Bone Hunter (8 page)
Authors: Sarah Andrews
NINA LET GO OF ME AND GLANCED EXCITEDLY ABOUT THE room. “Where is George, anyway?”
“Um …” Before I could say anything, I heard Ray’s knock at the front door. I hurried to open it, babbling nonsensical things, like “Who could that be at this hour?”
I yanked the door open but saw no one. I tensed and began to step back, grabbing for the door handle as I went. Then the shadow to the left of the door moved, and Ray stepped toward me, eyes wide with concern. He held his right hand behind his back, no doubt concealing his drawn pistol. He stopped short when he saw Nina.
I stepped out of his way. “Ray, this is Nina. She’s ah … George’s wife.”
Ray froze.
I turned around just in time to see Nina twist her hands up in front of her face like a little girl who didn’t want to be seen by a grown-up she didn’t know. She seemed to shrink several inches, and I began to wonder if she was in fact a child I had mistaken for an adult.
I reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. She huddled up against me and whispered something I couldn’t quite hear.
Playing the adult to her child, I said, “Can you speak a little louder please, Nina?”
Playing the adult to her child, I said, “Can you speak a little louder please, Nina?”
She tugged at my blouse, drawing me toward the kitchen. I signaled Ray to wait where he was and followed her.
In the kitchen, she whispered loudly enough that I could understand her. “I wasn’t supposed to let him see me.”
I whispered back, “Who? Ray?”
Urgent whisper: “Anybody!”
“But Ray’s okay. He’s my friend.”
She looked doubtful. “George will be angry.”
“Don’t worry about—” I stopped myself, remembering that whoever this woman was, she didn’t yet know that George Dishey was dead. Or at least was acting as if she didn’t. So I said, “Listen, Ray’s here to help me with something. He’s a policeman.” I said it in one of those light,. cheery tones that are supposed to convey the thought that everything will, therefore, be okay.
Nina recoiled in horror. Turned. Headed for the back door like a dart.
Now it was my turn to grab a handful of
her
clothing, and I did so with authority. I wasn’t going to let this little act dance in here, turn everything on its ear, and dance out again, at least not without some further explanation. As she continued to pull toward the door, I said, loudly and with as much drama as I could stomach, “You can’t leave! Not after all this time we’ve been kept apart!”
her
clothing, and I did so with authority. I wasn’t going to let this little act dance in here, turn everything on its ear, and dance out again, at least not without some further explanation. As she continued to pull toward the door, I said, loudly and with as much drama as I could stomach, “You can’t leave! Not after all this time we’ve been kept apart!”
Nina whirled around in terror, grabbing my blouse again with both of her tiny hands. “But George would never let police in this house! Never! You must make him leave!” It was not an act. She was shaking.
I wrapped my arms around her, as much to keep her from escaping as to comfort her, and thought to myself,
Okay, smart-aleck, now what do you do? Your host has turned up dead, you’ve sliced your thumb halfway off, you’ve made the cops’ ten
most wanted list, you’re a nonperson at a conference you thought you were supposed to make a big splashy speech at which, you’ve been shot at, and now you find yourself featured in a bad movie about polygamous marriage. Pretty good for a day’s work. So what do you do for an encore?
I squeezed Nina tightly and mumbled something tender, like “There, there, dear,” then added a few non sequiturs, like “We have so much in common” and “We just need to get to know each other a little better.”
Okay, smart-aleck, now what do you do? Your host has turned up dead, you’ve sliced your thumb halfway off, you’ve made the cops’ ten
most wanted list, you’re a nonperson at a conference you thought you were supposed to make a big splashy speech at which, you’ve been shot at, and now you find yourself featured in a bad movie about polygamous marriage. Pretty good for a day’s work. So what do you do for an encore?
I squeezed Nina tightly and mumbled something tender, like “There, there, dear,” then added a few non sequiturs, like “We have so much in common” and “We just need to get to know each other a little better.”
Then it began to dawn on me that this woman and I did, in fact, have something in common. We had George Dishey. A conniving little shit who had clearly lied to me, telling me I was coming to this conference to give an important talk at a symposium that didn’t exist. When had he been planning to tell me his invitation had been a sham? Sometime after he trotted me into the conference as his girlie du jour? Was that the game?
