Authors: Robert Masello

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers

Bestiary (20 page)

BOOK: Bestiary

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But in this book, the manticore, the chimera—a fire-breathing goat with a serpent’s tail—the unicorn—a horse with the horn of a rhinoceros—all were drawn in a style that seemed far more sophisticated, more expressive, than anything else from their time. It was as if, Beth thought, the creatures in the al-Kalli
Beasts of Eden
had been drawn from life.

And she said so.

Mrs. Cabot beamed, pleased to see Beth pay their guest such a compliment, but al-Kalli didn’t smile, budge, or react in any way. His lack of reaction was in itself puzzling; he looked to Beth as though he were suddenly filled with too many feelings to sort through, too many thoughts to express just one. He looked as if his mind had traveled to some far distant place . . . perhaps the desert that his family had inhabited—and ruled—for so many centuries.

“It will be my honor to work on this book,” she said. “It’s simply magnificent.”

But he still said nothing; he just offered a small, cryptic smile.

And when she closed the book—very carefully, and using both hands—on her desk she saw a fine silt of white sand glinting in the overhead light. Even the sand she wanted to preserve and keep with the book. It was as if it had come, like the strange beasts depicted in the illuminated pages, from a place as old as Eden.

CHAPTER TWELVE

IT WAS PREClSELY the carnival atmosphere Carter had predicted—and dreaded.

Gunderson had issued the press release to the media, the
L.A. Times
(among many others) had dutifully written up the story of the early human, only the second one since 1915 to be unearthed at the La Brea Tar Pits, and the public imagination had in fact been captured.

Today, looking up from the bottom of Pit 91, Carter could see dozens of faces pressed against the glass of the upper observation deck, all waiting to see the grisly skeleton of their ancient ancestor released from its unmarked grave. Security guards occasionally moved them along to make way for the next wave, but the faces kept coming. Carter could tell it made Rosalie and Claude, normally two of his most reliable workers, self-conscious: Miranda, on the other hand, it seemed to have sprinkled with stardust. Gunderson had gone along with Carter’s suggestion to share the credit for the discovery with the budding young paleontologist, and now Miranda had transformed herself into some interesting cross between Paris Hilton at the MTV awards and Louis Leakey in the Olduvai Gorge. She was dressed in tight khaki shorts with many zippers and velcroed pockets, a sleeveless green T-shirt that simply said PIT 91 EXCAVATION TEAM (where, Carter wondered, had she had that thing made?), and clunky black work boots that served chiefly to show off her long, tanned legs. Periodically, she leaned back on her haunches to dramatically wipe the sweat from her brow, and scan the upper deck for admirers.

Right now, the most dedicated of the observers was a La Brea regular, the Native American the museum guards referred to as Geronimo. Carter had seen him glaring down into the pit most of the morning, his lips moving in what seemed like some kind of inaudible chant.

“If I’d known I was going to be on Eyewitness News,” Rosalie said, glopping out another handful of muck, “I’d have gone on a diet.”

Claude chuckled, and said, “I’d have bought a toupee.”

“What can I tell you?” Carter replied, wiping his own hand on the edge of a black bucket. “You’re celebrities now, and there’s no going back to your ordinary lives.”

Eyewitness News had indeed sent a crew the day before; they’d clambered down into the pit with a camera and a mike, and shot some “spontaneous” footage of Carter and his crew continuing to disinter what the anchor later called “the first man ever to walk down Wilshire Boulevard.” The coanchor had wondered if, back then, traffic was any better than it was today.

“Careful you don’t cut yourself,” Carter said to Claude, who was digging deep in the quadrant where the human bones lay. In order to facilitate the dig, extraordinary measures had been taken—discretionary funds, Carter discovered, could be found when they had to be—and one of the first things Carter had done with the money was install slim steel plates to keep the tar from neighboring quadrants out of this one; the plates were inserted, to a depth of ten feet, on all sides, and though nothing could be done to keep the tar from welling up from below, it did help to keep the surface area relatively clear.

At Gunderson’s own insistence, high-power hoses, hooked to a massive turbine that now rumbled on the lawn up above the rear of the pit, suctioned off debris and what was called the matrix—the rocky, gooey material that surrounded the find. Carter had strenuously objected, on the grounds that this material could be ineffably important to deciphering the remains, but Gunderson had only partially relented; he wanted these human bones unearthed
now
, but he was willing to let the matrix be stored in a massive holding tank, steam-cleaned beforehand from top to bottom. Part of Carter had wanted to weep, but another part told him to be practical—this was a momentous find, and if he didn’t want Gunderson to hijack it completely, and turn it over to some hack who would unwittingly do it great damage, he had to compromise.

Still, it wasn’t in his nature—and he tried not to focus on the hoses.

“Don’t you think we’re ready to start plastering?” Miranda asked, innocently. The glopping could be fun, and photogenic, for only so long. The next step, once the fossils had been exposed, was usually to plaster them
in situ
, to protect and preserve them during the extraction process.

But they were days away from that, at best. “Not yet,” Carter replied. “First we’ve got to clear away more of the tar.”

Miranda exhaled, loudly.

