Ejecta (10 page)

As with any such facility, Devlin knew that the lab must have other employees. But while the fire department continued to put water on the flames Devlin felt a sudden queasiness in the pit of her stomach. Had Dr. Yano been inside? Along with Charles? She made numerous phone calls in an attempt to find out. But the authorities weren’t sure if people had been in the building when the fire started and wouldn’t be certain for hours yet.

Finally, having nothing else to do, Devlin went to work trying to trace Harvey S. Podry. A potentially time consuming task but one that ultimately proved to be less daunting than expected. Because even though he'd been homeless during his final years, Podry had been in contact with his Vietnam war buddies from time-to-time, and Devlin found information about the vet on no less than three different websites. And in one entry Podry provided an address where old friends could contact him: “…Care of Lieutenant Jack Palmer, 75
^th
Ranger Regiment, who agreed to put me up for awhile, till I get back on my feet.”

When Devlin googled Jack Palmer she learned that the ex-Ranger had been awarded the Silver Star in conjunction with a long range patrol in Tinh Phoc Province. Later, after receiving an honorable discharge, Palmer had been a mid-level safety manager for the Arizona Department of Transportation.

Then, according to an obit published in the
San Pedro Valley News-Sun
, Palmer had lost his life to a house fire. The article said that the elder Palmer was survived by a wife and a son named Alex. Who, according to the newspaper, had completed two tours in Afghanistan.

But of more interest, to Devlin at any rate, was Jack Palmer’s hobby. According to the article, the ex-Ranger owned an extensive collection of meteorites. Which, if her hypothesis was true, could have carried the microscopic form of the parasite to Earth. Plus, if Podry spent time with Jack Palmer, that would explain how the infection took place.

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.

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.”

Quinton 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?”