Jurassic Park: Execution

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own 'em.

Author's note: Those of you who have read one of the earlier versions of the script for The Lost World: Jurassic Park probably recognize the name "Juttson" as being the last name of a paleontologist who was going to be in the movie. As you know, the character ultimately was not in the film. However, the Dr. Thomas Juttson character in this story is kind of/sort of that same character, although he is probably much different than the writers of that version of TLW: JP's script intended. I never saw a first name for the character in the version I've read, so I gave him the name Thomas. Anyways, back to the story.

Chapter One: Bystander No More

At six o'clock in the morning the day after July 4, 2005, Sue's All-Night Diner, a small restaurant located just outside San Diego, was packed with customers. The patrons' conversations blended with the noise of the air conditioners positioned near the top of the right and left walls and the jukebox that played at the back of the diner.

Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the establishment and reflected against the black and white checkerboard-patterned tile floor of the 1950's-themed diner. Waitresses dressed in white shirts and pink poodle skirts darted from table to table, serving coffee to and taking orders from people seated in red chairs. At the back, a large counter ran between the side walls, where some customers dined atop metal stools with lipstick crimson cushions and others paid for their meals at a custom-made cash register that appeared old-fashioned.

It was at one of these stools where a tall, thin man with short curls the color of the darkest chocolate, sat, reading a newspaper while drinking coffee from a nondescript white mug. His brown eyes were narrowed behind his small, wire-framed glasses as he read, and his full lips were pursed outward in disapproval. His all-black attire seemed out of place in the hot summer weather, particularly his leather jacket that he wore.

Occasionally, some of the others in the restaurant would cast glances of recognition towards this man, although none of them could accurately identify him. However, they were certain that they had seen this man in black somewhere.

"It appears InGen's getting into the grave-digging business again," the man commented to himself, then took a drink of his coffee. He sighed.

For about eight years, Ian Malcolm had attempted to avoid all topics related to International Genetics Inc. and their creations, with the exception of his book, and, during those years, he had been rather successful. The mathematician had become an expert at changing the subject in the middle of a conversation whenever the topic shifted to InGen or dinosaurs, and he was highly talented at hitting the "delete" key inside the inbox of his e-mail accounts. His secretary handled his mail, and his answering machine and voicemail accepted the calls to his unlisted telephone numbers. So he had, for the most part, successfully avoided the subject of InGen. Until now.

On a television nearby, a news reporter on the local NBC affiliate, a young, Indian woman named Rani Patel, was broadcasting in front of a long, white building in Williamsport, Tennessee, giving the details of the previous day's pteranodon attack. She was standing in front of two gas pumps at the front of the store/post office combination building as she reported, while several other reporters were gathered in various spots around her.

"Yesterday," she began, "three flying dinosaurs attacked the guests of a Fourth of July party at the home of celebrated country musician and song writer, Jeff Riker. Four adults and six children were killed in the horrific attack, and several more were seriously injured, including the singer's teenage daughter, Jolene Riker, who is reportedly in critical but stable condition at Vanderbilt Children's Hospital in Nashville. Several of the injured were treated and released from Maury Regional Hospital in nearby Columbia, while other, more seriously hurt, guests were transported to hospitals in Nashville. When more information becomes available, you'll be the first to know. Back to you, Julie."

The onscreen scene switched to another reporter, and Malcolm's focus returned to his newspaper and coffee. For the past few years, he had been hearing about attacks throughout Costa Rica, Central America, Mexico, and the southern United States, none of which had been completely confirmed. Most of them sounded like velociraptor attacks, which scared him the most, but few of them had achieved media attention, none major. On the other hand, two ill-fated expeditions had been in the news, one back in 2001, when paleontologist and survivor of Jurassic Park Alan Grant was part of a rescue mission, the other one month ago when another paleontologist's research team disappeared. Both groups had been on an infamous Costa Rican island, Isla Sorna, and, while Grant had returned alive and nearly well from "Site B," Dr. Richard Levine still had not been heard from and was presumed dead.

