press her more, so he simply called to her as she walked out, “By the way, Ms. Hamlyn, I notice your eyes are the same color as the flowers. Just an interesting coincidence. Have a nice morning.”
Anna Dawn flopped back in her chair, befuddled. For a long moment, she examined the wildflowers, her fingers strangely trembling. How was she supposed to react to things like this? If he made her so uncomfortable, why the devil did she like him so much?
Maybe she was being silly, reading things into their banter that was all perfectly innocent. What was there to fear, really? That somebody was being nice, was actually attempting to care about her? She had been alone so long, independent and self-directed … no one else to have to plan for, or worry about. This whole idea of permitting a personal relationship to develop between them—-a “thing” he had called it—-rubbed like a new pair of jeans. But, then, she had never known a father or an uncle or a grandfather, so how could she know what to expect from a man? Worse, she had never known a mother, so how could she know how a woman effectively interacts with a man, whatever his role? And beyond that, it had to be admitted, her new boss was an entirely different animal altogether from anyone she had ever met, from either sex. How one was to appropriately respond to him was anybody's guess. An instruction manual had not been written on the likes of Dr. James Omega.
Reflectively, she stared at the cheerful bouquet in her hands. Found them by the roadside, did he? she thought. The wild roses from the previous week probably came from his walks, too. Out dear old professor seems to have a knack for finding things others pass by, whether it's flowers or ... me. The question is, do I like being found?
As she fingered the tiny blossoms, she felt a small shiver of delighted discovery—-each delicate blue flower had a perfect, white star in the center.
Boxes began arriving that afternoon. Anna Dawn was sitting at her desk, looking over the fall class schedule when the UPS courier came through the door with two packages, one roughly the size of a microwave oven and the second the size of a shoebox.
“M’am,” he said, “some parcels for a Dr. J. Omega?”
“Yes,” she said. “You may leave them here. He's out of the office, but I'll sign for him.”
“Fine. Where do you want them put?”
“Over there, by his door.” She pointed to his office. “What are they?”
The courier shrugged. “I don't look inside 'em, M'am; I just deliver 'em. But most of ‘em say ‘Handle with Care.’ Were you expecting something fragile?”
Anna Dawn shrugged. “I guess so. Be careful with them,” she cautioned.
When Omega returned an hour later, there were seventeen boxes of varying dimensions awaiting him outside his office door.
Anna Dawn looked up as he came in. “Merry Christmas.”
Omega's eyes lit up. “Oh good! Wonderful! They are here! Would you help me unpack them, Ms. Hamlyn?”
She didn't show it, but if he hadn't invited her, if she had to wait another five minutes to see what the boxes contained, she would have popped. She had no idea what to expect, but she was sure it would be something amazing, and she was right.
Omega opened the first box, reached deep into the Styrofoam peanuts that filled it, and withdrew ... a bird carved of wood. Its plumage was painted powder pink and lavender with a white breast, and it was seated on a branch, head back and beak open, in a pose of singing as if it were beckoning with all its heart for the sun to rise.
Omega stared at it fondly a moment, then turned to Anna Dawn. “Spring's Herald,” he said. “Lovely, is she not?”
“Yes,” Anna Dawn agreed. “I don't think I've ever seen anything like it. What did you call it?”
“Spring's Herald.”
“That's an unusual name.”
“I enjoy giving animals my own little nicknames. It is more fun than Latin.” He placed the bird on the center row of his newly-made shelves. “Spring's Herald is, or was, a real bird—-a member of the lark family. You have not seen anything like her because she and her kind have not been on the planet for a very, very long time. She is extinct now, and a sad thing it is. Her song was ... that is ... was reputed to be ... quite beautiful.”
The next box held a real stuffed squirrel in an air-tight glass case, or at least, Anna Dawn guessed that it was a squirrel. Then, again, truthfully, it didn't look quite right. “What is this?” she queried. “It looks something like a squirrel, but it’s yellow.”
Omega took it from her and gave it a place of honor beside the lark. “Good guess. It is a member of the lemur family, actually, a pomatuu ... a golden pomatuu at that; 'Toe-sleeper,' I like to call him. From South America.”
“Is it extinct, too?”
Omega nodded. “Every box you see here contains a creature that is no more.”
Anna Dawn looked astounded. “How did you get all these?”
“It is a collection I have been making for many, many years. These animals are very precious. Many of them are the only proof that they ever existed. Not only are they all extinct, but a few of them are also extremely old.
Anna Dawn shook her head in disbelief. “So how old can they be? I mean, dead animals turn to dust in a few years, unless they are mummified; and mummies could never look this good.”
Omega's eyes twinkled. “Let us just say, I know some people who are very good at what they do. The point is, Anna Dawn, you are looking at a very valuable collection. It is the only one of its kind in the world. Now, will you help me get the rest of these out of their prisons and up on the shelf? I tend to think of them as my pets, you see, and I do not like them to be cooped up any longer than necessary.”
She bit her lip and pushed up her glasses on her nose. Right. Your pets. Oh, boy.
For the next hour, it was like some bizarre birthday party, opening presents. The specimens ranged from reptiles to fish to insects with a bit of everything in between; the majority being mammals and birds.
When they were done at last, Omega stood back, admiring the display. “Now it feels like my office,” he said.
“Dr. Omega?” Anna Dawn asked. “Is there ever going to come a day when you cease to surprise me? I'm asking, because if there is, just let me know and I'll call in sick and stay home. What I'm trying to say is, I'm getting addicted.”
Omega looked puzzled. “To what?”
“To you,” she said, and walked out, leaving it at that.
8
I AM GARRIN CROSS, BUT I’M NOT
The man awoke with a dull headache and the sprinkle of a cold rain hitting against his face and skin like small bullets. He brought himself to his elbows, shook his head and looked dazedly around.
He was in an alley, lying on a crumpled pile of newspaper. The filth of decaying
