McCauley knew this and a lot more about the distinguished Dr. Katrina Alpert, probably as much as she knew about him and his work. The two scientists could have much to talk about if attitude didn’t get in the way. Let’s find out.
“I read your latest article on Leonardo.” He paused. “Very interesting.”
“Interesting?” She picked up on the word. “That’s what people say when they don’t like something and they won’t admit it. Or, if they have nothing worthwhile to say. How does this apply to your usage?”
“Ah, point taken. Your findings were undeniably remarkable, doctor. But detail in your account was lacking from a Yale perspective. So in fact, I found it very ‘interesting,’ yet academically insufficient.”
“Well, since you raise the issue of academics, you’ve certainly taken some liberties naming your finds.”
“Not names, doctor. Nicknames. Like Leonardo.”
“Acknowledging a great artist, a scientist, a thinker, a visionary. Not a…”
“A member of the Baseball Hall of Fame?” he volunteered.
“Clearly not.”
“You have your heroes, I have mine, Dr. Alpert.”
McCauley liked to name his finds after great Red Sox players. He took digital pictures of his finds, printed and cropped them to baseball card size, added stats on the back and had handouts for whoever wanted them. There was a meat-eating Sauronitholestes named Yaz and a slow moving Allosaurus, suitably dubbed Tiant. Neither challenged Leonardo for attention, but McCauley viewed paleontology as a science and a sport. He was one to pitch in.
“Each to their own,” she said dismissively.
“Look, Dr. Alpert…”
“You could call me Katrina,” she said.
“Dr. Alpert,” he replied, keeping it formal, “as I understand it, you’re here to report on me; to determine if I meet certain academic standards.”
“Not certain standards. Specific ones, Dr. McCauley.”
“Okay, if I meet specific ones. Perhaps yours, with if being French for fucked.”
Alpert laughed. “No, actually, baisé and foutu are French for fucked,” she said like a teacher correcting a student.
“Thank you, Dr. Alpert. I’m obviously not as well-versed in romance languages as you.”
“There’s always Rosetta Stone.”
Another day he might have laughed. Not today.
“I’ll put it on my credit card just as soon as my department reimburses me for all the other incidentals I’ve had to pick up outside the budget. Or, are you reviewing expenses in addition to evaluating me?” It was his sharpest comment. He wasn’t finished. “I’m sure you’ll look very good to my department, especially if you can help them slash and burn my allocations. You’ll also effectively keep one of your competitors out of the journals by ending my annual expeditions. So, if you don’t mind, let’s keep this purely professional. I’m dealing with enough extinct species without becoming one myself.”
Alpert took it all in and smiled. “Ground rules established, Dr. McCauley.” She decided they both needed to clear the charged air. “But I have a suggestion. How about we skip going out and start fresh in the morning? I’ll meet you at the site after breakfast. Okay?”
“That’s the best idea yet.”
“Good.”
Alpert stood ready to say goodbye when McCauley suddenly realized she’d traveled all day and probably needed a hotel room.
“Wait, where are you staying?”
“I’ve taken care of that. Two rooms down.” She turned to the door, delicately removed his underwear and returned it to the chair. “Well, at least one question is answered,” she said coyly.
“What’s that?”
“Briefs, not boxers. Goodnight, Dr. McCauley.”
Sixteen
McCauley returned to base camp early at four thirty. Earlier than normal waking time. Earlier, he hoped than Dr. Katrina Alpert’s waking time. Even with the interruption from the interloper he felt renewed with a good night’s sleep.
His team began to rise at 6:30. By 7:15 everyone was wolfing down scrambled eggs, toast and coffee, prepared this day by Jaffe and Rodriguez. Once they finished cleaning up — a shared job — they took to the valley and spread out while McCauley hiked even further into the park. He liked the way the morning shadows played tricks with the rocks, creating very relatable images from a human standpoint: A face that looked like a Sioux chief. Lincoln in his top hat. A galloping horse. The things that gave birth to legends and tall tales.
The Yale professor also studied the strata, hoping something special would call out to him. It was now 8:25.
One thing caught his eye. Another shadow? A sound? McCauley stopped and strained to bring the impressions into focus.
He peered at a section of rock he calculated to be about thirty feet above the valley floor, maybe fifty yards away.
He saw some movement. A coyote? Maybe a bobcat or a deer, he thought. “No,” he said aloud. Then he hoped it wasn’t a mountain lion. He was alone and certain they were indigenous to the area. But if so, he needed to make sure his people were safe. He didn’t have a gun, which was probably a mistake.
It’s moving again. McCauley continued to walk, carefully closing the distance. At fifteen feet from the cliff he slowly bent down and groped for something to throw; all of this done silently. A few steps more, while keeping his eyes on the target, he put his hand on a rock about the size and weight of a hardball. Getting up just as slowly, he stretched his arm back, pivoted his body ever so much to the left, narrowed his focus to the area above hidden by shadows, and threw the projectile like he belonged on the Red Sox starting lineup.
It was a difficult throw but it scored a hit directly. Suddenly, a flurry of noise filled the morning air as a family of huge birds took flight.
“Jesus!” he gasped. McCauley immediately recognized the birds as turkey vultures by their dark reddish brown featherless heads and the way they soared with their wings raised in a V.
The birds, very distant cousins of the animals that the students had come to uncover and discover, flew high above the cliffs. McCauley figured they were sharing a morning feast in their nests set within the shady rocks. He knew that while other vultures could kill their prey, the turkey vulture couldn’t. Its claws were too weak to grip live animals, so they scavenged.
Ultimately, it wasn’t the birds that intrigued him. They migrated to the region every year. It was where they were nesting. He ventured forward recalling the Lakota people’s legends about the great thunderbirds depicted in their petroglyphs. Perhaps their drawings were born from finding fossils of a pterosaur in their own time.
McCauley’s pulse quickened as he carefully scaled the cliff. His arms and shoulders ached from yesterday’s golfing, but he paced himself, finding the proper footing and places to hold. A final long reach brought him to a ledge where he was able to stand. Four careful steps laterally, McCauley was at the opening where they birds had nested.
This is stupid, he thought. Still he was curious enough to enter.
“Hello,” he said. His voice trailed off without even an echo.
He spoke louder. “Hello.” There was a faint return.