Dinosaur Summer (36 page)

They looked across the low, lightly forested southern shore of Lake Akuena. Clouds of morpho butterflies scattered from the bushes and trees like blue smoke. Anthony and Wetherford joined them but OBie stayed behind, waiting for the raft to come ashore. Peter did not catch what Cooper and OBie were saying to each other; he was intent on the trees and scrub, and on two objects bobbing beyond a copse of slender light green trees just south of the shore. One object was white: Peter recognized the spray of a death eagle's neck feathers. The other was dark: a venator's head!

"What do we do, lads?" Wetherford asked. He looked at Anthony, Ray, and Peter.

"They need help," Peter said.

"Righto," Wetherford said. "Here's my chance, at least."

Wetherford ran ahead of them, then thought better of so much extra valor and slowed a bit. Ray caught up with him.

"Are you up to this, Father?" Peter whispered to Anthony as they tried to keep up with the pair.

Anthony snorted. "Are you?" he said, his face flushed with exertion and something else--pride, determination, and sheer curiosity--but also a flashing emptiness that took Peter by surprise, and both saddened him and made him proud.

That look summed up Anthony perfectly and his son felt an inner twinge. Peter was concerned about Vince and Billie, but if they hadn't been out there somewhere, possibly in danger, he would have preferred to wait for the raft.

Anthony would have gone anyway.

They climbed down from the promontory and followed the shore for a hundred yards, until they saw the trainer's boot prints and Billie's sandal prints leave the sandy margin and point into the grass.

Peter stayed close to his father, realizing--convinced--for the first time in his life that to be different from Anthony was not to be inferior. He was as brave as his father; he was as willing to risk his neck to help friends.

But Peter had a stronger sense than his father of who he was and where he belonged; he was not a feather that would blow with the breeze directly into any fire.

They helped each other over a thick grassy hummock. The copse lay ahead. They heard another rifle shot, an aquiline shriek, the avalanche-like pounding of heavy feet. The trees swayed as half seen monsters pushed against them from the other side.

The men picked their steps with care now, skirting the tall slender trees. They were thirty yards from the animals and not even Anthony was going to rush into this scene willy-nilly.

"Do you see them?" Ray asked Peter.

"No," Peter said, and then he caught sight of Billie's head of smooth black hair. The Indian was running out of the path of a huge venator. This was the female, Peter reasoned--taller and bulkier than a male, a close match in sheer muscle power and lethal weapons for the death eagle, which was still half hidden behind the trees.

The female was paying no attention to Billie. Neither animal seemed concerned with the humans, even as another shot was fired. Billie had no rifle.

"That's Shellabarger," Anthony said. "But where is he?"

Billie ran toward them, short powerful legs fairly flying him over the grass and ferns. The death eagle raced from behind the tall trees toward him and Billie dove into a thick patch of ferns. The huge avisaur turned at the last moment, lifted its gorget and gaping beak, and spread its forearms like outstretched wings.

The venator leaped forward, making the ground tremble, and snapped at the death eagle's side, scraping its hide with her teeth and snatching a mouthful of feathers, but gaining little real satisfaction. The venator shook her head, sending feathers flying. The animals circled, heads level with their outstretched tails, the venator's long tail lean and stiff, moving only a little side to side, the death eagle's broad tail half as long and dressed with a fan of thick black and green feathers. The death eagle jerked its tail up, then dropped it, and the feathers made a sound like scrub brushes as they spread wide.

Billie crawled from the ferns, leaped to his feet, and ran.

Anthony and Ray saw Shellabarger simultaneously. Anthony pointed him out for Peter. The trainer lay on top of a broad, low pile of rocks southwest of the trees, about fifty yards from them. He had assumed a sharpshooter's position with his rifle pointing at the animals.

"What in hell is he doing?" Ray asked. Billie reached them and dropped to his knees. "They are trying to kill each other!" he gasped. "Two Challengers--very bad!"

"What happened?" Anthony asked.

The animals paid as much attention to the humans as two sparring bulls might have to toy poodles.

"Shellabarger, he went to the venator's nest," Billie said. "He does not tell me why. The female is not there, but the eggs are buried--under straw and shit!"

"To keep them warm," Ray said.

