Chapter One
There he is.
Where?
Right there. Just behind the big cypress tree. He isn’t moving. He’s looking right at us. Look at the tree where it meets the water, trace it back up to the palmetto frond on the left. His head is between the tree and the frond. You can see the sunlight shine off the tips of his horns.
I don’t see him.
How can you not see him? He’s right there.
The black water is mirror smooth and reflects the scene before them upside down and in reverse just below the real thing. Dad inches his finger toward the trigger and raises the rifle slowly to his shoulder. The deer bolts, fading into the thick vegetation in a flash of brown, white and swaying palmettos.
The shot is lost.
There is something unsatisfactory in a shot not taken; even shots lost by other people. It isn’t the loss of the meat; hunger is only a limited threat even to the starving. It is the not finishing. Izzy hears the thought: Pull your own trigger. Anything less is unreliable.
Afterwards, when hunting on his own, he aims at the ground and squeezes the trigger just to hear the sound when he has lost the target. Taking the shot is not about killing. Or power. Yet shooting the earth doesn’t bring the satisfaction of getting the job done. It is only proof the effort still exists the way a river exists that doesn’t turn a wheel.
Over the years the shot morphs into many things completed. In Bosnia it had gone from the lost opportunity by the communications tower to taking the shot to saving her life. In Columbia it became the exposure of the Attorney General as a pedophile that just happened to delay the trial the three days they needed. In Afghanistan it was the deal on the border.
Everywhere he goes there is a possible “________” perceptible enough to mark the end of one thing and the beginning of others. But never the certainty of a big Ending.
Never the real one, eh?
————
He wheels into the parking lot, a finisher of things with the report in his pocket; parks with a view of the building. Spitting the lozenge into its wrapper, he places it on the dash. The radio speaks of rain.
Surrounded by a bustle of students and staff flowing here and there on concrete and grass thoroughfares, the biology building of Canton College stands to one side of its own parking lot in a pine and hickory isolation from the rest of the campus. A plain brick building, square with windows at regular intervals; it is an architectural experiment in keeping with what he has heard of the school: flat roof, faux columns; plumbing pipes on the exterior obviously symbolizing veins and arteries; a grand entrance of steps and benches in small nooks on several levels with multiple; automatic doors on his side complete the statement.
Izzy steps out of the truck and points the remote behind him; hears the doors lock in unison as he walks away. He pulls the parka closer around his neck and zips the collar tighter against the wind. A little weak and buzzed from the antibiotics, he moves toward a set of doors on the newly poured concrete walk and pockets the keys. Students brush by and smile at him as the breeze picks up.
Inside, at an intersection of long halls, he takes off the sunglasses; deposits them in a case he stores in a compartment in the arm of the jacket. There is a steel elevator door straight ahead of him, a sign that says ‘No Smoking’ and an emergency exit plan on the right hand wall. There is a directory of offices to the left. He finds her name and takes the elevator.
The door opens on three. Heading toward the right and hoping the numbers count upwards to match his hunch. There are no signs.
Four doors down her name is on a door. He knocks. Hearing a voice from inside, he takes it as a greeting and enters.
“I’m Izzy Baxter. I called yesterday.”
There is no one there. She comes in from a back room and smiles at him. She matches the photo.
“I remember. The Astrobiology Institute?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got the report?”
He hands it over and waits.
“Sorry I can’t offer you a chair. I think it was borrowed for the lounge.”
“That kind of thing goes on here too?”
She thumbs the report, nodding absently. “’Fraid so.”
A picture on the desk in front of him stares out at him. It is familiar and quiet in solid object certainty while he waits for the verdict. He wonders how much it will weigh when he picks it up.
“So it’s only been removed from the substrate for .. seventeen hours?”
He looks at his watch; does the math. “That’d be about right. Plus one.”
“But you called me yesterday..”
“I was asked to get a specialist to look at it. It’s in route to our facilities.”
“And all you have is the hand?”
“It will be there when you arrive.”
“Uh huh.” She flips the page. “That means you don’t have it now.”
