How many more years until the virtual end to research? McCauley mused. Three? Five? That would put him at roughly the same age as the legendary competing paleontologists Edward Drinker Cope and Othniel Charles Marsh were more than one hundred fifty years ago. True colleagues at first, they named amphibian fossil findings after one another, Ptyonius marshii and Mosasaurus copeanus, respectively. However, their relationship fell apart when Cope rushed to publish his work on a new species shipped to his office from Kansas. He called the finding Elasmosaurus platyurus. In his haste, he accidentally or mistakenly reversed the position of the head to the tail of the vertebrae. Marsh identified Cope’s error and published a correction. This destroyed their relationship and created a scandal in the new field of paleontology that had only been so named decades earlier.
What would be McCauley’s bragging rights? As he peddled his exercise bicycle at Yale’s Payne Whitney Gym, he wondered if this year’s exploration would reinvigorate both his department’s support in him and his own belief in himself. And what about his legacy? Would he ever discover his own evolutionary branch that might add true knowledge to the genealogical tree?
Strictly out of frustration, McCauley stopped biking and leaned over the handle bars. He was beginning to think that just wasn’t going to happen. That paleontology was just getting old.
Gotta dig out of this hole, he thought.
Five
London
Two weeks later
Whoever was in charge of The Path had the responsibility to pass on the knowledge in the event of something unexpected. Martin Gruber had done so. Now, with the end in sight, he publicly announced his retirement as editor-in-chief of Voyages.
He told the staff that Colin Kavanaugh would soon be taking over as publisher. To Kavanaugh, the public statement meant he’d immediately assume more oversight of the magazine and undoubtedly be subject to Gruber’s lectures up to the bitter end.
“Colin, come in. Please, please, come in.”
It was time for another.
Kavanaugh had been called; no, summoned. He was called when Gruber needed a companion; he was summoned for everything else.
“Good day, Mr. Gruber.” Kavanaugh carried galleys under his arm. He placed them on the work table in the far end of Gruber’s office.
So much could be done electronically, but Gruber liked mulling over hard copy. That’ll change.
“Good day,” the old man said.
The nearly forty-year age difference always brought a profound level of formality. It seemed all the more appropriate in the eighteenth century building on Monocle Street, and all the more correct considering Gruber’s failing health.
“Good day, sir.”
Martin Gruber slowly stood and walked to the window. He looked down at the people three flights below. Little people who know little, he thought for a moment. He drew the heavy, red velvet curtains shut and returned to his austere seventeenth century oak desk.
“Soon this will be yours. Of course, assuming you still want it.”
“Without a question.”
“Without questioning,” Gruber corrected. It was one of his grammatical distinctions. One of many.
“Without questioning.”
“You’ll tell people this was a desk once used by Pope Clemente IX in the seventeenth century.”
“With pride.”
“They won’t care. But you, as successor must hold to convention. Trust me, the trappings keep you focused. Study everyone. Take interest in them. As Machiavelli warned, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’”
Kavanaugh frowned.
“Oh, I see I struck a nerve. Yes, you will have enemies. Some in your very midst. Others in the far corners of the world. And the irony of it all is they’ll never know they’ve become your enemy.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“All accomplished with utmost…” Gruber waited for the younger man to fill in the word.
“Secretum,” Kavanaugh replied thinking Here we go again. He ran his hand across his scalp, something he did when he was annoyed.
Martin Gruber pressed an app on his smartphone which activated a high frequency audio signal.
“Do you hear that? Of course you don’t,” Gruber continued. “I’ve been assured from the security experts you hired—yes, I speak with them, too—that the activated inaudible tone will defeat even the most sophisticated microphone plants and,” he laughed, “give any dogs in the neighborhood a terrible headache.”
Kavanaugh believed him. The octogenarian was always tinkering; working on making things more secure, more secretive.
“Now sit.”
Kavanaugh settled into the only chair facing the historic desk. Gruber cleared his throat, a signal that the rest would become very serious.
“We may only have a few more weeks, Colin.”
“Please, sir, don’t say that.”
“It is the truth. We work in truths. An old man forgets much of his yesterdays, but sees his tomorrows clearly. My vision is not blurred. You are there. I am not.”
“Yes, sir,” Kavanaugh said. He wished he had come up with a better, more thoughtful reply. But Gruber was looking tired. He studied his mentor. Thinner today than yesterday. Yes, soon.
Gruber inhaled fully. It seemed to energize him right before Kavanaugh’s eyes.
“Ah, but I have one more edition to put to bed.” Gruber was referring to the fall issue on the Caribbean. “Let’s get on with the work.”
• • •
New Haven, CT
McCauley grabbed an oven-roasted turkey hoagie from the Book Trader Cafe on the Yale University campus and brought it back to his office. He logged onto Pandora’s Frank Sinatra channel, always his default when he had important things on his mind. It relaxed him.
Where? Exactly where this year? he thought as he took a satisfying bite of his dinner. He studied a topographical map of Montana with three strategically placed push pins indicating the final areas he was considering. Beside each pin was a yellow sticky note with numbers 1, 2 and 3.
