Chapter Two
Broken Men
Christ, Robert needed a drink.
His throat was raspy and dry, the result of dehydration from the plane journey, and a headache pounded against his skull. The opulence of his surroundings didn't help; he was still prickling at the way Hammond's butler had eyed him on his way in. His boots echoed on the marble floor in the hallway, as he glanced around, studying the décor. It reminded him of Ludlow, cold and impersonal. Everything impeccable, but with no life or love to it.
The flight itself hadn't been so bad. Hammond had swung for first class, so the journey had been luxurious, and the predominantly female air stewards congenial and easy on the eye. He'd even had the chance to catch up on his sleep, although he hadn't been able to grab much more than an hour or so. The threat of nightmares still lurked at the edge of his consciousness. The last thing he wanted was to wake up screaming in the middle of the flight and scare the shit out of everyone.
Worse was the city. He hated cities, and it was his first time in New York. He'd be happy if he never saw it again. He hated the noise of the traffic, the screaming sound of horns blaring. He didn't know how people could stand it without losing their bloody minds. They would have moved faster if they just got out and walked.
So he was already feeling on edge and his yearning for a drink was starting to take on a real edge. Hammond's fault, he thought. Everything that had happened to him could be traced back to John Hammond. And here he was letting it happen again. Letting himself get sucked back into the whole bloody mess.
Well, no more, he thought as the butler ushered him into John Hammond's study. He'd get his answers and then he was done. He'd make himself clear; if Peter Ludlow showed his face again, he'd break his bloody nose–
And then he saw Hammond and he froze.
Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of the man.
Hammond had always been small, but his upright sprightly bearing combined with his bright eyes had given him a youthful quality that suggested he'd live forever. Five years ago Robert might have wryly guessed that Hammond would outlive the lot of them, but now the man in front of him was not small, but shrunken. He was no longer dressed in spotless white, the prerogative of the wealthy who didn't have to do their own laundry, but casual clothes. A soft dove-grey cashmere jumper over khaki-coloured slacks with an elasticised waistband. And while his hair was perfectly groomed and his nails immaculate, his eyes were rheumy, filled with weariness and sorrow.
This room was rather more of a reflection of Hammond than Robert had so far seen of the building so far. A collection of fossils was displayed in a glass cabinet behind the desk, and spreading ferns stood in the corners of the room. The sight of them sent a shiver of unease down Robert's spine, memories of the jungle edging back. Medical equipment stood behind Hammond's chair, tended to by a silent dark-haired nurse.
"Robert, my boy! Come in, come in." John's eyes had lit up, and Robert felt his heart sink. He'd steeled himself for this encounter, reminding himself of how close he had come to death. And Robert had been one of the lucky ones. Gennaro, Ian Malcolm – many hadn't been so lucky. And it was all this man's fault, with his arrogance, his greed. His insistence on non-lethal methods of containment, all because he wanted to protect his precious animals... Because of him, too many people had died. All through the flight, and the tortuous creeping journey through New York, Robert had been nurturing his resentment, letting it tighten into a hard bitter ball of rage.
But at the sight of the brief flash of genuine pleasure in John Hammond's eyes all Robert's anger drained away, replaced with exhaustion and pity. It was almost impossible to sustain his rage in the face of one weak, lonely old man.
Almost.
"It's so good to see you, my boy. Sit down, please, please. Can I offer you a drink?" He turned to the table, and Robert's mouth went dry at the sight of the bottle of whisky. The liquid inside was a deep amber, and a rising wave of thirst rose up inside him. He ran his tongue round his mouth, just about managing to tear his gaze away from the bottle. Christ, he needed a drink.
"No." His voice was a little too sharp and he softened it. "Thank you." He sat down opposite Hammond, felt the eyes of the nurse on him.
Hammond was turning towards him, the bottle already uncapped, eyebrows raised in surprise. Robert could almost taste the alcohol on his tongue already. "Are you sure I can't tempt you, Robert?" he asked as he poured himself a couple of fingers of Scotch. The other tumbler waited, virginal. Empty. "It's sixty year old Scotch. A beautiful little distillery in the Western Highlands. And quite the finest whisky I've ever tasted. The best money can buy."
Oh God.
"Get to the damn point," he said, rougher than he'd intended. He ran his tongue around his parched mouth, tried not to stare hard at the glass of whisky in John's hand. If he was going to do this, then he couldn't do it drunk. Tempting though that option was, he had to keep a clear head. He had to be able to think. He had to remember he couldn't trust Hammond. "Tell me why I'm here."
There was a flash of pain in John Hammond's eyes. A faint dimming of the light. And Robert felt a stab of guilt.
