Chapter IV

            Ellie Degler sat on her tan leather couch with her knees drawn up against her chest and a pencil lightly tapping her lips. In front of her was her notebook, a beat-up old 5 Star that she’d had since her first dig. There weren’t many blank pages left to write on and random doodles covered what was left of the front and back covers. Mark had smiled and shook his head ruefully, wondering aloud when she was going to get rid of the sorry thing.

            “Probably never,” Ellie had replied quietly. “It reminds me of the good times.”

            Mark had seemed hurt. “What about me? And Charlie and Katrina?”

            “My past was the good times,” Ellie had said. “It’s my present that’s the best.”

            Her husband was pleased with the answer, giving her a peck on the cheek and wishing her a good night. “Don’t stay up too late,” he had reminded. “It’s already 9:30.”

            Here she was, though, two hours later, in one hand her pencil, in the other her arm flesh. She realized her fingers were digging into her skin, so she took a moment to adjust the pink tank top she was wearing, the one that said “Oldie but a Goodie!” Ellie was tempted to slip out of her small dancer shorts for the comfort, but she knew that the house would become arctic during the course of the night. She decided to leave them on.

            This is how Ellie Degler wrote her books. She would stay up late with a notebook (never the one she now had in front of her) and jot down ideas, rearrange order, decide what information remained and what information got the axe. Sometimes it would take her all night. She loved it, even if Mark didn’t. If one were to read her books accompanied by her neatly scribbled notes, one would rarely find discrepancies in her work. That was a testament to her writing skills as well as her sway over her editor.

            Tonight, however, was different. She didn’t want to be doing this. She wanted to find Grant, but she had wanted him to tell her, to finally divulge where it was he had hidden himself for four years. But he was still lost in himself, still too far gone within his depression to realize how badly he needed a friend.

            On the page was written a few bullet points of information, all of which she had gotten from Grant himself the day before. He lived in the trailer by himself (under that she had written that he might still be using the old Ford). He used the credit card Hammond had given him exclusively, but he used it only for necessities and only to the bare minimum. He lived out in the Badlands, near Snakewater, Montana.

That was where he had been extremely vague. She might have found him with just the last piece of information, except that Snakewater is literally surrounded by the Badlands. He could be in any direction, at any distance. He even may have been lying to her. For all she knew he was in New Mexico or Florida.

Wait…

She swiftly moved to the telephone. Yesterday she hadn’t even bothered to check the caller ID. She had simply rushed to her room, locked the door, and wept.

Ellie scrolled down the calls received and finally came upon one that began with a Montana area code that matched Snakewater’s. Good, now she knew for certain he was where he said he was. The number, too, seemed very familiar. She’d always been good at remembering phone numbers. This one seemed to reach out to her.

Her mind was too jumbled and numb from yesterday to think clearly. Eventually, it would come to her. Ellie was tempted to just redial, but she doubted Grant would be there and she was confident she’d remember soon anyway. Which would save her a long distance call. She sat down and gave the last piece of information a tiny check. Well, she had his zip code, the problem was pinpointing the address.

She played with the spirals on the notebook, contemplating. She suddenly remembered the note he had written her following his ordeal on Isla Sorna, Site B. Jumping up again, she ran to her bedroom.

Opening the door slowly, she saw in the darkness of the room that Mark had already drifted away. The poor man was always tired. Only when he was in bed did he show it. He would sleep the night more soundly than a log, and awaken dark and early the next morning around five. If he accidentally woke her up on these mornings, he would always chuckle and say, “It’s the five to nine shift.”

She stole into the room as quickly and as quietly as she could. From under the bed she pulled a pink Nine West shoebox where she kept mementos of her past. Next to it was a bright blue Nike shoebox where she kept things from her early relationship with Mark. Notes and that kind of thing.

