Ejecta (11 page)

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 19
^th
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.

The better part of five long seconds passed as Quinton continued to lap at the slice of meteorite. Then, just as suddenly as he had begun, the ex-diplomat stopped. It was then that he threw his head back, uttered what could only be described as a heart rending howl, and began to sob. Luther rushed forward to comfort his employer, escorted him into the house, and helped his mother put Quinton to bed.

“What’s wrong with him?” Luther wanted to know, once the two of them were back in the living room.

“There’s a bug going around,” Florence replied vaguely. “Maybe that’s it.”

“Maybe,” Luther allowed, but the explanation brought small comfort.

***

South of Benson, Arizona

Having come south on Highway 90 out of Benson, then turning east onto the patch of barren land known as Deacon’s Battle, the red jeep threw a plume of dust into the air as it followed the old wagon road in the direction of Curtiss and Dragoon Mountains. Mount Glenn was the highest, at 7,519 feet, with China Peak a bit to the right, and Black Diamond Peak south of that. It was a clear winter day and all three were visible in the distance.

Palmer knew the road well, having driven it thousands of times, first with his parents, and later by himself. Gravel rattled inside the 4 X 4’s wheel wells as he steered the jeep around a pile of rounded boulders and through a mostly untouched area that was home to native saguaro cactus, prickly pear, cholla, and mesquite. The sort of area that Palmer and his father had explored many years before, back during what his mother referred to as one of his “dry spells,” meaning periods when her husband was sober.

As a geologist Palmer knew the area’s rocks and minerals even better than the sparse plant life that survived on it. Over the years he had collected hundreds of samples, including bits of Actinolite, Agate, Barite, Calcite, Copper, Dolmite, Garnet, Malachite, Pyrite, Quartz, Silver, Turquoise and many more. While in college he had even come across two fragments of what he believed to be the same meteorite—both of which were kept under lock and key in Tucson.

The big off-road tires bumped over the abandoned railroad line which ran northwest toward Tucson and hummed as he pushed the jeep across Beader’s Flat. A monstrosity that the locals called “the glass house” appeared off to the right. A group of hippies had used more than ten-thousand pieces of colored glass to decorate the free form structure back in the seventies. Then, after a falling out of some sort, most of them left in a modified school bus. One of the group, an older woman, still lived there. She was working in her garden and waved as Palmer drove past.

Then, as the jeep topped a rise, it was possible for the geologist to get his first glimpse of what his father had dubbed the “Circle C Ranch.” But in reality the property consisted of five bone dry acres which were home to the burnt out remains of what had been the family home, a stand-alone shed his mother had converted into a cottage, and the old Airstream trailer that Palmer lived in.

Seen from a distance however the parcel was little more than a grove of mature Willow trees that had been planted by his grandmother, and hand watered until their roots dug deep enough to draw sustenance from Arrowhead creek. Each tree was like an old friend. A companion under which a younger Palmer read countless books, fought imaginary battles, and took shelter from the sun.

And there, off to one side, stood the 1,000 gallon water tank his father had installed. Rusty now, but still serviceable, it sat high enough to feed the house which, like most of the good things in his life he had unintentionally destroyed.

The road dipped, the vision vanished, and Palmer was forced to brake and downshift prior to climbing the opposite slope. Miami’s airport had been jammed and flights had been delayed by a snow storm in Chicago. But thanks to a run of good luck Palmer landed in Tucson only two-hours later than originally scheduled. And knowing that the trailer would be cold, and the refrigerator was empty, he had stopped to buy groceries on the way home.

The jeep topped the next rise. Palmer was close now. Close enough to see the charred remains of the house in which his father had died, the sagging cottage that his mother had abandoned thereafter, and the brushed aluminum Airstream trailer.

There was something else too, the gleam of sunlight reflecting off chrome, indicating the presence of a visitor. Something, Palmer wasn’t sure what, caused him to think about pulling off the road and parking the jeep. Burglars were not unknown—and maybe he could catch one in the act. But it was too late for that given all the dust he had raised. Besides odds were that the visitor was a lost soul looking for directions.

So, half expecting to see a vehicle barrel past him, Palmer turned off the road and onto the U-shaped drive that fronted the trailer. A late model sedan was visible out front—as was a woman he had never seen before. She was sitting on the railing that ran along the front of the deck Palmer had constructed two years before.

The four-wheeler generated a small cloud of dust that drifted off towards the east as it came to a stop and Palmer got out. He saw that his visitor was pretty in an unaffected sort of way. She was dressed in a blue ball cap, Levi jacket, and jeans. Her lace-up boots were equipped with mesh uppers so that water could escape from them. Strange foot wear for Arizona.

Palmer rounded the back end of his vehicle, grabbed a bag of groceries off the passenger seat, and made his way toward the trailer. And it was then, as the woman’s aviator style sunglasses came off, that he saw her eyes. They were remarkably green. Something, Palmer wasn’t sure what, jumped the gap between them. The woman smiled. “Hello…. My name is Devlin. Sara Devlin. I’m looking for Jack Palmer’s son.”

Palmer nodded as he fumbled for a key. “That would be me…. What can I do for you?”

***

Devlin swung her boots up over the rail, put them down, and stood. There was something familiar about the person in the bomber jacket and khakis. Something that reminded Devlin of the man she had left down in Costa Rica. A surety, a quickness that she liked. But there was something else as well…. A barely contained tension that hinted at what? Carefully suppressed emotions? A capacity for violence? Whatever it was both attracted and frightened her. “It’s about your father,” Devlin replied awkwardly, “or more specifically a friend of his.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Palmer replied, as he slid the key into the lock. “My father was a drunk. And, like most drunks, he had a tendency to chase people away.”

“The man I’m interested in is Harvey S. Podry,” Devlin replied. “They served together in Vietnam.”

Palmer turned the key, felt the lock respond, and pushed the door open. “Harvey? Yeah, I remember him. He came to live with dad for awhile. They used to get drunk and tell each other war stories. What happened to the old bastard anyway? One day he was here—and the next day he wasn’t.”

***

Devlin was standing in the open doorway by then. Her long slim body was silhouetted against the sun splashed ground outside. It had been Palmer’s experience that most beautiful women were well aware of it. But not this one. There was something natural and unaffected about her. Something he liked. The eyes that met his were still vividly green—and extremely serious. “Mr. Podry exploded.”

Palmer set the groceries down on a small counter and frowned. “What is this? Some sort of sick joke?”

“No,” Devlin answered firmly. “It may be a lot of things—but it isn’t a joke. Do you have a computer? And Internet access?”

“Sure,” Palmer answered. “Right over there.”

Devlin glanced at the beat-up laptop that sat on the banquette style table opposite the tiny galley. “May I?”

Palmer shrugged. “Knock yourself out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get the rest of my groceries.”

By the time Palmer returned with the second bag of groceries Devlin had located the appropriate news article. She swiveled the laptop around so the screen would be visible. “Take a look at
that.
”

Palmer took a moment to put some perishable items in the tiny refrigerator before sliding onto the bench-style seat across from her. He pulled the machine in closer—and began to read. He looked up two-minutes later to find that the green eyes were waiting for him. “That’s amazing,” he said. “Harvey was a drunk, and something of a blowhard, but he sure as hell didn’t deserve that…. What caused his head to explode?”