I wrapped my arms more tightly around this woman who called herself Nina and who said she was George Dishey’s number-two wife. If I could believe that, then it was a good bet that George had lied to her, too.
If
. “Was George expecting you this evening?” I asked.
If
. “Was George expecting you this evening?” I asked.
Her voice came faintly, but she answered as if it was perfectly natural to be asked such a question. “Well … yes … not exactly … but this was special.”
Perhaps George had expected I’d be gone by now.
Yes,
I decided,
that was his plan. I would be furious when I discovered his lie. I would have left by now in a huff. Bring on the next fatted calf.
Yes,
I decided,
that was his plan. I would be furious when I discovered his lie. I would have left by now in a huff. Bring on the next fatted calf.
Nina whispered urgently, “Heddie, there’s something wrong, isn’t there? Where is George? Why’s this policeman here?”
I was running out of time, and I knew it. In the next few minutes, I’d have to tell her what was happening, and she’d know I wasn’t Heddie, and she’d most likely tell me nothing
more. I had to frame my questions carefully, neither adding gratuitously to the lie nor tipping her off that I was not the person she thought I was. That was a problem, considering that I had no idea what this Heddie was like, nor where she spent her time, and just then it seemed damned important to know.
What if this is her house, and she was just away visiting her mother? No, that can’t be. George told me he was single, or that he was not Mormon, or that—besides, there’s no sign of a woman’s touch in this house! Okay, so maybe George was a polygamist, and his boasting to me was just a charade to cover it, and Heddie lives somewhere else. Then if so, where?
My thoughts spun in circles as I tried to sort out the lie from the truth. Dropping into this maze of falsehood myself, I blustered, “Well, um, yes, of course you know I’m not usually here on Sundays. I’m here because, um, George didn’t call me either, see, and he said he would, and I was worried, and so this policeman is a friend, see. He’s a member of my church.”
more. I had to frame my questions carefully, neither adding gratuitously to the lie nor tipping her off that I was not the person she thought I was. That was a problem, considering that I had no idea what this Heddie was like, nor where she spent her time, and just then it seemed damned important to know.
What if this is her house, and she was just away visiting her mother? No, that can’t be. George told me he was single, or that he was not Mormon, or that—besides, there’s no sign of a woman’s touch in this house! Okay, so maybe George was a polygamist, and his boasting to me was just a charade to cover it, and Heddie lives somewhere else. Then if so, where?
My thoughts spun in circles as I tried to sort out the lie from the truth. Dropping into this maze of falsehood myself, I blustered, “Well, um, yes, of course you know I’m not usually here on Sundays. I’m here because, um, George didn’t call me either, see, and he said he would, and I was worried, and so this policeman is a friend, see. He’s a member of my church.”
I clenched my teeth into a rictus smile, ruing the ease with which my own lies spilled out. I was no more a member of a church than the Easter bunny was a member of Congress. But my mind was in fast-forward gear, trying to jiggle the next move, trying to sound like a Mormon. I tried to remember what Mormons called their jurisdictions. Stakes and wards, that was it. And they called themselves Saints, not Mormons.” I said, “He’s in my same ward. Listen, I’ll just call him in here, and we’ll—”
“George is
missing
?” Nina squealed.
missing
?” Nina squealed.
“Well, not exactly. He’s—Ray, can you come in here, please?”
I had loosened my grasp. Nina sprang from me, yanked open the back door, and was through it as fast as lightning. I scrambled to follow her, but she slammed the door after her, smashing my wounded thumb as oak crashed against oak. I gasped, sucked for air, screamed at the top of my lungs. Ray
caught me as I began to fall, holding me up by my shoulders, bracing his feet to take my weight, gathering me into his arms. My back arched as pain shot through my thumb. “Not me!” I gasped. “Get Nina! Out the back!”
caught me as I began to fall, holding me up by my shoulders, bracing his feet to take my weight, gathering me into his arms. My back arched as pain shot through my thumb. “Not me!” I gasped. “Get Nina! Out the back!”
