were too big to become airborne and besides, aside from those she had painstakingly freed from the rock, the rest were securely encased in stone, sixty-five million years old but still functional.
Functional.
That was really the crux of the matter. What was their function? But even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer would take months, if not years, to answer.
She attached the article to an e-mail and readied it for sending, her finger poised on the ENTER key.
She hit ENTER.
Melodic leaned back in her chair with a great sigh, feeling suddenly drained. With that keystroke her life was changed. Forever.
5
TOM OPENED HIS eyes. The sun lay in stripes across his bed, a monitor beeping softly somewhere in the background, a clock on the wall. Through a haze of pain, he managed to locate Sally sitting in a chair opposite.
'You're awake!' She jumped up, taking his hand.
Tom didn't even consider raising his pounding head. 'What-?'
'You're in the hospital.'
It all came rushing back; the pursuit in the canyons, the helicopter crash, the fire. 'Sally, how are you?'
'A lot better than you.'
Tom looked around at himself, shocked to see himself so bandaged up. 'So what's wrong with me?'
'Nothing more than a nasty burn, a broken wrist, cracked ribs, concussion, bruised kidney, and a seared lung. That's all.'
'How long have I been out?'
'Two days.'
'Ford? How's he?'
'He should be coming up to see you at any moment. He had a broken arm and a few cuts, that's all. He's a tough bird. You were hurt worst.'
Tom grunted, his head still pounding. As clarity returned, he noticed a heavy presence sitting in the corner. Lieutenant Detective Wilier.
'What's he doing here?'
Wilier rose, touched his forehead in a greeting before settling down. 'Glad to see you awake, Broadbent. Don't worry, you're not in any trouble-although you should be.'
Tom didn't quite know what to say.
'I just dropped in to see how you were getting along.'
'That's kind of you.'
'I figured you'd probably have a few questions you'd want answered. Like what we found out about the killer of Marston Weathers, the same man who abducted your wife.'
'I would.'
'And in return, when you're ready, I'd like a complete debriefing from you.' He raised his eyebrows in query.
'Fair enough.'
'Good. The man's name was Maddox, Jimson Alvin Maddox, a convicted murderer who appears to have been working for a fellow named Iain Corvus, a curator at the AmericanMuseum of Natural History in New York. He got Maddox an early release from prison. Corvus himself died the same night Sally here was kidnapped, apparently of a heart attack. Given the timing the FBI is looking into it.'
Tom nodded. Damn, his head hurt. 'So how did this Corvus know about the dinosaur?'
'He heard rumors that Weathers was on to something big, sent Maddox down to follow him. Maddox killed the guy and, it seems, took a sample off him which Corvus had analyzed at the museum. Something just went up on the Web about it and there's been a hullabaloo like nothing you've ever seen before. It's in all the papers.' Wilier shook his head. 'A dinosaur fossil. . . Christ, I considered just about everything, from cocaine to buried gold, but I never would've guessed a T. Rex.'
'What's happening to the fossil?'
Sally answered. 'The government's sealed off the high mesas and are taking it out. They're talking about building some kind of special lab to study it, maybe right here in New Mexico.'
'And Maddox? He's really dead?'
Wilier said, 'We found his body where you left it, or at least what was left of it after the coyotes worked it over.'
'What about the Predator drone, all that business?'
Wilier eased back in his chair. 'We're still untangling that one. Looks like some kind of rogue government agency.'
'Ford will tell you about that when he comes,' said Sally.
As if on cue the nurse came in and Tom could see Ford's craggy face behind her, one side of his jaw bandaged, his arm in a cast and sling. He was wearing a checked shirt and jeans.
'Tom! Glad to see you awake.' He came and leaned on the footrest of the bed. 'How the heck are you?'
'Been better.'
He cautiously settled his huge frame down in a cheap plastic hospital chair. 'I've been in touch with some of my old pals in the Company. Apparently heads have rolled over the way this whole thing was handled, the callous disregard for human life, not to mention the bungled op. The classified agency that ran the op's been disbanded. A government panel's looking into the whole business, but you know how it is . . .'
'Right.'
'There's something else, something incredible. A scientist at the Museum of Natural History in New York got hold of the piece of the dinosaur, studied it, and has released a paper about it. It's explosive stuff. The T. Rex died of an infection-brought in on the asteroid that caused the mass extinction. No kidding-the dinosaur died of an alien infection. At least that's what they say.' Ford told him how Apollo 17 brought back some of the particles on a moon rock. 'When they saw the rock was impregnated with an alien microbe, they diverted it to the Defense Intelligence Agency, which in turn set up a black detachment to study it. The DIA named the black agency LS480, short for Lunar Sample 480. They've been studying these particles for the last thirty years, all the while keeping their antennae out in case any more showed up.'
'But it still doesn't explain how they found out about the dinosaur.'
'The NSA has a ferocious eavesdropping capability. We'll never know the details-seems they intercepted a phone call. They jumped on it immediately. They'd been waiting thirty years and they were ready.'
Tom nodded. 'How's Hitt?'
'Still in bed upstairs. He's doing fine. Pilot and copilot are both dead, though. Along with Masago and several soldiers. A real tragedy.'
'And the notebook?'
Wilier stood up, took it out of his pocket, laid it on the bed. 'This is for you. Sally tells me you always keep your promises.'
6
MELODIE HAD NEVER been inside the office of Cushman Peale, the museum's president, and she felt oppressed by its atmosphere of old New York privilege and exclusion. The man behind the antique rosewood desk added to the effect, dressed in Brooks Brothers gray, with a gleaming mane of white hair brushed back. His elaborate courtesies and self-deprecating phraseology did a poor job of concealing an unshakable assumption of superiority.
Peale guided her to a wooden Shaker chair placed to one side of a marble fireplace and seated himself opposite. From the interior of his suit he removed a copy of her article and laid it on the table, carefully spreading it with a heavy veined hand.
'Well, well, Melodic. This is a fine piece of work.'
'Thank you, Dr. Peale.'
'Please call me Cushman.'
'All right. Cushman.'
