The Night Visitor (14 page)

Dr. Silver shut down the computer and unplugged the modem from the telephone line. He dialed his daughter's cabin.

Delia picked up on the second ring. “Yes?”

“It's me.”

“Daddy?”

“Delia… something astonishing has happened.” He proceeded to tell her about the dating.

There was dead silence on the line.

“Delia, are you there?”

“Yes. Daddy, there must be some mistake… the fossil remains simply can't be that old in a human kill site.” Or maybe the “butcher marks” weren't made by early humans. Perhaps some large carnivore had gnawed on the femur. But she didn't dare raise this possibility. It would break his heart.

He was calm now. “We'll have to submit more samples, of course. And have them dated at different labs. But I know Dr. Weber. She simply does not make mistakes.”

“But if it's true …”

“If the dates hold—and the marks are indeed butcher marks,” he said soberly, “we'll be rewriting the history of early humans in the Americas.” He paused to think about his next step. “Delia… we'll have to halt all work on the site. And bring in someone to corroborate our findings.”

She tapped her fingers nervously on the telephone receiver. “If you're going to do that, you might as well bring in the strongest skeptics in the field. Someone influential.”

“Yes,” he said. “That's just what we'll do.”

“That would be Cordell York. And Professor Newton.”

“Bob Newton,” he said thoughtfully, “is the best butcher-mark man in the business. But Cordell York is such an arrogant ass.” It was galling to him that his life's profession was merely a delightful hobby to York. But there was more that he would not admit to. That the accursed amateur was a supernova… and himself such a minor light. Moses—who was normally a fair-minded man—preferred to believe that York's road to success had been paved with family money and influence. “And he's not really one of us, Delia. The man only
plays
at paleontology.”

“That's beside the point,” she said. “Cordell York is a world-class expert on ice-age kill sites.”

Her father snorted. “He
thinks
he is.”

“Daddy, he's very influential. If you can't convince him… well …” She heard her father's groan quite clearly, and knew what was running through his mind. Cordell York was arrogant. And opinionated. But worst of all—from her father's perspective—York was not a trained paleontologist. He was a graduate of Harvard Medical School; an eminent orthopedic surgeon. York had wormed his way into the community of paleontologists by his brilliant insights. And by generous grants to struggling investigators and several cash-pressed museums. For the past decade, Cordell York had been senior editor of a very influential scientific journal. Primarily because he was an outsider, the surgeon was not well-liked by the older generation of paleontologists. But York was respected. And feared. And that combination could be an enormous advantage to her father. But only if Bob Newton verified that the marks on the bone were made by a flint implement. And if Cordell York decided to support that position. The latter was an especially big if.

He'd been silent for a long time. “Daddy… are you there?”

He grunted. “I don't know, Delia. York will treat our dig as a big joke. And I can't imagine Bob Newton coming to an unorthodox conclusion about what clearly appears to be butchering marks on a thirty-one-thousand-year-old mammoth
fossil. He'll take the easy way out and conclude that the incisions were made by nonhuman predators.”

Delia looked through the darkened window toward her father's cabin, and imagined his anxiety. “I know it's risky. But if we could get both of them on our side …”

“Okay,” Moses said with weary resignation. “We'll invite York and Newton out to have a gander at what we've found.” He said his good night and replaced the telephone in its cradle. Until the dating had been reported, this had been such a fantastic dig. Now Cordell York would be examining every minute detail, criticizing every procedure, questioning every conclusion.
Looking down his nose at me like I was some kind of incompetent amateur.
“Damn,” he said. For Moses Silver, this was a heavy oath.

Moses arranged a conference call to Cordell York and Robert Newton. After the usual greetings, his comments were intentionally terse. “Delia and I have been unearthing mammoth remains in southern Colorado. It appears to be a human kill site.” He accepted the expected congratulations and took a deep breath. “Thing is, there are some… ahhh… rather unusual features. All work has been halted, pending consultations with colleagues. We'd certainly appreciate it if you fellows would come out and give us the benefit of your expertise.”

