And that raised a question. Should she make the trip to Benson, Arizona to see what she could learn? Or focus on other lines of investigation?
Rather than make the final determination Devlin returned to the kitchen, made a cup of tea, and waited for the 12:00 news to come on. Channel Five ran the lab fire right off the top. The establishing shot showed a pert blonde standing in front of a pile of smoking rubble. “The lab burned to the ground,” the reporter began. “And now that the fire is out—we know that two people were killed in the blaze. Their victims' names have not been released—and won’t be until their next of kin have been notified. Authorities are looking into the possibility of arson.”
Devlin didn’t hear the rest because she was pretty sure she knew the identities of both victims and was already headed for the study. She felt a sense of grief mixed with the first stirrings of concern. If Yano and Charles had been killed in the fire that meant the only other people who had seen the parasite were dead.
The solution was to make some phone calls, find the samples Yano had submitted for testing, and get access to the results. Then, with evidence in hand, she would fly to Arizona and look for Alex Palmer. Because if the son had his father’s meteorites then she could examine them and look for clues. The plan wasn’t much—but it was all she had.
Chapter Five
South of Miami, Florida
It was warm outside, but still a lot cooler than it had been in the Sahara, and Palmer opened both of the front side windows to let the muggy Florida air caress his face. The Ford Clubwagon hadn’t been designed for hauling meteorites, but it was the closest thing that Hertz had to offer, and was performing admirably considering the fact that the iron weighed nearly half a ton.
No, the hard part was behind him. Having survived the battle with the bandits Guiscard and he had taken the meteorite to the capital city of N’Dajamena. Then, after greasing some palms, he'd been able to put the Mongo Iron on the first of three long plane flights. The last of which took him to Miami.
Now having successfully cleared customs, and after spending the night at an airport hotel, Palmer was free to enjoy the slightly sleazy ambience of southbound Highway 1. Having driven it before he had come to enjoy the seemingly endless parade of pink, blue, and green motels. Most belonged to chains and had the same amount of individuality that a Cheerio does. But those he looked forward to seeing had names like the Conch-On-Inn, the Bonefish Resort, and the Blue Waters Motel.
Eventually, after the highway had been reduced to only two lanes, progress was measured by a long succession of bridges. All decorated with hopeful fishermen. The islands in between had names like Windley Key, Indian Key, and Duck Key. And there were lots of 45 mph speed traps filled to the limit with shiny SUVs, sports cars, and out of state motorcycles.
There were businesses too. Like Cobra Marine, Lady Cyan’s Dive Shop, and the Barracuda Grill. Each of which greeted him like an old friend. Then it was out onto the Seven Mile Bridge, where Palmer could see trawlers in the distance, and gulls wheeling above.
Finally, having been passed by a gang of scary looking Harley-riding insurance agents, bankers, and dentists, Palmer entered the wonderful-horrible realm of a city made famous by the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Jimmy Buffet, and thousands of bikini-wearing, beer-guzzling spring breakers. Key West. A long way from everything but worth the trip.
Though unable to afford such accommodations back in his younger days, Palmer had called ahead to the Pier House Resort, and was lucky enough to secure a room. It was located at the west end of town, right on the water, and adjacent to Duval Street.
Besides the ideal location the hotel featured a nice parking area, which was a rarity in the Conch Republic, but a necessity for anyone who happened to have a valuable 900-pound plus meteorite stashed in the back seat. Once inside the meteorite hunter flashed a smile at the desk clerk, gave her his name, and watched her eyes roam his less than pristine clothing. “Don’t worry,” Palmer said, “I’m going to clean up. Honest I am.”
The clerk looked skeptical as she ran Palmer’s credit card through the reader, and took the extra step of checking his driver’s license, before giving him a key card. “Have a nice stay.”
Palmer allowed the bellman to carry his duffel bag up to the second floor, gave the employee a tip and took a quick tour of his room. There was a private balcony that looked onto a courtyard crowded with tropical plants. A pool could be seen through the tangled branches. A little boy yelled something to his parents and made a big splash. It was paradise compared to Chad.
