The Dinosaur Club Read online

  Waters’s eyes narrowed slightly. Then he offered another smile. “Yeah, I heard you boys had some kind of club. That what it’s about? Getting back in shape?”

  “Just a reaction to some rumors, Charlie.”

  “Rumors? What rumors, Jack?”

  The response was openly false, and Fallon bit back a need to tell him so. “The word filtering down is that the company is headed toward some rather heavy downsizing, and that the people who are fifty-plus are on the block.”

  Waters seemed startled by the words—or perhaps by Fallon’s frankness. He moved physically back in his chair.

  “Hell, that’s nonsense, Jack. I mean, sure, we’re looking toward some downsizing. We need to make this company a little leaner and meaner. Economics demand it. But the idea’s in its infancy, and we sure as hell aren’t gearing anything to age. Christ, Jack, that’s illegal. And it’s certainly something I would never condone.”

  The man was lying through his teeth. Fallon felt suddenly sickened. They went a long way back—almost all of his adult life. He stared across the desk, sadness heavy in his eyes.

  “Does Carter know that?” he asked.

  Waters seemed flustered again. “Jesus, Jack, you’re obsessed with Carter. Look, if you’re worried you’re somehow going to be affected …”

  Fallon’s temper flared. He fought it. “I’m not worried, Charlie. I’m a big boy. But I’m damned concerned about the people who work for me. And they’re concerned too—right down to the assistants and clerical staff.” He stared Waters down. “People who work for you, Charlie. And who’ve done a damned fine job for a lot of years.” He struggled to moderate his tone, then continued, “None of them deserve to be humiliated. None of them deserve to be forced out. No matter what Carter Bennett thinks. And I can’t just sit back and watch it happen.”

  Waters bristled. “That sounds like a threat, Jack.”

  Fallon drew a breath, looked down at the floor. He didn’t want the meeting to degenerate into a shouting match. It would do no one any good. He raised his eyes, softened his voice.

  “It’s no threat, Charlie. I’m telling you how I feel about it. About what I perceive to be happening.” He held Waters’s eyes. “Charlie, it’s my company, too. It has been most of my life. And I can’t sit back and watch something happen that I believe is wrong.”

  Waters fiddled with the edge of his vest. It was an old habit that Fallon recognized. Waters’s hands always sought something to do when he himself was uncertain about what to say next.

  “Jack, I understand your position.” Waters’s demeanor had turned coldly serious—his version of false sincerity. “And I’m sorry Carter has left you out of the loop on things. But I assure you nothing disastrous is afoot. I’ll speak to him; make sure he keeps you apprised.”

  The check is in the mail, Fallon thought.

  “So I tell my people not to worry?”

  Waters seemed to consider the statement, the future legal problems acquiescence might present. He doesn’t trust you on this, Fallon thought.

  “Jack, I can’t make broad-based statements about anything right now. As I told you, we’re evaluating our entire cost structure. Sooner or later decisions will have to be made.” He waved a hand. “Hell, maybe we’ll scrap the whole idea of downsizing.” He leaned forward, intent now. “I need you to be a team player on this, Jack. Just as you’ve always been.”

  Fallon sat back. The game was over. No points scored. He let out a weary breath. “That’s what I am, Charlie.” He paused a beat. “So are the guys who work for me. We’re all company men—a team.”

  “Jack, I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that,” Waters said.

  17

  FALLON STOOD BEFORE THE WINDOW AND STARED INTO the clearing. Beyond, the forest floor seemed to run forever; the towering pines all but obliterating a distant mountain peak.

  When he had come there as a boy the pines had been smaller, leaving more of the mountain visible. The real estate agent had suggested clearing some of the trees to recapture that view, claiming it might raise the value of the property. But he had decided against it. He had seen areas of Vermont and New Hampshire and Maine where timber companies had clear-cut large sections of older forest for economic gain. Here, he thought, at least while he still owned it, the trees would remain.