Ray swung me around against the refrigerator, yanked open the door, and dashed into the backyard. As I slid down that hard, cool surface to the floor, I could hear him accelerate through the darkness. The sound of his footfalls faded.
The pain in my thumb was astonishing. It radiated up my arm, fanned out underneath my armpit, and shot through my back and chest. I arched my back against the refrigerator, eyes closed, forcing myself to think of something nice. A softly flowing creek tumbling over granite boulders in the high Rockies, a flawlessly cast dry fly landing in the broadest pool, the perfect trout rising, the soft caress of the afternoon breeze rising from the meadow. Far away, my thumb throbbed, fell off into a hole, and was swallowed.
Minutes passed. Distantly, I heard Ray come back to the phone and call for a search. Then he was near me again, his warm breath as sweet as that breeze … . “That’s hurting you,” he said, studying the fresh stain of blood that now drenched the bandage. No dumb questions from my Officer Raymond. Just straight to the point, a statement of the facts.
“The pain is subsiding. I’m just tired.”
“I lost her,” he said sadly.
“I’m not surprised. She probably knows a hundred ways of getting in and out of this house unseen. She’s like a mouse down the hole.”
Ray sighed. “Right. I didn’t hear a car start up, so perhaps she’s still in the area.”
“She would have parked several blocks away. That is, if she drives. With that getup, she may walk everywhere. Or ride a unicorn.
“You talk like you know her.”
Did I? Why did that sound true? Was it just that I understood not wanting to be seen? “She’s a type. You didn’t know George. I didn’t either, really, but he was a taker, you know? He took things from people, and the little mice like Nina would be more than glad to share their cheese. The costume was a little unusual, but only in the present tense.”
“What do you mean?”
Fatigue filled my head. “I’m not sure what I mean. But I need some sleep. What time is it, Eleven? Twelve? I’m usually in the sack by ten. And hey, it’s been a day, hasn’t it?” I opened my eyes.
Ray was hunkered down right next to me, his muscular legs doubled easily into a squat. He was loose; not just strong and athletic but also limber. How I loved men with long, muscular bodies. And just then that body was close to me, very close, and he was looking at me, into me, studying me with an abstraction that made me want to jump in through his blue eyes and fall.
Fall where? It wasn’t fair. I was just going to have to get laid more often. A little body contact and I was a goner. I was falling for this guy, falling
into
this guy, and we had met under the very worst of circumstances, just the kind of stressful nonsense that would make me lose my composure like this and give myself away for a dime.
into
this guy, and we had met under the very worst of circumstances, just the kind of stressful nonsense that would make me lose my composure like this and give myself away for a dime.
I studied him in return. He had his hands up to his lips, covering the lower half of his face, giving me nothing to look into but those clear blue eyes as dark as denim. I wanted to lift my hand and touch his cheek, run a finger down the strong bones of his nose. I had to be out of my mind. He probably had a wife and half a dozen kids at home, wondering where he was.
Yes, of course. He’s Mormon, isn’t he? He knew
The Refiner’s Fire,
not your everyday reading matter, and he lives in Salt Lake City, the Mormon stronghold. And if cigarettes or alcohol
have ever passed those incredibly healthy lips, I’ll eat his badge.
Yes, of course. He’s Mormon, isn’t he? He knew
The Refiner’s Fire,
not your everyday reading matter, and he lives in Salt Lake City, the Mormon stronghold. And if cigarettes or alcohol
have ever passed those incredibly healthy lips, I’ll eat his badge.
The Saints, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I had heard enough of their proselytizing over the years, seen their missionaries, young men in pairs riding bicycles from house to house in their Sunday best, with little name badges saying, “Elder This,” and, “Elder That.” They often seemed sad or lonely, like lost puppies, but they were good soldiers, true to their training. They had an answer for every question, a neat set of beliefs that covered every occasion, a key for every ecclesiastical lock, a hammer to sink every philosophical nail. Like a religion designed by engineers. No ambiguities; in fact, no recognition that ambiguities might exist. Just connect the dots and salvation is thine for the asking. My high school friends had laughed into their sleeves over the LDS articles of faith, howling with mirth at the thought that each “worthy male” would become a “god” in his own “kingdom.” I had suspended judgment as best I could, figuring that the missionaries were meekly presenting canned lines. They had sounded like trained parrots to me, but they were young and I figured that there had to be more to the game somewhere if all those hundreds of thousands of people went along with it. But organized religion wasn’t for me either way you sliced the baloney; when I’d wanted to think deep thoughts I’d always walked a mile from the house and sat on a nice rock.
