Chapter 29

Special Agent Hank Jacoby studied the detective report sent over by the SF Police Department. After scanning the pages, he glanced out the window onto the wind-swept streets below the FBI offices and wondered if rain was imminent. He took a large gulp of cold coffee and returned to the report.

A woman in eastern Chinatown had been brutally murdered while she was out walking her dog. According to the medical examiner, the woman’s face was torn completely away. No, the examiner said, more like it was chewed or gnawed away. One could easily mistake the wound as being the result of a vicious animal attack, if it were not for a witness who saw the perp run from the scene. It was dark, the man did not observe the attack, but he noticed an upright figure running, more like scampering, from the spot where the woman was attacked. The man was horrified by what he encountered and called the police.

The police report went on to mention that when the witness, an elderly man out walking his dog, arrived at the woman’s side, the perp was long gone, having disappeared into a dark alleyway. The man was unable to give a clear description of the assailant, except for the fact that the man was stooped over with his arms almost touching the ground. It was dark, so he couldn’t see more.

Jacoby lit the end of a short cigar, pushed the intercom on his desk, and asked Sam Prescott to come in. When the agent was ensconced in a chair, Jacoby tossed the police file toward him and puffed the cigar while the man read. Finished, Sam laid the report back on Jacoby’s desk.

“What do you think, Sam,” Jacoby said, snubbing the cigar in an ashtray.

“Another Chinatown murder,” Prescott said. “Why do you have the file? It’s a police case.”

“The bizarre nature of the crime, I guess. Face ripped off, shredded I’d say. Unlike anything seen recently.”

“Looks more like an animal did it,” Prescott said. “Those photographs are pretty grisly. What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. We have this Harbaum case we need to close as soon as possible. Anything new?”

Jacoby picked up the cigar, twirled it in his hands, looked at it for a moment, then tossed it back into the ashtray, making a face. Prescott smiled.

“Hank,” he said, chuckling, “why do you continue smoking those things? You know the doc told you to quit. They’re gonna kill you one of these days.”

Jacoby shook his head.

“Hell if I know, Sam. It’s a nasty habit. Don’t you ever start.”

“Trust me, boss, I won’t. Just the smell is enough to drive me away. And you stick the thing in your mouth.”

The two men laughed, and Jacoby nodded.

“You’re right, as always,” he said. “When is Lenny returning from the girl’s parents? I want to talk to him as soon as he gets back.”

“He’s on a return flight as we speak. Should be landing at International in about an hour. I’m going to pick him up.”

“You two come directly here,” Jacoby said. “He can fill me in then.”

***

Roku woke with a start. Darkness enveloped him like the comforting blanket Mother placed around him when she went to bed. Where was he? He had no idea and couldn’t remember how he had come to this place. Where was Mother? He was hungry.

Sitting upright, he realized he was at the bottom of a crevasse located deep within a dense copse of trees and brush. How had he arrived here? He couldn’t remember.

Roku heard a soft noise in the underbrush and scanned the area, his red eyes narrowed, his large ears alert. In the dark beyond, there was a small animal moving quietly, but Roku didn’t know what it was. Mother hadn’t taught him the word. He watched, transfixed by the animal’s presence, as it skulked its way past. Something deep within his marrow urged him to pounce on the small critter and devour it, but he hesitated--Mother would find him soon and feed him.

He was thirsty. He knew that word, and he knew he needed to find water. Mother got it for him out of something called a faucet, but there was no faucet nearby. He could see that. He pushed his bulky frame to his feet and lumbered out of the gully, slashing his way through the forest of vines and shrubs. The only sounds he heard now were the tree frogs and crickets.

It was starting to get light, which made it easier for Roku to find his way. The dim outline of a path came into sharp relief, so he scooted along it hoping to find water. A shallow depression alongside the path had water in it, and he drank. It didn’t taste like the water Mother gave him. Where was she? Why hadn’t she come to get him?

He continued to stumble over the path. Suddenly, a car horn honked and he jumped. He was at the edge of the forest and cars were going every which way. One almost ran him down, its driver shouting words Roku didn’t understand. He jumped back into the safety of the trees, his heart pounding.

Roku scurried back into the forest, deeper into the dim world of trees and brush. He fought his way through tangles and briars, thorns tearing at his flesh, snagging his short, fine fur. Frustration mounted in his brain, part human, and part animal. The emotion he didn’t understand, but some force drove him to seek safety. He was operating at some primal level, a level he sought to understand, but Mother never could explain.