  The Realtor had visited the cabin yesterday, and they had agreed on a listing and a price. He had been assured the cabin and its two hundred acres would sell quickly. With deer season only a few months off, the market was brisk. Fallon was surprised how the idea saddened him. The cabin was a place he visited only a few times a year, yet it now seemed an integral part of his boyhood; something, he realized, that his long-dead father had taken great pride in owning.

  Samantha came up behind him, unheard. She was wrapped in a heavy blanket; her hair tousled by sleep. She nuzzled against him, and he slipped his arm about her shoulders.

  “You get up too early,” she said. “I heard you moving around hours ago.”

  “Go back to bed. It’s only seven.”

  “Uh-uh. I want to hear the little birds, and see the furry bunnies.”

  “My, aren’t we feeling woodsy?”

  Samantha snuggled in closer. “That’s me. Nanook of the North.” She shivered. “God, it’s still summer. Why is it so cold here in the mornings?”

  “It’ll warm up later. I can lay a fire.”

  “Oh, please. I’ll make some coffee.”

  “It’s already on,” Fallon said.

  “Wonderful. I’ll just snuggle up on the sofa and wait for heat.”

  Samantha made her way to the sofa and curled up in one corner. Even on a chill morning the cabin exuded its own singular warmth. Its knotty-pine walls, exposed beams, and well-worn floors spoke of a permanence, an ability to endure. The furnishings were simple and rustic—overstuffed sofas and chairs, tables by local artisans, made from wood still covered in bark that had been gleaned from the forest and molded for use. The bearskin rug—his father’s trophy—lay before the fireplace. They had made love there the previous night, the fire blazing; the stuff of dreams, she thought.

  She watched Fallon lay the fire. His broad back filled the flannel shirt, tapered down to a waist already far narrower than when they first met. In the early morning light she could see flecks of gray in his hair, and she wondered at how that now marked a man for extinction rather than distinction. The world—at least her world—was going mad, she decided. Women, to have real value, were expected to emulate eighteen-year-old anorexics; their true worth determined by their thighs. Men, though permitted some plumpness, dared not pass the age of forty without the security of a trust fund. She smiled at the absurdity. Perhaps some cabal existed—some secret group of plastic surgeons and hairdressers—that was manipulating public perceptions so face-lifts and hair dye would be required for all.

  The fire now going, Fallon stood and stretched. Samantha smiled again.

  “You know, Fallon, for an old dinosaur you’ve got a great tush,” she said.

  He turned to her, his expression dumbfounded; then he began to laugh. “Thanks, Moore. For a woman pushing thirty-five you’ve got a pretty nice tush, yourself.”

  “What do you mean, pretty nice? These are buns of steel. Bought and paid for in the company gym. The cabal will never get me.”

  “The cabal?” He grinned at her. “I think this mountain air is affecting your mind.” He waited for her to explain. When it became obvious she would not, he winked at her. “Anyway, the veracity of your claims to a superior tush will remain in doubt as long as you stay wrapped up in that Indian blanket.”

  “Nice try, Fallon. But you’ll just have to trust me,” she said. “At least until this cabin warms up.”

  The old logging trail moved up a slight rise, cutting through outcroppings of rock on either side. The forest floor was heavy with fern, dotted by occasional wild laurel and incongruously delicate trillium, which sat like white jewels among a sea of green.r />
  Samantha knelt beside one of the frail wild lilies. Her finger traced its whorl of three leaves, out of which rose a solitary three-petaled flower.

  “How do they live here?” she wondered aloud.

  Fallon knelt beside her. It did seem illogical—something so delicate surviving such harsh surroundings. “Must be like us—tougher than it looks.”

  Samantha continued to study the flower. “Are we tough, jack? Sometimes I’m not sure.”

  “Maybe resilient is a better word. We endure. It’s something about human beings. Surrender comes hard to us.”

  They continued on, moving along the ancient logging trails that crisscrossed the forest. Fallon explained that the trails dated back to a time before the Adirondacks became protected—that he, and his father before him, had hired someone each year to drive a bushwhacker along them, just to keep the forest from reasserting its claim.

