2

I’m in the office late the next morning, thanks to a Hemp for Humanity rally in front of the monolithic Federal Building, which towers over Wilshire Boulevard down near UCLA. Traffic was backed up for a mile in all directions, which isn’t so odd for Los Angeles, but because the air conditioning in my car isn’t up to snuff, I had to keep the windows rolled down for fresh air, and the incessant folk music and strong scent of extralegal substances blasting out from the rally quickly threw me into a particularly foul mood.

Ernie’s not in; the blanket has been folded up and put away, I see, and the couch has been fluffed and primped back to proper buoyancy. It’s been at least six months that Ernie’s been sleeping in the office, and I don’t bother him about it anymore. If the crumpled ambiance of his new bachelor pad in Hollywood doesn’t allow him to get in a good night’s sleep, who am I to tell the guy any different?

A note on my desk, large but neat letters drawn across an entire sheet of yellow legal paper. dentist appointment reads the letter, and I don’t think he went to Minsky’s for that checkup they discussed. More likely, he’s checking out our client’s office, maybe his home, maybe the love nest where Minsky and his teenaged Allosaur shacked up. Take him at least an hour, maybe more. This should give me time to straighten out the burgeoning pile of paperwork that’s threatening to throw off a seismic tremor and completely bury my desk beneath an avalanche of demand letters and eyewitness accounts.

A knock at the partially open door, and I turn to see a familiar face—recently familiar, in fact—peeking in from the hallway. “Is . . . is Ernie here?”

Warm oatmeal and lilac flood the room, and instinct takes over as my mind stages a temporary strike. I find myself shaking my head, sitting my rump down on the edge of the desk. My arms fold across my chest of their own accord. “He’s out.”

“Oh. It’s good to see you, Vincent.” She steps inside, knockoff Chanel handbag slung across one shoulder. Wrinkles still missing where wrinkles should be.

“It’s good to see you, too, Louise.” We trade strained grins. “How’s the new husband? Terrence, right?”

“Terrell.”

“Sorry. Terrell. He’s well?”

“Under the circumstances, yes. He’s got some respiratory problems.”

“T-Rexes often do.”

“Yes,” she says. “We do.”

Silence for a moment, as I try to figure out if we’re breaking any specific code of conduct, veering off on any moral tangent, simply by being in the same room together without Ernie present.

Louise speaks first. “We’re not—I mean, you’re not . . .”

“Mad at you?”

“Mad at me. Yes. You’re not—”

“No. No, of course not.” I grin, in order to prove my sincerity. At least, I hope it comes across as sincerity.

“Thank you. I’d understand if you wanted to . . .”

“I don’t. It’s between you and . . . I mean, you divorced Ernie, not me. I’m not involved.”

Louise seems to accept this, and takes my lack of ire as a cue to step farther into the office. I extend a hand toward the couch and she takes a seat. A moment later, she wiggles her bottom, reaching under her rump as if to scratch in a decidedly unfeminine fashion. Her hand comes up with a dark night mask.

“This looks like Ernie’s,” she says.

“Looks like it.”

“Does he—is this where he’s sleeping?”

“Once or twice a month,” I lie. “On late nights.”

This could go on forever. Louise could sit on that couch and I could perch on the edge of my desk and we could talk about Ernie—rather, we could not talk about Ernie—for days, exercising whatever part of our brains that specialize in strained cocktail-party chatter, but I have a quick breakfast and the aforementioned paperwork to get to, so I come out with the standard question that always gets the clients moving in or out of the door in a real hurry:

“What can I do for you, Louise?”

A steady stream of tears rolls out of the corner of her left eye, welling in the joint formed between natural scaled skin and latex polysuit. If I didn’t know Louise as well as I do—eight, nine years now—I’d think that she was crying, upset perhaps at her reason for coming to see me, perhaps at the situation between her and Ernie. But Louise is just one of those unfortunate dinosaurs for whom the lachrymal glands are still overproductive, even after millions of years of evolution worked this kink out of the rest of our systems. This is nothing more than the near-literal representation of crocodile tears, and I’ve handed the woman enough handkerchiefs over the years to know that this isn’t sadness; it’s just salt water.

“Excuse me,” she says, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a tissue. “I leak sometimes.”