Ray as a Mormon missionary. I could see him dressed crisply in that white shirt, those dark slacks and skinny tie, hair buzzed short straight from the barbershop. He’d be hard to resist. Bored housewives would ask him in just for his company, and try to evangelize him in their own ways right back. I looked at his left hand. On the third finger was a plain gold band. I had not thought to look before.
“I’m tired,” I repeated. “Time for this Cinderella to turn
into a pumpkin. Or cupcake. Or whatever she turned into.”
into a pumpkin. Or cupcake. Or whatever she turned into.”
“Not a mouse,” said Ray, still gazing at me levelly.
Now, that wasn’t fair,
I decided, staring angrily back into his eyes. “No. Certainly not a mouse. You name a good motel, and I’ll find my way there. And I’ll be there in the morning. Ole Emmy won’t mess up your deal with your promotion.”
I decided, staring angrily back into his eyes. “No. Certainly not a mouse. You name a good motel, and I’ll find my way there. And I’ll be there in the morning. Ole Emmy won’t mess up your deal with your promotion.”
“I’ll take you,” he said, tensing.
“No, you won’t. You have squad cars rolling all around this neighborhood. One of them’s pulling up outside right now. Hear it? You’ve got a job to do. And don’t worry, I’ll go straight to bed and sleep like a log. I’m exhausted. I’ll see you at the conference tomorrow. You’ll know me; I’ll be the one with the big bloody gauze bandage on her left thumb.”
BUT I DIDN’T SLEEP. OR ONLY FITFULLY. I HAD FOUGHT to stay alert as I had followed Officer Raymond back toward the center of town, taking turns around side streets and through alleys to make certain we weren’t followed. I had ached with fatigue as I leaned on the counter at the Deseret Motel and then staggered up the steps to my second-story room with its lonesome bed, mute TV, and back view over an abandoned lot. I had leaned out that window, making certain there was nothing underneath it that might serve as a ladder, then had double- and triple-checked the lock on my door. My head had buzzed with exhaustion as I peeled off my grass-stained clothes, laid them out on the second bed, slung a T-shirt over my stiffening torso, and lowered myself between the sheets. But as I tried to relax into their plain, virginal whiteness, I had stiffened with fear.
I hate motels. They are never my friends, and in no way do I ever feel safe in them. Now, add to that the fact that I was in real danger, and the mix spelled wide awake and forget about sleeping. Visions of gunshots blossomed in the darkness, growing ever larger, and nearer, aimed right at me, people running, chasing me, following me in cars.
I flicked on the bedside lamp and tried reading for a while.
I had swiped the copy of
The Refines’s Fire
from George’s house with this thought in mind: If I found I couldn’t sleep, it would surely knock me out again. But it didn’t. This time, it drew me in, because I wanted to know what Ray believed, wanted to know
how
he could believe it. My life until then had been predicated around discarding beliefs, pulling out the opportunistic weeds that seemed to grow up wherever human longing for meaning and answers met the inadequacies of human experience and reasoning, hoping that a glimmering of truth might thrive in the space left. That was why geology had drawn me. Science was based on the search for truths, or at least for the facts from which a hypothesis might be built, and hypotheses were built for one thing only: to be tested and discarded if proven wrong, eliminating possibilities, illuminating probabilities.
I had swiped the copy of
The Refines’s Fire
from George’s house with this thought in mind: If I found I couldn’t sleep, it would surely knock me out again. But it didn’t. This time, it drew me in, because I wanted to know what Ray believed, wanted to know
how
he could believe it. My life until then had been predicated around discarding beliefs, pulling out the opportunistic weeds that seemed to grow up wherever human longing for meaning and answers met the inadequacies of human experience and reasoning, hoping that a glimmering of truth might thrive in the space left. That was why geology had drawn me. Science was based on the search for truths, or at least for the facts from which a hypothesis might be built, and hypotheses were built for one thing only: to be tested and discarded if proven wrong, eliminating possibilities, illuminating probabilities.
