McCauley was taken by her enthusiasm. She shrugged and added, “For the sake of scientific curiosity. What do you say, Dr. McCauley? Up for an adventure?”
Twenty-six
Kavanaugh eagerly evaluated Ten’s latest summaries. The developments would surely be his first true test of will. He needed to know more.
Kavanaugh flew up the stairs to quiz the principal in Ten who was compiling the ever-expanding file. He was tall and blond, with an air of danger lurking within. Not the kind of person who would be attracted to a life indoors doing research. But he was in his mid-fifties and likely happy to have job stability.
“Get your coffee and come with me. We have to talk.” The man followed without objection. They went to the rooftop deck and sat at a table under a shade umbrella.
Kavanaugh didn’t even know the researcher’s last name or how he’d lost his index finger on his left hand. He’d have to find out, make him feel needed, and stress how much he would rely on him.
“Simon, I want you to clear your desk of all your general searches to exclusively focus on this.”
Simon — Volker was his last name — didn’t say thank you. He was not that kind of man. A nod was enough.
“Done. I’ll move up one of the night team.”
“Good. Now tell me what you have,” Kavanaugh insisted.
Kavanaugh listened to a report that greatly troubled him. He decided he had to act. The prospects actually excited him.
Colin Kavanaugh believed he had the resolve to do whatever was necessary. The only problem — there was no glory other than what he could feel himself. No bragging rights. No accolades. No tributes. He wondered how others had dealt with such invisibility. He never thought to ask Gruber. Living a double life. A life of secrecy suddenly took on more meaning. To never have anyone really know. This was going to be hard to live with.
The thoughts continued to consume him at Martin Gruber’s funeral. Aside from Dunbar, seven colleagues from Voyages and the old waiter from Brown’s, few mourners came to pay their last respects at the Brompton Cemetery Chapel in the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. In final interment, Martin Gruber would be joining royalty, scientists, explorers, artists and statesmen, though Colin Kavanaugh most enjoyed that the sanctuary was used in the James Bond movie, GoldenEye.
Kavanaugh ignored the platitudes in the priest’s sermon. Surely he had no real idea who he was burying. Kavanaugh also dismissed the visible displays of sorrow from his associates. He wrote it off as employees wanting to make sure that they were seen mourning by their new boss. And the waiter? Leon. His appearance puzzled him.
When the service was over, Kavanaugh politely lingered, thanked the clueless clergyman, and noticed that the waiter was making slow passage to talk to him. Kavanaugh extended his hand and spoke first.
“It’s nice of you to come.”
“Mr. Gruber was kind to me over the many years I served him,” the sixty-eight year old man replied. “Rest assured, I’ll serve you just as if Mr. Gruber was seated right there. Your table will always be available.”
Kavanaugh struggled to understand the comment. Your table, not a table.
“Thank you,” Kavanaugh replied. He really wondered if he even wanted to continue the ritual.
“I can expect to see you this week.”
Kavanaugh now felt unsure if Leon had proposed a question or made a statement. “Excuse me,” he said. “I must talk to Mr. Gruber’s assistant.”
Kavanaugh quickly excused himself and cut across the lawn to intercept Dunbar.
“Ms. Dunbar, all things considered, I’d like you to take the rest of the week off to collect your thoughts.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said as coldly as anything she ever stated. “We have a great deal to consider. I’ll be in tomorrow at the normal time.”
“Thank you, Ms. Dunbar, but that won’t be necessary.”
“Yes it is, Mr. Kavanaugh. Yes it is.”
Twenty-seven
The checkout clerk at the hardware store must have thought the now familiar group of fossil hunters was planning on lighting up the whole park. They purchased ten more gas lamps and an equal number of fuel canisters. McCauley put it on his credit cards again, without a thought about the air miles he was accumulating. Just before paying, he spotted something he hadn’t seen in years.
“How much are these?”
The teenager on the register scanned one. $17.50.
He saw another two on the shelf. “Any more?”
“That’s it. Nobody uses them these days.”
“We sure will. I’ll take them all.”
“Hey, buddy, what’s that?”
The park director was shopping and overheard the exchange at the counter.
“Oh hi, Kappy. More supplies.”
Kaplan saw all of the equipment piled into five shopping carts. “Planning on working all night?”
“Making the best of our time,” McCauley said keeping his response brief.
“Well, keep me posted. Any new discovery helps the tourist traffic.”
“You bet.”
“See you at the links again.”
“Sure thing. I’ll give you a shout.”
With that, McCauley joined the others pushing their shopping carts, which now included the last of the store’s disposable film cameras.
The additional lamps didn’t shed any more light on the questions that needed to be answered. Once again they were stopped and stumped at the wall.
At least the mechanical wind-up cameras allowed them to take pictures since their cell phones and SLRs weren’t reliable.
What they couldn’t see because of the super black, they could feel. McCauley ran his hand across the surface. It was broken up by some rock and then exposed again a few feet further down a cavern corridor.
“I’m not so sure,” he began.
“About?” Alpert asked.
“Timing. This doesn’t feel like it was embedded into the rock. It seems like the rocks formed or fell around it.”
“Earthquakes? Natural shifting,” she explained. “After it was installed.”
“Yes, but recently? Here, give me your hand.”
McCauley guided Alpert’s hand along the smooth, metallic super black wall. When she came to rock, she felt changes in vertical layers and stopped.
“Bring your light closer,” she said.
McCauley tipped the lamp toward her.
Alpert nodded.
“What?” Tom Trent asked.
McCauley knew. He looked at Alpert just as surprised.
“Am I missing something?” Trent said more emphatically.
“Strata,” Alpert stated. “Eons of fused strata. Typical of earth changing over time. A long time. Say millions of years.”
McCauley clicked another picture and then asked for a pick. He wedged it between the wall and a section of the rock and pushed hard. It loosened an area, but not enough to dislodge any rock. He struck the pick in hard above the first spot and put his shoulder against the handle. It loosened more dirt, allowing him to wedge the end in further. With the next effort, a three-foot portion of stone fell to the ground.
“More light!”
Alpert brought hers closer, as did Jaffe. More nothing. More of the super black wall which absorbed all their light.
“It’s buried behind this,” McCauley exclaimed.
He reached further. It was smooth for inches, and then he felt an indentation in the surface. First one, then another, and even more angling downward. They all felt the same, about an inch wide and a quarter-of-an inch deep.