Havoc

Mercer was more than a little intrigued that a historian of ancient Greece was in a book about junk science. He thanked Jody and hung up, typing the title on an Internet bookseller’s site.

And there it was: Science Beyond the Fringe by Serena Ballard. The book had been published three years earlier and by the looks of it hadn’t done well. There were no readers’ reviews and the site indicated the book was already out of print.

Next he typed the author’s name onto a search engine and came up with an uninspired Web site dedicated to the book. As the title implied, the book chronicled pseudo-scientists in their bizarre quest to invent the impossible. On the single-page site were short paragraphs about some of the stranger folks-a dry cleaner from New York who tried to patent his interstellar telephone, a mechanic from Pennsylvania who spent his life trying to draw usable power from static electicity, and another from California who was convinced he’d deciphered the language of humpback whales.

Mercer got the sense that the book was written with tongue firmly planted in cheek and thought it might make an amusing read. At the bottom of the page was a link where he could e-mail the author so he dashed a quick note to Serena Ballard explaining his interest in Chester Bowie and giving his telephone number.

To his astonishment his phone rang in less than a minute.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Mercer?”

“Yes. Is this Serena Ballard?”

“It is. I can’t tell you how surprised I was to get your e-mail.”

“About half as much as I appreciate you getting back to me,” Mercer said. She had a beautiful throaty voice.

“According to the Web counter on that old site you just doubled the number of hits since it went online.”

“I have the feeling the book didn’t do as well as you’d hoped.”

She chuckled. “The publisher lost my princely advance of one thousand dollars. In truth, Science Beyond the Fringe was a labor of love. I sent it to publishers on a lark.”

“Still, writing a book is a hell of an accomplishment.”

“I did it for my grandfather. If you saw the Web site you might have noticed the bit about the guy in Pennsylvania who tried to harness static electricity.”

“Your grandfather?”

“He was inspired by a machine he read about in Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged and knew he could make it work. He spent every night and weekend in his garage tinkering away. He burned it down once and spent a week in the hospital after nearly electrocuting himself. He got a chance to read my book before he died, but never knew that I managed to get it published. You indicated you wanted some information about Chester Bowie.”

“What can you tell me about him and what did he do to merit a mention in your book?”

“Bowie taught ancient history at a place called Keeler College here in New Jersey.”

“You’re in New Jersey?”

“Yes, I’m the marketing director for the new Deco Palace Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City. It’s great. Have you ever been here?”

“No, but I have a friend who considers Atlantic City his third home.”

“Third home, wow.”

“Not that impressive because he uses my place as his second. Anyway back to Bowie.”

“Chester Bowie taught ancient history at Keeler. From what I recall from my research he was a real flake. He muttered to himself all the time and always wore a cape around campus.”

“And what did he do to merit a mention in your book?” asked Mercer.

“Well he wasn’t a scientist but he was a crackpot. That’s why he’s in there. He was convinced that the creatures from Greek mythology actually existed.”

“You mean griffins, Medusa, and giant three-headed dogs?”

“Yup.”

“I guess that would certify him as a crackpot.”

“It’s not as bad as that,” Serena admitted. “What Bowie believed is that ancient Greek farmers plowing their fields discovered bones from animals that went extinct in the last ice age. Not knowing how the skeletons fit together, he believed they created all kinds of fantastic monsters from the bones, mixing and matching as they went along and then inventing stories about their creations.”

Mercer absorbed what she’d just said and couldn’t find any quick flaws in Bowie’s theory. It was a simple, elegant answer to a question he’d never considered, but it got him no closer to explaining how Chester Bowie came to be at a high-grade uranium deposit in Central Africa where he presumably vanished in the mid-1930s.

“He had no other interests? Geology for example?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Serena paused. “I hate to say this but I don’t remember much about him. I wrote the book a few years before I got it published, and Bowie was only a couple of paragraphs. I still have boxes at home with some of my old research material. There might be something in one of them. I could look through it and mail you anything I find.”

Mercer considered her offer. He doubted he was on the right track even though the dates somewhat corresponded with what he knew. This could very well be the wrong Chester Bowie. However, he had nowhere else to turn. Pressed by a vague sense of urgency, he asked, “Would it be possible for me to come up and get them?” He sensed hesitancy. “I assure you I’m not a stalker or anything. I can even meet you at the hotel.” Mercer knew he’d have to bring Harry. The old bastard would pout for weeks if he knew Mercer had gone to a casino without him.

“Well, I suppose so. I can go home at lunch and grab the stuff. I’m pretty sure I know which box it’s in. Are you in New York?”

“No. D.C.” Mercer checked his watch. “How about five o’clock in the lobby.”

She gave a small laugh. “This hotel is huge. We’d never find each other. How about the Bar Americain. It’s right next to the casino’s main entrance.”

“Bar Americain it is. Five o’clock. And, Serena, thank you.”

“I’m glad I can help. I’ll even see what I can do about getting you a room comped.” Then she added as an afterthought, “I never asked. What’s this all about, anyway?”

“I’ll tell you when we meet. Suffice it to say that Chester Bowie found something and it sure wasn’t minotaur bones.”

Mercer checked the time again and decided it was still too early for Harry to be at Tiny’s, so he called White’s apartment. When he got no answer he tried Tiny’s but even the owner, Paul Gordon, wasn’t there. He climbed the back stairs up to the rec room to refresh the inch of tar-thick coffee fused to the bottom of his mug. Harry was slouched at the bar, pen poised over the Washington Post crossword, a Bloody Mary within easy reach.

“Morning,” he growled.

Mercer shook his head slowly. “Help yourself to my paper and booze.”

“Already done, my boy, already done.”

“Feel like going for a ride?”

“No.” Harry didn’t look up from the puzzle. “Tiny’s getting some guys together for a poker game tonight. I’m gonna crash on your couch this afternoon to rest up for it.”

“I’m going to Atlantic City.”

Still Harry remained slouched, but he didn’t miss a beat. “Drag, get your leash. You’re spending the day with Uncle Tiny.”

The dog raised himself over the back of the couch to regard his master through bloodshot eyes. His head was bowed so that his ears dangled past his long gray muzzle. He gave one soulful bawl.

“Sorry, pooch, I’m exchanging your crap for a game of craps today.”

“We’re getting a room for the night. Go home and pack. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”