Then he thought of something else.
“You think we can get a sample of it?” Ben asked.
Julie frowned. “Of the rash, or whatever it is? Why?”
“I might know someone who can help. I mean, I know you’ve probably got a whole lab up there and everything, but if this boss of yours gets involved…”
“No, you’re right. Livingston’s only going to slow things down. I’ll need to send him something anyway, so I’ll see if I can get a sample from the park sent over, and I’ll send part of it to the lab and the rest to your contact, if you trust him.”
“Her. And I do,” Ben said. “She’s not working under any sort of traditional structure, so it should be pretty quick. Maybe it’ll give you a head start.”
“Of course. Who is this person?” she asked.
“Like I said,” Ben responded, “just someone who might be able to help.”
Chapter Thirteen
The computer in front of her chirped, signaling a new email. Amid stacks of books, unfiled papers, and other detritus from weeks of research, the desktop computer was almost hidden from view. Dr. Diana Torres shuffled some of the papers around and found the computer mouse, shaking the screen awake from its screensaver, the never-ending flowing ribbons of color that had come preinstalled on the computer when she first started working here.
Dr. Torres’ job had only recently become official after months of contracting for the research firm. She enjoyed the work, mainly because she didn’t have to put up with any bureaucracy or any of the usual corporate nonsense that had driven her from her previous jobs. The research firm had been established over forty years ago and had constantly been in a stage of growth. Still, Dr. Torres had been a “key hire,” and was expected to take the firm to new levels in biological molecular research.
She navigated across the desktop and clicked on her email program — the only application that was constantly running on the machine. Never much of a computer person, Dr. Torres often called in her research assistant to finalize and prepare her reports electronically. He chided her for the irony of it — a woman whose career was spent creating computer models of molecules and microscopic organisms was afraid of computers. She never let it bother her; it was all in good fun. And regardless of her methods, unorthodox or not, the research firm knew she was one of the best in the business at what she did.
Dr. Torres double-clicked the email — no subject line — and began reading the body of the text. The email was short and to the point; just a request for help on a particular project. She brushed aside an old Wendy’s burger wrapper and a half-empty Diet Coke that was lying in front of her keyboard. She rolled her chair closer to the desk and clicked on the “reply” button. As her fingers hit the keys to type a standardized answer to the request, she caught a glimpse of the sender’s email address.
She blinked, doing a double-take, and read the email address again. She lifted her hands from the keyboard to think through her response. Dr. Torres reached over to the Diet Coke and brought it to her lips. She took a long, slow sip of the completely flat soda and read the email one more time.
> I need your help on this one. Sending sample soon. Came from Yellowstone explosion. Please rush, will call soon.
> Ben
Ben? she thought. She hadn’t heard from him in over ten years, but she knew he’d become a park ranger and had little to no access to the outside world most of the time. Still, she was stunned.
She removed her cell phone — a flip phone relic that she had used for years — from her pocket and began browsing through the contacts. Coming to his name, she hesitated over the dial button. She’d never actually used this number. She stared down at the phone for another few seconds and then slammed it shut.
Not now, she thought. Not yet.
Thoughts raced through her mind. Where was he? What was he doing? Why did he need her help, of all people?
She sat in the chair for another few minutes, silent and thinking. She didn’t move until her assistant came in.
“Dr. Torres?” The young man’s voice snapped her back to attention. She turned, trying to wipe the surprised expression from her eyes. She failed.
“Dr. Torres — are you okay?”
“I–I’m all right,” she said in return. “Just got another request. Something… I didn’t expect, but we’ll get going on it pretty soon.”
“Sounds good. I can prepare equipment and send word down to Vanessa that some samples will be arriving. Do you have a date?”
At first, Dr. Torres didn’t know how to respond. She stood up from her chair and walked toward the young man at the doorway. “Not sure, Charlie. Let’s get everything set up now just to be ready. It’s just going to be me and you on this one, understand?”
Charlie Furmann nodded without hesitation. The bulk of the company’s projects were government funded, but the employed scientists were free — encouraged, even — to pursue personal interests and research projects when time permitted. Some of these projects, Charlie knew, weren’t exactly public knowledge.
“I’ll get everything set up this afternoon. I’ll have Vanessa bring the package up personally when it arrives and leave it outside my office. The lab is open tomorrow night from about 8:30 until the next morning — shall I get it booked?”
“Yes, please. Thank you. I’m going to finish up in here and head home. Don’t worry about cleaning anything up; I’ll be back in bright and early.”
Charlie didn’t say anything else. He left the room, closing the door behind him. Dr. Torres turned back to her computer and sat down in the chair. The screensaver had already resumed, and she wiggled the mouse to wake it up.
She stared at the screen for another minute, reading the email over and over again.
Chapter Fourteen
It’ll be any minute now, Gareth Winslow thought. He’d called in, just the way he’d been instructed, over three hours ago, just after he’d finished reading out loud the small journal they’d found. Dr. Fischer was ecstatic, mostly because their findings would verify and support his tenure.
He couldn’t believe it himself, really. Some weird powdery substance that killed people? It was pretty exciting. But what was it? Gareth knew that was the ultimate question, but there was no way Dr. Fischer was letting any of them near the cave and the rest of the unopened baskets. It was way too risky, and besides, they didn’t have the equipment to start a field analysis of whatever might be inside.
Still, Gareth knew everyone was curious. Beyond curious, actually. Dinner was campfire-cooked foil packets filled with vegetables, and the conversation surrounding the bonfire in the middle of camp related to two topics: What was the powdery substance made out of and who put it there?
Theories were that it was the dried remains of some mysterious plant that the native tribes in the area held as sacred, or at least viewed as medicinal. Either that or it was some extravagant conspiracy against the Russians from a Romanov-era traitor or enemy. Even Dr. Fischer, clearly playing along, threw in a far-fetched story of alien invaders using a cosmic element to start their takeover of the human race.
Gareth listened intently, as curious as everyone else, but he didn’t contribute to the building exuberance of the conspiracy theorists. He wasn’t sure what was in the baskets, but he knew it didn’t matter.
Only a matter of time, he told himself again. They should be here by now.