by Rachel Grant
She remembered how he’d wrapped both the stone and the tool in Bubble Wrap. The tool made sense, but the rock might have come from a meteor and was more metal than stone. It was more likely to damage the clipboard box than to be damaged by it. She’d said as much, and he’d winked at her and said, “Bubble Wrap works both ways. It’ll protect the clipboard my brother gave me when I got my PhD.”
She’d laughed and made a joke about the inexpensive gift for such a momentous occasion, and he’d explained that it also came with the camera that was his most prized possession. After he placed the stone and the tool inside the compartment, he’d flipped the aluminum clipboard over and showed her the engraving on the back.
Now she held the clipboard in her hands—the place where she’d last seen the artifacts—but before opening it, she turned it over to read the inscription again.
Now it’s your turn. Conquer the world, and don’t forget to take pictures. —Dean
Bill stood so close, his scent enveloped her as his fingers traced the inscription, almost as if the words meant something to him. “Dean?” he asked, his voice a bit hoarse. Probably because she’d turned the heat up to high when she’d first entered the tent, and it was getting a bit warm.
“His brother. Some sort of photographer, I think. Fashion, maybe? At least, Dylan mentioned a lot of models and his brother being something of a womanizer. But he gave Dylan a camera and taught him photography. Dylan took photos of my site when I asked him to come out and take a look at the artifacts, and his photos were so much better than the average site shots. One of the reasons I’m interested in taking you up on your photography lessons.”
Bill had a strange, almost shuttered look as he nodded to the clipboard. “Open it.”
She did, and her heart fell when the only items inside were a stack of field notes, some hand-drawn maps, and three yellow Rite in the Rain field notebooks.
“Dammit.”
“Why haven’t you asked Dylan where the artifacts are?”
She frowned. Did he really think she hadn’t already thought of that? “I tried. But Pollux wouldn’t give me his number, and I haven’t been able to find him.”
“You don’t have his number?”
She met his gaze and frowned. Why would she have Dylan’s number? Or maybe the question was, why would Bill think she had the man’s number? “No. I never thought to ask for it.”
He gave a sharp nod of acknowledgment. His intensity about this didn’t add up. Maybe he had heard the rumors about Sylvia and Dylan after all?
She cleared her throat. “I should have gotten his number when I gave him the artifacts, but I had no way of knowing he would leave Chiksook without warning.”
A new suspicion bloomed. Was it possible Bill had been sent by Pollux to investigate? Could he really be Sylvia’s spy, as he’d joked last night?
She locked her jaw closed. She wouldn’t get into this with Bill. His loyalty had to be to the company that employed him.
She unhooked the metal flap that held down the papers and notebooks and pulled them out to flip through, but she was distracted instead by what removing the papers had revealed.
A spiderweb of broken glass marred the face of a smartphone.
SIX
Dylan’s boots. Dylan’s clipboard. And now, Dean held Dylan’s smartphone in his hand.
“I don’t understand why Dylan would have left this behind,” Fiona said. “I gathered the clipboard had sentimental value, if nothing else.”
The clipboard was sentimental. There was no way his brother would have left it behind. And he couldn’t imagine Dylan abandoning his field notes any more than he’d take an artifact for analysis and not return it. “None of this makes sense to me either,” Dean said, keeping his words neutral, given that he wasn’t supposed to know Dylan. “Just because the screen is cracked doesn’t mean the phone won’t work. I have the correct charger; we can power it up.”
“It’s probably locked.”
That wouldn’t be a problem. Dylan always used the same passcode, their birth month and day. “Still worth a shot.”
She took the phone back. “I have a charger too. I’ll charge it and see if I can verify it belongs to Dylan Slater. My boss will likely need to go through channels to return it to Pollux.” She nodded to the clipboard and field notes. “Given that he also left behind data collected for a government contract, we need to do this by the book.”
While her words were probably correct, he had a feeling she didn’t trust him. He’d probably made her uneasy with his interest in Dylan’s stuff. He’d overplayed his hand, which meant he had no choice but to comply. His best hope was sneaking into her tent when she was in the field and unlocking the phone.
What would he find stored there? Why had Dylan left it behind?