The photograph is still there retaining its weight and rosewood shine. It is a cutout of a man’s head against a blue paper background. The man is looking down and to the right with a tired, haunted gaze through reddened eyes that shine from the bottom up. He is old, with a few days worth of white whiskers. The sparse, white hair of his head needs a comb. His shirt is unbuttoned. A dirty T-shirt wet with sweat is showing beneath. The mouth is slightly opened in an exaggerated exhale frozen by the camera. His expression is one of a tiredness deeper than bone. Frustration and a fatigue that can easily have been mistaken for insanity pour out of the photo.
“Any photos of it in situ?”
“No. Sorry. It surprised everyone. Not one of those things you go prepared for –that way.”
“I see. How did you get my name?”
“We know some of the same people. The work you did for the I-R-C? You’re rather well known, I take it. You came highly recommended.”
“The B-R-C?”
“I-R-C. You proved the victims, the bones unearthed at Astara, on the Caspian Sea were ritually killed with a blow to the back of the head.”
She looks at his clothes. “Okay. I have all the things I need here. If you could bring it…”
“We would like to keep the news of the discovery to ourselves for reasons I can’t go into here. I think they’ll be obvious when you see it.” A peal of thunder booms simultaneous with a flash of lightening just outside the window, shaking the building. “I don’t mean to be short. But we are pressed for time. Our facilities are up to date and will have any equipment you may need.”
“I really don’t like to go elsewhere if I don’t have to.” She looks at the report again. “Where was it found?”
“I can’t say.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“Okay.”
She doesn’t know what to say.
He looks around the office. She is an attractive woman with straight brown hair which she wears long, with a clip that holds it out of her face that somehow manages to enhance its shine. Her make-up is one step up from utilitarian. She keeps up with the fashions. She doesn’t like them. She is surrounded by interesting but odd things to stare at, placed at random around the office. There is a deer antler, chewed on one end with teeth marks exposing the marrow. A pine knot shaped vaguely like a bird’s head with green lichen growing on it is perched next to the window. Shards from ancient pottery are arranged in a display case. Each piece is numbered, arranged and held in place by a number of copper nails. There is a small charcoal drawing of what the whole would look like if assembled and a handwritten note of its origin. There are exotic plants with stunning blooms; old, leather bound books.
“That has to be rare.”
She looks up and follows his gaze to an orchid in a glass case. A color photo of the bloom is taped to the glass.
“Just difficult. Paphiopedilum appletonianum. Hasn’t bloomed since I’ve had it. I never can get the humidity right. Why not?”
He shrugs apologetically. “That either. But I think when you see it that will take care of itself.”
She peruses the report. “When will I see it —if I take the job. When will you expect a preliminary and final report? I generally like to have at least ten full working days to do the analysis and at least another four to submit the findings.”
“I’ve heard you like to say that, but that you usually have it in three days. This time if it’s true you won’t need to make a report. Just a yes will suffice.”
“If what is true?”
“That’s all I can say at this time.” At this time? It seems such a formal thing to say. He wishes for something better.
“That’s not very much.”
“The money will compensate for the rest.”
“Beyond the money..”
“And because you will have to know.”
She looks straight at him for the first time. “Why?”
“It’s one of those reasons you do what you do.” He extends his hand. “Sorry. I can’t leave it.”
She hands him the report. He is tall and a little thin. Jeans. Boots. Nice jacket—the kind of particular equipment not found in every sporting goods store. Short hair. Clean shaven. Muscular but not bulky. Military. Maybe intel. She has seen his type before. Very clear, plain eyes that ask and answer in less than a second with no accusation. He looks as if he would be very quick for a guy his size on a better day.
“I’ll send a car for you. Tomorrow. Here? Say eight o’clock?”
She nods. “Eight o’clock.”
He closes the door behind him and folds the report back into his pocket. He is glad this part is over.
Heading toward the elevator, the sound of laughter drifting into the hall from another office, he thinks of the mission; of Bobby. Pushing the button for the ride, he waits.
The laughter spills out, filling every thought.
He has never heard anything like it. Is it a gym? For what? He thinks of being that kind of buff as if thinking of another being with his name.
