Bestiary

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Carter bent low over the plaster of paris and with the tip of his scalpel delicately removed a piece the size of a dime.

“Neatly done,” Del said, taking a sip of his cold coffee. “At this rate we’ll be finished by Labor Day.”

“What year?” Carter said, straightening up and, with his hands at the small of his back, stretching.

Del glanced up at the clock on the wall of the lab. “It’s almost ten. How much longer you want to go?”

Carter wasn’t sure. They were working on the remains of the La Brea Man, and they were doing it in the public lab on the ground floor of the Page Museum. This was the lab where the work was routinely done, behind a curved glass wall that allowed the general public, during normal museum hours, to watch the process. But these weren’t normal museum hours, which was the only reason Carter was willing to risk using this lab at all. Working on something as sensitive as the La Brea Man — given all the controversy it had already created — was probably something he should be doing only in a place safe from public view.

It was just that the museum had no better lab than this.

“You getting tired?” Carter asked.

“I can go a while longer,” Del said, tucking some strands of his long white hair back into his headband. “Long as we’re not interrupted by any ghosts.”

“I haven’t seen any yet.” But then, it would hardly be possible; they were working in a tiny island of light, in an otherwise dark and empty lab, in the middle of an otherwise dark and empty museum. Carter, too, had heard the rumors Del was referring to; the night watchmen had reported some strange goings-on. Moving shadows on the wall. Scratching noises. Once, some violent banging in the sub-basement. As far as Carter was concerned, either it was nothing at all or it was something the protestors were up to. Maybe they thought they could spook the museum into giving up the bones.

If that was the case, they were sorely mistaken.

Especially as he was making such notable progress on the bones of the left hand — the hand in which something, something still encased in the asphalt, was held. In fact, with another few moves of the chisel and scalpel, he thought he could separate the object from the hand itself.

“Put another tape on, and we’ll work for the duration of one side.”

Del turned and popped the Loretta Lynn out of the boom box balanced on the next stool. “What do you want to hear?”

“Something with electric guitars and no whining. The Stones, the White Stripes, the Vibes.”

“I brought some Merle Haggard. Boxed set—Down Every Road?”

Carter laughed. “If that’s what you’ve got.”

And then he went back to work on the hand, while Del, on the opposite side of the lab table, continued removing flakes of plaster from the occipital lobe of the skull. During the day, the bones were carefully concealed under a black plastic sheath, but for several nights now, Carter and Del had taken to working on them for another hour or two after closing time. They hadn’t ever gone this long, but as the skeleton became more and more revealed, Carter’s compulsion to continue the work had grown. Beth, he knew, was less than enthused about his longer hours, but he promised her it would be over soon. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t run into this kind of problem with him before.

He tapped the side of the plaster on what appeared to be the little finger of the man’s left hand, and a tiny fissure opened up. He tilted the tensor lamp to give himself a better view, and yes, he could see that there was now a tiny, barely discernible line running between the bone and the still-coated object. If he was very careful, and a little bit lucky, he would now be able to separate the two.

“You getting along any better with your brother-in-law?” Carter asked. Del was still staying with them in their fancy condo on Wilshire Boulevard.

“As long as I stay out on the balcony, they’re okay with it and so am I.”

“The traffic noise doesn’t get to you?” Carter used a fine camel’s-hair brush to whisk away the plaster dust.

“They’re on the twenty-ninth floor,” Del replied, without looking up from his work either. “I get more noise from the planes. But no, it’s not ideal. I’m looking for new accommodations.”

Carter picked up the scalpel once more and gently increased the delineation between the bone and its prize. Merle was singing, in a rich baritone — Carter had to hand him that — about how all his friends were gonna be strangers.

“You up for another hike this weekend?” Del said.

“Sure.”

“Maybe we can go somewhere they don’t slash your tires.”

“That would be a good idea.” After their last hike in Temescal Canyon, they’d had to wait an hour in the parking lot for a tow truck to arrive. And Carter had had to shell out for a new set of tires.

He used the scalpel as a wedge, and just as the plaster cracked, and the bone and object cleaved apart, the overhead lights all over the lab snapped on.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Carter heard from the door directly behind him.