For God's sake, you don't owe the man anything.
"I'm sorry, John." His gaze flicked to the bottle of whisky, and he saw Hammond register the glance. Before the old man could offer him a drink again he jumped in. "Long journey.
"Of course, my boy, I'm sorry. Well, in that case, I'll get right to the point." And he hesitated. "You asked me on the phone what my nephew could want, whether the animals were all dead."
No. Oh God, no. "John..."
"...And the answer to those questions lies on Site B." A triumphant gleam in John Hammond's eyes. It was the expression of a mischievous boy who thought he'd got away with something. And Robert found his fury returning in full force. His hands clenched into fists.
"Site B? John, what the hell is Site B?" His kept his voice controlled, but his anger would have been clear to anyone who was actually listening. John didn't hear it, but the nurse did. She lifted her head, and stared at him.
"Isla Sorna," John Hammond said. "That was our site B. We kept it entirely separate from the main running of the park. We bred the animals there, nurtured them for a few months, then brought them over to the main park. The system worked perfectly."
"'Perfectly'?" Robert sank back in his chair, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Your definition of 'perfect' is quite a bit different from mine. Why didn't I know about this?"
"Very few people did know. Your job was the park and the care of the animals once they'd been released into the park. No more."
You bastard, Robert thought. You utter, utter bastard. He felt a momentary hesitation at the presence of the nurse, but keeping the park secret wasn't his problem any more.
He just wished she'd stop looking at him.
She was Hispanic, dark eyed and beautiful, her expressionless face somehow managing to convey contempt. He wondered how much she knew, whether she thought Hammond was borderline senile and Robert humouring him. He wondered whether she even cared.
He took a breath, and fixed his gaze on Hammond. "Are there raptors on this island?" The flicker of guilt in Hammond's eyes told him the answer.
"Are you sure I can't offer you a drink, Robert? This whisky really is excellent–"
"How many?" he asked, his voice flat.
Hammond paused, bringing the glass of whisky to his lips. "We're not certain," he said, his voice light, "but from the satellite images it looks like two nesting groups, which is astonishing because–"
"Two nesting groups. Jesus, how many raptors is that?"
"We think about forty or so. Not counting the juveniles."
Forty raptors. The thought made him dizzy. "With no fences, no cages to keep them contained?"
John nodded, still smiling that bright brittle smile. "No fences at all. All the animals on the island are quite wild and free to roam, although–"
Robert leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. "Then you should napalm the whole fucking island."
John flinched. "You don't mean that."
"I bloody well do."
"Robert, my boy, let's not overreact–"
I'm not your sodding boy. "Forty raptors, John. Forty. Did you forget what happened at the park? What they did? And that was just three of the bastarding things."
John sighed. The sadness in his eyes was back. "I'm well aware of how you feel about raptors, but it's important not to overreact. This island represents an extraordinary opportunity to study these animals in their natural environment. It's true the raptors present a challenge..." He held up his hand to forestall Robert's attempt to interrupt. Robert sank back in his chair, glowering. "...But from the satellite images it's clear they're fiercely territorial, and confine themselves to the central part of the island. The outer edges are perfectly safe."
He needed that drink. Now more than ever. John caught the glance he shot at the bottle, and raised his eyebrows. "Would you like that drink now?" he said, and, goddamn him, the twinkle was back.
Robert gave a single nod of his head, and John chuckled, poured him a generous shot and passed the glass over. Robert brought it to his mouth, inhaled the scent of peat, his mouth flooding with saliva. He didn't drink: not yet. "How are they even still alive?" he demanded. "What about the lysine contingency? Clearly that was a sodding waste of time."
John jabbed a finger at him. "An excellent question, and one of the many questions I want the team to investigate." He sighed, his eyes misting over. "It seems Ian Malcolm was right after all. Life finds a way."
"Not for Ian Malcolm it didn't," Robert said sourly. An image of Malcolm's twisted body flashed through his mind. One of many things he'd never forget, along with the way Donald Genarro's leg had felt when he'd stepped on it.
To chase the memories away he brought the whisky to his lips, fought the urge to swallow the whole lot down in one gulp. A single sip, and the flavour filled his mouth, peat and smoke and the lingering trace of the oak barrels. John had been right; it was the best whisky he'd ever tasted. His eyes fluttered closed, but the memories remained. He'd need to drink a hell of a lot more than this to forget.
His eyes snapped open and he turned a baleful glare on John. "Remind me, John. How many kids did Dr Malcolm have? Was it three or four?"