"He wants to take an egg. He says the venator will be dead soon, with no mate, but the eggs can be saved."

"By whom?" Wetherford asked, dumfounded. "Who wants one?"

"Then we hear the female coming back, and behind her, from behind the trees, he has been hiding, we seeDinoshi!"

Anthony started forward, but Ray and Wetherford grabbed his arms.

"Hold on," Wetherford said. "We need a plan."

"I'm going to help Vince!"

"Help him do what?" Wetherford asked.

"Get away."

Wetherford narrowed his eyes and lifted his mouth into a dubious half sneer. "He's where he wants to be, for some reason. He could have followed Billie if he wanted to."

"He's trying to help the venator," Peter said.

Wetherford's scowl deepened as he swiveled to face Peter. "Why, for Christ's sake?"

Peter knew, but clear expression in words did not seem possible. "Because of Dagger," he said. "Because we screwed up getting Dagger here . . . to his home."

Wetherford seemed ready to spit. "Vince Shellabarger, the grand old man of dinosaur exploitation, who's pulled more bloody beasts off this plateau than anybody, you mean Shellabarger takes all this show-business-return-the-dinosaurs, save-the-plateau crap seriously?"

"I'd say he does," Ray said.

Wetherford laughed. "He's trying to shoot adeath eagle! " he hooted in disbelief.

"Distracting it, is my guess," Anthony said. "And I'd keep my voice down, if I were you, just in case the animals decide it's a draw and break for a snack."

Anthony grabbed Peter by the shoulder. "Whatever Vince wants to do, he's crazy not to leave now and come with us. We may have to pull him out of there--or help him."

Wetherford stamped his foot. "Bloody hell!"

Peter saw someone walking toward them from the corner of his eye and turned. Merian Cooper carted a camera on a wooden tripod up to where they stood, planted it, put his eye to the viewfinder, and said, "Ray, you know this place better than me. Tell me when I should pack up and get the hell out of here." The camera began to whir.

Ray steadied the tripod.

"Weall should get the hell out of here," Wetherford said. Peter agreed but saw his father's point. If the trainer wanted to die here, that was his concern--but if he wanted to do something as crazy as save a venator's egg, save a desperate species from extinction--even something as dangerous, as terrifying, as ancient and gory-breathed asAltovenator ferox --that was different.

Peter felt dizzied by this reversal of emotion, a sudden irrational resolve. He was not like his father, but--

This was something that had to be done.

"Is that the venator's nest?" Anthony asked Billie. "Where Shellabarger is? Yes. It is filled with straw and shit and bones."

Anthony disregarded that. "Did you go in there with him?"

"Not all the way," Billie said.

"Are there eggs in there?"

"I did not see."

"Young?"

"I did not see."

The beasts lunged at each other. The venator female took the death eagle by its right forelimb and jerked her head sideways, ripping the limb off at the shoulder. Peter expected the death eagle to lift its head and scream with rage and pain, as it might have done in a movie, but it silently sank its beak into the venator's shoulder and shook furiously, slicing loose a chunk of flesh and bone the size of a human torso. It did not swallow this, but tossed it high in the air. The piece of venator shoulder landed barely ten feet from them. This was finally enough for Wetherford. He turned and passed OBie as he came up from the beach.

"There's a rain squall moving in," OBie called. He carried a heavy hunting rifle--an elephant gun, by its looks. "Pilot wants us in the plane now!"

Cooper grunted and kept on filming. OBie grimly sized up the situation. "Boys, we're all going to end up guano if we don't leave now."

"Here's the plan," Anthony said.

Peter and Ray hunched over like football players to listen.

"Run to the nest. Ray and I grab Vince and haul him out of there. Peter, you find an egg--two if they're not too large-- and don't take more than a few seconds in the nest!"

OBie lifted the rifle. "I'll try to cover you."

"Peter," Anthony said as they prepared to make the dash to the nest. "You are my son and I am proud of you and I love you with all my heart."

"Dad, we're crazy as loons. I love you, too."

"My lad!" Anthony said. He lifted his finger to his lips and smiled. "Don't tell your mom."

Anthony jumped through a brake of ferns and Ray and Peter followed. Despite his father's weakness of an hour before, they had a hard time keeping up with him. He dashed back and forth as if dodging bullets.

