Old Earth (11 page)

“Okay, have a good time and for God’s sake, be careful tooling around.”

“I will. Take care, boss.”

McCauley hung up, cursed his department and wondered whether he’d even be able to keep his mind on his golf game now.

• • •

LONDON
THE SAME TIME

Martin Gruber’s thoughts were focused on taking it slow as he walked with Colin Kavanaugh to Kensington Gardens, one of the seven Royal Parks of London.

“Beautiful isn’t it, young man? It makes you pause and want to take in your surroundings.”

Kavanaugh didn’t see it. Nor did he really care.

Two different men; two different approaches to life. The old man wanting to hold onto the moment; his successor ready to race through it.

“I know you’re wondering where we’re going,” Gruber said. “It’s up ahead.”

He transferred a folded newspaper from his right hand to under his left arm making it easier to point to a specific park bench with his umbrella. The umbrella was a needless accessory in the cloudless sky. Nevertheless, it completed Gruber’s presentation.

Of course, everything Gruber said or did had purpose. Kavanaugh was about to find out what today’s walk was about.

They ended up at a park bench under a maple shade tree. Another bench backed up to theirs. Gruber rested his umbrella against the seat and marveled at the park. They had a clear view of the greenery and the Long Water that separated Kensington from Hyde Park

“I’ve always enjoyed coming here. Do you know why?”

“No, sir.”

Gruber tapped Kavanaugh’s thigh in a fatherly manner. “Why this is the park where J.M. Barrie conceived Peter Pan. It was the setting of his first novel, a prelude to his Neverland stories. There’s a statue of Peter Pan over near the water. Erected in 1912. You’ve never noticed it?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“A shame. We did a story about it a few years ago. Remember?”

“I think it was before my time, Mr. Gruber.”

“Oh, perhaps memories are failing me,” Gruber sighed. “Do have archives pull it for you. It’s a truly wonderful article. After all, Peter Pan holds such charm. I suppose if I had had children, I would have read it to them.”

“I’m sure you would have.”

Gruber drifted into what seemed like another reflection. “So much to see. So very much.”

Suddenly, as if a switch had been thrown, his voice changed. It became deeper, stronger, and direct. No longer living in the past, he commanded Kavanaugh’s attention.

“There is so much to see, and yet you must learn how to see, but not be seen yourself. How to hide in plain sight.”

“Sir?”

“How many people took notice of an old man walking at half speed accompanied by a younger business associate? Who noticed us?”

“Well, nobody I think.”

“Not completely accurate. People saw us, but took little notice. They were watching the children with the balloons. They turned to the bobby’s whistle as we crossed the street. The car horn that followed. The birds in flight. That’s what caught everyone’s attention. Not us. Not today. In fact, I’ve hardly ever been seen, though this is part of my regular routine, as it will be yours.”

Gruber continued, “Who cares about you if you show no interest in return? You insert yourself into a habitual schedule and blend in. You become the person no one really sees. You become invisible.”

Gruber was getting to his real point.

“You just sit and settle in. Spread out so no one joins you. Discourage any eye contact by not having any, yet see everything.”

Kavanaugh tried. He stayed too long on a woman pushing a stroller and a young boy watching a squirrel climb a tree.

“Ah, it’s not so easy, is it? You’re lingering. You have to appear like you’re taking in a wide view. However, you’re actually recording every detail. It takes practice. Soon it will become natural and when that happens you are ready to do your work.”

Gruber casually removed his pocket watch. It was 16:52 hours.

“Like now.”

At precisely that moment a man sat down on the bench behind them.

“And then you wait for the proper things to be said.”

“Peanuts?” the man said.

Still talking only to Kavanaugh, Gruber said, “He’ll always start with a food reference. Alphabetical. A-Z. Then you start all over again. We’re up to ‘P’. Thankfully
peanuts
are easy. By agreement, we skip Q, X, Y and Z.

“Your reply is always the same. ‘No thank you.’”

The man continued. “Are you sure? They come from a great place.”

“Now,” Gruber continued, “the second level of a security check. The correct response always is a reference to a location in the most recent issue of
Voyages.
”

Gruber leaned back and said to the stranger, “Oh? Pray tell, where?”

