Smilodon

By James Paddock

Imagine recreating the saber-toothed cat for fun? The possibility sounds exciting, but the reality could be nightmarish. Within these pages you are drawn into in a world where man becomes the hunted. It is fast-paced fiction where cats change the rules and people run for their lives. “Tigers in the Wild” and a lucrative fee lure freelance writer, Zechariah Price, into the frozen mountains of Montana. The assignment drops him into a world of Bengal tigers, illegal aliens, prehistoric sabre-toothed cats, psychic premonitions and babies. As death by man and animal surrounds him, he quickly learns that he, too, is destined to become food for the cats. Trapped between man and beast, his assignment turns into that of survival. Welcome to a world where cats call the shots.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Paddock
• Release date: Nov 20, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452485218

James Paddock

James Paddock, Indie Author and avid reader, was born and raised in the Big Sky Country of Montana. The forty-plus years following high school include a Bachelor of Science degree from the University of Idaho, service with the U.S. Navy, owner/operator of a small business in South Carolina, a career as a Graphic Designer and a marriage that produced 3 fine children, who then have provided bragging rights for many very fine grandchildren. James began writing short stories in 1993, graduating to novels at the turn of the century. Since then he has produced numerous full-length novels, an inspirational novella and an anthology of 13 of his best short stories, all of which can be found at JamesPaddockNovels.com. He is now living in Florida with his wife, Penny, enjoying the sun and working on his next novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Death occurs as decreed by the cats.

~from the journals of Zechariah Price

I hate the aisle seat.

I glance across the front of my temporary travel companions to look out at the sprawling hub of Seattle-Tacoma International Airport in the distance. We are sitting and waiting for something. I consider bribing the five-year old in the window seat except her mother is sitting between us.

"The Man Eaters of Sundarbans? the mother suddenly says. Not a very appetizing read."

I pull the top book aside to reveal the other two in my lap. Actually, I’m researching.

The Bengal Tiger and Biography of a Bengal Tiger, she says. You’re a writer?

She is pleasantly surprised. I know because I have an ability to read some people’s emotions, a rare talent. It’s like reading their aura, only one step better. What I get mentally are visions, impressions of their emotional history and a sense of what they are thinking. It’s different with every person. With her I only get immediate feelings; no history and no visions. A mind reader you think. Not exactly, but close.

Her aura is beautiful. It reminds me a lot of my wife’s and daughters’.

I’m Karen, she says, presenting her hand.

Zach, I return.

Sweetheart, she says to her daughter, this man is a writer. The girl leans forward and looks at me, a red crayon propped daintily in her hand. An aura matching the woman’s comes with her. What the heck is a writer? I am sure those big brown eyes are saying. She looks up at her mother and then sits back.

So what kind of writing do you do? Are you researching a novel or an article for a magazine?

I look at the person I’ll have as my companion from here to Spokane and feel a bit embarrassed having to say, I don’t know.

Oh. She turns to talk to her daughter. Her emotions flatten out. I assume the conversation is over so I open to the first few pages of Spell of the Tiger from which came the subtitle, The Man-Eaters of Sundarbans. In India, Sy Montgomery writes, "the tiger is the God’s vahana, an Indian word for vehicle. The tiger is a vahana of the Gods; is permeated with the God’s force and power, imbued with the essence of the God itself." I underline the names of the Gods: Jolishmatic, Aurkah, Shukra, Shiva. Shukra is the Priest of Demons. I underline that twice.

I write in the margin, Powers beyond any worldly animals. The Man-Eater.

I underline Royal Bengal tiger, Indo-Chinese tiger, Sumatran tiger, Bali tiger, Caspian tiger, Javan tiger and Siberian tiger.

The introduction refers to a Time magazine article from 1994. I make a note to look that up and then close the book and wonder if this, although very interesting and great material for a story, has anything to do with my assignment, this job I accepted out of the blue. I think about the call I received just three days ago.

Mister Price?

The caller’s greeting immediately felt like someone trying to sell me something or wanting payment for something I’d already bought. I was already regretting that I didn’t let the machine take the call.

This is Zechariah Price. What can I do for you? My defensive hackles were standing up.