He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

Gunderson, in a natty suit and bow tie, was standing in the doorway, with a red boutonniere in his lapel. Del quickly turned off the music.

“Do you know what time it is?” Gunderson went on.

Carter knew perfectly well. But what, he wondered, as he draped a clean cloth over the newly separated object, was Gunderson doing here?

“I was just leaving a concert downtown,” he volunteered before Carter could ask, “and in view of all the security problems we’ve had of late, I thought I’d swing by.” He strode over to the table. “And I’m very glad I did.”

He glanced down at the plaster cast and quickly assessed the situation. “You,” he said to Del, “I would not expect to know any better.” But then he wheeled on Carter. “But how could you do something so obtuse?”

“This is the best lab on the premises, and we need to proceed with the work.”

“In full public view?”

“We keep it covered and out of sight during museum hours. We’ve only worked on it at night.”

Gunderson let out an angry breath and ran a hand back over his hair. “Dr. Cox, I know that the Page Museum considered it a coup to get you to come here. But I for one always had my reservations. I looked into the events that precipitated your departure from New York University, and I wasn’t exactly relieved. Your unorthodox research methods not only led to a massive lab explosion—”

Carter wondered if he was going to run down all the sordid details.

“—but also caused the deaths of two of your colleagues.”

Apparently he was. Carter looked over at Del — he’d never told his friend the whole story, and now he wished that he had. It’s just that it was something he tried, without much success, to put out of his mind.

“Now it looks like you’re up to your old tricks, and I won’t have it in my museum.”

When was it, Carter thought, that the Page had become his museum?

“I want this… specimen removed first thing tomorrow. I’ve already got the NAGPRA people swamping me with official queries and threats about our government funding. The last thing I want to do is give them any fresh ammunition.” He threw one last look onto the remains, much of them still concealed by the plaster cast used to preserve them during the recovery and transportation to the lab, and then turned abruptly on his heel. “The museum closes at six P.M., gentlemen,” he said on his way to the door. “The only person authorized to be in here is the night watchman.”

The door, on an air-hinge, slowly closed and latched behind him, and Carter and Del were left alone again, in the now brightly lighted lab. Carter wasn’t sure what to say.

“Two?” Del finally said. “I knew about your friend Joe Russo, but there was another guy who died, too?”

“Joe died from burns,” Carter said, “in the hospital. A young assistant professor, Bill Mitchell, was killed at the scene.”

“He was the one who started the laser?”

“Yes,” Carter said.

“Without knowing about the gas pockets in the rock?”

“He wasn’t even supposed to know about the project. He wasn’t supposed to be in there.”

“Where were you?” Del hadn’t meant to make it sound so accusatory.

“Upstate, at a friend’s house, for the weekend.”

Del rocked on his heels, as if pondering the data, then said, “Well, it sounds to me like it was one royal fuck-up.”

Carter couldn’t deny it.

“But it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t even there.” It was what Beth had tried to tell him a thousand times — what he’d told himself nearly as many. But it didn’t matter. He would carry the disaster in his heart to the end of his days, and he would mourn the loss of his friend Joe Russo always.

“So,” Del said, gesturing at the La Brea Man, “what do you want to do about our friend here?”

Carter wasn’t sure yet. He could set up a makeshift lab in the sub-basement, but it would take a few days of preparation. What he did know was that he wanted to spirit one piece of the find away immediately; now that he’d removed the mystery object from the man’s hand, he wanted to get to work on it first thing the next day. And he certainly couldn’t do that in here anymore.

“Let’s just cover it and leave it here until I can set something up.”

They drew the black sheath over the remains and tidied up the work area, and while Del was busy looping the extension cord around the boom box, Carter wrapped the object in his clean handkerchief (thank goodness Beth encouraged him to carry one) and slipped it into the side pocket of his leather jacket; although it was much heavier than he’d thought it would be, enough to make that side of his coat sag, he was hoping that Del wouldn’t notice.

On the way out, Carter suddenly stopped and said to Del, “I forgot something upstairs in my office.”

“You want me to wait for you?”

“No, you go on home to your balcony. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The security guard, Hector, let Del out, and then said to Carter, “Mr. Gunderson, he told me you’re supposed to go now, too.” He said it somewhat apologetically, as he and Carter had always been pretty friendly. In fact, when he and Del had eaten in the lab the night before, Carter had brought Hector a Big Mac and a large fries.