A shadow of pain crept across the old man's face. "I believe," John Hammond said, "it was five." That darkness filled his eyes, a shadow of loss and loneliness. It was the look of an old man who'd been deserted by the people he should have been able to rely on. It made Robert think of his own father.
Robert groaned, already regretting his cruelty. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have said that." Although he wondered if that was true. He suspected the pain in Hammond's eyes was caused less by regret for the people who'd died, and more for the loss of the park. For the slipping of his control.
Better that he not be allowed to forget what had happened. What could happen when things went wrong.
John waved the apology away. "Not at all," he said, still pale. "You're quite right. I should have listened to Malcolm. I should have listened to you. Because you were right about the raptors, Robert. All along. And the weaponry. The rifles, they weren't enough, I know that now." And as he spoke his colour returned, his voice losing its strained quality.
This man, Robert thought in disbelief. He's like a bloody weeble.
"We won't be making those mistakes again, I can assure you of that. When we send the team in–"
"John." He raised his voice. Hammond broke off, glancing at him. "What team? What are you talking about? Is this what Peter Ludlow is planning?"
"Ah. No, not exactly." John picked up the bottle of whisky, and tilted it at him. He blinked at his glass, about to protest he had plenty left then saw with a flush of shame that it was empty. He'd drunk it all, that rich, precious spirit, the finest whisky he'd ever drunk and would ever be likely to drink. He'd drunk it and he hadn't even noticed. Numbly, he held out the glass. "I'm planning my own expedition onto the island."
"The island that's full of raptors."
"It's hardly full of raptors. That's a dreadful exaggeration..."
"I do beg your pardon. I forgot they'd have to leave room for the t-rex. I assume there is a t-rex?"
John hesitated. "I believe there's two tyrannosaurs. A breeding pair, in fact. They have a nest."
"How delightful." He sipped the whisky. "Breeding tyrannosaurs. God help us all. Anything else on the island I should know about? Dilophosaurs? Godzilla? King fucking Kong?"
"Robert." John shot him a reproachful look, and he felt an inexplicable flush of guilt. As Robert grunted an apology, John continued. "As I said, I'm planning a small expedition. Just a handful of people, real experts in their fields. You know yourself, Robert, the lower the impact the better the results. The best equipment money can buy, and they'll be armed to the teeth. And they'll stay to the outer rim, so they'll be totally safe."
Robert gave him a hard stare, but John's smile didn't waver. He believes it, he thought. The crazy bastard really believes it.
"I've been fighting for four years to keep these animals isolated and safe." John leaned forward, his voice raspy with urgency. "I'm the one who created them, and, by God, I'll take responsibility for protecting them."
"Then leave them alone."
Hammond shook his head, his eyes filling with pain. "I can't."
And Robert was beginning to see. "Because of Ludlow," he said.
Hammond nodded. "The... incident on Isla Nublar was expensive. The lawsuits–"
"And all that hush money?"
Another flinch from John. "It wasn't my decision to keep what happened in the park secret," he said. "If I'd had the choice–"
Robert waved his objections away. "What is Ludlow planning, John?"
"It's like I told you on the phone," he said. "He wants to take InGen from me. I created this company. Built it from the ground up. And he wants to take it from me. While I have been trying to protect these animals, he wants to use them." Hammond turned and pulled a file from the desk, passed it across to him. Robert hesitated a moment, then he set his whisky glass on the desk and took the file. He flicked through it, and an architectural drawing of an amphitheatre slipped into his hand.
"He wants to resurrect Jurassic Park?" Robert frowned.
John sighed. "If only that were true, Robert. I'm afraid it's much worse than that." He pointed to the image of the amphitheatre in Robert's hand. "What you see there represents part of my original plan for the park. Something which I soon came to realise was fundamentally flawed. I abandoned it for the island in Costa Rica–"
"Islands," Robert corrected. He flicked through the other papers in the file, more architectural plans, a map of a park, with some superficial similarities to the complex on Isla Nublar, but designed for a different location, and on a much smaller, less expansive scale. A series of cages for the housing of animals. One, the dimensions of which, clearly showed it was designed to contain something massive.
A tyrannosaur paddock, he thought. Cold sensation creeping over his skin. That's designed for a fucking tyrannosaur.
"–But not before we had begun construction on the waterfront complex," John finished.
Robert's stomach clenched. He was starting to get a bad feeling. "Where the hell is this, John?"
"San Diego."
"San Diego?" He stared at John Hammond, his eyes wide. "On the mainland? That's insane."
"Of course it is. Which is why I abandoned the idea in favour of Isla Nublar. You're a zoo man, Robert. You know how often animals escape. Human error, malfunctioning technology." He stabbed his finger. "Things. Go. Wrong. The park proved that. And at least on the island we were able to contain the losses. Could you imagine, Robert, a tyrannosaur running loose through San Diego? Or a pack of raptors?"