Actually, Mister Price, it’s what we can do for each other. My company wishes to hire your services.

You need a free-lance writer?

Exactly, Mister Price. You come highly recommended.

I asked him about his company.

"Sans Sanssabre, Inc. We are a research company, Mister Price. I am Lance Evans, Vice President of Publicity and Documentation. We need a writer. Our field of research is genetics. We are too close to our work. We need someone with an outside eye, someone who can, without prejudice, observe and record and then put the story together so the layman can not only understand it, but would stand in line to read it."

Sounds like you need Stephen King. I don’t know why I said that. I wasn’t in a position to turn down any offer. Things haven’t been exactly lucrative.

Actually, his name was brought up. However, we wanted someone not so well known.

He certainly called the right guy there. What kind of pay are we talking, and what part of the world will I be traveling to?

I assure you, the pay will be generous. We are located in Montana. Sorry, not as glamorous as you might have been hoping. Someone will be knocking on your door shortly, within the hour actually. He’ll have a contract with him for you to read and sign. It will have all the details. Attached will be a phone number for you to call once you’ve read it. Please don’t ask questions of the person making the delivery. He is but a courier.

It wasn’t five minutes after hanging up that a man with Bay Area Courier Service stenciled on his shirt showed up at my door and presented me with a large white envelope. He said he was instructed to wait for my signature on an internal document. I opened the envelope and found two business-size envelopes, another large envelope and two professionally bound documents with a blue sticky note attached. The note read,

Mr. Price,

Please sign this one and return it to the courier in the envelope provided. The other is yours. Also you will find airline tickets and an advance to help you take care of personal needs before you depart. Please call me at the number below as soon as you have read the contract.

Lance

. . . wants to know if you wrote her book.

I become aware that Karen is talking to me. Pardon? I say.

I’m sorry. Didn’t realize.

I look at the open book in my lap. No, no. That’s fine. You were saying?

My daughter, Melissa, wants to know if you are the author of her book.

Melissa leans forward in her seat and holds out a book. A familiar looking character with a tall hat garnishes the cover. Her mother’s aura may have lost some of its color, but Melissa’s is still glowing, full of innocence and joy. I sense some hidden reason for her happiness that is not associated with a cool plane ride. Also, as with her mother, I get no vision.

I lift my eyebrows at Melissa and her book and begin reciting from memory. I would not, could not, in the rain. Not in the dark. Not on a train. Not in a car. Not in a tree.

She giggles and looks up at her mom who looks back at her in exaggerated surprise.

I do not like them, Sam, you see. Not in a house. Not in a box. Not with a mouse. Not with a fox. I will not eat them here or there. I do not like them anywhere!

Melissa opens her book, looks at the words and grins up at me with big, delightful eyes. I debate telling her I’m not Dr. Seuss, but why destroy the magic moment for her. She reads, You do not like green eggs and ham?

I do not like them, Sam-I-Am.

Could you, would you, with a goat? With each word her voice rises.

I would not, could not, with a goat!

Our dialogue across the front of Melissa’s mom ends when we are thrown back in our seats. We race down the runway until the aircraft lifts from the ground. When the wheels are sucked into the belly with a bump, Melissa’s eyes open with shock. Karen leans over to tell her what it was while I close my book and return all three to my briefcase resting at my feet. So much for research. Sam-I-Am has pulled up some fine memories. . . and some old hurts.

You must have children, Mister Price, Karen says. Melissa is busy watching the lights of the city as we bank around and head over the mountains, in route to Spokane. I get a glimpse of a glow in the Eastern sky.

"Yes, I do. Both girls. Ages six and eight. I think I could recite all of Green Eggs and Ham in my sleep."

You must be a great dad.

I swallow the memories. I don’t know about that. Haven’t seen them in over a year. They live with their mother in Dallas.

I’m sorry, she says.

With that the conversation stops. This time her aura turns dark and I see rolling, boiling clouds running through it. Of course, who would want to talk to a man who has allowed his family to fall apart? What kind of influence would the monster have on her little girl? Maybe it’s catching. It does seem as though she has scooted as far away from me as she can.