  They took various turns, one trail to another. It seemed a giant maze. After an hour Samantha became concerned. “Are we lost?” Her eyes begged him to say they were not.

  He raised his chin to another crossing trail that lay ahead. “We turn right just up there, and then a few hundred yards on we’ll hit the cabin,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t see how anyone finds their way back.”

  “In the winter, when there’s snow, it’s easy. You follow your own boot tracks. It’s an old hunter’s trick—knowing the sole pattern of your own boots, so you don’t confuse them with others you might come across. Any other time of year you’d have to mark trees at each crossing. If you didn’t, you’d be lost in minutes, and your chances of finding your way out would be pretty slim. The forest rangers here spend most of the summer searching for lost hikers.”

  “But you didn’t mark anything,” Samantha said.

  “I’ve been walking these trails since I was nine years old,” he said. “I’ve seen every turn more times than I can remember.”

  Samantha was still skeptical—the questioning attorney. “What if you wandered off a trail, and then found yourself in an area where they didn’t exist?”

  “I’d walk until I found a stream. Then I’d be okay.”

  “Why a stream?” she asked.

  “Streams run downhill. Sometimes they’ll connect with other streams, but they still keep moving down. You just follow the downward course. Eventually, the stream will cross a road.” He grinned. “It’s inevitable—a gift of civilization. Unfortunately, most people who go hiking in the woods don’t know that. So they get lost, and usually keep walking in circles.”

  “So you’re Nanook of the North,” she said. She began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I was just thinking of Carter,” she said.

  “How unpleasant for you.”

  “Did you know he enters paintball competitions?” She laughed again. “He’s quite proud of it, fanatical even.” She decided not to tell him that Bennett had invited her to go with him on more than one occasion.

  “He showed me photographs once—even a map of one of the courses. Some have old tanks and military vehicles scattered around, and elaborate trails. They all carry their maps with them, of course, so they won’t get lost. Then they dress up in camouflage clothing and hunt each other down. They even have tournaments. The person who avoids being splattered with paint wins. And he gets a trophy. Carter keeps his in his office.”

  Vietnam flashed in Fallon’s mind—crawling through steaming heat, the surrounding jungle rank with the smell of death and decay, almost but not quite overwhelming the scent of his own fear—hunting men who were hunting you. Except those men had had real guns, and the dying that inevitably came wasn’t a game. It came with screams of agony and fear.

  “Bless his heart,” Fallon said.

  Samantha ignored the sarcasm. “I was just thinking about Carter and all his paintball friends. About what would happen if they held one of their tournaments here. They wouldn’t have any maps and they’d probably all get lost and wander around aimlessly until somebody rescued them. Carter would be crushed.”

  “I’d prefer it if he just stayed lost,” Fallon said.

  Samantha laughed again. “That’s another option,” she said.

  * * *

  They arrived back at Fallon’s house shortly after five. Samantha had packed clothes for work and would spend the night. Fallon grilled steaks, and opened a bottle of Eger Bikavér—one of his favorites, a full-bodied Hungarian red wine that, translated, meant “bull’s blood.”

  Samantha laughed at the name when he told her, and teased him about his flagrant machismo. He offered to provide proof of his virility, and she laughed even more, and he marveled at the ease and comfort that existed between them.

  After dinner they retreated to the living room, to the small sofa set before the fireplace. It brought back fresh memories of the cabin, and Samantha recalled how his body had felt as they lay before the fire.

  “Make a fire, Jack,” she said. He turned to her, his face curious, even doubtful. “Please?” she added.

  Fallon inclined his head to one side. “We’re not in the mountains now,” he said. “And it’s summer. We’ll roast if we do.”

  There was no resistance in his words, only humor. She could tell he liked the idea. “We can turn on the air conditioner,” she said.

  He laughed and got to his feet. “There’s some wood out back,” he said. “Let’s hope the neighbors don’t see the smoke and call the fire department.”

  They sat before the fire, the long-sleeve shirts they had worn back from the mountains cast aside, their bodies stripped down to T-shirts, each knowing those would soon be shed as well. It was eight-thirty when the doorbell rang.

