"Are you okay, Dr. Grant?" Lex asked. "You seem a little…distant today."

Alan didn't answer. He continued to walk along, silent and contemplative, as he had been all morning

"Dr. Grant," she repeated. "Are you okay?"

This time he heard her and turned, suddenly snapped back to reality, a dazed expression on his face. "What is it, Lex?"

She shook her head in disbelief. "You're really not with us, are you?"

"I'm…concerned about Dr. Malcolm. I've been trying to reach him all morning." This was only a half-truth; the thing that most plagued Alan Grant's mind was Tim's journal, and the familiar name of the doctor mentioned in the final entry. He knew that Cross was not such an uncommon name, but he couldn't quite manage to put it out of his mind.

"I'm starting to worry about that myself," she agreed. "He had better be ready to send the boat back, when the time comes."

"I'm sure it's nothing," Alan said at last. "We'll get through to him soon."

"If not, there's always Wallace," Lex offered, "but I'm not sure I'd want to call him. He makes me nervous."

"I understand," Alan nodded. "He was a little intimidating."

Lex looked over her shoulder to make sure the others weren't within earshot, then added: "I have to say, though, I'd rather hitch a ride home with a boatload of escaped ax-murderers than to stay here with the dinosaurs."

Alan laughed. "On the way here, we thought we were riding with a boatload of escaped ax-murderers."

"I'm still not sure about that," Lex replied, smiling.

"I suppose they're not so bad after all," Alan said, and gave her a long, measured look. "Especially Rick."

Lex glanced at Alan, then quickly looked away. "I guess he's okay. I mean, after all, he did take care of my shoulder." She lifted her arm slightly for emphasis.

Alan looked back at the three remaining hired guns. Markinson kept a slight distance from the other two, who were talking quietly between themselves. As Alan watched, Rick bent down and pulled a small rock from the earth, slipping it into his pocket. A few steps later, Carlisle did the same.

He turned back to Lex. "They do seem a little odd at times," he said.

"At times," Lex agreed. "Most times."

Alan smiled. "Still, it seems like you and Rick—"

"Carlisle," Lex cut in suddenly. "You two seem to be getting along a little better." She was a little too forceful, and Alan understood immediately that she didn't want him to finish his thoughts on Rick.

"I could still do without being called 'Doc'," he said quietly.

Lex laughed a little, mostly because she was relieved at having successfully changed the subject.

"Dr. Grant," Rick called from behind them. "You two ought to come try this."

Alan and Lex looked at each other uncertainly, then turned to face the other men.

They were making use of the stones they had gathered. Carlisle took careful aim, hurtling a small, sharp stone into the brush. A small, birdlike squawk issued from the bushes, and the foliage stirred violently for a moment. Several compys emerged, then dove back behind cover.

Rick laughed. "Good shot, John Lee." He then drew his arm back and fired his own projectile into the foliage, producing a satisfying squeal from his vulnerable target. Both men laughed.

By now, Alan and Lex had joined them. Alan looked from Rick to Carlisle with disdain, like a schoolteacher who has caught his two problem students up to no good once again. He held out his hand. "Give me the rocks," he said impatiently.

"Just havin' a little fun, Doc," Carlisle protested.

Rick removed several small rocks from his pockets and dropped them into Alan's waiting palm. After a moment's hesitation, Carlisle did likewise. Lex, who was watching from a few steps away, couldn't help but see the two mighty hunters as addled schoolboys. Next, she thought, Alan would march them to the principal's office. She stifled a laugh with the back of her hand.

"Okay, Dr. Grant," Rick said. "We're done. No more playing around."

Alan gave Rick a cold, sharp look, his eyes narrowed. He slipped the rocks into his own pocket—all but one.

He suddenly posed like a major-league pitcher, glanced to his left as if checking first base, and fired the rock into the brush. A small squeal and a flurry of activity followed.

"Nice one, Doc," Carlisle said respectfully.

Alan nodded, smiling, then turned and continued west.

"All men are children," Lex sighed. "No exceptions." She hurried to catch up to Alan.

Markinson followed, with Rick and John Lee bringing up the rear.

"You saw what just happened, didn't you?" Rick said quietly to Carlisle.