Palmer made a phone call, spoke with Ambassador Quinton’s housekeeper, and made an appointment to meet with the ex-diplomat later that evening. With that out of the way he sent an entire duffel bag load of clothes out to be washed and cleaned. Then he took a stroll along Duval Street where he bought an outfit that would get him through the evening. Still feeling the effects of jet lag Palmer returned to his room and lay down on the bed. It was three hours later when the phone rang, the hotel’s operator told him it was 6:00 p.m., and Palmer realized it was dark outside.
It took less than half an hour to shower, shave, and get dressed. The old belt he normally wore into the field looked strange with the brand new navy blue polo shirt and khaki trousers, but couldn’t be helped. A pair of well worn deck shoes sans socks completed the outfit. Palmer felt a sense of anticipation as he unlocked the van, got in, and left the lot. Ambassador Quinton’s house was only ten minutes away and, not wanting to arrive early, Palmer took his time.
The streets were dark and narrow. Most of the houses were set back off the street and protected by a fence or a high wall. Many were more than a hundred years old, had been updated over the years, and were the proud possessions of people who had invested love as well as money in them.
Other homes, some of which were equally venerable, had been a good deal less fortunate. With paint peeling, and wide antebellum porches sagging, they hung at the very edge of entropy awaiting their various fates. Few houses though, regardless of condition, had garages. That meant cars occupied any spot their owners could find for them.
Quinton’s house, which had been constructed by a sea captain and restored by the Ambassador some 20 years earlier, was the exception. It boasted both a driveway and a garage. Lights blazed from every window as Palmer pulled past and backed into the long narrow driveway that ran along the south side of the house. He stopped when he came level with the back porch.
Quinton’s silver-gray Mercedes was parked off to one side next to a shiny pickup truck. The one-time carriage house had been converted into a three car garage-sized work shop with a caretaker’s apartment above. Light spilled out through an open door and onto the concrete driveway.
***
Ambassador Benjamin Quinton heard the sound of the van’s engine, got up from his seat in front of a work bench, and went out to meet his visitor. The garage had been retrofitted to support a hobby that had gradually been transformed into a profession. Some meteorite hunters, and there were dozens of them, liked to process and market their finds. Others, Palmer among them, preferred to let someone else handle sales.
Quinton charged a 20% commission, but like many of the people in the trade, was in it for more than the money. Though too old and too arthritic to roam the world anymore, the ex-diplomat’s current role allowed him to see, touch, and yes, on occasion even taste the star stuff that passed through his hands. He enjoyed interacting with the people too. Individuals like Alexander Palmer who was both a supplier and a friend from the days when he’d been stationed in Chad.
***
Palmer opened the door and got out. He noticed that Quinton was walking with the assistance of an intricately carved cane. Quinton didn’t have much hair, but his face had an ageless quality, and the smile was genuine. A pair of glasses hung against his plaid shirt. “Alex! It’s good to see you!”
Palmer grinned. “It’s good to see you too, ambassador. That’s a nice cane.”
Quinto
n shook the other man’s hand. “I bought the damned thing in Chad. Thought I’d hang it on the wall. Now I have to use it. Old age sucks my friend… So enjoy what remains of your youth. That’s a nice sunburn by the way. Ever heard of sun block?”
Palmer laughed and wrapped an arm around the ex-diplomat’s shoulders. “Come on,” the older man said. “Florence spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen. We’d better get in there before we get in trouble.”
“What about the iron?”
“It’s been around for thousands of years,” Quinton replied airily. “So what’s a few more hours? Besides, taking a look at it will be like eating a second dessert…. Come, dinner awaits.”