I pull my briefcase onto my lap and look through the various compartments. In addition to the lap top computer and the three books about Bengal tigers, there’s a novel I’ve been trying to read, plus notes on the novel I have been trying to write. In addition, there is my journal, a notebook of blank paper, a thesaurus and dictionary, toothbrush and shaving kit, envelopes, stamps and note-paper for writing to Christi and Rebecca, and of course the contract. The briefcase is one of those soft ones that can be over stuffed. I couldn’t get it completely under my seat but the flight attendant didn’t seem to notice.

I extract the journal and start recording:

March 22 — Green Eggs and Ham.

Exchange with Melissa, about five years old, expressive brown eyes, smooth, round cheeks, perky nose and chin, small mouth, nice smile. Don’t think her blond hair has been cut since she was born. Dainty fingers, which she uses with precision, pointing to words as she reads them. Excellent reader for her age, or she has the words memorized. Her voice is soft as freshly fallen rose petals. I catch her looking at me. She doesn’t look away but turns the corners of her mouth into a smile. I return same and wink at her. She grins and sits back in her seat, pulling several Dr. Seuss books onto her lap. Her legs stick out beyond the book; pink socks neatly folded down one time disappear inside purple running shoes that say Nike on the side. Purple laces are neatly tied.

Melissa’s escort is a most beautiful and mature, not quite blond, copy of herself. Karen is her name. Her hair is secured in a French braid. Piano fingers. Same perky nose, softer chin, sparkling eyes which went dark with my mention of my separated family.

I close the journal and then my eyes and let the time pass in the darkness of my memories.

I awake to a flight attendant touching my shoulder. Would you care for a snack, Sir?

Just orange juice, please. Items get passed across. Karen settles for coffee and the dry cracker snack. Melissa decides on orange juice, with her mother’s insistence, and gets a toy in a plastic wrapper.

Thank you! she says to the attendant and then looks at me. She grins and winks. I’m being flirted with by a young lady nearly twenty-five years younger than me. My heart melts. I raise my eyebrows and make a funny face. She copycats me. We spend the next minute or so trying to out funny-face each other.

Karen intercedes. Enough you guys. I’m going to drown in ugly faces. Her color is back to normal. Melissa and I both look at her and then at each other. She giggles and we start making faces at her mother. Drink your orange juice, Karen says, unsuccessfully faking a stern voice.

Yes Ma’am, I say and sip my juice as daintily as I can, sticking out my little finger. Melissa follows suit, using both hands and sticking out both pinkies. I give her a thumbs up.

We settle into quiet for a while and then Karen asks, Do you miss them, your girls?

Does a beached whale miss the water?

She considers my comment for a time. What would cause this whale to become beached?

Sickness. Isn’t that why they leave the water? He was sick of swimming with the sharks and dolphins, squid and spiny porcupine fish; sick of fighting the storms, the cold and hot currents. He would spend hours gazing at the beautiful white sand, palm trees and windblown lazy grass along the dunes. He would then go back to Mrs. Whale and say, ‘It looks wonderful. I think we could live there. We could build a house on a foundation of words in the sand. No sharks, no sword fish, no fat lazy blow fish.’ Mrs. Whale does not agree, but being a good and supportive mate she says that maybe a trial run for a time would be okay for him, but in no way would she and her babies leave the water. She’ll swim with the denizens of the deep if necessary to ensure that the little ones have plankton in abundance, and swim in the best schools. ‘You go, Mr. Whale,’ she tells him, ‘and prove the beach of white sand doesn’t wash away underneath you. Prove you have what it takes to survive and then maybe I’ll join you.’ And so, off he went.

Karen doesn’t say anything, but looks at me as though waiting for something more.

It’s awfully lonely on the beach, I say.

The flight attendants begin picking up empty cups, napkins and snack wrappers. An announcement is made that we are approaching Spokane and will be landing shortly, which is followed with tray table and seat-back instructions.

That was a short flight, I say.

Just the first leg for me, she says. Going on to Minneapolis. Where’re you heading?

I pick up a puddle jumper here. I’m heading for Kalispell, in Montana. The writing assignment I know nothing about.

