Chapter IX

            There was a forty minute drive between San Diego International and InGen headquarters, not including any traffic they might have encountered. The shiny black limousine that waited patiently outside the terminal building was identical to the one that had driven him to Choteau. The driver was just as anonymously bland and polite, the present company just as irritating and the world was still moving around him.

            The only thing that had changed was the beat of Alan Grant’s heart.

            As he drew closer to his final destination, they grew stronger, faster, louder. He could hear it banging in his core, the cadence to his disordered emotion. It was as if he was diving deeper and deeper into a black oblivion, the crushing pressure become heavier with each propelling kick down.

            Grant barely registered Tanner’s voice, the fake jovialness trying to liven the dreary mood that Grant had been emanating since Choteau. The glass of whiskey—and the three subsequent refills—had done nothing to make him forget his feelings and forget what he was about to experience.

            Tanner, having noticed Grant’s enthusiasm for his drinks, had said, “Does it help? Drinking.”

            “No,” Grant said, over the rim of his glass. “It doesn’t.”

            “Then why do you do it?”

            “If I knew,” Grant replied, “I wouldn’t be drinking.”

            “Have you ever considered,” Tanner said casually, “that you may have a problem?”

            “I’m very aware of my problems,” Grant had remarked sadly. “All of them.”

            Now the thunder that pounded against his ribcage was threatening rain and it occurred to him, for the first time in a long time, that he was nine when last he’d cried. He remembered it as vividly as the day he’d lived it.

            His tears had fallen in place of the rain, which refused to pour from the morning’s grey sky. The wind of a coming storm spread the falling the dirt before it had a chance to crash onto his father’s coffin. His mother on her knees beside the grave, her face torn with pain, her hands gripping the ground as if they were roots to be planted there. There was the birch tree he used to sit under during summer days and read paleontology books out loud to his father. At the time of the funeral, the merciless winter chill had made bare its finger-like branches, adding to the eerie, surreal feel of the indescribable void that was the death of a loved one.

            Even when his mother had passed (by broken heart, said the neighbors), Grant’s eyes were dry, his face was stone, and his heart, already broken, could not break further. He had loved her, just as much as he’d loved his father, but he had learned to distance himself. Grant’s mother, in her weary, somber tone, had more than once commented on his detached love for her, but he couldn’t allow himself to grow attached.

            Everything, he had discovered, went away in the end.

            Then there was Ellie. She had somehow chiseled her way through the block wall he had constructed around his heart and then, surprisingly, had stayed there even after she had left him for a better future. It was Grant’s belief that Hammond and his grandchildren used the same corridor that Ellie had constructed to make their way into his sphere of care.

            And it wasn’t until 1997, after InGen’s project became public knowledge, that he realized that he’d grown attached to something else. His love of paleontology, of learning the history of the world he walked on and the creatures that dominated before his species had even been conceived…all of that was lost on the ignorant.

Grant’s heart, once he thought unbreakable, had been shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces. Each day that passed following his return from Isla Sorna was another hammer to its scattered remains. Each day was yet another reason why he had become a worthless human being. Each day was one day closer to his only salvation, and that was death. It brought to mind a certain country song whose words so perfectly described his world that Grant almost believed that Killin’ Time had been tailored-made for him.

“Dr. Grant?”

The voice seemed to come from another world, distant and untouchable.

“Dr. Grant.”

More insistent now. Closer.

The arm on his shoulder, gently squeezing him, somehow comforting and somehow threatening.

“Dr. Grant, we’re here.”

Grant realized he’d been staring out the window and that through the glass he’d journeyed into a past that he hadn’t ever wanted relive. Now what stared back at him was a grey wall dimly lit by the inadequacies of an underground parking garage.

He also realized that the hand and the voice belonged to Sean Tanner. He was quick to shrug away Tanner’s grip.

Grimacing as the driver opened his day, Grant got out of the car, pausing only to grab Billy’s lucky pack.