Quinton and his wife had parted ways some 16 years earlier and, being childless, Florence Strong, and her son Luther were the only family the ex-diplomat had. Not counting some thirty North African orphans that the ex-diplomat supported from afar. So, when Quinton opened the back door and entered the kitchen, it was Florence who came to greet them. She had a halo of black hair that was shot with white, bright inquisitive eyes, and brown skin. She held out her arms. “Well, look what we have here! A skinny-assed half-burnt white boy!”
Palmer grinned and went to collect his hug. “And it’s good to see you too…. In fact you look more beautiful every time I see you.”
“That’s what all men say when you’re about to feed them,” Florence observed tartly. “The trouble starts later…. Now get into that dining room and sit down. I worked hard on this dinner and I don’t want it to get cold!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Palmer said obediently. “Can I carry something in?”
“Yes, you can. Grab that bowl of rice and those rolls. The ambassador and I will bring the rest.”
Palmer did as he was told, made his way into the richly paneled dining room, and placed the dishes on a long table. It was dark, like the woodwork, but covered with a white tablecloth. Luther had just finished setting the table. He was thirty something, and though well known to the local ladies, mysteriously single.
Some blamed Florence’s cooking for that. Others said it was a sign of the times. But the truth was simple: Luther liked working for Quinton, liked taking his boat out nearly every afternoon, and saw no reason to make life any more complicated than was necessary. He looked up and grinned. “Hey, Alex, it’s been awhile…. Did momma give you a hard time?”
Palmer shook his head. “She called me a ‘…skinny-assed half-burnt white boy.’ That’s a compliment isn’t it?”
Luther laughed. He was a big man with a big chest and a big laugh. “It sure as hell is! You oughta hear what she calls people she don’t like! Come on over and sit next to the ambassador.”
There was an audible thump as Florence made use of an ample hip to open the swinging door and entered the room with a huge platter of crusty brown pan-fried sole. She place the dish on the table, checked to ensure that everything was as it should be, and took the chair to Quinton’s right.
All three of the men waited for Florence to sit before taking their own seats and bowed their heads while she said grace. Then, at her urging, platters of food started to make the rounds. Palmer made note of the fact that there weren’t any wine glasses and knew it was because of him. He felt a strange mixture of gratitude and embarrassment as Quinton raised his coffee cup. “To an old friend just returned… It’s good to have him back.”
The others raised their cups as well and the meal began in earnest. The food was excellent, Quinton told some of his well rehearsed stories, Luther shared a hilarious fishing adventure, and Florence reported on the latest shenanigans at her church. Time passed quickly. Finally, as Florence attempted to serve him a second piece of key lime pie, Palmer held up his hands in surrender. “Stop! I’ll explode.”
Florence sniffed disapprovingly, took what remained of the pie, and disappeared into the kitchen. Quinton grinned and made use of a linen napkin to dab at his lips. “Alex? Luther? Shall we retire to the shop?”
The men showered Florence with compliments as they passed through the kitchen and out into the coolness of the night. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Muted reggae could be heard from next door—and a plane roared over on its way to the airport. “So,” the ex-diplomat said, as he put his glasses on. “Let’s have a look at her.”
Palmer opened the back of the van, an interior light came on, and Quinton peered inside. The wooden crate was a three-foot square cube. “It looks like we’ll need the fork lift Luther…that sucker’s got to be heavy.”
“About 986 pounds,” Palmer confirmed, “give or take a few ounces. I spent $10,000 just to get it here.”
“But well worth the effort,” Quinton replied contentedly as he placed both hands on his cane. “Even after taxes, expenses, and my exorbitant fee you should clear $250,000. Not bad for a few weeks work.”
The geologist flashed back to the loud whup, whup, whup of the EC 135’s rotors as Jann tried to close with him before he could fire the missile. Had it been worth it? He wasn’t sure. But the money would be nice. Even after he paid Guiscard for the loss of the Volvo, damage to the Mog, and the finder’s fee he had promised.
There was a loud whir as Luther approached driving a yellow fork lift. “I got it used,” Quinton explained. “It sure beats trying to muscle one of those things into the workshop.”