He had a feeling that, soon, he was no longer going to be an innocent bystander to the situation, especially since there had been so many other incidents recently. Rumors had been circulating for months that the United States and Costa Rican governments were preparing to destroy Isla Sorna, although neither would confirm or deny the gossip. Malcolm hoped they would. In fact, for years, he had, whenever he allowed someone to ask, admitted that he strongly advocated the destruction of all prehistoric life on the island. He knew the dinosaurs were dangerous and needed to be destroyed. However, he hoped his involvement would not be considered necessary.

He folded his newspaper and placed it on the counter, then consumed the last of his coffee. He stood and grabbed his paper, and he went to the cash register to pay for his beverage. He handed over his credit card, and, as he waited for the waitress at the register to process his payment, his cellular telephone rang.

To quell the ringing, he pulled the phone from one of the front pockets of his pants and irritably answered, "Malcolm."

"Bonjour, mon ami. Comment allez-vous aujourd'hui?" the caller, said, in an obviously fake French accent.

"Tom, you're not French, so you might as well give, uh, it up."

On the other end of the conversation, Dr. Thomas Juttson chuckled. Behind a brown, wicker clothes-hamper in the bathroom of his apartment, the paleontologist crouched, hiding from the federal agents in his living room. The room was dark except for the sunlight that came through the tiny window. He quickly ran his fingers through his ear-length, light reddish-brown curls, then pushed his glasses, which were similar to Malcolm's, up higher on his nose. "They're after me," he cautiously whispered.

Malcolm sighed as the waitress returned his credit card. He placed it in his pocket, then signed the receipt for his order as he said, "Tom, how many times do I have to tell you, don't mix your drinks?" He peeled the pale yellow bottom sheet away from the receipt, the carbon copy of his wild signature extending across a line at the bottom and shoved it into the same pocket that held his wallet and, previously, his mobile phone. Calmly, but not sincerely, he continued, "Seriously. The aliens are not going to abduct you again. You're drunk; that's all."

"Ian, I'm not drunk!" Juttson insisted harshly. "And it's not the aliens this time. Two big, and I mean big, FBI agents are in my apartment, and they want me to come with them and tell them where you are. By the way, you have been asking all your one-night-stands their ages before you one-night-stand them, haven't you?"

Malcolm growled, holding the phone to his right ear as he exited the diner. "Tom, did you ask them why they're there?"

"Of course, what do you think I am, stupid? Wait, don't answer that. They gave me the whole G-man schtick, you know, the whole 'That's classified information' B. S. line. Why the hell would they want both of us?"

The pair was silent for a moment, then two possibilities came into Malcolm's mind. "Either it has something to do with Richard or that attack yesterday."

"Hmm, possibly both."

"Maybe," Malcolm affirmed.

"Shit. Uh, Ian, I guess I'll be seeing you soon, then. I can't hide in my bathroom forever, after all, especially since they already know where I am." Juttson laughed somewhat fearfully. "They'll kick the door down eventually, and my window's too small to crawl through. Later."

Malcolm heard a click on the other end, followed by a dial tone. This is not good, he thought sourly. Not good at all. Only one day, and the government's already involved. He shook his head glumly and slipped his telephone back into his pocket, then pulled his car keys from the right-hand pocket. The small pieces of metal jangled against each other on their chain as he approached his sleek, red, vintage convertible, a Pontiac GTO that had survived years of abuse since his parents purchased it for him when he graduated from college. He opened the driver's side door and slid inside, then closed the door, fastened his seatbelt, and pushed the correct key into the ignition. He turned it, and the engine purred to life. He pushed the gear shift into reverse position, maneuvered out of the parking space, shifted gears again, and pulled away, reluctantly heading toward his apartment, worried about what would be awaiting him when he arrived.