Tanner was let out and quickly adjusted the three-piece he had changed into in the airport restroom to smooth out any wrinkles. He winked at Grant and said, “Are you prepared to go in, Dr. Grant?”

Grant’s hazy eyes suddenly hardened as he locked his gaze onto Tanner. “You know the answer to that question, Mr. Tanner.”

“Yes, I do,” Tanner replied, matching his stare. “But do you?”

With that, the businessman spun on a heel and said, “Follow me, Dr. Grant. I think it’s safe to assume we have a very interesting day ahead of us.”

“For once,” Grant muttered, “you and I are in perfect agreement.”

Grant fell into step behind and to Tanner’s right. His thoughts began to wander again, but he caught himself before he’d plummeted too far. Instead he forced himself to take in InGen Headquarters.

Grant knew that InGen’s origins were out of Palo Alto. In the years leading up to the incident at Isla Nublar, InGen’s facilities in Palo Alto grew and grew, until Hammond realized that he’d built in the wrong place. But his goals were grander—far grander—than where his company was based. Instead, it was only after he’d filed for bankruptcy in late 1994 that John Hammond began to rethink his strategy and his company’s position in the world.

In 1995, his company slowly recovering from its near fatal blow (and suffering from the several subsequent battles in the courtroom), Hammond ordered the Palo Alto facility shut down and moved all of his projects and people to a newly constructed building in San Diego. It was here that Peter Ludlow began his rise to power and took his part in the destruction of paleontology.

Tanner led Grant across the vast underground parking lot, which would not have even been worth noting had it not been for its cavernous size.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Grant said, listening to his voice bounce off the walls, “but why weren’t we dropped off closer to wherever we’re going? I mean, doesn’t a man in your position mean not having to walk?”

Tanner laughed. “There are three reasons for it, Dr. Grant.” He ticked them off with his fingers. “One: I know how much you want to prolong your meeting with Mr. Murphy. It’s the least I could do after the unfortunate way I had to get you here.”

“Well, then, thank you,” Grant muttered unconvincingly.

“Two: I’m unashamed to show off the greatness of my…my boss’s company’s size. This parking lot goes four floors down, following the building’s infrastructure. It’s the largest underground parking lot on the West Coast and it was designed to withstand an average sized earthquake.”

Grant would have been impressed had he cared to be.

“And three,” Tanner said, tapping his slim stomach, “I’m getting a bit old and I have to find little ways to stay in shape while I’m away from the gym. I try to eat well and keep my drinking to a minimum. On the days I know I won’t be visiting the gym, I do some morning exercises and I try to take the stairs when I can.”

“I’m in shape,” Grant commented dryly. “Can we take the stairs?”

“I know you’re in shape, Dr. Grant,” Tanner chuckled. “I’m well aware of your everyday activities.”

“Is that right?” Grant said, unsurprised.

They reached an elevator and Tanner pressed the up button.

“Our name is on your credit card bills. It would be bad business sense not to keep tabs on your whereabouts and actions. I must say that those runs you take every once and a while are incredibly long. And in the heat of summer they must be atrocious. It would no doubt kill me.”

“Then I recommend them whole-heartedly,” Grant said.

Tanner frowned, but ignored him. “Unfortunately, it would be terrible manners for us to take the stairs today.” The doors opened and they stepped into the elevator, which promptly closed. Tanner produced a key from his pocket, inserted it into keyhole, then chose the button with the highest number: 74. “Mr. Murphy is, of course, waiting upstairs for your arrival. Besides, you wouldn’t want to reunite with your old friend with sweat running down your arms, would you?”

“Well, it would certainly be a unique one.” The elevator began its upward movement. “So this place has 74 floors.”

“75,” Tanner corrected. “This particular elevator doesn’t go up to Mr. Murphy’s office for security reasons.”

“Of course,” Grant said.

“I understand your nervousness,” Tanner said smoothly, in a way that almost made Grant believe he did. “It’s been a long time and I know what Mr. Murphy meant to you. I wish there was something I could do to help you get through this situation.”