McCauley had put through the paperwork months ago for three potential sites; all offering interesting challenges for his students and the potential for a cool find or two. State park commissions had already given conditional approval for each location. But he still needed to complete the application process. They were due in Billings in just five days.
At the end of last summer, McCauley had flown over the area and found each attractive for different reasons. Site 1, Hell Creek, Montana, was noted for its mudstones and sandstones dating back to the end of the Cretaceous period, with fossils of triceratops, tyrannosaurus, and Ornithomimids. Interesting.
Site 2, further east, had real possibilities. It was just outside of Glendive, MT. Maybe, he said to himself.
Site 3 was north, part of a pre-historic riverbed and was certain to garner great finds just a few feet down. But he found that less challenging. No adventure. He figured there’d be initial excitement, then with the same results week after week—boredom.
McCauley finished chewing another bite, quickly catching a piece of turkey as it dropped out of the bun. He did it instinctively, like the first baseman he’d been in Little League, high school and college. He still had a quick hand and a great throwing arm.
He swallowed the last of his sandwich, studied the map again and pulled the pin and paper off Site 3. That makes it easier. Down to two.
The music on his computer segued from Sinatra to Dean Martin, Dean Martin to Matt Monro, a crooner considered the British Sinatra. The “From Russia to Love” theme broke his concentration.
“Pete!” he shouted. “Need a little help.”
DeMeo left his adjoining office and was at McCauley’s side in seconds.
“Ready.”
“I’m torn between Sites 1 and 2, but drawn more to 2. Give me arguments why we shouldn’t go there.”
“You want them right now?”
“Yes.”
“Si
te 1 is better. Earth that you can dig and geological footprints evident everywhere. Perfect grazing grounds. And that means perfect remains.”
“I know. But the strata at 2 appeals to me.”
“Harder. More challenges. Cliffs and valleys. You’ll need better equipment. More money.”
“Forget the money. If I made my decisions on money, I would have stuck with baseball. ”
DeMeo had heard the stories about the Red Sox looking at the young McCauley. They even made an offer his junior year at Harvard which he turned down.
“Let’s sleep on it for a few days. See what you can come up with.” After a pause he added, “And while you’re at it, find out why the Brits had this thing about Matt Monro.”
• • •
London
Kavanaugh was amazed at how quickly Gruber was able to shift gears. He would have to master the art as well.
“The St. Lucia photographs are exquisite,” he said leaning over Gruber’s computer screen. “They capture the beauty of the Grand Pitons.” Kavanaugh cycled through the pictures. “Check out this angle. It’s extraordinary.”
Gruber agreed.
“As I recall, you were there years ago.”
“Yes, my boy. It was your first year working directly with me and your calls to the Ladera Hotel were quite intolerable. Am I right?”
Kavanaugh had to laugh. “Of course you are. You didn’t get out much after that trip.”
“I suppose I became too accustomed to sleeping in my own bed. Unusual for a publisher of a travel magazine.” Gruber laughed. “But as you’ll see, there are so many other things that will require constant attention.”
Gruber recognized the real intent of Kavanaugh’s comment. “Ah, but I see you were trying to test me.”
“Sir?”
“My memory. You were testing my capacity. Did I remember the trip?”
“I don’t know…”
“Oh you were. And rightfully so. You’re beginning to understand that everything is a test. A test of knowledge. A test of resolve. Tests of commitment and faith. A test of your will.”
Kavanaugh stroked his hairless head again.
“But I digress,” he continued. “Show me more of the issue that will be dedicated to my memory.”
• • •
New Haven, CT
McCauley was reviewing his charts. They were anything but exotic, five-star vacation spots. These required the latest in rugged all-weather camping gear: everything from tents to sleeping bags, iridium satphones to walkie-talkies and the basics: backpacks, picks and shovels, bubble wrap, and plastic bags. A lot of plastic bags.
He made notes and then roughed out a draft of an email to his department chair; a formality which he hated.
Dear Dr. Cutler:
Thank you again for your support and the department’s underwriting for this summer’s field research. I would have written sooner, but I’ve been putting the final details together on our research expedition. To that point, I am still deciding between two locations in Montana’s dinosaur alley based on government satellite photographs and my staff’s research. I’ll let you know when I come to a final decision. It appears, although I can’t be certain, both sites have unique strata that could lead to new discoveries, potentially trapped within Mesozoic to Paleozoic Era layers. If so, we might see remarkable research coming from our work. Of course, I’ll file regular reports. Enjoy Nova Scotia. Respectfully, Quinn McCauley, PhD.
McCauley closed his eyes and shook his head. No. Too many mights, maybes, and coulds. Besides, he’ll never read anything I send from Montana. He hit delete.
• • •
London
“I must say, we put out a first-class publication,” Gruber admitted while reviewing another galley page.