She paused, staring at the blue box, reminiscing about the day she had met Mark, back in ’97. It was a month before the San Diego incident. She had been invited to a dinner party with some high-rolling people, and her publicist was adamant that she go out and mingle. Incidentally, her new publicist, Dana Lane, had since become her best girlfriend. Since the accident at Jurassic Park and her subsequent decision to leave Alan Grant a year later, Ellie had forced herself to forget her pain. The only way she knew how was to keep busy. Dana was hell-bent on changing that. She purposely made arrangements for Mark and Ellie to bump into each other. At first, Ellie had been uninterested in beginning any new relationships, and she was almost dutifully unimpressed with the government official. Add to that her strong dislike of the kind of formality that made up these high-class get-togethers (she had much rather have been grooving to George Strait and taking swigs from a warm bottle of beer) and Mark didn’t seem to have a chance.

But then he asked her on a date and, out of pity more than anything else, she accepted. The night ended with Ellie swept off her feet. A year later they were married, the next Charlie was born. It had been an almost rushed affair, but she had thought that the less time she had to think about Alan Grant, the better off her happiness would be.

            She was right.

            Shaking her reverie, she slipped the cover off the pink box and rummaged through it until she found it. She returned the lid and then pushed the box back under the bed. Standing, Ellie gave Mark a quick kiss on his forehead and then made her way back to the couch.

            She made herself comfortable. It had been three years since she’d read it last. At one point, she might even have memorized it. As she read it, she felt her heartstrings being tugged into a line of thought she knew was wrong. But there it was…what would life with Alan Grant be like if she hadn’t left? Ellie had known even when she told Mark Degler she loved him that the true master of her heart was Alan. He couldn’t know that; neither of them could. A woman’s true emotion is her best kept secret.

            Dear Ellie,

                        You know I’ve never been good at these kinds of thing, so I’ll try to make it short. I wanted to thank you and Mark for coming to my rescue. Odds are that the Kirbys, Billy, and I would all have been extinct if it hadn’t been for you. The Navy and the Marines, huh? That’s some pull your husband’s got. Anyway, I’m really glad you sent the cavalry in unprecedented force. A little overkill never hurt, I guess. Look, I wanted to thank you in person, but on the helicopter ride back I realized that I wanted to leave everything behind and start fresh, you know? I thought I might have to meet you when we got back to the mainland, but I found out you were busy. It’s just as well. Billy’s fine, by the way. Lots of small fractures and gashes and cuts and that sort of thing. He’s also got a broken arm and a concussion, but they’ll be letting him out of the hospital pretty soon, so that’s good.  In any case, I just wanted to tell you that I wrote because I want to leave all the heartache I’ve endured these past few years where it belongs: behind me. That means Jurassic Park, Site B…and you. I’m sorry. Don’t try and find me. You’ll be wasting your time and energy. Ah, Ellie, if only things had worked out. It doesn’t matter anymore, though. Good-bye, Ellie. I love you.

            Love,

            Alan

            He’d written it on a crumpled piece of paper which was yellow with age when it had arrived in her mailbox. She saw the dozens upon dozens of erased and edited words and phrases. Alan had put a lot of time into it. He had thought out everything to make sure it sounded exactly how he wanted it. But he had never been a great writer. He relied a lot on Ellie to make sure syntax and spelling was at least passable when he sent a book to a publisher or editor. Ellie smiled sadly when she realized that it might just have been edited by Billy as he lay prone and helpless in his hospital bed.

            And yet no clue as to his exact whereabouts. Caution had always been Dr. Alan Grant’s forte. Why should now be any different? She folded up the old parchment and slipped it into her notebook for further review. Maybe one of the erased words could—

            “Oh, my God,” Ellie muttered aloud. The phone number. She knew it. It was the number for a gas station that used to have a Dominos Pizza attached to it. They used to call it weekly, on Thursdays, for a delivery. It was close to where they were digging, close enough to warrant the call.

            There was no doubt in Ellie’s mind where Alan Grant had been living since Sorna. The same place that he had first met Hammond. The last place Alan had felt was home.

            The old dig site.