He's back on Sicily,Peter realized. The lumbering shapes to the east seemed right on top of them, but they were still thirty or forty yards away.

They jumped over humps of grass and bush and ferns, skirted low tree saplings bent by the wind, and ran up the mound onto the edge of the pile of rocks and sticks. The trainer lay beside a green and brown mound of debris that smelled fearsomely bad.

Shellabarger rolled over on his back and glared at them. His right pants leg showed a fresh bloody stain just above the knee.

"I've broken my leg in these rocks," he said. "Bone's punched through."

"Lift him," Anthony said. He and Ray stepped over the boulders carefully and bent to grab the trainer's arms.

"Peter, there are eggs in the middle of the shit," Shellabarger said. "Under the leaves and sticks and--"

"He knows," Ray grunted.

They brought Shellabarger up sharply. His broken leg dangled and he gritted his teeth, stifling a scream. Peter picked his way over the clumps of dried whitened feces and bones--a femur half as tall as he was, a rack of two-inch-thick ribs still coated with hide and bumpy diamond-shaped armor plates--and dug his hands deep into the gray-crusted mound in the center. The black and slippery dung beneath had been piled at least three feet high.

He reached in up to his elbow, feeling the steaming warmth of fermentation. His stomach began to do flips. His fingers caught something sharp and he grimaced, pushed sideways. They jammed against something hard. He fumbled around the shape quickly--rounded, about ten inches long. Nose held high, he dug furiously and pulled a brown ovoid out of the hot muck. In the hole, he saw another, somewhat smaller egg, and reached for that as well.

"PETER!" Anthony shouted.

He pulled out the second egg, looked up, and his foot skidded. Peter fell up to his shoulders in the mess. Shit spattered one side of his face and got into his mouth, but that did not concern him.

The venator had seen her nest being disturbed. The death eagle had moved a dozen yards away from her to reassess the battle, and she took the opportunity to aim directly for the nest--and for Peter. She lowered her head and ran over the rocks and scrub with a weakened, hobbling gait--at less than the speed of a well-bred horse trotting. Her shoulder was a broad patch of red; she was bleeding to death, but she would not allow herself to die before defending her nest.

The venator seemed taller than any tree, bigger than a PBY, all teeth and dripping blood and black, looming shadow. Peter froze. Rain hit his face like small wet hammers.

He stood up with painful slowness and saw that he had pulled both of the brown spotted eggs up to his chest. He clutched them in his arms. Together they weighed about thirty pounds. They steamed in the cold rain.

Irrationally, he thought,They will die if we don't keep them warm.

Eggs held firmly, he jumped from rock to rock and down the side of the nest. The air seemed to sizzle with rain and a trilling roar vibrated his chest.

He saw Cooper with the camera, OBie and Billie standing behind, then he glanced to the left and saw his father and Ray carrying Shellabarger. Peter streaked over the ground, faster than he had ever run in his life, and was within twenty feet of the three when a branch tripped him and he sprawled. His forehead whacked the dirt hard and he almost blacked out. The eggs flew and landed in a thick stand of grass. The world spun; he caught a blurred glimpse of Shellabarger tossing Ray and Anthony like a circus strongman throwing off shill wrestlers. The trainer bounced on one leg and raised his hands to the sky--

A three-toed foot trampled a bush and dug into the dirt not five feet from where Peter lay. The air smelled of stale parrot and butcher shop.

Peter rolled. The female venator's snout and rows of long yellow teeth plunged through the sheets of rain like a speeding truck and her jaws opened to show a horny black tongue and a throat like a purple tunnel.

A rifle butt cracked her in the side of the head and broke in two. Shellabarger stood over Peter on one leg; how he had come this far, Peter did not know. The venator jerked to one side and diverted her downward swoop just enough to wrap her teeth around the trainer's arm and ribs. She lifted him like a high-speed elevator. Shellabarger grabbed her head with his arms and she bit down with the fresh wood snap of splintering bones.

Peter saw Shellabarger's face as he was lifted, saw the trainer's eyes fixed on his own, his lips set tight and turned down at the sides, and then Vince Shellabarger's jaw hung loose as if he were already dead but passing on a final message--something words would never convey.