I read for close to three hours, and discovered two things, both of which I found disturbing: First, the author presented evidence that suggested the founder of the Mormon Church (Joseph Smith) had been a conjurer, a money digger, and a “bogus maker”—in modern terms, a con artist. Nowhere in the text did the author presume to state whether or not Smith was conscious of his purported capacity for fabrication, or whether or not he believed everything he said. In unpleasant ways, Smith began to remind me of George Dishey in his rather charismatic ability to draw people to places he wanted them to go, leading his faithful from New York to Illinois, and attempting to lead some other men’s wives to bed, with lines like “I have been looking upon you with favor for some time” and “Please be my spiritual wife.” What had George said to me? “Your speech will be one of the jewels of the conference, a source of new angles, new inspiration for a hidebound profession.” And I’d bought it.
Geeyak
. But George was also a Ph.D., and widely published, a huge presence within the profession of paleontology. Which was he, saint or sinner?
Geeyak
. But George was also a Ph.D., and widely published, a huge presence within the profession of paleontology. Which was he, saint or sinner?
Second (and this was tougher for me), I had to conclude that whatever else Joseph Smith had been, he had also been inspired, and adept at matters of the psyche and perhaps the soul that I preferred not to contemplate. I prized my own ability to embrace ambiguities, but the idea of a flawed human with godly powers of transcendence left me scared and angry, and stoked my insomnia worse than a strong cup of coffee. Was this corruption of power, or a case of evolution from the profane to the profound? Part of me wanted to believe that George had used occult powers to lure me into his web of deception; that way, I could look upon myself as a victim and wouldn’t have to admit my half of the mistake. Disgusted with myself, I threw down the book and turned on the TV and watched infomercials until I was at last exhausted enough to sleep, however fitfully.
At 7:00 A.M., I awoke to the sound of footsteps on the balcony outside my window. I threw off my covers and phoned Sergeant Ortega, reporting on the previous evening’s fun and games. He was suitably and sympathetically horrified, but obnoxiously surprised to hear that I had actually left the scene and not tried to spend the night in George Dishey’s house. When we were done chatting, I showered and wrestled my hair into some semblance of order, then picked out a knit blouse that didn’t need ironing. For the lower half of my body, I chose blue jeans. To hell with trying to look upwardly mobile I decided; no one at the conference cared anyway. A geologist is still a geologist, even if you scrub her and drape her in silk. For my feet, I pulled out my old roping boots—lipstick red but comfortably faded with years of use—and slid on a belt with a Navajo silver buckle just for panache.
Big bad world, here I come
. I checked to make certain that this time I had my keys, opened the door, stepped out onto the balcony walkway, and nearly tripped over Officer Raymond.
Big bad world, here I come
. I checked to make certain that this time I had my keys, opened the door, stepped out onto the balcony walkway, and nearly tripped over Officer Raymond.
He was sitting in a chair about a foot to the left of my
doorway, with his feet up on the railing. “Good morning,” he said. “Sleep well?”
doorway, with his feet up on the railing. “Good morning,” he said. “Sleep well?”
I had to grab my chin up off the walkway before I could even begin to think about answering his question. After just staring stupidly at him for a while, I said, “You been here all night?”
He shook his head and smiled smugly. “No, just got here a few minutes ago. An officer named Minton was here, though.”
I could feel my face flushing. I wanted to say,
And here I had thought you were beginning to trust me,
but I kept my mouth shut.
Damned fool Em,
I told myself,
here you go again having fantasies about a man. You think he’s sitting here because he can’t get enough of your perfume? He’s bucking for a promotion!
“Breakfast,” I growled, and stomped ahead of him down the stairs.
And here I had thought you were beginning to trust me,
but I kept my mouth shut.
Damned fool Em,
I told myself,
here you go again having fantasies about a man. You think he’s sitting here because he can’t get enough of your perfume? He’s bucking for a promotion!
