Singh nodded slowly. So one might assume.
Reuben chewed his lower lip, thinking. Then he took a deep breath and spoke loudly. I dont know where he came from, said Reuben, putting an arm now around Ponters massive shoulders, and Im not sure how he got here, but this mans name is Ponter, and
Reuben stopped. Singh looked at him. Reuben knew he could conclude with that; yes, the mans name was known. He didnt have to say anything more. He could stop now, and no one would think him crazy. But if he went on
If he went on, all hell would break loose.
Can you spell that? called a reporter.
Reuben closed his eyes, summoning strength from within. Only phonetically, he said, now looking at the journalist. P-O-N-T-E-R. But whichever of you jotted that down the fastest is, Im sure, the first person ever to render that name in the English alphabet. He paused again, looked once more at Singh for encouragement, then pressed on. This gentleman here, we are beginning to suspect, is not Homo sapiens. He may bewell, I think anthropologists are still arguing about what the proper designation for this kind of hominid is, arent they? He seems to be what they call either Homo neanderthalensis or Homo sapiens neanderthalensisat any rate, hes apparently a Neanderthal.
What? said one of the reporters.
Another just snorted derisively.
And a thirdthe mining reporter from the Sudbury Starpursed his lips. Reuben knew that reporter had a bachelors in geology; doubtless hed taken a paleo course or two as part of his studies. What makes you say that? he asked skeptically.
Ive seen x-rays of his skull. Dr. Singh here was quite sure of the identification.
What does a Neanderthal have to do with the destruction of SNO? asked a reporter.
Reuben shrugged, acknowledging that that was a very good question. We dont know.
This has got to be a hoax, said the mining reporter. Its got to be.
If it is, Ive been hoodwinked, and so has Dr. Singh.
Dr. Singh, called a reporter, is thisthis person hereis he a caveman?
Im sorry, said Singh, but I cannot discuss a patient except with other involved physicians.
Reuben looked at Singh, agog. Dr. Singh, please
No, said Singh. There are rules
Reuben looked down for a moment, thinking. He then turned to Ponter with pleading eyes. Its up to you, he said.
Ponter surely didnt understand the words, but apparently he grasped the significance of the situation. Indeed, it occurred to Reuben that Ponter might have a good shot at making a run for it, if he were so inclined; although not particularly tall, he was burlier by far than either of the cops. But Ponters eyes soon swung in the direction of Singhand, as Reuben followed the Neanderthals line of sight, he realized that Ponter was actually looking at the manila envelope Singh was clutching tightly.
Ponter strode over to Singh. Reuben saw one of the cops put his hand on his holster; he evidently assumed Ponter was going to attack the doctor. But Ponter stopped short, right in front of Singh, and held out a beefy hand, palm up, in a gesture that transcended cultures.
Singh seemed to hesitate for a second, then he relinquished the envelope. There was no illuminated viewing plate in the room, and it was now well after dark. But there was a large window, with light from a lamp in the parking lot streaming in. Ponter moved to the window; he perhaps knew that the cops would have tried to restrain him if hed gone instead for the glass doors leading outside. He then held one of the x-rays, the side view, up against the glass so that everyone could see it. Camcorders were instantly trained on it, and more still pictures were taken. Ponter then gestured for Singh to come over. The Sikh did so, and Reuben followed. Ponter tapped on the x-ray, then pointed at Singh. He repeated the sequence two or three times, and then opened and closed his left hand with fingers held straight, theapparently universalgesture for talk.
Dr. Singh cleared his throat, looked around the lobby surveying the faces, then shrugged a little. It, ah, it seems I have my patients permission to discuss his x-rays. He pulled a pen out of his lab coats breast pocket and used it as a pointer. Do you all see this rounded protrusion at the back of the skull? Paleoanthropologists call that the occipital bun
Chapter 8
Mary Vaughan had slowly driven the ten kilometers to her apartment in Richmond Hill. She lived on Observatory Lane, near the David Dunlap Observatory, oncebriefly, and a long time agohome of the worlds largest optical telescope, now reduced to little more than a teaching facility because of the lights from Toronto.
Mary had bought the condominium here in part because of its security. As she drove up the driveway, the guard in the gatehouse waved at her, although Mary couldnt meet hisor anyoneseyes yet. She drove along, past the manicured lawn and large pines, around back, and down into the underground garage. Her parking spot was a long walk from the elevators, but shed never felt unsafe doing it, no matter how late it was. Cameras hung from the ceiling, between the sewer and water pipes and the sprinklers poking down like the snouts of star-nosed moles. She was watched every step of the way to the elevators, although tonightthis one hellish nightshe wished that no one could see her.
Was she betraying anything by how she walked? By the quickness of her step? By her bowed head, by the way she clutched the front of her jacket as though the buttons were somehow failing to provide enough security, enough closure?
Closure. No, there was surely no way she could ever have that.
She entered the P2 elevator lobby, pushing first one door then the other open in front of her. She then pressed the single call buttonthere was nowhere to go from here but upand waited for one of the three cars to come. Normally, when she waited, she looked at the various notices put up by management or other residents. But tonight Mary kept her eyes firmly on the floor, on the scuffed, stippled tiles. There were no floor-number indicators to watch above the closed doors, as there were two levels up in the main lobby, and although the up button would go dark a few seconds before one of the doors would rumble open, she chose not to watch for that, either. Oh, she was eager to be home, but after one initial glance, she couldnt bring herself to look at the glowing upward-pointing arrow
Finally, the farthest of the doors yawned. She entered and pushed the button for the fourteenth floorreally the thirteenth, of course, but that designation was considered unlucky. Above the panel of numbers was a glass frame that contained a laser-printed notice saying, Have a Nice DayFrom Your Board of Directors.
The elevator made its ascent. When it stopped, the door shuddered to one side, and Mary headed down the corridorrecently recarpeted by order of the same Board of Directors in a hideous cream-of-tomato-soup shadeand came to her apartment door. She fished in her purse for her keys, found them, pulled them out, and
and stared at them, tears welling in her eyes, vision blurring, her heart pounding again.
She had a small key chain, and on its end, a gift a dozen years ago from her ever-practical then-mother-in-law, was a yellow plastic rape whistle.
There had never been a chance to use itnot until it was too late. Oh, she could have blown it after the attack, but
but rape was a crime of violence, and she had survived it. A knife had been held to her throat, been pressed against her cheek, and yet she hadnt been cut, hadnt been disfigured. But if shed sounded the alarm, he might have come back, might have killed her.
There was a gentle chime; another elevator had arrived. One of her neighbors would be in the corridor within a second. Mary fumbled the key into the lock, the whistle dangling, and quickly entered her dark apartment.