Ah. She helps Melissa put away her books, except Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham, which she refuses to give up. Karen settles again. I’m returning to my husband after a trial separation.

Ah. Her color-shifts suddenly make sense.

Six months with my parents. I don’t know who drove who crazier.

I know what you mean. Do you miss him, your husband?

She looks at me a long time. The wheels touch the runway hard and then again, followed by a roar as the aircraft slows to taxi speed. Does a beached whale miss the water? she finally responds.

Karen and Melissa are not getting off. I stand and notice Melissa tugging on her mother’s arm. Karen bends forward to receive a comment in her ear. She straightens and says, I think you’ll have to ask him yourself. You’re on a funny face basis with him after all.

I look at the six year old–Karen confessed the child’s age–and watch her hesitate and then present me the book by Dr. Seuss. Can you autograph my book?

I look at Karen who only raises her eyebrows. I sit back down, accept the book, find an appropriate page and pause briefly in thought. Melissa makes a face at me. I return same and then write,

For Melissa,

One of the most beautiful young ladies I have ever had chance to meet. May your charm and funny faces never cease. If some day we should meet again, may it be over Green Eggs and Ham.

Zach Price

I return the book and put on my coat. Karen says thank you and we squeeze each other’s hand. The beach isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it? I say.

No, it isn’t. Her last words.

I step into the aisle and Melissa wiggles around her mom. I bend down and she presents me with a hug. I feel her arms around my neck and my heart does about a dozen flips. Thank you, she says in her soft voice. As quickly, she retreats to her seat and I retreat to the exit door.

Chapter 2

Three hours later the pilot of the puddle jumper cheerfully announces our pending arrival at Glacier Park International Airport. We circle the runway, a long strip of pavement in a sea of white. Elsewhere the white is only broken by buildings and parking lots full of cars.

It looks cold as we taxi to the small terminal, well below freezing I imagine. It was about forty degrees in Spokane. I am next to last to exit. I attempt to step out, but it feels as though a giant is smearing an invisible ice cube in my face. I suck up a lung full of icy air and stumble back into the only person behind me. Holy shit! I cough. I’m sorry, but it’s cold out there.

The person I back into, a man in an Eskimo parka, shakes his head, steps around me and goes down the steps. The flight attendant says, First time in Montana, Sir?

I nod. How cold is it?

The low overnight was forty-two below, I’m told. It’s about twenty-five below right now.

I had heard of such things but didn’t imagine. Below? Below freezing or below zero?

She laughs. Below zero, Sir.

Oh, God. My gloves are somewhere in the bowels of the plane. I have no hat and my coat is good to maybe twenty degrees. I eye the distance to the door of the building where the man who went around me disappears. I wonder if I can make it. I’m already feeling a deep chill.

Are you going to be here long? she asks.

I hope not. Maybe no longer than the next flight south. I wait a few more seconds and then take a deep, warm breath and hustle down the stairs and across the tarmac.

The terminal building feels like a blast furnace. My fingers, ears and nose I’m sure are frostbitten, and my eyes are frozen open.

Mr. Price. I turn to a man presenting his hand. I’m Lance Evans. Welcome to Kalispell.

My eyeballs did indeed freeze between the plane and the building and are now thawing out and running down my face. I sniff in whatever else is trying to escape and accept his hand. You didn’t tell me it was this cold.

Cold? he says. We’re in a heat wave. It hit fifty-four below night before last. It’s warm now. He laughs. I do apologize though. I should have warned you of the Arctic cold front. Is that the best you have?

The best I have?

Your coat. Did you bring anything warmer?

This is it.

We’ll get you outfitted. Let’s get your bags.

We move to where the bags are already coming in on a large, wheeled cart. A tall, rather husky man with a neat trimmed beard, steps up next to Lance. Lance says, Zach, this is Randolph Spriggs. He’ll be our pilot the remainder of your trip.

I shake Randolph’s hand. Remainder?

Good to meet you, Zach. I’ll be taking you out to the compound. It’s about a thirty minute flight.

Ah ha, I say.

I’ll grab your bags, store them for you. The chopper is being warmed up now. Shouldn’t be too bad. Which ones are yours?