“Breakfast,” I growled, and stomped ahead of him down the stairs.
I HAVEN’T MUCH to report in the way of findings from that day at the conference. I spent a lot of time getting my bearings, a thing I would have been doing even if my agenda hadn’t shifted from “make professional contacts” to the more urgent “remove self from list of murder suspects.” Professional conferences are like that. They’re overwhelming, an overload of incoming information, and one must first figure out how to crack into them before one can truly be involved.
So after perusing a bunch of books, maps, and T-shirts that the Utah Friends of Paleontology were selling by the registration desk, then checking out a plenary session on the cladistical analysis of tetrapodal amniotes that was being held in the ballroom, I found my way down the hill to a huge rubber tent like the ones they use to winterize tennis courts. I decided that this must be the events tent the weaselly Vance had spoken of the day before. The program listed it as the place where the
poster sessions were being held. Poster sessions are minimeet-ings where scientists put up elaborate displays showing the results of their current research on big wide easels and then wait nervously to discuss their investigations with anyone who comes milling by. Officer Raymond followed along nonchalantly about forty feet behind me, trying to look like a paleontologist. The jeans and cowboy boots were a nice touch, but he should have lost the SALT LAKE 2002 OLYMPICS T-shirt in favor of something featuring bones and multisyllabic Latin names; he would have done better yet if he’d skipped shaving that morning, had stayed up all night doing something unhealthy, and had perfected the art of looking distracted by intellectual obsessions. When he entered the tent, he melted off into the crowd elsewhere, presumably making himself popular by asking participants if they had a motive for murder.
poster sessions were being held. Poster sessions are minimeet-ings where scientists put up elaborate displays showing the results of their current research on big wide easels and then wait nervously to discuss their investigations with anyone who comes milling by. Officer Raymond followed along nonchalantly about forty feet behind me, trying to look like a paleontologist. The jeans and cowboy boots were a nice touch, but he should have lost the SALT LAKE 2002 OLYMPICS T-shirt in favor of something featuring bones and multisyllabic Latin names; he would have done better yet if he’d skipped shaving that morning, had stayed up all night doing something unhealthy, and had perfected the art of looking distracted by intellectual obsessions. When he entered the tent, he melted off into the crowd elsewhere, presumably making himself popular by asking participants if they had a motive for murder.
The thick clouds that had been sliding in between the peaks that towered over Snowbird chose that moment to shed rain. It started as a gentle tattoo on the vinyl dome of the tent, then rose quickly to the drumming of hail. I glanced overhead at the big translucent panels that let in light, to see if they were going to hold the load. Great trains of tiny hailstones gathered, warmed against the fabric, and began to slide groundward. I relaxed and moved on into the catacombs of posters.
I was just glazing over from looking at a display discussing the Eocene vole taxonomy of Montana when I spotted the sharp-faced woman I had noticed the day before. She was noticeable because she was anomalous: Geoscientists are, on the whole, an inelegant bunch, more partial to a “fresh air” look than anything one might see on Fifth Avenue. This woman was strictly Fifth, from her short, dark, classy coiffure to the au courant cut of her tiny pumps. Moreover, she wore makeup, and lots of it, mascara and eyeliner by the bucketload, laid on with artistry and flair. Her eyes were as prominent as her long, arcing nose to begin with, and the cosmetics brought
them to within an inch of being overwhelming. I couldn’t guess her age closer than a range—somewhere between thirty and forty. She passed a thin pink tongue between her dark red lips. “So, ya int’r’sted in tracks?” she asked in a heavy Long Island accent.
them to within an inch of being overwhelming. I couldn’t guess her age closer than a range—somewhere between thirty and forty. She passed a thin pink tongue between her dark red lips. “So, ya int’r’sted in tracks?” she asked in a heavy Long Island accent.
“Sure,” I said, “tell me about tracks.”
She made an adenoidal throat-clearing sound, very demure, and began her spiel. “What we got hea’ is multiple trackways in the Blackhawk Formation. Cretaceous, y’know.”
I nodded.