“I’ve just got to make one more stop,” Carter said, and Hector looked dubious. “In the sub-basement.”

Hector made sure the door was locked behind Del, then said, “You can’t go down there now. The elevator’s locked.”

Carter hadn’t thought of that. “But you’ve got the key, right?”

Hector looked as if he wanted to lie, but he knew it was too late.

“C’mon, Hector, we can be down there and back in five minutes.”

Hector surveyed the empty precincts of the first floor — the re-creation of the giant ground sloth rearing up on its hind legs, the skulls of the dire wolves arrayed on the wall, the skeleton of the saber-toothed cat snarling in its glass display case — and must have decided everything looked as though it might be alright for a while. Never underestimate, Carter thought, the power of McDonald’s.

“Okay, but we gotta be fast.”

“We will be,” Carter said, striding toward the elevator bank before the watchman could have any second thoughts.

Hector got in, hitching his belt up over his paunch, and inserted the master key into the control panel. Carter hit the button for the sub-basement, where most of the fossil collections were kept.

When the doors opened, the endless corridors, lined with metal cases and file drawers, were in almost utter blackness; only a couple of emergency lights were on, way off across the floor. Hector said, “Hold the door open,” and he stepped out to hit the bank of light switches. All down the corridors, fluorescent tubes flickered and hummed into life, but even then the light was uneven and insufficient. It was like entering a great, gray cave, one that didn’t want you there.

Hector said, “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Maybe we could come back tomorrow.”

Carter wondered if Hector was one of the security personnel who’d reported the strange noises in the museum at night. “It’s right down here,” Carter said, marching off. The spot he was heading for was all the way at the far end of the floor, but he didn’t see any need to mention that just now.

His shoes had rubber soles, and they squeaked on the linoleum as he walked; his shadow moved ahead of him, and then behind, as he passed under each of the overhead lights. Many of the green and gray metal cabinets, undisturbed for years, were coated with a fine film of dust. Hector followed a few steps behind him.

There was a burbling in his pocket, and he took out his cell phone. Carter knew, before answering, that it would be Beth.

“So you are still alive,” she said, her voice faint.

“Barely, I’m down in the sub-basement.”

“Where?”

He repeated himself; the connection was, predictably, pretty bad.

“… coming home?”

“Yes, I will be coming home. I swear.” As much for Hector as Beth, he said, “I’ll be gone in a few minutes. Everything alright?”

“Fine.” There was a burst of static, then he heard, “… an invitation.”

“You’re breaking up,” he said. “We got an invitation?”

“Yes,” she said. “From al-Kalli. Dinner, at his estate.”

That was interesting, but Carter wasn’t terribly surprised. Al-Kalli was expecting a lot from Beth — and for some reason expecting it fast — and this was probably just one more way to keep tabs on her. And so far, Beth had told al-Kalli nothing of the secret pages she had found under the front cover of the book; Carter had agreed with her that it was best to get them entirely translated and annotated before breaking the news, because once she had, it would be just one more thing al-Kalli would be breathing down her neck about.

“I hope I don’t need a tux,” Carter said. The lights down here seemed even dimmer than ever.

“I’m sure a… get you past the door.” She said something else, too, but it was no longer audible.

“Beth, I’m losing you.”

There was nothing at all but static now.

“I’ll see you in about a half hour,” he said, though he wasn’t sure she could hear him either. He put the phone back in his pocket.

“You sure you know where we’re going?” Hector asked.

“Absolutely,” Carter said, though even he could feel the strange oppressiveness of their surroundings. It wasn’t often that you found yourself deep underground, surrounded by millions of bones and petrified artifacts. He doubted that Hector ever made this floor a part of his regular rounds.

The object he’d retrieved from the grasp of the La Brea Man hung heavy in the other pocket of his jacket, and he looked forward to coming back the next day and examining it — down here, away from Gunderson’s prying eyes.

At the end of the corridor, under a bank of fluorescents, there was a wide table with a couple of glass jars holding some basic tools of the trade — chisels, scalpels, brushes, razor blades — and a pair of metal stools. It was here that Carter had examined the remains of the La Brea Woman.