When he was younger, in those days with Dad or even a few years ago, he would have wanted to say all the things he thought on hearing it to someone who would understand: genuinely deep and unexpected things worthy of the time to say them. They come involuntarily: thoughts like living beings, certainties that he knows the other person will know hurtling into the same privacy with the laughter. They would have been his side of very good and satisfying conversation, the kind you only have once every couple of years at best and remember always. But having got them in mind, there is no one with which to share them and no time even if there was.
The door opens. He steps forward, the elevator closes with a soft whish, mechanically sealing the laughter and the floor from behind him and descends.
—————————————————————–
The car is punctual.
Riding through the Virginia countryside she begins to make plans for the summer with Beth Ann. For the first time since Sam’s death, she will be alone.
Florida University has accepted Beth Ann. Their arguments about it being so far away have only further strained an already tense time. Over the past few weeks they both have come to realize things are changing. After this seeing each other will never be the same. She wants to plan but doesn’t want to force anything. Wanting only to create a good memory for the both of them, she is lost in her thoughts of a vacation in the mountains as the hours roll by.
A complex that sharpens into buildings as they drive closer brings her to the present. The driver stops at a gate some distance from the main compound and speaks into a speaker, “Dr. Mary Black.”
The gate swings open. They drive past a small brown sign with white lettering: “Crenshaw Humming Research Division in Association with The Astrobiology Institute: a division of the Jet Propulsion Laboratories, National Aeronautics and Space Administration.”
“NASA. Crenshaw Humming. The big leagues.”
The driver nods at her in the rear view mirror. “Yes, ma’am.” They drive past armed guards roving in golf carts. Geese with orange tags on their legs roam freely inside the fence. A few burros can be seen grazing.
—–
From an upstairs window, a young man looks out, spotting the approaching vehicle. “She’s here.”
Jack Wallace walks over to the window. He swirls the ice in his glass, watching her get out of the car. “They look the same as us.”
“Maybe they are.”
“Then we’d be right already? But then we would be out of the research business, wouldn’t we? And who knows? Maybe we’re wrong. And if we’re wrong, well, we’re already in ancient world that really does know more than we do.”
“We are the only intelligent unknown.”
——
Mary sees Baxter coming through the large, double doors.
“Good trip?”
“No complaints. What’s with the geese? Donkeys at NASA?”
He motions her toward the door. “Burros. The geese are very territorial–better than guard dogs for making noise. If anyone wanted to break in here they wouldn’t be scared of a dog anyway. The geese are cheaper too. Besides,” he says as the door slides shut behind them, “they make us popular with the wildlife people. The coyotes come for the geese. The burros kill the coyotes that don’t care about the noise.”
“Why would someone want to break in here?”
“A flaw in their upbringing. It happens.”
Marine guards escort them to the elevators.
“Burros kill coyotes?”
“They don’t hunt them. They just won’t tolerate them in the same area.”
“I didn’t know that.”
They begin to descend, standing silently for some time. He smiles at her, doing his best bureaucrat imitation to set her at ease.
“Are you alright?”
“Just in a hurry.” he replies quietly. “And out of practice with..”
“Civilians? You did okay yesterday. Marginal.”
He shrugs inoffensively and stars at the buttons on the elevator. “They have a casual outlook on everything. Their conversation is always fake.”
She smiles. “And you fake the fake just to get by.”
“Only for as long as it takes.”
A moment later the elevator stops.
The doors open to a steel grated balcony; stairs to their left lead down to the concrete floor beneath. Large, clear panels partition the room into smaller, rectangular laboratory and office cubicles. One central walkway runs the length of the large room.
Men and women in shirt sleeves sit arguing at a table in one of the larger offices near the foot of the stairs. Several of them look up at them as they walk down the steps. Everyone falls silent as they walk past.
At the end of the walkway, Izzy turns into a small lab, followed by an older man in white tennis shoes and lab coat. The small, steel briefcase he carries is carefully laid on the nearest counter. In a soft Russian accent he says, “I am here for ice while you study hand.”