He was tormented by a single question--who or what was he? His thought processes were far advanced of his ability to communicate them, and it made him angry. It was obvious he was different from Mother and others like her. Adding to his frustration was the fact that he had never seen another like himself. Not one. He knew he was different but why? He pleaded with Mother for answers, but none were ever forthcoming. Why? Was he so different that it defied explanation?

He knew the answer. Of course, he was.

Mother spoke strange words that came out of her mouth. He was only able to grunt and growl. Why couldn’t he make sounds and words like Mother? He even looked different. His head was huge while his eyes were red, not green like hers. His skin had longer hair, his ears were much larger, and his nose protruded much more than hers. And his arms were much longer.

Roku stumbled onto an opening and, upon further investigation, found it was a concrete portal that led underground. Covered by thick brush it had almost gone unnoticed. But a shaft of sunlight glinted off its surface and attracted his attention. Pushing the limbs of a shrub aside, Roku gazed into the dark beyond. It appeared to be a long tunnel. He ducked his head, lumbered a few meters into the shaft, stopped, and listened. Nothing, no sounds. All was quiet.

Roku sat and thought.

Where was he?

He was confused.

And angry.

***

Dixie was worried about her husband. It had been several days since Harry talked with Dr. Brock with the Institute of American Antiquities and still no word on the job offer from them. Dr. Brock had told Harry the vetting process would take several days, but he had not called with an offer. What was taking them so long? Harry became sullen and morose, retreating to the study to read or listen to music. Dixie humored him the best she could, saying everything would work out, that the IAA was just being slow, and that sooner or later he would get the call he wanted. But he just looked at her with a doleful expression and nodded.

She fixed a sandwich and a glass of milk and took it into him. He sat in his chair, the one that belonged to the Professor, staring out the window. As she entered, he turned around.

“Here, honey,” she said, smiling, “I brought you a snack. I thought you might be hungry.”

Harry didn’t return her smile. She set the tray on the desk and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t be so depressed, sweetheart,” she said. “I know everything will work out for the best.”

“Yeah?” Harry said, looking back out the window. “What makes you so sure?”

Dixie’s heart sank. Why had he lost the faith he had only a few days earlier? She hated to see him like this. Harry, for all the years she’d known him, always possessed a survivalist attitude about his work. When Professor Kesler died unexpectedly, Harry took the reins of the department and continued in the man’s tradition. And with excellence, she might add. When Dr. Wickingham threatened to cause trouble with the university over Harry’s past mistakes, he didn’t fold up and become depressed. She couldn’t explain it.

“I just have faith, that’s all,” she said.

Harry turned back to face her and said in a very low tone, “Faith doesn’t put food on the table.”

His demeanor shocked her. How could she console him? She put her arms around his shoulders and kissed the back of his neck. She felt him stiffen and tears welled in her eyes.

“Harry, you can’t be like this,” she said. “You are stronger than this. The man I married can conquer anything. And has. We have each other, and we will face this together. If it get’s too much, I can always go back to Cal Pacific. I’m sure Dr. Pauling would take me back. Eating a little crow wouldn’t bother me.”

“But it would me,” Harry said, still gazing out the window.

“Oh, hogwash. You can get unemployment for a while, and I can go back to the university. We can make out till you find something. We’ll just eat beans more often.” She laughed at that remark. “Come on, honey. Cheer up.”

Harry turned back to her and shook his head. “Just leave me alone right now, Dixie. I want to be alone.”

She left him in the study and returned to the kitchen, where she sat and sipped her coffee. Harry’s mood unnerved her, and she couldn’t fathom the reason. Could it be the fact that he was now unemployed? Millions of people went through unemployment all the time. Or could it go deeper, something she hadn’t thought much about? Something professional people had? A tremendous amount of pride. Harry had accomplished a lot in his short career, had risen to a height few men of his age were able to. Along with that, came an ego, and Harry certainly had one. But maybe it was even deeper than all that.

Being a paleoanthropologist was who he was. It wasn’t just a job with Harry. It wasn’t something he did for fun. It was who he was as a person. She knew it gave him a tremendous sense of self-worth. To be summarily dismissed for things beyond his control was not only premature but also grossly unfair.

Dixie wondered how long she should allow him to remain alone with his thoughts. She feared the longer he stewed over his dismissal and inability to find another position, the deeper into depression he might sink. She decided she would take him on a drive to the San Bruno Mountain State Park for a picnic dinner where they would stare at the bay while the sun set. She put together cold chicken, pate, smoked oysters, and wine and packed it all in a basket. When she was ready, she returned to the study, sat in Harry’s lap, and demanded he go with her.

He smiled and followed her to the car.