He shuddered. "Even Peter Ludlow wouldn't be stupid enough to take raptors off the island."
"You know, I would have thought so myself," John said, nodding in agreement. "But sometimes I wonder. People like to be scared. They like to feel they're in danger, even if it's illusionary–"
"If he takes raptors off the island the danger won't be illusionary."
"Exactly." John stabbed a triumphant finger at him. "Which is why he must be stopped. And the best way to do that is to gather public support for the animals, to document them in their natural habitat. To create a Lost World where they will be safe, where they can be studied. A living fossil."
This is why Ludlow wanted me, he thought, staring down at the file. Christ, he can't seriously have thought I'd be stupid enough to–
He looked up. John was staring at him, and a sick sensation squeezed his gut. "I'm not going."
"Robert." John gave him another reproachful look. "I wasn't going to ask you to."
Yes, you bloody well were. "Who's your team?"
"Ah." John nodded, held up a finger, scrabbled around in the papers on his desk. "Yes, here we are. It took some persuading, of course, and I'm still not sure they all quite believe what they're going to see, but they'll soon change their minds once they get there. Let's see... There's Nick van Owen, he's a photographer and video documentarian. Eddie Carr, our field equipment specialist. Our palaeontologist is Dr Richard Levine. He's quite a character, obsessed with the notion of finding a Lost World and studying the animals in their own habitat. And then we have our animal expert, Dr Sarah Harding..."
"Sarah Harding?" He knew the name. Their paths had crossed a decade or so ago while he'd been working in Africa. He remembered a pale-skinned redhead, young when he'd met her but able to hold her own. A hell of a lot tougher than she looked.
"You know her?"
He nodded. "She's good."
"I did tell you. The best in their fields. She's been working with hyenas out in Africa, published some fascinating papers about nurturing behaviour in carnivores. I'm telling you, she can't wait to get out there." John chuckled, then fell silent. "But I'll be honest, Robert, I was hoping you would agree to go as well."
Of course you were. "John–"
"I know, I know. You've made yourself clear. I won't ask you to go to the island. But we do need you, even if it's only on a consultancy basis. No one alive knows these animals better than you. Why do you think my nephew wouldn't leave you alone? A few months work, Robert, doing what you do best. That's all I ask. And you know what the alternative is. What do you think will happen if my nephew can't find a way to use the animals on that island? He'll have them destroyed."
He stared down at the file resting on his lap. Imagining the danger forty raptors could pose. Thinking about amber eyes in the jungle. The musky predator stink, the prickling of hairs on the back of his neck. "Maybe they should be destroyed," he said quietly.
"Robert, my boy, I know you don't mean that." John Hammond's voice was soft now, gentle.
I do, he thought. I do.
He remembered when they'd first introduced the raptors into their new cage. Watching them leaping up at the fences, at first he'd assumed the the attacks were random. Only then he'd begun to notice a pattern to their leaps, how they never seemed to hit the same spot twice. And even when the cage was quiet, he could sense them watching him, could feel intelligent eyes fixed on him, filled with malice.
Creating raptors had been one of the worst mistakes Hammond had made, and, yes, he believed it would be better to have them all destroyed. But it was the thought of the other animals that made him hesitate. He had made conservation his life. He'd kill when necessary, but the needless butchery of animals went against the grain. And he'd been forced to watch fire-bursts blossom all over the island from the safety of the helicopter. The panicked hypsilophodonts springing away from the flames in vain as the island burned.
Something else he'd never forget. It had left a hollow ball of pain and guilt in his chest. And John Hammond knew that. The bloody buggering bastard.
Consultancy work, he thought, picking up the image of the amphitheatre with a trembling hand. That's all this has to be.
John Hammond pushed another sodding glass of whisky into his hand. He took it without even thinking, and knocked it back in one. Too fast to even taste it. Wasteful, but its warmth was welcome in his stomach, as was the lassitude spreading through his body. "When are they planning to go?" he asked, and his voice sounded toneless, empty of life.
John Hammond smiled.
A/N: So as I think you may be able to tell, this is going to be a bastardised cross between the films and the books. Scary though the raptors in the first film were, they... didn't really kill all that many people. Far more people died in the book, so when I refer back to the incident on Isla Nublar, I'm imagining something much closer to the book, with far more bodies and bloodshed.
All comments are hugely appreciated. I'm writing and posting this as I go, which is a rare experience for me, and actually sort of terrifying, so every comment, favourite and follow helps.
