Chapter I

 

            Alan Grant muttered a curse that at one time in his life had been as alien to his mouth as the taste of hard liquor. But as he hauled his sore body off the ripped and worn couch, he was already wishing that the Jack Daniels bottle that sat precariously on the edge of the coffee table—or, rather, what used to be a coffee table—wasn’t empty.

            Last night had been a hard one.

            It would have been the twentieth anniversary of the day he met Ellie.

            He accidentally knocked the liquor-less glass off the table. It didn’t shatter. Doesn’t matter, he thought. His mantra. His repeated solace.

            Groaning, Grant massaged his eyelids, feeling the crustiness break away, trying to erase the years of bad memories and wake himself up, like he did every morning.

            As usual, he was unsuccessful on both counts.

            He stood unsteadily and then stumbled his way into what passed as a kitchen. Brushing away beer bottles and other such clutter absently with his feet, Grant made it to the refrigerator, where he clumsily swung open the door. He stared at the contents mindlessly for a moment, and then his eyes focused and he chose the Budweiser closest to the back of the fridge.

            Popping the top with the end of the table, Grant moved around the kitchen island and groped the dial for the AM/FM radio, his only real connection with the outside world, and drank from the bottle.

            His world consisted of the broken down old trailer, the same one he’d used since his better days in paleontology, though it had come into considerable disrepair. The walls and shelves that once proudly displayed dinosaur and paleo-memorablia had long before become barren, lifeless. Wallpaper that Ellie had painstakingly put on the thin trailer walls were in the late stages of decay and had long ago begun to peel. The tables and counters that had once been his laboratory were messy with the kind of litter that came from a single man, living his life alone in utter depression in the middle of the Montana Badlands.

            He shifted the old radio so that the speaker faced the couch and then fell back down as if coming home from a bad day at work.

            He grunted. He wished he had a job.

            Grant flipped through the channels until he found the news. “—the wake of the devastating hurricane, many are struggling to continue living their lives the way it was before. But even the strongest are finding it difficult.”

            More about the hurricanes. God, couldn’t they ever leave it alone? Yeah, that’s sad, all those people homeless and what not. But haven’t we heard enough?

            “I guess not,” he said aloud, taking a long chug.

            He was about to change the channel when he heard something that made his blood run cold and he didn’t even bother resisting the impulse to turn up the volume.

            “Tragedy this morning as word comes from San Diego that InGen CEO John Hammond died in his sleep last night. The eighty-eight year old entrepreneur is estimated to have passed away at approximately 1:30 A.M. as a result of cardiac arrest. Hammond, best known for his involvement in the San Diego Incident of ’97, is survived only by his two grandchildren, Timothy and Alexis Murphy. Ms. Murphy declined comment, but her brother confirmed that they had been expecting this day for quite some time. According to our inside business sources, Hammond’s will is scheduled to be read tomorrow afternoon and the outcome of InGen’s future will be decided.”

            “Jesus,” Grant said, his hand massaging his mouth as he always did when either in deep thought or bombarded by emotion. “Jesus.”

            He downed the remainder of the beer and stared at the far wall as if questing for answers to questions he hadn’t yet asked.

            Hammond was dead.

            The old man had finally joined the choirs. Like Tim had said, everyone had seen it as a sure thing, only a matter of when, but he hadn’t anticipated it to shock him like it did. Hammond was the reason he was who he was. Why he lived his life the way he did.

            But in his heart, Hammond hadn’t been an object of hate. On the contrary, he’d been a symbol of admiration. The sincerity of that voice and the twinkle in those childlike eyes…Grant had long ago come to terms with his feelings for the man. True, he had publicly spoken out against Hammond and InGen, but always with a flood of respect. For had Grant been given the chance, twelve years ago, to recreate the animals he had so fallen in love with, then he would have without any hesitation, any thought.

            Hammond hadn’t done it for money or even for fame. He did it for a far more noble cause, a cause which Grant would have had no trouble believing in as a child. Ellie had told him about their talk back on Isla Nublar, where Hammond revealed that he had done it simply to give children (and those young at heart) something to marvel in. It was glory, sure, but a glory that did not deserve damnation.

            As far as Grant was concerned, all Hammond was guilty of was being a misguided idealist. There were other ways to send people into rapture without playing with the power of God, and yet Hammond had missed them. He had thought big—the biggest—and he could hardly be charged with anything more than lack of clarity in thought. He was just a charismatic old man looking to leave a legacy.

            An aim, he had said, not devoid of merit.

            It was when he realized that hot tears were rolling down his cheeks that he finally stood and quickly walked the length of the trailer to the bathroom. He hastily turned the faucet on, splashing the warm water against his face like a slap. He tore the hand towel from its wall-mounted bar, breaking the thin plastic.

            “Fuck!” he screamed into the cloth.

            He fell back onto the toilet and wallowed, thoughts racing through his head faster than he had time to process them. He closed his eyes and took deep, cleansing breaths, trying to calm his beating heart, like Dr. Terrence had showed him.

            When he felt he had gotten a hold of himself, he righted himself and leaned against the sink. He went through his morning routine: a warm shower, brushing his teeth, finding clothes that didn’t stink too bad…

            He would have to go back into town today. His water tank was running low so he’d have to refill for the week and he also had to power up the battery to keep his generator going. He’d also like to clean up in here and throw out all the trash that had compiled the last two weeks.