This cryptic comment produced the expected questions.

Moses Silver stubbornly refused to elaborate. “These are not matters to be discussed over the telephone. You'll have to see for yourself.”

Such a mysterious invitation could hardly be refused. Robert Newton and Cordell York immediately accepted.

It was a mere three days later when the visiting experts were scheduled to arrive. Delia had driven the Land Rover to the busy airport in Colorado Springs. Now, they waited at the appointed gate. She sensed her father's tension and nudged him. “Now remember, Daddy… be nice to them. Try not to get excited.”

Moses nervously popped his knuckles. “Bob Newton's all
right, except he can't make up his mind about what color socks to put on in the morning. Cordell York is a horse of a different stripe. In fact, he can be a real horse's ass,” Moses grumped.

“I know, but he's very important. That's why you invited him,” she reminded her father, “not because you like his personality.” Delia did not mention Cordell York was also very good-looking. And wealthy. And unmarried.

“York's not really one of us,” her father continued.

She knew. “Hush, Daddy—there they are.” Delia waved.

And then they were face-to-face with the two Wise Men from the East.

Professor Robert Newton was a small, elderly man, dressed in mismatched clothes that hung on him like castoff rags on a comic scarecrow. He carried his years as if they were heavy. Newton also carried a brass-headed cane, and not as an ornament. He leaned on it. The scientist's mild expression was one of continual apology, as if to beg excuse for the affront of his existence among more attractive folk.

When the meek inherit the earth, Moses thought, Robert Newton will likely end up with all of Massachusetts. And Rhode Island thrown in.

Dr. Cordell York was, so it seemed, everything that Newton was not. Well over six feet, well under fifty years. Immaculate two-thousand-dollar suit, two-hundred-dollar silk tie, custom-made shoes. This man had never apologized for any wrong done—it simply would not have occurred to him that he could be guilty of any error.

Men considered him outrageously arrogant.

Women thought him outrageously handsome. And dangerous, which is a far greater attraction. The physician's flashing smile exposed rows of perfectly shaped teeth. A fine specimen of the well-bred shark.

It seemed to be going reasonably well. Delia and her father met the visitors with smiles, exchanged vigorous handshakes, and made the usual perfunctory questions about the flight.

“It has been pleasant enough,” Newton said thoughtfully. “One is happy to be on the ground, however.”

“We're very pleased and gratified that you could both come
on such short notice,” Moses Silver said, and meant it. Newton was the scholar-priest who could verify the butcher marks on the mammoth bone. York was the exalted bishop who—if he was so inclined—had the authority to bless Newton's decision.

“Yes,” Delia added with a shy look at the tall surgeon. “It's very kind of you to come all the way to Colorado.”

Dr. York flashed a half-mocking smile at the young woman. “Well, how could we miss such a remarkable opportunity? Back East, we Philistines understand Moses has parted the waters once more. Claims he's found a human kill site from an age where humans n'er trod.” He laughed in genuine amusement. “Now that's quite some miracle. What's next, pray tell?”

Moses and his daughter were not greatly surprised that York had managed to learn about the very early date for the fossils. The laboratory where the workup had been done was not five miles from his home in Cambridge.

Moses—who had prepared himself for this moment—was outwardly quite calm. “Doc …” York detested being addressed by this nickname. “I suggest that you wait until you examine the evidence before jumping to conclusions.” That was, after all, what good science was about. Not that you'd expect a damned scalpel-wielder to know much of anything about science.

Dr. York, who was actually a gifted scientist, was somewhat taken aback by this mild upbraiding. And surprised by this old man's spirit. Perhaps Moses really
had
unearthed something worth examining.

Professor Newton, embarrassed at his colleague's typical rudeness, attempted to defuse the situation. “Moses, Delia… it was very thoughtful of you—driving all the way here to meet our plane. One is quite grateful for such kind attentions.”

Moses beamed on the kind little man. “Don't mention it, Robert. I thought it'd be nice to provide you with a ride to the ranch.”