“I know. Do you want to wait for Ernie to come back? He should be here—”

“No,” she says abruptly. “I’d prefer if we spoke, just you and me. At first. Then maybe you could pass it on to Ernie, okay?”

I nod and take a seat behind my desk, attempting to straighten the papers back into some semblance of a pile. “Start from the beginning, Louise. That’s my best advice.”

A deep breath, shoulders rising quickly, then gently falling back into place, and she’s ready to lay it out. “Last night, someone broke into our house.”

And don’t I know it. It takes a special effort, drill-sergeant tactics, to convince my facial muscles to retain their neutral placement.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, tone remaining perfectly even. “Did they steal anything?”

Louise shakes her head. “Not that I know of. They destroyed our alarm system, ransacked the bedroom, made a terrible mess of the kitchen.” Actually, I thought I’d left the kitchen rather tidy, despite the leg of lamb abandoned on the breakfast table, but I’ve always had a slightly more lax standard of neatness than my peers.

“So you weren’t home.”

“Thank God, no. I can’t imagine what those monsters would have done.”

“The world is full of them,” I say, nodding with what I hope comes across as mellow resignation. “Did you call the police?”

“Of course,” she says, and my heart takes a small jump backward. “But they couldn’t find anything of use. They were dinos, we think, and apparently guises don’t leave good prints.”

“I see. So how can we be of help? You want us to take a look, try to grab some smells, see if we can find out who did it?”

“Oh, I think we know who did it,” she says, and suddenly I’m thinking it wouldn’t be the worst idea to keep a defibrillator here in the office. Was this the whole purpose of her visit—to face me one-on-one and confront me with my misdeeds? I usually have no qualms about breaking or entering or “borrowing” or any number of assorted illegal activities Ernie puts me up to, but it’s the betrayal of whatever friendship Louise and I have going that puts me on edge.

“How do you know?” I ask, involuntarily pushing my chair back from the desk. “If the police found nothing . . .”

Louise is somber, locking her gaze with mine. “I know because . . . I know.”

I hold that look, refusing to flinch away. Play this out till the end. “Then why don’t you tell me?” I suggest, hoping she’ll do exactly the opposite, that she’ll get up and walk out of the office. “Tell me who broke into your house.”

“The Progressives,” says Louise, and my circulatory system pulls out of the pit stop and races back into action.

“The Progressives?”

“They’re a . . . a religion. A cult, I guess.”

“I don’t follow you. What kind of cult?”

“I don’t know. They’re all dinosaurs, I know that. A dino cult.”

“And why would they break into your house?”

“To get money, maybe?”

“But they didn’t take any money.”

“Because I don’t keep any in the house. That’s probably why they wrecked it.”

“Why would they break into your house, Louise? Why not my house, or Ernie’s house?”

“Because I know them. Rather, they know me. Rupert is one of them. He’s a Progressive.”

“Your brother?”

Louise nods. “For about two years now. I didn’t tell anyone when he was getting into it, partially because it scared me, but . . . Honestly, I was hoping that it was a passing thing.”

“A phase.”

“A phase, yes. He’s had enough of them. Remember the hang gliding?”

I can’t help but chuckle, and I’m glad to see that Louise joins in. “Of course I remember it,” I say. “And the bungee jumping and the trips to India and the Peace Corps and the spelunking. Rupert’s a good soul, but a little lost.”

“And then a couple of years ago he started selling whatever he had left—his bike, his share of Mom’s house. He’d ask me for money, and wouldn’t tell me how he was spending it. And now he thinks he’s found himself,” Louise says. “He says he’s found Progress.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I have no idea. I wish I did.” Louise delves into that magical purse of hers—how anything other than a single tube of lipstick could fit in that small compartment I’ll never know—and comes up with a folded sheet of paper. “I got this letter two weeks ago, and I’ve been beside myself since.” She hands it over, and I unfold it and take a gander.

In a strong, heavy-handed script, the letter reads:

Dear Sister,

When, in the course of our shared events, it becomes necessary for one portion of the family of Raal to assume among the creatures of the earth a position different from that which they have recently occupied, but one to which the laws of the ancestors and of the ancestors’ ancestors entitle them, a decent respect for the opinions of dinokind requires that they should declare the causes that impel them to such a course.