“A little stand in Boston’s Quincy Market.”

“This is how we make contact. And this is where. No other acknowledgement is needed. No other confirmation. No glances. No pleasantries. You spend two more minutes. Maybe three. No more. It is the same whomever you meet. And whomever you meet will always act in the same manner. I invented a name for our contacts. My personal homage. Perhaps you’ll figure it out one day.

“Mr. Marvin.” The man pushed back in his bench. “Meet Mr. Kavanaugh. Soon he will be your contact.”

“I wish you an easy passing,” the man said. “Should it not be so and you require my assistance, I will take care of your needs.”

“Thank you, Mr. Marvin. I’m prepared to let nature take its course.”

Gruber checked his watch again. 16:54. “Two minutes. Time to go, my boy.”

The young man rose first. He helped Gruber to his feet. Gruber recovered his umbrella and used it to point the way out, a different direction. “This is the way you will always return. Routine.”

It wasn’t until they were out of the park that Kavanaugh realized that Gruber had left his newspaper on the park bench. When he brought it up, he learned why. It contained information from the field.

• • •

GLENDIVE, MT
LATER THAT NIGHT

“Dr. McCauley. Dr. McCauley.”

He thought he heard his name in a dream. It had to be a dream because McCauley had treated himself to a night in the lap of luxury—by Glendive standards. After a few hours of friendly, but exhausting golf with Jim Kaplan, he checked into the GuestHouse Inn and Suites on North Merrill Avenue, soaked in a bathtub for the first time in months, and fell asleep on the bed only half dry. It was just as he wanted. Seclusion. No calls, no conversations. Restful sleep.

Restful until…

He heard a knock in his dream. Then scenes later, which amounted to barely seconds, another knock accompanied by, “Dr. Quinn McCauley?”

He stirred, but remained asleep until a louder knock.

“Dr. McCauley, I’m sorry to bother you, but please let me in.”

It was a woman’s voice. He rubbed his eyes and checked the clock display on the nightstand. 11:30
P.M
. “Go away. I don’t need housekeeping.”

“It’s not housekeeping, Dr. McCauley. Open the door.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“No you’re not. You’re talking to me.”

McCauley detected an accent. British and distinctly out of place in Glendive.

“Really, go away. Whoever you are, we can talk in the morning.”

“I think not,” came the reply.

McCauley sat up. “And why’s that?” he asked without an ounce of courtesy.

“Because I’m here.”

“And I’m supposed to care?” He was now sitting upright on his bed.

“Yes you are. We have an appointment. Dr. Alpert. Do you recall?”

McCauley’s mind raced. “Appointment?”

“Yes, your university cleared it. You did get word. Right?”

Oh shit,
he said to himself.

McCauley turned on the light. “Give me a second.” He reached for his jeans and shirt, which he’d thrown over the back of a chair. “You sure this can’t wait until tomorrow. I did want to get a good night’s sleep.”

“So I heard when I went to your base camp where I thought you’d be.”

“Aren’t you a day early?”

“Yes, but if you don’t open the door soon, I’ll be on time,” she said with all proper authority.

McCauley stumbled over his golf clubs which were leaning against the foot of the bed. “Shit!” he yelled.

“Excuse me?” the woman said.

“Nothing. Nothing.”

He picked up the clubs, set them aside, unlatched the lock and opened the door to reveal a beautiful brunette with hazel eyes, striking dark eyebrows and a beguiling smile.

“There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” she said.

He stood quite awkwardly, three inches taller than her.

“Two things. First, aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Ah, well…” He looked around at the mess in his room he’d managed to create in a short time. “Yes. And second?”

“You might want to button your shirt and zip up.”

In his haste, he was two buttons off and just a little bit exposed.

“Sorry.”

The tenured Cambridge professor breezed into the room. He caught a whiff of her perfume; a smoky fragrance that brought him fully to his senses.

“And about the room. This is as good as it gets on my salary.” He was referring to the décor. The mess was something else entirely: computer printouts in piles, maps on the floor, and dirty shoes on the corner of the bed.

She glanced at the only chair available and moaned. “Mind if I…?”

“Here, I can do that.”

It was too late. With two fingers, she gingerly removed his underpants from the only chair in the room and put them over the door knob. Next, the uninvited guest sat down as if she owned the room.