"What?"

"He took all our ammo," Rick answered, bending to scoop up another rock.

Will Bradford stared anxiously at the numbers announcing the elevator's progress to the Lobby level. He shared the elevator with two field agents, who were talking in hushed but excited tones about their most recent run-in with an armed fugitive. He felt a little nostalgic, but it didn't last. He was too concerned about security.

The elevator slowed to a stop at the main floor, a subdued electronic bell announcing their arrival.

Bradford realized that he had begun to sweat just a little despite the building's state-of-the-art climate control system. He stepped off the elevator, trying to look and act as nonchalant as possible.

He was careful to control his pace as he crossed the atrium to the Upper Elevators, which would take him to the offices from the parking garage. If he moved too quickly, it would appear he was in a hurry. Too slowly and it would seem as if he was avoiding something, or, more specifically, it would seem as if he was avoiding the guard's station near the elevator bank.

The distance between elevators in the lobby seemed like miles as he choreographed each step and measured each gesture and expression. He had to look casual, he thought, but not too casual.

Within an arm's length of the elevators, the guard called his name.

"Agent Bradford?"

Time seemed to stand still as he slowly turned toward the stern face at the security station.

"Yes?" he said, trying to sound calm. He failed miserably, and could only hope that the guard hadn't noticed.

"What's in the box?"

Bradford looked at the box tucked under his arm, as if he hadn't noticed it before. The box had once held a ream of computer paper—there were boxes just like it in every office in every city in the country, he was sure. They made the perfect catch-all. There would be serious problems if security decided to inspect it, as they were supposed to do periodically with incoming packages.

"Work," he answered. He could have kicked himself. He hadn't said anything quite so weak and stupid since his first date with Melinda.

"I had to take a bunch of files out with me last night," he continued, suddenly inspired. "Just bringing them back."

The guard nodded slowly.

"I logged them when I left yesterday," Bradford finished triumphantly, armed with the knowledge that the logbook would corroborate.

The guard smiled. "Not trying to interrogate you, Agent Bradford. We're supposed to do random checks, is all."

"Oh," Will stammered, "of course. If you want to see—"

"No, no," the guard cut in, raising his hands palm-forward. "I'm supposed to check. I checked, did I not?" He gave Will a knowing smile.

Will smiled back. "Seems to me like you did," he answered. No trace of nervousness remained in his voice; he had finally got himself under control. The barn door was closed, now that the horse had escaped.

"Have a nice day, Agent Bradford," the guard said politely, still smiling.

"You too, Marcus."

A soft chime sounded, and the elevator doors slid open. Will Bradford stepped inside, relieved but also knowing that his relief would be short-lived.

After all, his day had just begun.

"Starting to look bad already, Doc," Carlisle said soberly. He knelt on the ground next to Grant, studying the small read welts in the skin. Around the bites, irritated red patches were beginning to form.

"Mr. Carlisle," Alan said impatiently, "do you think it's possible for you to stop calling me 'Doc'?"

Carlisle looked at Grant for a long moment, considering. "No," he answered, grinning.

Grant shook his head, an overstated expression of disgust on his face.

Carlisle, still smiling, stood and walked back to the rest of the group. They were seated in a small circle, nibbling at their canned rations. No one seemed very interested; the same bad food, day after day, was beginning to lose its appeal.

"How does it look?" Rick asked as Carlisle took a seat across from him.

"Bad," Carlisle answered. "Not terrible yet, but bad. He'll be needing medical attention in a few days."

Lex sighed audibly. "How long do you think before it gets serious?"

John Lee shrugged. "I can't tell. Three days, give or take—but don't hold me to that."

"I wish I knew what was going on with Malcolm," Lex said in disgust. "We've been trying to reach him since yesterday."

"We'll get somebody here when the time comes," Rick said. "We've got Wallace programmed into the phones, too. And you know your grandfather's number, right? He knows how to get things done."

"I'm not sure I know how to reach Grandpa," Lex admitted sheepishly.

"You're kidding," Carlisle said. "I know my Granny's number by heart."

"Not me," Rick chipped in. "My parents dragged me to Grandma's every other weekend until I was eighteen. I don't have much left to say to her."

