several pictures before I realize what is happening. All the time Myra is laughing and smiling. I finally pull away and hide in the bathroom, humiliated.
Jerome knocks an undetermined time later, and tells me I must give credit for the find to him, or he is sending the pictures to “National Geographic.” I am shocked, and cannot speak. He rants on and on, about how he’ll call the new species Homo jerome, and how it will make him rich and famous beyond his wildest dreams. I begin to cry.
Myra busts in and takes a picture of this.
DAY 4 — 12:54 pm
I am now convinced, after sitting in the bathroom and thinking about it all morning, that Jerome must die. Myra too. I cannot be humiliated in front of the scientific world. Nor can I let the credit for such an important discovery go to someone else. The answer is murder.
I go to Hertz and rent a large SUV. My plan is simple. I will run them over. Then back over them five or six times to make sure they are dead. I park the car behind a palm tree in front of the hotel, then wait for them to come back from the sight. Thoughts of being featured on The Discovery Channel fuel my thirst for vengeance.
The second they step out of the cab, they’re pancakes.
DAY 4 — 8:45 P.M.
Myra and Jerome finally return to the hotel. My fingers sweat as I turn the ignition key, and the engine roars to life like a prehistoric beast—perhaps an Indricotherium transsouralicum, or a Doedicurus with a slight cold.
Myra wraps her arms around Jerome and kisses him lovingly, as they both stand innocently on the curb, waiting to be flattened.
I put the car into gear, and slam the accelerator to the floor. My mind is racing, but I foresee everything in slow motion: the look of shock on Jerome’s face when he sees me coming at him, the scream Myra will barely have a chance to let out, the crushed, bleeding mess of bone and sinew that was once my colleagues.
I drive past them and keep on going. I cannot bring myself to do it.
I am not a killer. I am an archaeologist.
Who cares if I don’t get credit for this find? There will be other excavations. I will find other fossils. There is a big wide world out there, covered in dirt. Somewhere there is bound to be other extraordinary discoveries, and I will be there to make them. I and I alone will go down in history as the man who revolutionized archaeology, even if it takes me the rest of my life. I will bounce back!
Nah…too much work.
I turn the car around and level Jerome and Myra in mid-kiss.
Homo jerome my ass.
After they were flattened, I hit Reverse and backed up over their bodies. Twice.
If only Leakey could see me now.
I have a dirty little secret. Even though my books are compared to Janet Evanovich’s, I’d never read her until after writing Rusty Nail. I was invited into an essay collection about Evanovich’s character, called Perfectly Plum, so I read all the books back-to-back, then contributed this piece.
B y my count, Stephanie Plum has been involved in the loss or destruction of twelve vehicles at the time of this writing, which is 8:55 A.M. , Eastern Time. But, in all fairness, I’m not very good at counting. Plus, I listened to two of the books on abridged audio, which is known for cutting incidental bits from novels, such as characterization and plot.
Since I had nothing better to do today, other than to donate my kidney to that sick guy who paid me fifty thousand dollars, I decided to find out if, in the real world, could Ms. Plum get insured?
Let’s take a moment to look at the phrase “in the real world.”
Have you taken a moment? Good. Let’s move on.
Since Stephanie Plum is a fictitious character, who lives in a fictitious place called Trenton, New Jersey, she isn’t expected to completely conform to all aspects of reality, such as car insurance, or gravity. Since I knew that this task before me would involve a great deal of painstaking research and determination, I immediately went to work. After work,
Jerome knocks an undetermined time later, and tells me I must give credit for the find to him, or he is sending the pictures to “National Geographic.” I am shocked, and cannot speak. He rants on and on, about how he’ll call the new species Homo jerome, and how it will make him rich and famous beyond his wildest dreams. I begin to cry.
Myra busts in and takes a picture of this.
DAY 4 — 12:54 pm
I am now convinced, after sitting in the bathroom and thinking about it all morning, that Jerome must die. Myra too. I cannot be humiliated in front of the scientific world. Nor can I let the credit for such an important discovery go to someone else. The answer is murder.
I go to Hertz and rent a large SUV. My plan is simple. I will run them over. Then back over them five or six times to make sure they are dead. I park the car behind a palm tree in front of the hotel, then wait for them to come back from the sight. Thoughts of being featured on The Discovery Channel fuel my thirst for vengeance.
The second they step out of the cab, they’re pancakes.
DAY 4 — 8:45 P.M.
Myra and Jerome finally return to the hotel. My fingers sweat as I turn the ignition key, and the engine roars to life like a prehistoric beast—perhaps an Indricotherium transsouralicum, or a Doedicurus with a slight cold.
Myra wraps her arms around Jerome and kisses him lovingly, as they both stand innocently on the curb, waiting to be flattened.
I put the car into gear, and slam the accelerator to the floor. My mind is racing, but I foresee everything in slow motion: the look of shock on Jerome’s face when he sees me coming at him, the scream Myra will barely have a chance to let out, the crushed, bleeding mess of bone and sinew that was once my colleagues.
I drive past them and keep on going. I cannot bring myself to do it.
I am not a killer. I am an archaeologist.
Who cares if I don’t get credit for this find? There will be other excavations. I will find other fossils. There is a big wide world out there, covered in dirt. Somewhere there is bound to be other extraordinary discoveries, and I will be there to make them. I and I alone will go down in history as the man who revolutionized archaeology, even if it takes me the rest of my life. I will bounce back!
Nah…too much work.
I turn the car around and level Jerome and Myra in mid-kiss.
Homo jerome my ass.
After they were flattened, I hit Reverse and backed up over their bodies. Twice.
If only Leakey could see me now.
I have a dirty little secret. Even though my books are compared to Janet Evanovich’s, I’d never read her until after writing Rusty Nail. I was invited into an essay collection about Evanovich’s character, called Perfectly Plum, so I read all the books back-to-back, then contributed this piece.
B y my count, Stephanie Plum has been involved in the loss or destruction of twelve vehicles at the time of this writing, which is 8:55 A.M. , Eastern Time. But, in all fairness, I’m not very good at counting. Plus, I listened to two of the books on abridged audio, which is known for cutting incidental bits from novels, such as characterization and plot.
Since I had nothing better to do today, other than to donate my kidney to that sick guy who paid me fifty thousand dollars, I decided to find out if, in the real world, could Ms. Plum get insured?
Let’s take a moment to look at the phrase “in the real world.”
Have you taken a moment? Good. Let’s move on.
Since Stephanie Plum is a fictitious character, who lives in a fictitious place called Trenton, New Jersey, she isn’t expected to completely conform to all aspects of reality, such as car insurance, or gravity. Since I knew that this task before me would involve a great deal of painstaking research and determination, I immediately went to work. After work,
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