With nothing left to search, Dean had no more reason to continue questioning her. He left her tent and returned to his own. It had been a stroke of luck to find the clothing left behind—giving him the perfect excuse to knock on her door after she’d announced to them all which tent had belonged to Dylan. But why the thermal underwear and lingerie had been left behind was another mystery, albeit a less worrisome one.
He flopped down on the cot and looked up at the ceiling of the pale-gray walled tent. He was here, at last, and the items found in Dylan’s—now Fiona’s—tent told him he’d been right to risk federal prison in coming here. Dylan never would have left the clipboard behind, and it made no sense that he hadn’t taken his cell phone, unless the cracked screen was only the beginning of the damage. He wished Fiona had plugged it in right then and there, so he could have seen if it worked.
Patience.
He now needed all the skills he’d honed when stalking wildlife. When he was on assignment, he could spend days waiting for the right shot. He needed to think of this in the same way.
Except . . . it was hard to imagine a scenario in which Dylan’s disappearance wasn’t urgent. Five weeks was a long time, and here in the Aleutians, even a single day of bad weather could be deadly. Five weeks? It would be damn near impossible to survive that long without aid of some kind.
There was a Unangax̂ village several miles west of here. Dean would go there tomorrow—using the search for the gray buntings as his excuse—and see if they knew anything. He might even be able to tell them who he really was. He had connections among the Unangas, and he wouldn’t be shy about using them.
Before dinner, Fiona went to the office tent—where they had a modem that offered limited connectivity—and emailed her boss from her laptop.
Graham,
Following up after our phone call this morning. Finally arrived on Chiksook about an hour ago. Any word on Lowell’s or Neff’s background and experience?
She felt a trickle of unease at writing the sentence, but the question had to be asked. If neither man was qualified to do the work, the EIS could be invalidated, which would mean their work would have to be repeated, adding months, if not another year, to the EIS process.
She took a deep breath and continued typing.
Also, there were a few items left behind in my tent. I think they belong to the volcanologist who was fired, Dylan Slater, but don’t understand why he would leave the items behind—his cell phone, hiking boots, and clipboard field desk with notes. Unfortunately, the artifact and stone sample are still missing. None of the items left in the tent, with the exception of field notes, appears to belong to Pollux, and the clipboard was a personally engraved gift from his brother, not something he would abandon. Have you had any luck in tracking him down through Pollux? I don’t want to turn the items over to the Pollux employees here because I’m certain they would just give them to Sylvia Jessup and . . . you know my reservations there.
Please put more pressure on Pollux to provide Dylan’s contact information so I can reach out about the artifact.
Thanks,
Fiona
Pollux had said Dylan had decided to use his accrued leave time to go off the grid f
or a few weeks as the investigation into his conduct played out. She didn’t doubt Dylan needed a break after Sylvia’s allegations, but she would also expect that he would stick around and defend himself.
It was all just so weird, and she was more than a little uncomfortable doubting the allegations of a well-respected woman engineer, but what she’d witnessed didn’t jibe with Sylvia’s account. In fact, she’d seen the exact opposite.
But she also didn’t want to be the kind of person who automatically discounted the word of a woman, just because she both didn’t like the woman in question and was friends with the man.
The door behind her opened, and she quickly hit “Send” without reading through the email. She didn’t want anyone here to know she was asking questions about Bill and Victor.
She turned to see Victor Neff.
“Good. Looks like the internet is working?” he said.
It took a moment, but finally her computer played the whoosh sound of a sent email. Even an email that short with no attachments took more than a few seconds to send from this remote place. Of course, once the sub base was built, this whole island would be a hub of connectivity.
“Yep. Working,” she said.
“Excellent. I need to email my wife.”
She hadn’t realized he was married, but they hadn’t talked about their personal lives during their jog this morning. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to know you arrived safely.”
“Any luck finding what you were looking for in the tent?”
His gaze held an intensity that was similar to Bill’s. What was up with these two men and their interest in her missing artifacts? “Sadly, no.”
“Bummer. I can check and see if they went to the Anchorage office, if that helps.”
She’d already made inquiries there, and it had been a dead end. No one at Pollux wanted to talk about Dylan, and they’d formed a united front. Victor was new, so maybe he could help, but they’d probably give him the runaround too. Plus, there was the fact that he might not be the qualified geologist he presented himself as.