"Say it while you can," Markinson said.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him, stunned that he had spoken at all. He participated in their conversations very little, if at all.

"All I mean," he continued, "is that your family won't be around forever."

Carlisle nodded soberly. He was growing to dislike Don Markinson, but he couldn't deny the truth in those words. He looked away, into the forest, feeling suddenly introspective. When he looked back, Markinson had moved away from the group and was tossing rocks into the bushes.

"I wonder what they do when we bed down for the night?" Rick thought aloud. "The compys, I mean."

A chill went through Lex, and she shuddered visibly. Rick moved to put an arm around her, but she stopped him with a single warning expression.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "You shivered. I thought you—"

"You thought what? That I was cold? Please, we're in the tropics here."

Carlisle whistled through his teeth. "I think it's time for me to pick out a good tree," he announced.

"Yeah," Rick agreed. He stood quickly and marched to the edge of the forest.

Lex slipped her pack over her shoulder and got to her feet. With a last glance back at Rick, she walked away in the opposite direction.

Will Bradford slid his keycard through the reader on the door marked security.

Inside was an open room with a meeting table in the center. Notices were plastered all over a cork bulletin board nearby, and in the corner stood a coat rack adorned with a variety of light jackets.

He crossed the meeting room to a second door, which bore a small silvery plaque marked "A/V CENTER".

He rapped twice softly, then turned the knob.

Inside, three technicians sat at various stations, watching a bank of video monitors. Two wore lightweight headsets and were watching a single display with keen interest. The third had his feet propped on the console. He was eating an apple and periodically pressing a key to change the view on the screen in front of him.

"Help you?" he said without looking up.

"Will Bradford," he said, "Project supervisor. I'm doing some work—"

"I know who you are," the guard said past a mouth full of half-chewed fruit. "I know everyone in the building." He waved a hand to indicate the twenty or so video screens that made up his portion of the security console.

"Right," Will said, smiling sheepishly, then continued: "I need to get my hands on the tape from unit TH-3 from last night."

"TH-3…Ian Malcolm. From last night? Nothing happened last night."

Will sighed. "Tell me about it. I told him you guys would report if anything happens, but he insisted I listen to the tape."

"Who insisted?"

"Spooky," Will answered. "He's grasping at straws. He's hoping since Malcolm won't talk in the daytime, he'll talk in his sleep. That's all I can figure."

The guard rolled his eyes, then stood and crossed the narrow room to a steel cabinet. "Sometimes I wonder how he got the top job."

Bradford shrugged. "Maybe he knows something we don't. Doesn't make it any better that I have to spend my evening watching eight hours of a sleeping mathematician and give Eichmann a full report in the morning."

The guard laughed and unlocked the cabinet. He ran his finger along the spines of the dozens of tapes inside, finally stopping and pulling one out somewhere near the center of the case.

"This is it," the guard said. "Got your form?"

Bradford, who had been reaching out to accept the tape, froze. "Form?"

The guard shook his head again. "You guys. I swear, you would think it would be easy enough to remember simple shit like the four-ninety-nine."

"Oh, oh, yes, of course," Bradford said, suddenly remembering. "Eichmann signed it for me."

He reached inside his coat, then suddenly froze again. A look of puzzlement bordering on panic spread across his face. "Wait a sec, I just had it."

He patted all his pockets, searching for the form but producing nothing.

The guard folded his arms impatiently.

"I must have left it on my desk," Bradford sighed. He glanced at his watch and turned to leave.

"Hang on," the guard said. "I got a blank. You can fill it out real quick, and I'll send it back to you in the morning by interoffice mail. You can get his signature and get it back to me tomorrow."

"Thanks," Bradford said, relieved. He ran his hand through his hair. "You're a lifesaver. I have to get home and get this over with, the wife's going to have a cow about the TV being on Malcolm all night as it is."

The guard laughed and handed over the tape. "Remember, I gotta have that form back tomorrow. If you forget, I'll have to take your key codes out of the system."

Bradford nodded. "I won't forget. Thanks again."

The guard waved him off and returned to his seat.

Will Bradford slipped quietly out the door.

