Aaron Elkins: Unnatural Selection

“A cold fish, all right,” Gideon said now.

“It so happens I agree with him,” Joey declared, or rather blurted. “Intellectually speaking.”

“Oh, pish-tush,” Liz said with a flap of her hand. “You do not.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t,” said Julie.

“Yes, I do!” Joey’s voice went up half an octave, coming perilously close to a screech. “All right, sure, Edgar was no prize as a human being, but that doesn’t mean that what he said wasn’t right. I’ll trade a human life for a grizzly’s life any day of the week. There’s no difference between Edgar and me on that score.” He glared at the three of them, his tic going full blast.

“Sure, there is,” Liz said, using her thumb to flip another chocolate-covered cookie to him, which he deftly snatched out of the air. “That sonofabitch really believed that shit. You don’t.”

Joey started to reply, then grinned and hung his head. “Maybe not every word.”

“Look who’s here,” Julie said glancing up. “Victor.”

Gideon followed her gaze with a mixture of curiosity and dread. If there was one certified wacko in the group, he thought, it had to be Victor Waldo, editor of the Journal of Spiritual and Sacred Ecology and founder of the Crystal Butte Earth/Body Center, located in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. (“Effortlessly absorb timeless shamanistic techniques for healing, growth, and homeostasis in our authentic Kirghiz mountain yurts.”)

Once again, however, Gideon was surprised at what he saw. He’d half-expected a bearded dropout in a tie-dyed sweatshirt, or maybe fringed buckskin, or with a ratty Afghan thrown over his shoulders, but Victor Waldo’s long chin was clean-shaven and his lean body was neatly attired in a tweed sport coat and well-pressed trousers. With his short, steel-gray hair, his proboscis of a nose-lifted slightly as if searching for an elusive scent-his pale, cold, intelligent eyes, and an all-around dryness of manner, he could have passed with ease for a professor of microeconomics. It was very hard indeed to imagine him thumping ceremonial drums, or whatever it was they did in an authentic Kirghiz mountain yurt.

“Hey, Victor, how you doing?” Liz yelled. “Come join us. Is Kathie with you?”

Waldo waited until he came within normal speaking range to reply. “No, she isn’t. As a matter of fact, Kathie and I are no longer… No, she isn’t. We’ve separated.”

That prompted a knowing, embarrassed glance between Liz and Julie, and they quickly moved on to another subject. “Pull up a chair, Victor,” Liz said. “Have you heard about Edgar?”

He had not, and after the bear story had been told once again and Waldo had expressed the requisite astonishment and a distinctly cool minimum of sorrow at his loss, Gideon, in the interest of furthering his own knowledge, apologized for never having read the Journal, and asked if Waldo would be kind enough to give him some idea of what exactly the province of spiritual and sacred ecology comprised. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Liz wince.

Like any expert asked to talk about his field, Waldo obliged with an enthusiasm that brought a stony glitter to his washed-out blue eyes. “Certainly. In a nutshell, it provides an alternative paradigm to the non-relational ways of being in the world that have traditionally dominated Western thought. It relies on a model that aims for a synergistic relationship with other species and ecosystems. It explores the dialectic between…”

Good gosh, Gideon thought, he even talks like a professor of microeconomics.

“… indigenous world views, earth-connected spirituality-”

The disembodied voice from the loudspeakers came to the rescue by resuming its tranquil monologue: “And now, as the beautiful Isle of St. Mary’s comes into our near view, its rocks reveal the ravages of time and tide, against which-”

Everyone took this as a signal to gather up belongings and move toward the exits. After quick handshakes all around, Julie and Gideon found themselves out on deck in the disembarkation line as the ferry slid sidewise up to the Hugh Town quay.

“What did you think of Victor?” a smiling Julie asked.

“Interesting. Not that I had a clue to what he was talking about.”

“No, nobody does. But he is interesting.”

“Why did Kozlov choose him? Is it just one more way of annoying the establishment?

“No, I don’t think so. I think Vasily is simply a genuinely open-minded person who doesn’t write off people because they don’t happen to agree with his own views on science.” She paused for a beat. “Not like some people I know.”

“Hey…” Gideon said, laughing.

Julie pointed to a green promontory topped by a low, gray, undeniably Elizabethan castle that was surrounded by a walled, star-shaped keep.

“That’s Garrison Hill,” she said, “and that’s Kozlov’s place on top of it. Star Castle.”

“Looks nice.”

“It is. There’ll be a van on the dock to pick up our bags for us, and we’re early, so what do you say we stretch our legs a little and walk up to the castle? I’ll give you a tour of Hugh Town on the way. It won’t take long.”

“Love to.”

Hugh Town was more village than town, a narrow, quarter-mile-long neck of land connecting Garrison Hill to the rest of the island, bordered by Town Beach on one side and the brilliant white sand of Porthcressa Beach on the other. Only three streets wide, it had a couple of banks, a chemist, three or four pubs and hotels, as many restaurants, a not so super “supermarket,” and a few guest houses and craft shops. All in all, a quiet, pleasant, prosperous, not overly quaint British village of the sort that had once been typical of England but was rarely to be found now, certainly not within fifty miles of London.

Its particular glory was in the rock gardens and in the cascading masses of flowers that were everywhere, sustained by a subtropical climate that felt more like Bermuda than Britain. Even with stopping often to admire the plantings, in less than an hour they had covered every foot of Hugh Street, the Strand, and the Parade, had walked up Garrison Hill Lane, and had entered the castle grounds through a massive stone gateway with ER 1593 carved deeply into the lintel.

Seen from inside the thick walls, Star Castle was not quite as impressive as it had seemed from the dock. A squat three stories high, with little in the way of ornamentation, it had been built with fortification in mind, not high living. It had stood without apparent decline for over four hundred years now and looked good for another four hundred at least.

Kozlov was not there to greet them. They were met in a tiny office-reception area by his secretary, a pale, soft man-like some delicate, vulnerable crustacean that had come into the light without its shell-who presented a quiet but distinctly starchy mien. (“I am Mr. Kozlov’s majordomo. My name is Mr. Moreton.”) He showed them to the guest rooms on the second floor, and opened a door on which there was a marble plaque: THE DUKE OF HAMILTON ROOM. Inside it was sparely but comfortably furnished: a big four-poster bed, two chairs, an ancient armoire, and a folding writing desk.

“And who was the Duke of Hamilton?” Gideon asked. “Was he a guest here?”

“He was a prisoner in this room in the year 1643. The rooms, you see, are named for the many notables who have been imprisoned here.”

“Ah. And what did the duke do?”

“I understand his loyalty to the monarchy was held in question. He was believed to be a supporter of Cromwell, although there is room for doubt on the matter.”

“Last year,” Julie said, “I was next door in the Sir John Wildman Room. He was imprisoned for being disloyal to Cromwell and supporting the monarchy.”