“Why’d you need to come down here now?” Hector asked, a peeved note in his voice. “What couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’ll be done in a minute,” Carter said, taking his keys out of his pocket and searching for the small one that unlocked the padlock on the top drawer of the cabinet.

“One of the other guards,” Hector said, “he told me he saw Geronimo.”

“Really,” Carter said, noncommittally, finding the right key.

“Yesterday.”

Carter fitted the key into the lock and said, “That seems pretty unlikely, doesn’t it? Geronimo — William Blackhawk Smith,” he corrected himself, “has been dead for over a week.” Carter removed the padlock and put it on the worktable behind him.

Hector shrugged. “Funny things happen around here all the time.”

And one of them was happening right now, Carter thought. Before he’d had a chance to touch it, the drawer containing the remains of the La Brea Woman was sliding open, as if on rails. Normally, these drawers were pretty sticky and you had to tug on them a bit. But not this one. This one was opening as if of its own volition.

The crushed skull lay back in the center of the drawer, its empty eye sockets angled up at the ceiling.

Hector, who hadn’t seen the drawer open, came around to Carter’s side now, crossed himself, and stared down at the ancient skull. “That’s the woman they found in the pits? All those years ago?”

“Yes.” Carter drew the white handkerchief containing the object from upstairs out of his pocket. It would have been better if Hector had not witnessed this, but there didn’t seem to be much of a choice. Carter removed the hankie, which fluttered to the floor, and placed the tar-covered stone, or whatever it would prove to be, in the drawer. This was the safest and most secure place he could think of.

Something stirred in the air, blowing the handkerchief, now smudged with tar, over their feet.

Hector’s head snapped around. He pulled the flashlight off his utility belt and flashed it in all directions.

“It’s just the vents,” Carter said, picking up the handkerchief and tossing it into the drawer.

But Hector didn’t appear convinced. “Something moved,” he said, “over there.” He motioned at the next aisle.

“If something did, it was probably a mouse.”

Carter started to push the drawer closed again, but now it did stick. As easily as it had come out, that was how hard it was to get it closed. He asked Hector for the flashlight, who surrendered it reluctantly, then played the beam over the front and sides of the drawer. There were long lateral scratches on the metal, and even a couple of small dents at either end. Some of these cabinets were decades old, but Carter didn’t remember this one looking quite so battered.

He tried closing it again, and this time the drawer almost seemed to push back. There was a screeching sound — the drawer refusing to return — and Hector said, “What’s the problem? We got to go.”

“I can’t get the drawer closed.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hector said. “Nobody else is coming down here tonight.”

“I’m not going to leave this open,” Carter said, shimmying the drawer to either side. “These bones are too valuable.”

“I won’t let anybody down here,” Hector insisted, his head swiveling in all directions. “Come on!”

And then, even though Carter had stopped trying to force it, the drawer began to shake. Carter stood back, staring, as the ancient artifacts rattled against the bottom and sides of the drawer. It was as if an unseen hand was rocking first the drawer, and then the whole cabinet.

“It’s an earthquake!” Hector shouted. “We got to get out of here — now!”

Was that it? Carter hadn’t been in California long enough to experience a quake yet. But this couldn’t be a quake — nothing else was shaking. Not the floor, not the ceiling lights, not the table or stools.

Just this one cabinet, with the bones of the La Brea Woman — and the artifact he had just placed among them.

Hector had already taken off in the direction of the elevators, and Carter waited, watching. The air stirred again, and this time he wasn’t so sure it was a vent, after all.

When the shaking subsided, as it did after a minute or so, Carter gently tried closing the drawer again, and this time it slid closed effortlessly — as if whatever force had been resisting him had given up, or run out of strength.

He put the padlock back on, and studied the scratched surface of the cabinet. What had just happened here? Had some unseen force been at play? He tugged on the padlock to make sure it was secure. Had he sealed something in that was trying to get out… or had he kept something out that had been trying to get in?

“I’m holding the elevator!” he heard Hector calling from the far end of the floor, his words echoing eerily around the closed walls. There was barely controlled panic in his voice. “But I’m not going to stick around forever, okay?”