I pull out a large black faux leather bag with straps. This is it.

He zips and buttons his parka, slips his hands into cowhide gloves, picks up my bag, as well as my over-stuffed briefcase, and walks away.

We’ll wait in here until the bird is warm, Lance says. It’s been sitting for a while. We came in early and did some shopping for the compound. So, what’s Texas like this time of year?

Texas?

Yeah. That’s where you’re from, right? Dallas I believe.

Yeah, right. Being two days into spring, I expect it’s a tad warmer than here.

Frankly, this is damned cold, even for here, especially in March. We’re breaking records with this one. He leads me to where we can see out to the helicopter. I get the impression this is your first time in cold country.

It must be the word, fear, carved in the ice on my brow that gives me away.

He laughs. Don’t worry. It’s just a matter of dressing properly. We’ll take care of that. This weather isn’t something to fear, but you certainly must respect it. It can be a killer, Zach, if you don’t. He stares out at the helicopter, the blades slowly turning. At least it doesn’t come hunting for you.

Something in the tone of those last words sends an additional shiver down my spine.

Let’s go, he says.

Without thinking I follow him out the door. Before I know it my lungs are being ripped open from the inside by a thousand ice needles while we strut across the endless tarmac to the helicopter. The sliding door opens just as we approach. I scramble in ahead of Lance.

It isn’t warm in the chopper; at best a few degrees less cold. I sit shivering while Randolph does what helicopter pilots do to prolong the agony of their freezing passengers. When we finally leave the ground I momentarily forget the cold.

Is this your first helicopter ride, Zach? Lance hollers over the noise of the craft.

This is a Huey Bell 212. The military equivalent is the UH-1N. I’ve flown it a couple times. That was back in the days when I had my private pilot license and a friend who was a test pilot for Bell Helicopter in Dallas. Joel let me put my hands on the controls quite a few times. He said I was a natural.

You’re a pilot?

Not anymore. I flipped a Cherokee upon landing in a strong crosswind about seven years ago. I walked away from it and flying altogether.

Although noisy, the ride is smoother than I remember. The view is better than from a commercial airliner where I usually have to battle with the wing. From my seat I know I’m looking south. I can identify the northern end of Flathead Lake, an expansive area of white fading away into the distance, bordered by trees and multimillion-dollar homes. It quickly passes from my sight as we continue west, deeper into the Flathead National Forest.

Chapter 3

"The tiger oozes through the forest, quiet as the mud, invisible as the wind." ~Spell of the Tiger

The memory of my helicopter days soon fades as the penetrating cold snaps me back to my wondering what the hell I’m doing here. The frigid landscape is unending and evidence of human habitants becomes harder and harder to find until suddenly there is nothing but trees and more trees, snow and more snow. I have a terrible vision of being dropped into some nineteenth century community where there is no electricity, where people live in huts made of thin logs, tree limbs and animal furs.

I lean toward Lance. Are there Grizzlies around here?

Huh? Lance yells over the noise of the helicopter.

Is this Grizzly country?

Apparently he notices a new level of fear on my face. He laughs. Don’t worry. I’ve only seen them a couple times in the last year.

I look down expecting to spot huge bear tracks in the snow, finding instead an unblemished snow-packed road running alongside the helicopter. Randolph is flying us just above the tree tops. We pass over a spot where the road is broken by a fence that is topped with several rows of barbed wire. The road passes through a double gated, high security entry complex, and continues on and up, higher into the mountains. We leave the road for a few seconds and then the trees open onto an expansive array of buildings. I breathe a sigh of relief. No hand-skinned logs glued together with clay and mud; no buffalo and grizzly fur siding; real, warm buildings with, hopefully, electricity.

I note several dome topped buildings stretching into the distance just before the landscape ceases moving around me and the noise and vibrations die away. Lance opens the door and I step onto the roof of a building, into the frigid. I see a door behind which I’m sure exists air nearer to my comfort zone. Lance heads in that direction and I stay close on his heels. I glance back as we enter the building. Randolph has my bags.