“But, my boy, I think you should have more on Soufrière. After all, the volcanic activity is what people come to see when they’re not working on their tans. And considering the Petit and Gros Pitons are the remnants of three hundred thousand year old lava domes, give our readers a little more meat with their gravy. Always remember the senses. I can still smell the sulphur springs. I’ve never taken in a nastier whiff of anything, but it doesn’t stop tourists from going there. Find a literary way to work it in. ‘The anger of the earth,’” he suggested, “‘The heat burns all life at the root and the sickly grey tint rises and then disappears against the blue Caribbean sky, proving once again that beauty wins out.’ Something like that.”
Gruber’s prose impressed Kavanaugh. “Sir, if I live to be twice your age I wouldn’t have half your writing talent.”
Gruber waved off the compliment. “Thank you, but it’s wasted on the tourists. They scan the articles, book their trips and lather up with their lotions. During their fifteen minute bus stops, they run in and take cellphone pictures with that fake clicking sound. Like it’s a film camera. Ridiculous. No art to it. Then it’s back on the bus. That’s travel today. Not like when people really valued the experience.”
The conversation, like so many, turned into another diatribe. However, Kavanaugh believed that some of it blurred the lines between the publication of Voyages and the work of Autem Semita.
“Make sure features contains some subtle theological or historical subtext. Not too much to lose the casual reader; enough to satisfy subscribers interested in a few relevant facts. And why? Because that will keep you on the path. And that is why you are here.”
Gruber looked at the galley page again. “But back to the work at hand. The spread is wonderful,” Gruber said. “Beautiful pictures. The aerial shots are amazing. Step by step, we get closer to God.”
When he was satisfied that Kavanaugh was clear on all the editorial changes, he invited his associate to take one of the two Louis XIV chairs in his office seating area.
“No, not that one,” Gruber stated. “Try mine.”
“Oh, I can’t, sir.”
“It’s important for me to see how comfortable you are in it.”
“But Mr. Gruber.”
“Relax, but you’ll still have to listen to me.”
“I hope for a long time, sir.”
Gruber studied how Kavanaugh sat, how he held himself. He all but peered into his mind. There were more things he had to understand about his heir apparent in the time he had left.
“Time?” Gruber considered the word. “How would you describe time, young man?”
“Time. Time is how we measure our lives. It is the space we inhabit as we figure out the manner in which to fill it. We wear time. We breathe time. We run…” Kavanaugh paused, “we run out of it.”
“Insightful,” Gruber noted. “I prefer to consider Tennessee Williams’s view from The Glass Menagerie. ‘Time is the longest distance between two places.’”
Kavanaugh liked the quote. The longest distance between two places.
“And the job, no the duty you’re inheriting, is to maintain that critical distance between the two places that we guard. Then and now.”
Kavanaugh’s pulse quickened. He stroked his scalp again.
“You look anxious.”
“Do I? I’m sorry.”
“Be patient.” Gruber’s tone changed. “I’m not going to die on you today.”
“Sir, please accept my apologies if I…”
“Accepted. Now tell me what you know that is not between the covers of our next edition.”
“Not in the magazine?”
“What our other research tells us.”
“Thank you,” the younger man answered. “Well, the Soufrière cave was abandoned. A little more oil exploration off Grenada. And no one will be able to get back into the mountain in Barbados. So, nothing of any concern.”
Gruber’s tone abruptly changed. His old eyes bored down on Kavanaugh. “My dear friend,” he said without an ounce of warmth, “there is never nothing of concern. Never. How can we determine what has value if we don’t take everything seriously? We sailed on the Mayflower and survived the gulags. We explor
ed the Antarctic and traveled to the four corners of the globe. Our people have been to the moon, for God’s sake. We’re always concerned. How we act on that concern is the real issue.”
Gruber closed his eyes and lowered his head, a sign that more was coming.
“Satellite telephones. Computers. Even the blasted Internet that we pay hundreds of thousands of pounds to keep secure. Information, Mr. Kavanaugh. I demand information. You must as well. Do I have to live longer in order to train someone else?”
“No, sir.”
“Then get a full grasp of it, Mr. Kavanaugh, before it’s too late! Out, now. Out of my chair. You’re dismissed.”
As Kavanaugh left the office, he heard the unmistakable sound of a pill bottle being unscrewed. Martin Gruber was taking more medication. Kavanaugh smiled. The job would be his soon and these egotistical rants would be over.
Six
New Haven, CT
That night
There was no shortage of boxes, books and piles of paper for McCauley to wade through in his two bedroom apartment. That had to do with the fact that there no reason for McCauley to stay organized. Or more accurately, no one to stay organized for.
After stepping over his work on his way to his lonely bed, he closed his eyes and constructed the summer campsite in his mind. His tent would serve as home and office. Outside there’d be multiple areas to collect, sift, examine, and catalog the inevitable findings. As for sleeping quarters, two per tent: the two women in one, the men in the others. At any rate, it would start out that way. Likewise for the two showers provided by the park. The latrines would be downwind, though that was a bit of a misnomer. The Montana summer would be hot and dry, and with the exception of rolling thunderstorms, relatively windless.
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