            And he wanted to make a phone call.

 

            “Morning, Dr. Grant,” Newman, the gas attendant, greeted as Grant jumped out of his pick-up. “One of these days that old Ford’s going to let you down.”

            Grant went to the trailer’s back tire. The trailer itself was hooked to the pick-up’s hitch, which was just as old and rusted as the mobile home’s axles. Kicking the tire and grunting, Grant looked up at Newman.

“How many times have I told you not to call me ‘Doctor”?” he asked, forcing a smile.

From behind his bushy mustache, Newman laughed, briefly putting a hand to his beer belly. “And how many times have I told you ‘at least one more time, Dr. Grant’?”

“Too many times,” Grant said, passing by him on his way to the station building. “Plug the generator into the battery and fill up the pick-up, would you? And air up the tires.”

“Sure thing, Professor. All the tires?”

“Yeah.” Grant stopped and turned around. “Oh, and even if I had the money, I’d never pick a Chevy over a Ford.”

Newman scoffed. “Your loss.”

A shadow fell across Grant’s face. Loss? Newman, you don’t know what loss is.

Newman, his back to the former paleontologist, didn’t notice and began the task Grant had put to him.

Grant’s frown followed him into the store, where he reached into his back pocket for his credit card. The card InGen had given him. The card personally sent to him by John Hammond.

“I know you’re falling on hard times, my boy,” the old man had said over the phone.

“There’s no room for paleontology in this brave new world,” Grant had remarked blandly.

“Aye, that’s why I feel responsible for it. If it hadn’t been for me, paleontology would still be a thriving science, with new discoveries every year—”

“See, that’s the thing that no one understands,” Grant had interjected vehemently, gripping the receiver in a vise grip. “The universities and the grant-givers are following the beliefs of the public instead of following the truth. The public thinks that because of what you’ve done, paleontology is as useless a science as geocentric orbits.”

“It’s not.”

“No, it’s not, John,” Grant had muttered wearily, draping his hand across his mouth in frustration. “I just wish that more people were of that opinion. The truth is that your ‘dinosaurs’ are nothing more than genetic monsters, nothing more and nothing less. The methods you used could easily have altered behavior patterns and the physical appearance of the animals, but we don’t know. We do know that it affected their genetics. It’s not paleontology anymore. It’s a completely different science.”

“I know, I know,” Hammond had said sadly. Grant could almost see the tears in his eyes. “I didn’t think ahead, my boy. All I could see was my own selfish desire to leave a legacy in the hearts and minds of the world. I thought I could advance paleontology. I didn’t know I would destroy it.”

“No, you couldn’t know. None of us could know, John. But the fact is there are plenty more specimens to be discovered out there, things we don’t know about. I can’t just leave our world’s history buried out there just because the general consensus is we know enough.”

“I don’t want to either,” Hammond had said firmly. “But without the support of the Board of Directors, I don’t have a choice. I wish I could fully fund your digs, like I used to, but the bankruptcy and the lawsuits and the never-ending stream of false accusations…InGen won’t go under, my dear Dr. Grant, not under my watch, but I am having a difficult time. I won’t even go into the state of my health.” An audible sigh. “What’s important is family and friends. I can only hope that you consider me a friend.”

Grant was silent for a moment, his eyes drilling two holes into the floor of the trailer. “My father died when I was only nine, John. My mother when I was in college. Before and since Jurassic Park, the only support came from you, really. You and Ellie and Billy. I think that all these years I’ve looked to you for so much. I just didn’t realize it.”

“I’ve put you into this position,” Hammond said gruffly, as if trying to disperse of some emotion he didn’t want shown. “I feel completely at fault for your financial difficulties. I’m sending you a credit card, without limit. It will be billed to me personally. Use it. Use it freely. Buy yourself a mansion or a yacht or a tropical island—”

“You can’t buy me off.”

“I am not buying you off. I am doing what any father in my position would do for his son. I’m supporting him. I’m the cause of your troubles, my dear friend. I will be damned if I didn’t do something. Good-bye, Dr. Grant. Maybe one day you’ll appreciate what I’m trying to do.”

Standing with his fingers tight around the card, choking down his tears, Grant remembered that day three years ago, a few months after the Kirbys had lured him to Isla Sorna, when Hammond had hung up with him.

Every time he used it, and he used it as sparingly as he could, Grant would remember those words and think to himself, I already do appreciate it.

“Dr. Grant?” Herbert, the cashier. “It comes out to $83.44.”

“What? Oh.” Shaking his reverie, Grant handed him the Visa and cleared his throat. “By the way, can I use the phone? I’ll pay.”

“First time I ever seen you make a call,” Herbert said. “Sure, go ahead. And don’t worry about paying. It’s fine by me. Phone’s in the back, straight through that door.”

“Thanks.” Grant passed the aisles of candy, food and toiletries and went straight into the office. It was small and untidy, and though the chair was dirty it was also in excellent condition. Sitting himself down, Grant dialed the only number he’d ever bothered to remember and listened numbly to the ringing. His heart was pounding.

The last time he had spoken with Ellen Degler had been in Isla Sorna’s river, four years earlier.