Chaney looked again at the photo of the excavation. It was still clear and had lost little detail over the years. Then he glanced at the reconstructed model of the creature and back at the skeleton as it lay in the ground. Back and forth, he studied the two photos a long time. He couldn't find a photograph of the second skeleton that had been uncovered with the tiger-like beast.
"This thing was found beneath the body of a man?" he asked aloud. "What does that mean?"
He listened to the steady drone of traffic outside the town house, kept staring at the pictures, perused them all, read the article again. His mind kept coming back to the second skeleton, which wasn't mentioned anywhere but the caption. And then something caught his eye.
The skull.
Chaney turned the magazine in his hands, as if he could get a better angle. He couldn't. He moved it directly beneath the light, angling it so there wasn't any glare, and lowered his face only inches from the page. And he noticed something intriguing.
The entire skeleton of the Homotherium, almost complete and undisturbed, was intact. Only two ribs had been broken by the pressures of the glacier. But the skull had a deformed, strange indentation to it, and splintered cracks trailed down the temporal regions as if the head had exploded from the inside. It wasn't the kind of damage that would have been caused by crushing, Chaney knew enough about pathology to determine that.
No, this was different, as if the top of the creature's skull had been struck with a sledgehammer. Although the angle of the photo wasn't perfect for analysis, it appeared that there was a fist-sized hole in the crest of the skull.
He slowly closed the magazine, vaguely disturbed, and placed it back on the shelf. He knew he would find nothing more, and moved slowly for the door. A quick look confirmed a mostly empty street. He set the knob so he wouldn't have to risk another moment resetting the deadbolt, then went outside. He was down the steps and moving in five seconds, just another person out for the evening.
It was a mystery to him, this beast and whatever had so ferociously crushed its skull. And why Hamilton had, of all his periodicals, marked that particular one. Or kept it since 1975.
But a mystery was better than nothing at all.
Remaining carefully aware of everything around him, Chaney stepped cautiously outside.
With Wilkenson guiding them via radio, the Blackhawk finally swept in over the trees slightly after dusk. Hunter had built a huge bonfire, burning logs to light up a space the size of an amphitheater, and the four-rotor chopper had no trouble landing.
Hunter turned away, watching the trail behind them as the professor was carefully loaded onto the chopper. Then Takakura was bellowing at him.
"Hunter! We go! We go! Come on!"
Hunter turned and loped toward the rest who were gathered at one of the open doors. As he reached it he grabbed Bobbi Jo's shoulder and pushed her ahead. Ghost was at his side as he leaped into the bay and one of the crew gave thumbs-up to the pilot.
They rose above trees, shifting slightly as they entered blue sky and stars and black claimed the trees beneath. As they reached altitude, Hunter released a breath but revealed no physical sign of relief as they gained speed, angling higher and higher, heading south.
One of the crew, obviously a trained medic, was administering an IV to the professor, injecting something into the tube. Hunter watched for a moment and then nodded, bowing his head. Then he reached out to ruffle Ghost's mane. But the black wolf only looked tiredly at him, and Hunter knew that Ghost, like all of them, needed food and rest.
As they left the valley behind, Hunter gazed back somberly. Still, he could not believe it: It had spoke to him…
It had spoke to him…
Chapter 15
Chaney had parked his car a few blocks away, near a corner. As he walked toward it, he kept wondering what in the hell that article had to do with anything. He knew it was important but it didn't make any sense. Whatever beast was captured in those pictures was long dead. But clearly it meant something to the good doctor. Maybe it would mean something to Gina.
A couple, arm in arm, passed him.
Chaney nodded, hands in pockets, and continued strolling. He passed a group of older guys playing basketball, engaged in trash talk. He laughed, remembering the days.
The city was slowly coming alive with those who tended to wake up at night, like vampires. Already, in the few minutes he'd been walking, it had grown more congested. Not bustling by any means, but not as dead as it had been in late afternoon.
Two guys off to the side were doing what appeared to be a drug deal. Chaney glanced at them, grunted, let it go.
The pieces were beginning to fit together — the creature, the killing team, the betrayal. The one thing that didn't fit was the death of Rebecca Tanus. She had discovered something important about this creature's genetic structure. But what would be so important about DNA that it would justify murder? He just couldn't understand a professional hit that—
Shadow—
Something happening—
React!
Chaney went for his gun without seeing an enemy and sensed what was coming a second before it hit. He knew what it was by feel, by the glimpse of gray and steel beyond his head. A pipe. He went down — arm dead — and they were on him but his arm wouldn't work and the Sig .45—a black matte weapon useless on cement — was at his feet as he rolled to avoid a second blow.
The pipe, crashing down beside his ear in the hands of a huge black man, sent fragments of cement across his face and Chaney kicked up, trying for the groin. But the man was an experienced fighter and blocked the kick with his thigh as the second man swung another pipe, glancing the steel off Chaney's cheek before it crashed across his chest, doubling him in breathless shock.
For a moment Chaney knew nothing, no breath, not even pain, though he knew he was hurt bad, and then the bigger one grabbed his shirt, Lifting him half from the ground as he stretched his arm back, pipe tight in a square fist.
Chaney didn't have time to be afraid of the glaring eyes and the rage. At the moment the swing began he withdrew the concealed .38 from his ankle and, like a boxer throwing an uppercut, brought it up under the man's chin and fired. At the shot the second man jumped back and Chaney swung fast, still breathless, targeting. The attacker leaped and ran.
"Don't!" Chaney shouted.
The man ran faster and Chaney took careful aim with the last of his control, pulled the trigger. It hit dead-center in the spine and for a suspended slow-motion moment the man was bowed in the air, arms outstretched to nothing before he landed on his feet, took another step, staggering, and fell to the sidewalk facedown.
For a second Chaney lay back, pulling, pulling for breath, and finally caught one, paying for it with a sharp pain in his ribs. Struggling, he rolled to his side, then crawled to his knees, breathing slowly, painfully, trying to concentrate.
He crept over the dead black man and reclaimed his Sig, put it back in his hip holster. But he held the revolver as he rose — he didn't know why — and walked to his car. He didn't notice that the basketball court was empty or that the streets had suddenly become deserted as he fired the engine and pulled away.