  Fallon glanced at his watch. His first thought brought a chill: Trisha had sent the kids packing from the condo. He dismissed it. They each had their own key. Had they returned home unexpectedly, he would already be under the baleful glare of his daughter. He offered Samantha a regretful shrug. “Probably some neighbor, who wants to make sure the house isn’t burning down,” he said.

  He moved to the door, trying to conjure up a reasonable excuse for the fire. When he opened it, Trisha stood before him, a key clutched in her hand. She stared at him. Her chin was trembling.

  “You changed the locks,” she said.

  Fallon was momentarily stunned. “No, I didn’t.” Anger flooded in as the accusation registered. He wanted to tell her that he wished he had, but simply hadn’t thought of it. He stared at her hand. “You’ve got the wrong key,” he said instead.

  Trisha stared at the key. Her eyes blinked. Then her chin trembled again. She looked back at him, tears only seconds away.

  “Jack, I’ve come home,” she said.

  Fallon glanced past her. The baby-blue Mustang convertible was in the driveway. His children were standing beside it. He looked back at Trisha. She had dressed carefully in off-white silk, blouse and pants. Her makeup had been artfully applied; she looked fetching, seductive. There was a suitcase by her feet. Fallon was dumbfounded.

  “I asked the children to wait by the car until we talked.” That said, she picked up her suitcase and stepped into the foyer.

  Fallon stepped quickly in front of her, stopping her progress. “Wait a minute, Trish. Uh-uh. You don’t live here anymore. Remember? You live in Manhattan with Howard.”

  Trisha’s eyes filled with disbelief, then hurt. Her chin trembled again. “I’ve left him.” Her voice was choked. “I’ve been a fool, Jack.”

  Fallon held up his hands. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. The last time I spoke to you Howard was still Mr. Wonderful. You gave him all our furniture. Christ, you even gave him my bathrobe.”

  “The furniture is coming back.” She sniffed, held back the tears.

  What about my damned bathrobe? Fallon asked himself. Immediately, he felt ridiculous even thinking it. He searched for something else to say. Trisha beat him to it.

  “I found out that Howard isn’
t the man I thought he was.” Her voice turned into a wail and tears began to flow. “Jack, please don’t ask me any more about it. Not now.”

  Fallon stared at her. He wondered if libidinous old Howard had climbed into yet another bed. If he had, what did Trish expect? Was he supposed to get a gun and avenge her honor?

  He shook his head, part in rejection of what she had said, part to clear his own thoughts. “Look, Trish, I’m sorry he hurt you. I really am. But it doesn’t change anything between us. You left. You filed for divorce.”

  Trisha choked back more tears. “Don’t be cruel, Jack.” She sobbed. “I was frightened by all the insecurity I saw heading our way, and Howard seemed … so secure … and he said he wanted me, was ready to leave his wife for me. It seemed like such an easy way to escape everything … everything that terrified me.” She drew a long breath. “Now I see what a fool I was, and I want you to forgive me. I want to make it up to you.”

  Fallon was momentarily stunned. She was implying it had been his fault—the insecurity he had put in their lives. Reality hit, and anger simmered. She was running a game on him. Even if what she said was true, it was still a game. Men didn’t offer to leave their wives for women they hadn’t already slept with. No, Trish had made a bad choice, and now she wanted back in on what she had already thrown away. Fallon thought of his children waiting outside, both now part of this madness, drawn in by their mother—pawns to help her get out of her failed escapade.

  “I’m sorry, Trish. I just can’t buy it.”

  She stared into his eyes; her own eyes were filled with need and regret. He wondered if she sensed that the chance she wanted was slipping away. “I’ve talked to the children, Jack, and they think it’s the right thing for me to do. The right thing for both of us.”

  “You didn’t have any right to do that,” he snapped. His anger flared, and he started to say more, but his words were cut off by her eyes. She was staring past him, pupils dilated, mouth open in disbelief. He looked back. Samantha stood in the doorway of the living room. The T-shirt and jeans she wore made her look younger than she was.