Fatalis

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Hannah Hughes reached Jim Grand's office in the Humanities and Social Sciences Building just over a minute after he did. The reporter was wearing tight black jeans, a loose white blouse, a stylish black blazer, and a very unhappy expression. She had hair-clipped her bangs from her face. The rest of her hair hung straight as a result of the sea spray baking on her sweaty head on the beach during the morning.

"So tell me," she said.

"What?"

"Do I look more like my photo now?"

Grand smiled. "Yes, you do."

"Well, I feel like it," Hannah said. "It's been a day and a half without much to show for it."

"Then relax," Grand said. "I'll be right back."

Grand left to appropriate a chair for her from the office of Associate Professor Wildhorn, who was teaching.

Hannah slid her red bag from her shoulder, put it on the floor, and dropped a pair of paper bags from Chris's Crinkles beside it. She stood there, enjoying the moment of peace. The window was open and the room was filled with cool sea air. Fading sunlight turned the bare white walls amber. There was a small television and VCR on top of a filing cabinet beside the desk, and a map of the region on the wall behind her.

Darker patches of wall above the desk marked spots where pictures had once hung.

Grand came back with a swivel chair. He put it down and shut the door. Hannah sat down.

"I brought us late lunch or early dinner, depending on how you look at it."

"It'll probably be both," Grand said. He cleared a space on the gunmetal desk between a pile of overstuffed folders and videotapes on the right side. He placed the thick bags of take-out there. The desk was also stacked high with ungraded papers, rubberbanded diskettes, unread journals, un-catalogued photographs, and boxes filled with stone arrowheads and spearheads.

"How was your class?" Hannah asked.

"Fine. So tell me about your day and a half. What's the latest from the front?"

"From the sheriff's office? Not much," Hannah said. "Gearhart's a master at presenting this image that everything's under control without telling you how, why, and whether it really is. It's infuriating."

"What did he say?"

"According to the afternoon press conference the search is continuing, widening, and there's no cause for worry. But enough about the dog-and-pony show." Hannah shook her head. "Jim, I don't know what to make of everything that's been happening. Maybe there isn't anything to make of it, but I had to talk to you."

"Okay," he said patiently.

"I told you about the truck accident in Montecito and the possibly missing driver and the fact that none of us was allowed close to the site."

"Right."

"What I didn't tell you was that Gearhart called the owner of the fishing company, who happens to be a friend of mine. He asked if the driver was traveling with a dog." She paused. "Jesus, you know what?"

"No."

"Now it sounds crazy."

"What does?"

"This whole unformed idea of about a million parts," Hannah said.

"Tell me."

Hannah took a short breath. "I'd been thinking that the disappearance of the two engineers was related to what happened to the truck driver, which is why I wanted to ask you about a possible tunnel route from Painted Cave Road to the foothills overlooking the beach. When the sheriff found hairs in the truck cab and my friend told me the driver didn't have a dog, and then you said you'd found hairs in one of the caves, I thought that an animal might be killing people."

"Has that been ruled out?" Grand said.

"I don't know. No one's talking."

Grand thought for a moment. "It could have been a scavenger in the truck. I've seen raccoon footprints on deserted beaches. But there is something else that might suggest the involvement of an animal."

"What?"

"Remember the backpack we found in the creek? The lacerations?"

"That's right," Hannah said.

"I'm sure the crime lab will give them a complete examination," Grand said. "They'll check for animal hairs, any saliva the fabric may have soaked up-"

"And we'll never find out the results," Hannah said bitterly.

"Everything comes out in time," he said.

"Maybe, but I don't have your kind of eons to wait," Hannah replied. "When will you know what kind of animal your cave hair belongs to? I'd love to hit Gearhart with that before tomorrow's edition."

"That data should be ready now," he said as he booted his computer, "along with the results of the radiocarbon and gas chromatography tests."

"Radiocarbon I know about," she said. "Gas chromatography is… ?

"A process in which a substance is broken down to molecular pieces which are hitched to a carrier gas and then sent through a liquid or solid absorbent," Grand said. "The components are then sifted so they can be identified and measured."

"Oh. That gas chromatography," Hannah said.

Grand smiled. "It's like blowing smoke through a tissue and seeing the gunk that's left behind."

"Ah," Hannah smiled. "That I get."

"Every living thing metabolizes chemicals in very distinctive proportions," Grand said. "In case the first two tests aren't enough to tell us where the hair came from, the breakdowns give us a precise map to compare to other chemical maps."

"Got it. I want you to know I really appreciate this," she said as the computer's hard drive whirred. "Not just the information but being able to talk to someone. Someone who understands."

"I'm glad I can help," he said.

"I just don't want to drag you into the politics of it," she added quickly as she punched in a number. "Gearhart is my problem, the stonewalling son of a bitch. And now he's got Andrea Danza on his side-"

Hannah stopped as her phone beeped. She excused herself and pulled the phone from her bag. She spoke quietly while Grand returned to the computer. The conversation was a conference call with her advertising rep, who apparently wanted Hannah to run a series of feature articles about new trends in beach footwear in exchange for a six-month advertising guarantee from a manufacturer of a new kind of beach footwear. Grand was impressed by Hannah's insistent refusal to do "advertorials." He was also impressed by her ability to shift from an outpouring of rage to making quick, calm, confident decisions. Grand had never been able to make fast changes like that. Rebecca, who was always upbeat, used to have to nurse him from his pensive moods, something that usually took the better part of the morning or evening.

Maybe it's a gender thing. Grand thought. Males were territorial carnivores who found it difficult to leave anything without a struggle, even a state of mind. Females were more adaptable.

Hannah hung up and opened the Chris's Crinkles bags.

The smells brought back memories for Grand and he tried not to think about them. He concentrated on the list of data options. All the results on the hair sample tests were completed; the results of the mineral scraping would be done by early evening.

Grand booted the DNA results first.

As he looked at them, he shook his head.

"What's wrong?" Hannah asked.

Grand said without triumph, "I was right."

"About what," she said eagerly.

He pointed to the bags of food. "This is going to be dinner."