For his part, Dr. Dmitri Pavolvitch sees a younger woman who looks at him with a direct, wide open stare. She is perhaps mid to late forties, naturally attractive, intelligent eyes, dark brown hair. She seems nice enough but has an expression that is a mixture of curiosity, apprehension and incredulity. There is a practical look about her, like a queen or a mother; a family sort of person, not very vain or arrogant, that has had any youthful vanity run out of her by caring for someone and being cared for in return. He knows looking at her face that she has children. The past is etched in her face. A hesitance, a guarded softness in her eyes, says she is sophisticated in a certain way, but not deceptive.
He likes her immediately and hears the thought “Sophisticated for defensive purposes only.” He smiles and laughs to himself.
“What?” Izzy is looking at him.
“Nothing”.
It shows that he likes her She fingers a small scar over one eyebrow and looks at the case.
Placing the steel case on a nearby bench, he opens it and takes out a large, clear container in which is a smoky haze.
“You placed it in nitrogen?!”
“Bad?”
She isn’t sure he is kidding until he says, “Wink.”
She knows she is supposed to laugh but frowns instead. He has the same sense of the absurd as Sam. Even though she knows it is a setup– it has been years– she says “You don’t say wink. It’s something you do.”
“Oh? It is C oh two.” He smiles.
Izzy frowns and clears his throat. “Am I the only one in a hurry here?” He taps a code in the keypad and the top slides open. The haze has obscured a cylinder of ice in which is clearly a human hand.
“I thought you said it was mummified?” she asks.
“That’s why you’re here.” Izzy points out the various instruments available. “Everything that you should need is here. We have x-ray facilities available as well, of course. You can call for anything more you’ll need on the intercom.” He points to the intercom on the wall.
Pavolvitch assists her until he has the ice.
Izzy points to the conference room. “We’ll be there.”
They walk away without another word.
She is alone and speaks to the silence as if it is a judge. “Okay.”
——
Baxter and Dmitri stand at the other end of the corridor, watching the technicians come and go.
“I said nothing. You said nothing. She doesn’t…”
“Then why are you defending yourself already? Wink?” Izzy said. “No wonder I’m not married. I can’t be that lame on purpose.”
Dmitri grins. “You’ve got to learn to relax, Israel. Today there is emergency. Tomorrow is emergency. Emergency everywhere. All the time! We go on living in the middle of them all. Did you notice?”
“What?”
“The ring.” Dmitri holds up his index finger. “She still wears her ring. Her husband has been dead almost two years.”
“No. I didn’t notice.”
Dmitri grips his arm. “She will find what there is to be found.”
They turn to the on-going conference to postpone the inevitable questions.
——
The x-rays reveal a human hand clutching a small, rectangular object. Mary waits for some time after getting the images for the technicians to return with the hand. By the time she gets it back it is thawing. A heat gun speeds things along after she has taken baseline photographs, measurements and weight.
The hand isn’t mummified at all.
It is ‘fresh’, as they say in school. There is no frostbite damage. She checks carefully again. But there is no tissue damage at all.
She does the microscopy of skin and muscular tissue. After looking at the tissue, she isn’t really sure why she has been called at all.
Never aware of her gift in any way which qualified as recognition, she has never been able name it, only understanidng that at the beginning of an investigation everyone seems to expect something of her. There is an odd kind of pressure. The only way she knows they have been satisfied is when they turn away.
Sam, in a rare, lucid moment before he his death had said she had a smooth combination of clarity and curiosity that would take her places. He had said she recognized beginnings and that she should recognize his passing as one for herself.
She loves that he said it. She repeats it sometimes; now to herself as she steps back and looks at the question.
She goes through the whole examination again, step by step. They would not have called her if they didn’t want her particular expertise. This is NASA. Crenshaw Humming.
Thinking the hand was mummified had been a mistake. But it is the natural assumption given the visual stimulus and the substrate.
She does a battery of telomeric tests. Not trusting the results, she does the tests again. Testing the equipment and doing the tests a third time afterwards, she stares at the confirmed results. “That’s not possible.”
——————————————
Revelation 4:1 After these things I saw, and behold, a door opened in heaven, and the first voice which I heard as of a trumpet speaking with me, saying, Come up here, and I will shew thee the things which must take place after these things.
In the Name of Jesus Christ, Amen