technical Charlie couldn’t understand it after the third word. When he finished his query, the man sitting in front of her muttered, “Let’s see you get past that one.”

Jack launched into an explanation as jargon-laden as the question had been.

Charlie sensed the atmosphere in the room shifting.

Outright laughter burst out when Jack finished his answer to the third question. Obviously some inside joke in the astronomy industry, Charlie thought. Suddenly questions were coming thick and fast, and the lecture hall’s hostile formality disintegrated into a lively discussion. The woman beside her leaned over to say, “He’s got all these self-anointed geniuses eating out of his hand.”

“It’s that southern accent,” Charlie whispered back. “Yankees can’t resist it.”

She saw Jack stiffen and move back behind the podium. She craned her neck to see what had caused the change. A tall good-looking young man with coal-black hair stood at the back of the room.

“Dr. Burke from Princeton,” Jack said before the man could speak. “An unexpected pleasure.”

“I wouldn’t have missed this opportunity to see Sahara-Mars. I apologize for interrupting with my late arrival,” Dr. Burke said. His southern accent was even thicker than Jack’s.