“You’ve done enough, Mr. Tanner,” Grant said. “You can take a rest now.”

Tanner began to speak, but Grant cut him off.

“Your mouth can take a rest too.”

Tanner flushed but kept quiet, choosing instead to pull out his flip phone and pay it some apparently much needed attention.

Leaving Grant to stare at the numbers as they slowly got bigger. 34…35…36…

The higher they got the less air Grant found around him. His breaths came in short gasps, desperate attempts to pull oxygen from his thinning surroundings. The walls of the box-like elevator began slowly approaching him, stalking him, playing with him, knowing that no matter what he did they would still reach him. Despite the elevator’s distinct and expensive silence, Grant heard the sound of metal on metal, like the gnashing of an animal’s hardened teeth as it prepared to consume its prey.

The ping of the elevator reaching its destination startled Grant.

It didn’t go unnoticed. “Are you alright, Doctor?” Tanner asked, more curious than concerned. He walked through the opened doors.

“I’m fine,” Grant said, following suit. He decided to change the topic. Or, at least, he tried to. “This is probably a pretty busy place. Why didn’t we stop on any other floors?”

Tanner waved the key he’d used earlier. “Master key. If I use this on the elevator we go wherever I say, no matter who’s pressing a button elsewhere in the building.” He paused. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Grant grimaced.

Tanner led the way down an ornate hallway adorned with high-class art and sculpture. The walls were an aristocratic beige, lined with a wallpaper design that Grant thought belonged more appropriately in a private manor. The floor was laid with a classy red carpet that Grant suspected would feel great had he been barefoot.

“This place practically smells of snob,” Grant remarked before he could stop himself. Hell, it’s getting my mind off other things.

Tanner visibly stiffened. “My sister decorated this particular part of InGen Headquarters. Mr. Hammond hired her to be his personal decorator. I like to think she did a wonderful job.”

“Does she still work here?” Grant asked.

“No,” Tanner said, through gritted teeth. “She found a higher calling.”

Grant took a dramatic look around. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that higher calling was getting fired.”

“Then it’s a good thing you don’t know any better,” Tanner bit out.

Grant allowed himself a small smile. Any retribution for what Tanner had done was a triumph in Grant’s eyes.

Tanner turned right at the third intersection. They walked straight to the end of that particular hallway, which had been patterned exactly as the first. At the terminus was a pair of large oak doors. Next to them was a small but expensive-looking desk complete with a lithe and bespectacled blonde, her hair tied back in a severe bun and her black business dress tight in all the right places.

She looked up from her paperwork, her blue eyes falling first on Grant’s relatively disheveled appearance (was that interest in her eyes?) then on Tanner.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Tanner,” the blonde said politely, though Grant could have sworn he heard a note of disappointment in her voice.

“Good afternoon, Lily,” Tanner replied, suavely taking her hand and giving it a quick kiss. “You look charming, as ever.”

“This is a place of business, Mr. Tanner,” she reminded him coldly, retracting her hand. She pressed a button on her desktop phone. “Mr. Murphy. Your four o’clock is here.”

There was no response but the phone clicked twice, possibly indicating a response in the affirmative.

The whole weight of his situation returned to Grant’s shoulders. He was about to reopen wounds he had dressed and redressed several times in the last few years. Lord knew how many times he’d sewn them back up, staunched the flow of blood and used alcohol to wash them clean.

But this wasn’t like all the other times. It wasn’t seeing Tim’s number on his caller ID. It wasn’t reading a letter that Tim had sent him. It wasn’t hearing from someone else that a young boy had come around the old dig site looking for him.

This was actually seeing Timothy Murphy. Seeing him, touching him, talking with him. For the first time in twelve years, Grant had to look into the haunted eyes of a boy that had nestled into Grant’s heart just as he had nestled into Grant’s chest on that terrible and beautiful night at Isla Nublar.

“He’s waiting for you,” Tanner said.

Grant took a step forward as Tanner began to open the huge oak doors.