Cordell York, who was determined to have some fun with his hosts, remembered Moses' eccentric affection for his old box of bolts. He looked doubtfully down his nose at his elder
colleague. “You still driving that dreadful old Land Rover? The one with no springs?”

It was the wrong button to push. Moses felt his face flush. “The Land Rover,” he growled, “is the world's finest, most reliable automobile.”

Dr. York laughed. “Oh, most certainly. Just the thing for exploring the remote savannas of Africa. Or the Aussie outback. But when I ride on the Interstate, I prefer some modest level of comfort.”

Professor Newton attempted to intervene. “Moses has come a long way to meet us. I'm sure we'll be quite comfortable in his automobile, and besides we have much to discuss.” He turned to Moses. “One simply can't wait to hear the details of your findings. You must be quite excited to—”

“Nonsense,” York said. “I'll rent a car. Bob, can you read a road map?”

“As you wish,” Moses Silver said. He turned to the tall, muscular man and made a mocking bow. “We are completely at your service. Would you like for me to carry your luggage?”

Dr. York, who was at his best when crossing swords with angry men, pretended to miss the sarcasm. “Well, if it would please you… why not? You may pick them up at the carousel. I'll be at the Avis counter.” He offered his luggage tickets to Moses, who could do nothing but accept them. And stomp off in a barely smothered rage.

York winked at Delia. “Your old man's
such
fun.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “My dear, you are prettier every time I see you.”

He was, she admitted to herself, a bastard who was making sport of her father. But he was a first-class bastard. And Cordell York was funny. It wouldn't do for her furious father to see the smile on her face, but Delia couldn't quite wipe it off. So she walked along between York and Newton. And made small talk with the visiting firemen.

It was the eleventh hour.

Horace Flye, at Delia's request, had returned from his
trailer to set up additional lighting around the critical area of the excavation.

Nathan McFain was there, hugging a heavy red mackinaw around his torso, nervously chewing a jawful of Kentucky Black Leaf tobacco.

The four scientists were sitting around the card table. The visitors had been examining the most recent dating reports. The silence was heavy, pregnant with prospect.

Dr. York, now in his element, had given up his taunts. He had resigned himself—or so it seemed to all present—to be on his best behavior.

This was serious stuff. York pushed aside the dating reports. “It seems quite apparent, Moses, that there can be no question about the age of the fossil bones. Experts from three reputable laboratories agree within a few hundred years. Your mammoth quite definitely expired in excess of thirty thousand years ago.”

Moses nodded. He'd not expected anyone to question the age of the bones.

Horace Flye and Nathan McFain watched. And listened.

Delia turned her face to the expert on butchering marks. “Professor Newton, would you like to examine the specimen?”

There was a brief silence. Robert Newton knew that Moses and Delia Silver would want to have their view confirmed: that the marks were made by a hungry human with flint knife. On the other hand, Cordell York would expect to hear that the incisions were made by a predator gnawing on the femur. Either way, he would lose. Disappoint a kindly, hopeful man who wanted a human kill site of unprecedented age. Or irritate a powerful man who would not be willing to accept a finding that challenged orthodox thinking. But, he reminded himself severely, that was not really the issue. In science, truth was the issue. Let the chips fall where they may. But he was so very tired.

“Well,” Newton finally said, “it has been quite a long day. One does get rather exhausted… Perhaps we should wait until morning.”

Three pairs of eyes glared at him.

“But, if you like, I suppose one could have a… umm… preliminary look.”

Horace—at a nod from Delia—removed a dusty cotton sheet from the pelvis of the beast. And exposed the femur. The fossilized bone was thicker than the heavy end of a softball bat. And just over four feet long.

Moses Silver was deathly pale; he clasped his hands behind his back. To conceal the fact that they trembled.

The young archaeologist patted her father reassuringly on the back.

Horace Flye began to switch on the floodlights over the excavation. Soon, it was brighter than noonday.