I hold these truths to be self-evident: that I am like no other creature on this planet; that I have a natural beauty inherent within all the family of Raal; that I have a moral and genetic obligation to the ancestors; that I have the capacity to understand myself as myself.

The time will come, in a few short weeks, to retrieve our heritage from the fossil pits of time. I have found Progress, and Progress has found me. My blood is becoming pure as I accept the wisdom and ways of Raal and our forefathers. Until you too accept yourself as a product of the product of the ancestors, I will not see you again. I love you.

Your brother, Granaagh

“Granaagh?” I ask.

“I don’t understand it either. The ancestors, that part about the genetic obligation, this Raal character, retrieving their heritage—it’s all beyond me. When I got the letter, I was so worried. It had been months since I’d heard from him, but this . . .” She’s starting to cry again, but this time it’s actual tears streaming out of those big brown eyes. I’m torn between staying at my desk and joining her on the couch. I remain in place.

“The last two weeks, all I’ve been doing is looking for him. I’ve been everywhere. Phone calls, letters, faxes . . . No one knows where he is, even his old friends down at the mission where he used to volunteer. They got letters like mine.”

“And the cops?”

“I told the police,” she says, “but they say they can’t do anything. Religion is . . . religion. They can’t touch these places unless they break the law, and Rupert’s in his twenties, old enough to make his own decisions.”

“I’m very sorry about your brother,” I say. “He’s a good kid. Mixed up, but a good kid. Anything I can do to help . . .” It’s a cursory offer, nothing more, but my mouth has this annoying tendency to speak before it’s conferred with the brain.

“I want you to find him,” says Louise. “I want you to find him and get him to come home.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait up,” I say.

“You said you’d help—”

“Sure, but . . . Slow this down a second. Let’s even say I can find him, right? That letter doesn’t sound like he’s the most rational guy in the world right now. Who’s to say he’ll go with me?”

There’s a telltale pause—long enough to make it seem like she’s thinking the question over, short enough so that I know she’s already thought it through way before she stepped into my office, that this was the real reason she came to see me today.

“Then I want you to kidnap him.”

In the two seconds it takes for me to formulate a proper, polite way to say that there is no way on earth I’m going to commit what amounts to a major felony in order to remove a full-fledged adult from a situation he has presumably chosen for himself, that there is no possibility of Ernie and me taking on a case that, if the right charges were pressed by the wrong people, could land us jail time and a hefty fine, that I can’t even begin to think about the circumstances under which a kidnaping, even in a situation as odd as this, could possibly be justified, Ernie opens up the door to our office and charges inside.

“She cleaned Minsky out real good,” he announces as he lumbers toward his desk, not bothering to glance over at the couch. He drops a file folder on the seat of his chair and proceeds to rifle through it.

I clear my throat. “Ernie—”

“She got the ether, all right, and some nitrous, and some prescription pads, but I searched the doc’s office, and I checked with his secretaries for a listing of what’s usually in the storage cabinets—”

“Ernie—” I try to interrupt. Futile. I look at Louise—she looks back—we both look to my partner, who’s still got his back turned.

“—and they gave me a whole list of things. And guess what? The crazy bitch took a whole bunch of dental drills and scrapers, too. That’s freaking insane, right? I mean, what’s she gonna do with fifteen metal scrapers?”

“Hey, Ernie—”

“Wait a sec, Vincent, you gotta see this list. You won’t believe—”

“Hello, Ernie.” Louise this time. Soft, kind, deliberate.

Ernie clams up and slowly turns on his heel. I can almost make out the knot forming in his throat; wrinkles appear in the manila folder as his hand clenches, knuckles widening.

“Louise.”

“You smell well,” she says, and I’m worried that I’m going to have to sit around for a replay of our earlier conversation.

Ernie nods at Louise’s compliment, doesn’t return it. “How’s Terrence?” he asks.

“Terrell,” Louise and I say as one, and I’m blasted by a vicious look from Ernie. I back off and let them take the conversation down whatever path it needs to go.

“He still doing construction work?”

“He’s a contractor,” Louise says defensively.

Ernie looks to me. “You two have a lunch date?”

I knew it would come down to accusations eventually; the earlier feelings of guilt well up. “No, Ern—she came by to ask—”

“I need something investigated,” says Louise, rescuing me. Now Ernie can hear his ex-wife out, listen to each word carefully and patiently, then toss the idea on the skids, and we can get back to looking into the Minsky affair.