“And then we’ve got to ascertain where, and how deep, these remains go. We don’t want to chisel away anything germane.”

Miranda looked even more deflated.

“Then we can think about how to extract them safely.”

“What are our choices?” Claude asked, pushing his bifocals back up onto his nose with the knuckle of one tarry hand.

“We’ve got several,” Carter replied, though he was reluctant to go into it now. Yes, there were the usual methods of fossil preservation—plaster of paris casting, transparent resin application, polyurethane foam over aluminum foil—but he hadn’t yet decided on how he wanted to proceed. He knew that this find was special not only in the scientific sense, but in a political one, too. These were human remains, of an aboriginal ancestor. As a result, they had to be treated, at all stages, with a heightened degree of responsibility and tact.

As if in response to his thoughts, there was a sudden thumping from above. Carter looked up at the observation deck to see Geronimo banging his fist against the Plexiglas and shouting something indecipherable.

“I knew he’d go off one day,” Claude said.

“But why now?” Carter said.

“Maybe,” Miranda said, “because of this.” She was pointing at a spot in the quadrant where, miraculously, the top of a skull now protruded. Only minutes earlier, that area of the grid had been covered with tar. Now, a human skull, its empty eye sockets staring upward, emerged like a swimmer coming up for air.

Even Carter was speechless.

The banging got louder, and Carter could see a security guard grabbing Geronimo’s arm and pulling him away from the window. The other spectators backed off, too, though not before one or two had snapped photos of the fracas.

“Where’d that come from?” Rosalie said, her voice filled with awe.

“I don’t know,” Carter mumbled. “I’ve never seen anything just show up like that.” Was it the steel plates he’d inserted into the grid? Was it the hoses, making what would normally take weeks of excavation transpire in a matter of hours? His crew had been digging around in the region of the hand, the fingers that Carter had once felt entwined in his own. But they hadn’t expected to see the skull for some time; Carter had figured it was still at least a foot or two down.

The body must be lying almost horizontally in the tar.

“What do we do now?” Miranda asked.

Up above, Carter could see the remaining spectators being herded out of the observation platform; he could also hear some muted protests.

Claude and Rosalie waited, with Miranda, for orders. And Carter gradually focused his attention again on the blackened skull. He rubbed a clean rag across his forehead to mop the sweat from his eyes; the temperature today was in the eighties, and in the bottom of the pit at least five or ten degrees hotter than that. The surface of the tar looked more fluid than usual; it reminded Carter of the expression used by fishermen to describe a spot where fish were active; they called it “nervous water.” This looked like nervous tar.

“Let’s keep the suction hoses away from the quadrant,” Carter said. “And start a new bucket for anything you glop out now; we don’t want to lose anything that might turn up, no matter how insignificant it might look.” Carter knew from experience that tiny shards of diseased bone, the pulpy parts of leaves, even insect exoskeletons, could still be found and extricated from the pits. The asphalt, immiscible in water, impregnated everything, staining it black or brown, but protecting all the organic compounds that might have otherwise been leached out and run off by groundwater or replaced during petrifaction. The asphalt, deadly to so many creatures for thousands of years, could also preserve them in a way no other medium could; as a result, the fossils found here, and almost nowhere else, included the auditory ossicles of mammals, the delicate bones of birds, beetle wing covers that retained their iridescent hues. Fossilized wood from the pits looked fresh when it was broken in two, and if you lit it with a match, it would burn.

The four of them went back to work, under a kind of constrained silence. The nearness of the skull, its empty orbs, its black and grinning teeth, made any kind of conversation feel . . . disrespectful. Even sacrilegious. Carter had to keep his eyes on the close work in front of him, still struggling to free the hand he had felt days before, and he was nearly succeeding when he heard, off in the distance somewhere, strange sounds that he couldn’t identify.

First, it was like chains being rattled and shaken.

Then more shouting, in words that made no sense.

And then Claude, his eyeglasses glinting in the sunlight as he looked up at the back wall, cried out, “Carter! Look!”

Carter turned, just as a man—Geronimo, in his buckskin jacket—clambered onto the steel ladder that led down into the pit. He was chanting something—no doubt in some Native American tongue—and swiftly descending the rungs. When he was a few feet from the bottom, he abandoned the ladder altogether and leapt to the wooden boards that ran around the perimeter of the pit. Carter felt them lurch and buckle under his own feet.

The guy must have been released by the security guards—were they nuts?—and then come back to vault over the rear fence surrounding the enclosure.

But what was he supposed to do now? Carter jumped to his feet, his hands dripping tar, and shouted, “Get the hell out of here!”

“No!” the man shouted back. “These are the bones of my people!” He walked stealthily in a pair of moccasins down the wooden catwalk, toward the quadrant where they were working.

Carter quickly stepped past Miranda to cut him off; Rosalie and Claude stood, in shock, on the other side of the grid. Carter wondered if he should be picking up a weapon of some kind. But what—a bucket of tar?

“You can’t be down here,” Carter said, hoping to calm him down.

Geronimo threw his black braid back over his shoulder and lifted his chin in defiance. “You leave,” he said, “all of you. Now!”

BOOK: Bestiary

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