She gestured toward a blowup of an oblique view down the ceiling of one long corridor inside a coal mine, with an investigator wearing a hard hat with a miner’s lamp for scale. The coal—the remnant of an ancient swamp—had been removed, revealing above it the sandstone formed when an ancient river levee had ruptured and spewed sand into the swamp. The sand had filled in footprints left by dinosaurs that had grazed through the swamp, dining on the canopies of the trees that grew there. Here and there, the carbonized remnants of the trees themselves were present in the form of fallen logs and even the spreading roots of a tree still standing. The footsteps were broad and round, each individual impression an almost nondescript knob of sand, but in aggregate, they were so consistently shaped and spaced that they could only have been formed by a striding animal of titanic proportions.
“Okay,” the track specialist said, “we got adult ornithopods here. See the basically round print with the li’l bump on the front, like it’s giving ya the finger?” She pointed at a close-up. Yep, old dinny’d had a middle toe that stuck out farther than the rest.
“Ornithopod. That’s like a dinosaur?”
She gave me a sharp look that said, Amateur, huh? and said, “Yep-per. Ovah here, I got the probable species.” She pointed
at an artist’s reconstruction of a very docile-looking creature with legs like pillars, a body like an immense rugby ball, and a neck and tail like snakes.
at an artist’s reconstruction of a very docile-looking creature with legs like pillars, a body like an immense rugby ball, and a neck and tail like snakes.
“You give the tracks a separate Latin name from the track maker.”
“Of course. With fossil tracks, you don’t know who made ’em unless you got the body fossil right there with its feet stuck right in the sand, right? So we don’t have that. So we got to reconstruct it, like, from the bones and from probable tonnage and so forth. So the tracks get a separate Latin name. Here, see? Real nice. Catchy, huh? Yeah.” She sniffed, working those adenoids in the dry mountain air. She seemed bored, like I was at least the fortieth person to walk up and peer ignorantly at her maps and photographs.
She was irreverent. I liked that in a woman. I smiled. “Okay, so tell me about this picture.” I pointed to a photograph that on first inspection appeared to be of any old pile of sandstone boulders. Wildflowers and rabbitbrush leaned in from the edges, but within the area of interest, all rubble underneath a projecting slab had been removed, revealing one huge footprint knob made by a three-toed animal. The photographer had waited for the perfect sun angle, a low glancing brush of light that would pick up every irregularity.
“That’s uppermost Morrison Formation, or lowermost Cedar Mountain, depending on where you call your boundary. That was taken at the Cleveland-Lloyd Quarry. People been digging up bones for half a century before we noticed them.”
“Interesting. So what’s the latest on the paleoenvironment of the Morrison?” I asked. “Isn’t that the domain of Pete Peterson and Christine Turner?”
Ms. Bored sat up a little straighter. “You a stratigrapher?” she asked, checking out my name tag. She was referring to those geologists who specialize in the interpretation of layers
of rock laid down by wind, water, and other natural processes.
of rock laid down by wind, water, and other natural processes.
“Sort of. I work in oil and gas. When I’m not doing forensic work.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re the one.” She sniffed distractedly and looked away, as if she talked to murder suspects every day and so what else is new, like?
“Yeah. I got lucky. So I’m just vacationing here in bone land,” I said, being equally blase. “Em Hansen.” I glanced at the lead panel of her poster layout. It informed me that she was from one of the prestigious universities back east.
She twisted her head to one side in a gesture of casualness. “Allison Lee. Yeah, Christine and Pete and that gang from the Geological Survey have been working on this formation since I was in high school. They’re just synthesizing the new big picture now.”
“So you been working dinosaurs long?” I asked, kind of girl-to-girl, now that we’d established how cool we both were.
“Yeah. Bones, the bigger and older the better. Tracks and traces, eggs, nests, all that stuff. Kind of different for a girl from Lawn Guyland, but what you gonna do? My grampa took me into the city to the Museum of Natchul History when I was eight, and I was hooked. After that, it was every Saturday I could get him to take me back there, or up to Yale to the Peabody Museum, or please, Grampa, please let’s go to Wyoming, or out here to Utah, or Denver, or any of them places. He was a nice guy. He had bucks. He took me to every major dinosaur museum in America by the time I was in college, and then he was nice enough to pay for that.”
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