Minutes to Burn by Gregg Hurwitz Page A

It’ll get my legs back under me.” He smiled almost bashfully. “Mako leaned on me pretty good. I didn’t want to do it at first. Didn’t think I was ready.”
    “What changed your mind?” Cameron asked.
    “When he told me you were signed on.” Derek looked down and studied his thumbnail for a moment. When he raised his head, his eyes were steeled with resolve. “Let’s get this goatfuck on the road.”
    Donald faced Rex across the oblong disk of granite that served as the New Center conference table. Charts and diagrams hung about the room, and information seemed to jump out from the walls—the dark-ened hues of bathymetric maps, the curving arrows of oceanographic currents, the jointed lines of surface temperatures climbing hesitantly upward. No fewer than five computers were currently running, though Rex and Donald were the only ones sharing the office on the top floor. The other scientists worked in cubicles below, or in the basement lab.
    “I’m impressed you were able to get here on time,” Donald said. A slightly rounded short gentleman with kindly eyes and a shock of white hair that sprayed up from his head at all angles, Dr. Donald Denton stubbornly refused to yield to comb or brush. He wore only linen— linen shirts of all shades and patterns, linen dinner jackets at formal events, linen slacks so wrinkled they resembled corduroys. His skin had an enthusiastic reddish sheen to it, as if he had just finished some weighty task that involved a great degree of physical exertion. The truth of the matter was that he loathed physical exertion. Fortunately for him, as the President of the New Center, and the more academic Co-Chief of Research, the closest he got to exercise was a few swings of a rock ham-mer.
    Still breathless, Rex pulled off his bicycle helmet and tossed it in the corner. “Well, it’s not every day one gets his very own team of trained SEALs.”
    Donald leaned over, exhaling audibly, and pulled two jars filled with red-tinted, brackish liquid from a padded box. He set them on the table before Rex.
    “Alien urine specimens?” Rex asked.
    “Water samples. From Frank. Dated the twenty-seventh of October. The mail from Ecuador, as you can imagine, has all but ground to a halt. They came in on a cargo plane late last night, and were waiting for me here when I arrived this morning.”
    Rex took one of the jars and held it up to the light. Particles swirled in the cloudy liquid.
    “One from Santa Cruz, the other he took first thing after landing on Sangre de Dios. I guess he sent them back with the boat that dropped him off. I’ll run them down to the lab after the meeting, see what I come up with. Oh, and I almost forgot.” Donald leaned forward, pulling a folded sheet from his back pocket. He handed it to Rex. “Take a look at this.”
    Rex took the sheet and glanced at it. “Sixty-four hundred bucks!” He whistled. “What the hell’s that for?”
    “Evidently, Frank ordered one of those solar-powered specimen freezers delivered to him on the island. Some shady shipper threw it on an oil tanker out of Manta, got it to him in two days.” He snatched the bill back from Rex and read from it. “‘Expedited delivery—four hun-dred dollars.’” He shook his head. “I just don’t understand what he would’ve needed a freezer that large for.”
    Rex shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t know what he was ordering. Maybe they sent him the wrong size to rip him off. Us. To rip us off. Did he clear the expense with you?”
    Donald waved him off. “Please. You know Frank. He was never in touch on a survey. Hated to be distracted from his work. He couldn’t be bothered with lugging communications equipment.”
    “Ah yes. His Thoreau routine.”
    Donald rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand. “That’s why it took me so damn long to realize he was missing.” He drummed his fingers on the granite. “I have to confess, I’m glad you’ll have a military squad