Palmer nodded in agreement as Luther slipped the forks under the crate, lifted it off the floor of the van, and started to back away. The Clubwagon gave a sigh of relief as it rose on its springs.
The work shop had been improved since Palmer’s last visit and looked very professional. A custom-made heavy-duty steel table occupied the center of the well organized space. The top measured 4 X 4 feet and stood 3 feet off the concrete floor. Industrial strength castors supported each leg allowing the ex-diplomat to move the heavily loaded stand wherever he chose. Four fully adjustable lights hung from the ceiling above. “That table can support up to 2,000 pounds,” Quinton said proudly. “Which should be more than sufficient for the task at hand.”
Palmer had to agree as the motor whirred, the forklift’s tires squeaked on the concrete floor, and Luther lowered the crate into place.
“Now for the fun part,” Quinton said, as he placed his cane on the steel table. Palmer hurried to help as the older man limped over to a roll-around tool chest but was rebuffed as Quinton opened a drawer and selected a hammer plus crow bar. “First Florence…now you. I can still walk across the shop thank god.”
Palmer waited while the older man used the hammer to drive the pry bar into a joint, pried a piece of wood free, and attacked the rest of the crate.
Finally, after a few more whacks with the hammer, the Mongo Iron was fully revealed. Palmer had seen the meteorite before of course. But he was still impressed by the rugged beauty of the object's surface and the nature of its origins.
There were bright spots where bullets had marred the meteorite's surface. But the rest of the exterior was stained with patches of rust and what meteorite hunters call “thumbprints.” Meaning thumb-sized depressions caused by the iron’s passage through the atmosphere. Earth rocks don’t have thumbprints—which was why experts like Palmer and Quinton were always on the lookout for them. Once the meteorite was sectioned it would be possible to see a dark layer of fusion crust, followed by a much lighter interior, and a crystalline latticework called Widmanstatten patterns after the 19th century scientist who documented the phenomena.
Quinton gave the meteorite a tap with his hammer. The iron made a high-pitched pinging sound like that produced by a tuning fork. Both men knew the sound confirmed that a crystalline structure lay within and grinned like happy school boys. Once the object had been sliced into sections and polished—diluted hydrochloric acid would be used to enhance the iron’s natural beauty. “She’s a beaut,” Quinton confirmed. “You done good.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Palmer replied. “When will you begin work?”
“Soon,” Quinton promised. “I’ll take a digital
snap shot and send you a jpeg file via email.”
“Great,” Palmer replied. “I’ll look forward to it. In the meantime I’m going to return to the hotel, grab another night’s sleep, and head out in the morning.”
They shook hands, Palmer said his good-byes to Luther and his mother, and was gone a few minutes later.
Once the red tail lights disappeared Quinton ordered Luther to place the iron on the cutting table. Quinton watched intently as his assistant maneuvered the forklift into position, lifted the meteorite off the steel table, and lowered it into a specially designed cradle. Once that was accomplished it was time to lift both the iron and the rack it was resting on back onto the table. Then it was a simple matter for Luther to park the forklift, roll the big saw into position, and lock the power tool in place.
“Okay,” Quinton said eagerly, “let’s see what we have here.”
Luther donned a pair of safety goggles, hit the “on” switch, and waited for the 1/3 HP motor to reach full speed. The radio was tuned to WKEY 93.5 FM which was Quinton’s favorite station. It wasn't long before the oldies were drowned out by the screech of the spark-throwing 14-inch carborundum tipped circular saw blade. But as a recirculating pump began to squirt coolant onto both sides of the blade, the noise level dropped back down.
***
As the first section of meteorite came off Quinton hurried forward to inspect it. The slice of rock felt warm and heavy for its size as he carried it over to the utility sink. Once it was in position under the faucet Quinton ran water over the specimen before lifting it up to his face. That was when he did something strange. Very strange. Or so it seemed to Luther, who could do little more than watch in wonder as his employer began to lick the water-slicked rock, as if it was the most delicious substance that he’d ever been exposed to.
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