Ernie moves out from behind his desk, each step slow, conscious. “Whatever we can do to help.” From here, I can see his nostrils flaring—he’s trying to get a whiff of her, catch the aroma that he loves so dearly.

“Rupert’s joined a cult,” she says plainly. “I want you to find him, and, if he won’t come home with you, I want you to kidnap him.”

No hesitation from Ernie. “Certainly.”

Certainly? Certainly? I must be throwing off pheromones at an unnatural level now—some dinos can smell themselves, but I’ve never been able to—because Ernie holds up a hand in my direction, a clear signal that I should clam up and calm down.

“Louise, Ernie and I really need to talk this over,” I say. “But if you come back tomorrow—”

“No need,” Ernie interrupts, moving closer to his ex-wife. They’re only a few feet apart now, and each is clearly into smelling the other. “We can take the case.”

“Thank you,” says Louise. “I gave Vincent all the details.”

“Good. We’ll see what we can do—”

I hop forward and wedge myself between these two conspirators. “Now wait just a second,” I say, but Ernie sidesteps me and opens the office door.

“—and give you a call once we have something concrete.”

More tears coming out of Louise’s right eye again, and this time I can’t be sure if they’re chemically or emotionally produced. “I can’t thank you enough,” she says. “Whatever it costs—”

“No charge,” says Ernie, and now it takes all the strength I can muster to keep my eyes from blasting out of my head like a cartoon character who’s accidentally ingested half a ton of chili powder. I grab a hold of the side of the door, if only to keep myself from shooting into the stratosphere.

Louise issues Ernie a peck on the cheek, a polite “Bye, Vincent” to me, and then she’s out the door and down the hall, and Ernie’s back behind his desk. When the red haze of rancor has faded from before my eyes and my blood pressure has returned to triple digits, I find Ernie sitting calmly at his desk, highlighting the dental inventory sheet he brought back from Minsky’s.

“This is a partnership,” I begin, keeping myself at a moderate pace so that I might choose each and every word with caution and clarity. “If you do not understand the concept of partnership, perhaps I could explain it to you. Shall we get a dictionary?”

Ernie looks up from his work. The whites of his eyes—the only dino part I can see of him right now, as the brown contacts he’s wearing cover up the natural blazing green of his Carnotaur irises—are choked with red veins wiggling and squiggling in every direction like a first-grader’s art project. Even through the thickness of his latex mask, his cheeks look sunken and hollow, and his entire body refuses to remain in a perfectly upright position; his shoulders slump, pointing down to the floor.

“For Louise” is all he says, and it’s enough to stop the final dribbles of steam from pouring out of my ears. “For Louise.” For Louise should be Ernie’s motto, etched into his forehead like a pair of monogrammed Mickey Mouse ears, and though I cannot fully empathize with my partner, I can understand the power of those words, if only because I’ve never had a Louise to do anything for.

“We’re talking felony here,” I point out. “Kidnaping’s a step beyond anything you’ve tried before.”

“We might not even find him, Vincent.”

“And if we do, then what?”

Ernie shrugs. “Then we tell him that his sister loves him and misses him and we want to help. Rupert might come along willingly.”

“And the odds on that?”

“There’s lots of definitions of ‘willingly,’ “ Ernie says, some sparkle returning to that defeated body. “And there’s lots of ways to make fellows think they’re willing. Look, I don’t want to break the law any more than you—”

“Hah!”

“—so first we try to talk sense into him. If that doesn’t work, you and I drop back and discuss what’s next.” Ernie’s eyes are wide open now, part of his tried-and-true trust-me-I’m-honest face.

“So, we discuss, a serious discussion—like, a discussion discussion—you and me, before we get into the heavy stuff? Promise?”

Ernie nods. “Promise.”

I hold out my hand, and we shake on it. A mere formality, but my partner and I don’t have to make deals like this very often, so it seems right to mark it with such a canonical gesture.

I walk back to my desk, feeling victorious that I was able to pressure Ernie for once, that I was able to force him into a binding agreement. Then I replay the scene in my mind, piece by piece, and quickly come to realize exactly which way the ball bounced. “I just got talked into this, didn’t I?”

“Like a tourist in a trinket shop,” says Ernie, and returns to his highlighting.