McCauley was plainly embarrassed. If he was supposed to make a good, professional first impression, he was surely failing.

“How about we go out?” he said.

“Good idea. I’m famished.”

“There’s a restaurant down South Kendrick.”

“The Melting Pot,” she volunteered.

“Yes, how do you?”

“Research, Dr. McCauley. You know what that is.”

He didn’t like how this was going.

“Wait. What did you say your name was?”

“Still is. Dr. Alpert. Dr. Katrina Alpert.”

“Dr. Alpert,” he replied. “Dr.
Katrina
Alpert.”

“Yes. Still the same one from a second ago.”

It came to him:
The Cambridge professor from the Invertebrate Paleontology Department whose crowning achievement was Leonardo,
he thought
. And definitely not DiCaprio.

Alpert’s Leonardo was a bit older, and
Jurassic Park
would have been his only starring movie, though he didn’t make the cut for accuracy’s sake. Leonardo was a Brachylophosaurus who walked the earth seventy-six million years ago during the Cretaceous period, some one hundred million years later. Now, Leonardo—Dr. Alpert’s Leonardo—was considered by the Guinness Book as the best-preserved dinosaur ever found. And for Dr. Alpert, she was just returning to his—Leonardo’s—and her stomping grounds: Montana.

McCauley knew this and a lot more about the distinguished Dr. Katrina Alpert, probably as much as she knew about him and his work. The two scientists could have much to talk about if attitude didn’t get in the way.
Let’s find out.

“I read your latest article on Leonardo.” He paused. “Very
interesting
.”

“Interesting?” She picked up on the word. “That’s what people say when they don’t like something and they won’t admit it. Or, if they have nothing worthwhile to say. How does this apply to your usage?”

“Ah, point taken. Your findings were undeniably remarkable, doctor. But detail in your account was lacking from a Yale perspective. So in fact, I found it very ‘interesting,’ yet academically insufficient.”

“Well, since you raise the issue of academics, you’ve certainly taken some liberties naming your finds.”

“Not names, doctor. Nicknames. Like Leonardo.”

“Acknowledging a great artist, a scientist, a thinker, a visionary. Not a…”

“A member of the Baseball Hall of Fame?” he volunteered.

“Clearly not.”

“You have your heroes, I have mine, Dr. Alpert.”

McCauley liked to name his finds after great Red Sox players. He took digital pictures of his finds, printed and cropped them to baseball card size, added stats on the back and had handouts for whoever wanted them. There was a meat-eating Sauronitholestes named Yaz and a slow moving Allosaurus, suitably dubbed Tiant. Neither challenged Leonardo for attention, but McCauley viewed paleontology as a science and a sport. He was one to pitch in.

“Each to their own,” she said dismissively.

“Look, Dr. Alpert…”

“You could call me Katrina,” she said.

“Dr. Alpert,” he replied, keeping it formal, “as I understand it, you’re here to report on me; to determine if I meet certain academic standards.”

“Not certain standards. Specific ones, Dr. McCauley.”

“Okay,
if
I meet specific ones. Perhaps yours, with
if
being French for
fucked.
”

Alpert laughed. “No, actually,
baisé
and
foutu
are French for fucked,” she said like a teacher correcting a student.

“Thank you, Dr. Alpert. I’m obviously not as well-versed in romance languages as you.”

“There’s always Rosetta Stone.”

Another day he might have laughed. Not today.

“I’ll put it on my credit card just as soon as my department reimburses me for all the other incidentals I’ve had to pick up outside the budget. Or, are you reviewing expenses in addition to evaluating me?” It was his sharpest comment. He wasn’t finished. “I’m sure you’ll look very good to my department, especially if you can help them slash and burn my allocations. You’ll also effectively keep one of your competitors out of the journals by ending my annual expeditions. So, if you don’t mind, let’s keep this purely professional. I’m dealing with enough extinct species without becoming one myself.”

Alpert took it all in and smiled. “Ground rules established, Dr. McCauley.” She decided they both needed to clear the charged air. “But I have a suggestion. How about we skip going out and start fresh in the morning? I’ll meet you at the site after breakfast. Okay?”