Zach. Lance is already standing inside an elevator. This way. Randolph will ensure your bags get to your apartment. Meanwhile we have a meeting to attend, which starts in just a few minutes.

I rush inside. He pushes the button with a four on it and we descend one floor and get off.

"You are about to learn what Sans Sanssabre is all about."

The corridor is plush, about fifty feet long with several closed doors on each side. It terminates at a set of double glass doors through which I can see what I consider, now that I’m warm again, a white and green landscape wonderland. If I hadn’t just been out there I’d have the desire to go play in it. Now I’m quite content to only look.

Lance opens the door and I step into a boardroom. A wet bar sits to my left overlooking several overstuffed sofas and chairs. A huge oval table sits to my right with a high-back leather chair at every position. At the far end two men and a woman appear to be deeply involved in a poster size sheet of paper spread before them. The woman looks up, smiles, and comes to her feet.

Lance! About time. Thought maybe the weather held you up somewhere.

Lance pulls off his parka and looks at his watch. Actually, I think we’re right on time. He takes my thin coat. I’d like you to meet Zach Price. He has graciously agreed to provide his services as our photojournalist. Zach, this is Aileen Bravelli. She’ll be able to give you all the history, which by the way goes back several hundred thousand years.

Ms. Bravelli looks first at me and then at Lance. I thought we weren’t. . .

It was decided in the meeting you missed, he says quickly. I’m sorry. I meant to inform you.

Her mouth goes set; her eyes narrow and turn dark and then dart toward one of the two gentlemen she was with when I walked in. She returns her eyes to me. Nice to meet you, Mister Price. She doesn’t offer her hand, but I feel the intenseness of her aura. She is feeling betrayed.

Zach, Lance continues, pulling me toward the two gentlemen who have also come to their feet, "I’d like you to meet the Chief Executive Officer and founder of Sans Sanssabre, Victor Vandermill, and our Chief Financial Officer, Henri Cassell. Gentlemen, this is Zechariah Price."

Both men extend their hands and I feel their strength and confidence, but I read nothing. Wonderful to have you on board, Vandermill says. We expect a best seller out of this and it will all be yours. All we ask is accurate recording. Can you do that for us Zach? I assume Zach is what you prefer.

"Zach is perfect. I’ll certainly try my best. May I ask, Sir, what Sans Sanssabre does out here in the wilderness?"

Mister Vandermill looks at Lance. You haven’t told him anything yet?

Very little. I thought it would be better for everyone to meet him first, make sure that we are all still in agreement as to his presence. If all looks well, we can then brief him.

Vandermill nods. Sounds reasonable. He turns to Ms. Bravelli. Where are Wolf and Thomas?

In the gardens I assume. Her tone is far from happy. She walks around to Vandermill and whispers, Let’s talk a minute.

They step over near the panoramic window.

Henri Cassell moves in front of me. So, Mister Price, what have you written lately? What kind of credits do you come with? What is your most recent work?

This is the part I dislike. What do I say? I’ve a couple short stories placed in literary magazines no one has ever heard of? A how-to piece on hunter safety was accepted by The Northwest Hunter; however, they folded the month before the issue was scheduled to publish. Of course there are the journalism stories, with by-lines, for the Seattle Times; one about an old woman who turned on a purse snatcher and nearly beat him to death, only to be charged with assault and battery; or the one about the two kids who decided to make it their school project to begin a recycling center in their neighborhood. Real captivating reading. I fall back on my aging standby, the one thing I’m proud of. "I did a piece for National Geographic on aging farmers in the Midwest."

Ah, yes. Of course. Nice piece of work. Great photography.

I feel my internals shudder. You’ve read it?

Certainly. I’m surprised that’s what you prefer to put on your brag plate when I ask what is your most recent work. That was what, five. . . six years ago?

My internals stop shuddering and flop like a fat woman reaching the end of her exercise routine. Six. I try to make it sound as if it’s a positive point on my resume.

What have you been doing in the last six. . .?

Lance intercedes. Henri. No need giving Zach the first degree. Six years or six weeks makes little difference. The quality of his work is good.

Not arguing with the quality, Lance. There just isn’t much of it.

True, but after his assignment with us he’ll have plenty more.