Alan climbed carefully up into the tree he had chosen. With every step, with every move, he felt as if his arms and legs might betray him. He was weak from the effort of climbing, and from the exertion of the day's walk, but he knew it was more than that. He knew this sudden onset of instability was the first sign of infection.

He finally reached the forks of the tree and hung his pack on a stout branch. Leaning back, he pulled his hat down over his eyes. Despite the uncomfortable texture of the tree, he was certain he would sleep soon—better, he guessed, than he had in days. He couldn't remember ever having felt such exhaustion.

As he slowly unwound, he was stirred by a sound nearby. It was faint, but its electronic tone was so out of place in the primeval jungle that it startled him. As he listened, the sound repeated itself, and this time he recognized it.

"Lex," he called, his voice just above a whisper, "is that your phone? Who are you calling?"

She didn't answer. Assuming she hadn't heard, he was preparing to call out again when he heard her voice, speaking softly, almost musically in the dark night: "Grandpa?"

He was curious why she would be trying to reach her grandfather now, in the middle of the night. He thought of asking, but before he could speak, he heard her voice again: "I'm sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number." He heard a faint click, then the sound of Lex swearing softly.

Ian was surprised to hear his cell door open.

He turned to look just as Bradford entered. Before Ian could speak, Bradford shushed him. He held the door open with his left leg, bending down and picking up a cardboard box—the kind that paper comes in—from the corridor.

Ian lay on his side, as still as possible, trying not to make it obvious that someone was in his room. He watched as Bradford removed a black, rectangular object from the cardboard box and placed it on the floor. He carefully unwound a cord from the black rectangle, and Ian recognized then that Bradford had brought a VCR.

He continued to observe, more curious than ever, as Bradford plugged the VCR into the wall outlet and powered it up. He pressed PLAY on the front panel—Ian could see the word spelled out in green LED lights—then pulled another cord from the back of the unit.

Reaching high above his head, Bradford placed the end of the cord against the wall near the security camera. With his other hand, he went to work on something behind the camera, out of Ian's view. It didn't take long to figure out what was happening.

Finishing up, Bradford checked his work one last time, then turned back to the box. He knelt down, rummaging through its contents, speaking to Ian without looking up:

"I just bought us eight hours, Dr. Malcolm, " he said matter-of-factly. "We need to use it wisely, so let's do this as quickly as possible."

"Maybe we could start with, ah, a little synopsis of exactly what the hell you're doing."

"Getting you out of here," Bradford answered. "That's all you need to know up front."

He tossed a set of grease-stained coveralls to Malcolm. "I hope they fit. Buying clothes must be hell for you."

Ian said nothing; he was still struck dumb by the unexpected events unfolding before him. A little smuggled food was a gesture of sympathy. This was lunacy.

"You'll need to put the clothes on," Bradford urged, "they won't do much good in your lap."

Ian stood up, unbuttoning his shirt.

"No, no," Bradford said, stopping him. "They're coveralls. Get it? Cover, alls? Put them on over your clothes, we don't have all night."

Ian unfolded the oily blue garment and, after taking a moment to sort out which end was up, stepped into them.

"Okay," Bradford explained. "After lights out, you go through this door, take a right. Take the elevator at the end of the hall to sublevel 1—that's where the maintenance shop and the motor pool are. Find someplace in maintenance to duck out for a while."

He handed Ian a security card and a wristwatch.

"Nice watch," Ian remarked.

"Five bucks, you can keep it. Now, you stay in maintenance until 1 a.m. Don't worry, there's not going to be a maintenance man in there. One guy works this shift, everyone else is on call, and the one guy is down shooting the breeze at the security desk by the main entrance."

"Someone's been doing their homework," Ian said, impressed.

"At 1 a.m., you slip out of that office and go to the double doors at the end of the hall. You'll have to use the card again. That's the motor pool garage. I'll have a suitable vehicle picked out, and a cover story ready for why I need a maintenance guy to go with me."

"Wait," Ian said suddenly, holding both hands up, palms forward. "This, ah…this isn't making any sense."

"I'll have to explain it later, when we have more time. Trust me, Dr. Malcolm, this makes more sense than anything that's happened since you've been here."

2/4/2003 1:06:48 PM

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