The soldiers pushed Grant and Ellie and Gennaro into seats, and helped them clip on the harnesses. Tim and Lex waved to him and he suddenly saw how young they were, and how exhausted. Lex was yawning, leaning against her brother's shoulder.
An officer came toward Grant and shouted, "Senor: are you in charge?"
"No," Grant said. "I'm not in charge."
"Who is in charge, please?"
"I don't know."
The officer went on to Gennaro, and asked the same question: "Are you in charge?"
"No," Gennaro said.
The officer looked at Ellie, but said nothing to her. The door was left open as the helicopter lifted away from the beach, and Grant leaned out to see if he could catch a last look at the raptors, but then the helicopter was above the palm trees, moving north over the island.
Grant leaned to Muldoon, and shouted: "What about the others?"
Muldoon shouted, "They've already taken off Harding and some workmen. Hammond had an accident. Found him on the hill near his bungalow. Must have fallen."
"Is he all right?" Grant said.
"No. Compys got him."
"What about Malcolm?" Grant said.
Muldoon shook his head.
Grant was too tired to feel much of anything. He turned away, and looked back out the door. It was getting dark now, and in the fading light he could barely see the little rex, with bloody jaws, crouched over a hadrosaur by the edge of the lagoon and looking up at the helicopter and roaring as it passed by.
Somewhere behind them they heard explosions, and then ahead they saw another helicopter wheeling through the mist over the visitor center, and a moment later the building burst in a bright orange fireball, and Lex began to cry, and Ellie put her arm around her and tried to get her not to look.
Grant was staring down at the ground, and he had a last glimpse of the hypsilophodonts, leaping gracefully as gazelles, moments before another explosion flared bright beneath them. Their helicopter gained altitude, and then moved cast, out over the ocean.
Grant sat back in his seat. He thought of the dinosaurs standing on the beach, and he wondered where they would migrate if they could, and he realized he would never know, and he felt sad and relieved in the same moment.
The officer came forward again, bending close to his face. "Are you in charge?"
"No," Grant said.
"Please, senor, who is in charge?"
"Nobody," Grant said.
The helicopter gained speed as it headed toward the mainland. It was cold now, and the soldiers muscled the door closed. As they did, Grant looked back just once, and saw the island against a deep purple sky and sea, cloaked in a deep mist that blurred the white-hot explosions that burst rapidly, one after another, until it seemed the entire island was glowing, a diminishing bright spot in the darkening night.
Epilogue:
San Jose
Days went by. The government was polite, and put them up in a nice hotel in San Jose. They were free to come and go, and to call whomever they wished. But they were not permitted to leave the country. Each day a young man from the American Embassy came to visit them, to ask if they needed anything, and to explain that Washington was doing everything it could to hasten their departure. But the plain fact was that many people had died in a territorial possession of Costa Rica. The plain fact was that an ecological disaster had been narrowly averted. The government of Costa Rica felt it had been misled and deceived by John Hammond and his plans for the island. Under the circumstances, the government was not disposed to release survivors in a hurry. They did not even permit the burial of Hammond or Ian Malcolm. They simply waited.
Each day it seemed to Grant he was taken to another government office, where he was questioned by another courteous, intelligent government officer. They made him go over his story, again and again. How Grant had met John Hammond. What Grant knew of the project. How Grant had received the fax from New York. Why Grant had gone to the island. What had happened at the island.
The same details, again and again, day after day. The same story.
For a long time, Grant thought they must believe he was lying to them, and that there was something they wanted him to tell, although he could not imagine what it was. Yet, in some odd way, they seemed to be waiting.
Finally, he was sitting around the swimming pool of the hotel one afternoon, watching Tim and Lex splash, when an American in khakis walked up.
"We've never met," the American said. "My name is Marty Guitierrez. I'm a researcher here, at the Carara station."
Grant said, "You were the one who found the original specimen of the Procompsognathus"
That's right, yes." Guitierrez sat next to him. "You must be eager to go home."
"Yes," Grant said. "I have only a few days left to dig before the winter sets in. In Montana, you know, the first snow usually comes in August."
Guitierrez said, "Is that why the Hammond Foundation supported northern digs? Because intact genetic material from dinosaurs was more likely to be recovered from cold climates?"
"That's what I presume, yes."
Guitierrez nodded. "He was a clever man, Mr. Hammond."
Grant said nothing. Guitierrez sat back in the pool chair.
"The authorities won't tell you," Guitierrez said finally. "Because they are afraid, and perhaps also resentful of you, for what you have done. But something very peculiar is happening in the rural regions."
"Biting the babies?"
"No, thankfully, that has stopped. But something else. This spring, in the Ismaloya section, which is to the north, some unknown animals ate the crops in a very peculiar manner. They moved each day, in a straight line-almost as straight as an arrow-from the coast, into the mountains, into the jungle."
Grant sat upright.
"Like a migration," Guitierrez said. "Wouldn't you say?"
"What crops?" Grant said.
"Well, it was odd. They would only eat agama beans and soy, and sometimes chickens."
Grant said, "Foods rich in lysine. What happened to these animals?"
"Presumably," Guitierrez said, "they entered the jungles. In any case, they have not been found. Of course, it would be difficult to search for them in the jungle. A search party could spend years in the Ismaloya mountains, with nothing to show for it."
"And we are being kept here because…"
Guitierrez shrugged. "The government is worried. Perhaps there are more animals. More trouble. They are feeling cautious."
"Do you think there are more animals?" Grant said.
"I can't say. Can you?"
"No," Grant said. "I can't say."
"But you suspect?"
Grant nodded. "Possibly there are. Yes."
"I agree."
Guitierrez pushed up from his chair. He waved to Tim and Lex, playing in the pool. "Probably they will send the children home," he said. "There is no reason not to do that." He put on his sunglasses. "Enjoy your stay with us, Dr. Grant. It is a lovely country here."
Grant said, "You're telling me we're not going anywhere?"
"None of us is going anywhere, Dr. Grant," Guitierrez said, smiling. And then he turned, and walked back toward the entrance of the hotel.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In preparing this novel, I have drawn on the work of many eminent paleontologists, particularly Robert Bakker, John Horner, John Ostrom, and Gregory Paul. I have also made use of the efforts of the new generation of illustrators, including Kenneth Carpenter, Margaret Colbert, Stephen and Sylvia Czerkas, John Gurche, Mark Hallett, Douglas Henderson, and William Stout, whose reconstructions incorporate the new perception of how dinosaurs behaved.
Certain ideas presented here about paleo-DNA, the genetic material of extinct animals, were first articulated by George O. Poinar, Jr., and Roberta Hess, who formed the Extinct DNA Study Group at Berkeley. Some discussions of chaos theory derive in part from the commentaries of Ivar Ekeland and James Gleick. The computer programs of Bob Gross inspired some of the graphics. The work of the late Heinz Pagels provoked Ian Malcolm.
However, this book is entirely fiction, and the views expressed here are my own, as are whatever factual errors exist in the text.