I want to throw in my two cents and defend myself, but I realize I have hardly a penny.

Henri continues with his first degree. Do you have any experience with animals? Large, wild animals? Extinct animals?

I used a buffalo in one of the few short stories I managed to place. I don’t figure that would count. No.

How much time have you spent in this kind of climate, ass-deep in snow and two more feet in the forecast?

I’m afraid, Mister Cassell, that I have no experience at all in the snow, being from Texas. But of course, you know that. I have a strong suspicion that you never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to. I also feel an intense dislike emanating from him.

He doesn’t deny my suspicion. If it appears to you I don’t approve of you being here, then you’re correct. We already document everything. We are a research facility. What good would it all be if we didn’t document every step of the way?

Lance breaks in again. The decision has already been made, Henri, so let’s move forward. I don’t think Mister Price appreciates being picked on when he has nothing to do with why he is here other than he was offered the job.

I agree, Henri. Victor Vandermill places his hand on my shoulder. Why don’t you get settled, Zach, and I’ll meet up with you in about an hour or so. Lance and I will give you the tour. Right now, Aileen will show you to your apartment. I’m sure after the flight you would like to shower and clean up. She’ll also get you fitted with cold weather gear when you’re ready.

Although I did notice the flat-top haircut sported by Victor when I came in, I only now see how perfectly vertical the silver-gray hair is. Squared away, immediately comes to mind. Squared away in dress, squared away in mind, squared away in business. He turns away and I have another curious vision. Place a bolt on each side of his neck and I could call him Frankenstein’s monster.

Follow me, Mister Price. Ms. Bravelli’s voice sparkles with ice-crystals.

I suppress the vision of Frankenstein. Just before I turn to catch up with her at the door, I sense only one thing coming off of Victor Vandermill and it rises from the burning tingle where his hand rested on my shoulder. Power. Unreasonable power.

As we walk silently along the corridor and then down one flight of stairs I wonder why I’m not included in a meeting that Lance seemed in a hurry to get me to. Because there is still too much dissension as to my presence. I also wonder why she, this well proportioned woman leading me to my room, is not part of the meeting now.

We stop at a door. This’ll be your residence the entire time you’re here. She opens the door. It may be a little small but. . .

It’s huge.

. . . it will have to do.

I’m thrilled.

You have a comfortable little living room, a small kitchen. . .

Larger than what we have in Texas.

. . .bedroom. . . bath is there. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable.

It looks great, Ms. Bravelli. My bags are sitting on the bed. Thank you.

I expect her to say something like, please call me Aileen. Instead she says, I’m not so sure you want to be thanking us, Mister Price. Nothing is as it seems. I look at her eyes–light blue with green speckles–and expect her to follow the comment with something else. Instead she turns to the door. Someone will be by to get you in an hour.

I stare for a time at the void left behind, get a whiff of a familiar fragrance and then pick up my briefcase and go to the desk in the living room. I have a need for a shower and clean clothes, but first, always first, I must record my thoughts. I open the journal and take a few minutes to jot down my observations during the flight from Kalispell to Sans Sanssabre, plus my impressions since climbing off the helicopter.

I inhale the lingering fragrance of White Diamonds and remember her eyes.

Light blue with green speckles,

I write and then finish with,

Nothing is as it seems.

I step into the shower and think about those last words. What isn’t as it seems? What did she mean by that? The hot stinging water drives all thoughts away. I mindlessly bask in the steam.

One wall of the bedroom has full-length vertical blinds running its entire width. I fumble for the cord, pull the blinds open and become mesmerized by the view, different from that in the boardroom, but wonderful nonetheless. I’m looking out across a snow-covered meadow, snow-covered trees and then on up to snow-covered mountain peaks against a deep blue, cloudless sky. After a time I realize I’m standing in front of a huge window, buck naked except for a towel around my neck. Who cares? There’s no one to see. Off to the right there is a huge glass-topped dome building. Is that where the Bengal tigers are? Is that part of my tour? Of course it would be. Isn’t that what I’ve been hired to write about?

What Lance told me was very vague. Purposefully vague, I got the impression. Back several hundred thousand years, he had said. What does their research entail if they’re reaching back that far, and why here, in Montana when the Bengal is anything but a northern animal?

Realizing the time is slipping by, I turn around and find a woman, at least twice my age, standing in the doorway. I don’t know whether to drop behind the bed or run into the bathroom.

I’m Ulla, Mister Price. I’ll be your housekeeper while you are here.

I casually pull the towel off my shoulders, wrap it around my waist and tie it at my hip. She doesn’t turn around, act shocked, or avert her eyes.

My apologies for walking in on you but I didn’t realize you were here yet. I’m told I’m a little too bold. Maybe, but I’m sixty-three years old and too old to change. I had four boys and two husbands and figure I know what most men look like. Believe it or not, Mister Price, they all look the same.

I close my gapping mouth.

I keep house for everyone who lives in this building, men and women, whether long-term, short-term, or over-night, and I treat them all alike. I don’t care if you’re the CEO or the manure raker. If you live here I take care of your residence. If I walk in at a time like just now, ignore me. I’ll be ignoring you. If you are entertaining a young lady and have reason to not want to be disturbed, just slide the deadbolt on the door. That’s your only way of keeping me out. I doubt you’ll get the opportunity to entertain any ladies here, unless it should be Ms. Bravelli or Ms. Strong. Unfortunately, or fortunately, they’re already being entertained.

Okay, is all I think to say.

Besides, I understand you’re a married man.

Yes.

I maintain the stock in your kitchen. I’ll leave a list of refrigerator and pantry products that I normally keep stocked. When you have an opportunity, put a check mark next to those things you would prefer. Also please put an X next to those for which you might have allergies or simply can’t stand. I can also supply your personal products–shampoo, soap, deodorant, whatever–or you can do that yourself. Just let me know on the list. Leave the list on the counter where you find it. Generally I am in every day, sometimes for serious cleaning, sometimes for minor chores such as trash pick up. I normally don’t come by after 6 P.M. or before 7 A.M.

Okay.

That’s about it.

Okay.

Nice meeting you, Mister Price. She disappears.

Nice meeting you too, Ulla, I say loud enough to carry to wherever it is she went. I retreat to the bathroom to scrape away the hairs on my face.

I find the list Ulla spoke of lying on the counter in the kitchen. I choose to go through it later, opting instead, in the few minutes I have left, to pick up my journal.

I met the housekeeper–Ulla. She left me feeling naked, literally. Very unique woman, high energy, 63 years old. Many sons and husbands. Appears to be alone now and lives here fulltime. Have a hunch she only answers to the CEO. Maybe not even to him.

I like her. She would make a great character for a story.

I wonder how she would fit in my current working novel and then hear a knock at my door. I close the journal, slip it into a drawer and then call for the person to come in.

It’s Ms. Bravelli.

I’m surprised. I expected Lance or anyone else. She’s wearing a parka–unzipped, the hood thrown back. She looks lost inside of it. She is carrying another, which she hands me. Try this on. If it fits, it’s yours.

Thank you. I put it on. I feel like she looks. Kind of big.

She turns me around and does some motherly adjustments. It’s perfect. We still have to get you gloves.

I’ve got gloves. She follows me to my luggage in the bedroom and watches as I slip my hands into faux leather with faux rabbit fur lining. A bargain at K-Mart.

Those won’t work, she says. You’re better off leaving them where you found them, or dropping them into the trash. If I were you I wouldn’t want to be seen with them. She pulls them off my hands and throws them on the bed. We’ll find you something. Meanwhile, keep your hands in your pockets.

I look at the gloves and then back at her. Women around here are rather brazen and commanding.

For the first time I see a smile. You must have met Ulla.

Yes. And I was wearing nothing but a towel, which fortunately was strategically covering my shoulders.

She actually

Reviews for Smilodon

[kerryreis57 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A struggling freelance journalist is hired to write up the story of a secret project in a Montana compound. What he discovers is a DNA lab that has brought sabre-toothed cats back from extinction, but this is only the tip of a secret corporate project with severe ethical implications. This story is tense and definitely not for the squeamish and faint-hearted in some sections, but it definitely kept me enthralled.