Nope, best to leave it for Graham to follow up. As a supervisory-level federal employee and the civilian in charge of the EIS—he answered only to the admiral and other officials who would sign the final document—he had the clout to get the information needed.
“It’s fine. I’m sure they will turn up.”
She closed the lid on her laptop and slid it into her field bag. “See you in the cook tent. Dinner should be ready soon.”
He dropped into a chair and was setting up his computer as she left the tent. She decided to swing by her tent to stow her computer bag before heading to dinner. Since her tent was on the end, she opted to walk around the back way, then stepped into the aisle between tents.
She stopped short at seeing Bill on the pallet that served as a front stoop for her tent.
He was facing away—as if he’d just stepped out of her tent.
Had he entered her tent while she was emailing her boss?
But she hadn’t seen him push the door closed, so she couldn’t be sure. “Hey,” she said, her tone not exactly friendly.
He spun around as if startled. “There you are. I was just knocking to see if you were ready for dinner.” He smiled, giving her the full power of his megawatt looks, with that trim beard that would probably look deliciously scruffy in a few days’ time.
She had zero belief the man was unaware of the power of his smile combined with his intensely gorgeous eyes. Was he hoping to distract her after she’d caught him exiting her tent?
But had she? Or had he just been there, knocking, as he’d claimed?
After all, why would he go in her tent when it would be so easy to get caught? She had to be imagining things.
“The buddy system doesn’t extend into camp. I’m perfectly capable of walking all the way to the cook tent by myself.”
He held up his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend. Just being neighborly.”
She closed her eyes and tried to figure out if she was being a bitch or not. Did she have reason to be suspicious of him? Last night she’d wanted to let him kiss her.
Something about Bill Lowell threw her off. He didn’t add up. She rubbed her temples. “Sorry. I think I’m cranky from travel and hunger. Let me drop off my laptop, and then I’ll give you a tour of the cook tent and, if the food isn’t ready, the rest of camp.”
His smile returned, and she felt that damn flutter again. “I’d like that.”
That had been damn close. He really had knocked on her door to see if she wanted to go to dinner, but when she didn’t answer, he figured she was already in the cook tent and saw an opportunity to see if she’d plugged in Dylan’s phone.
He’d been in her tent only long enough to spot the phone on the table. Plugged in. He touched the button, and the screen lit. It was working. He’d typed Dylan’s PIN, and it unlocked.
His whole body had flooded with adrenaline in that moment, but he couldn’t risk checking the contents now. Tomorrow, when she—and everyone else—was in the field, he’d be able to swipe the fully charged phone and comb through it. He’d hit the button to lock it again and quickly stepped out of her tent, thankful that no one was around.
He’d just stepped off the pallet step when she spoke. Damn muskeg ground cover made for silent footsteps around here.
She was suspicious. He knew it, so he dialed up his smile and took the offensive, calling out her manners. Her reaction told him she hadn’t seen him actually leaving her tent. She had doubts.
He needed to play up the attraction angle—as if that was the reason he’d been on her step—while still not coming across as an ass who refused to respect her boundaries. He needed to get her to flirt with him. Let her think she was the one who was pulling him in like a magnet, no matter how much he tried to resist.
He needed to coax her like he would any woman in front of his camera when he was bent on seduction. He knew how to get women to flirt, vamp, and make the first move.
Could he do that with Fiona without a camera between them?
Dylan’s life might depend on it, so he had no other choice.
SEVEN
Fiona never slept well at the start of a field project, and the first night on Chiksook was no exception. Between the wind buffeting the tent, her odd suspicions of the two new team members, and the fact that at first light she’d head to the archaeological site at last, her sleep was fitful until the last hour before dawn, when she finally sank into deep REM sleep.
She woke with a jolt upon hearing a knock on her door, followed by a male voice. “Fiona? Are you still here? Everyone is heading out, and you weren’t at breakfast.”
Shock filtered through her as she sat bolt upright and checked her phone for the time. But her phone was dead. Which was why she hadn’t heard the alarm.
A female voice—Cara’s—added, “She must’ve set out early, before any of us were up.”
“Shit,” she muttered, then projected her voice to the door. “I’m here.”
“You are?” Cara shouted. “Can we come in?”
She was still in her mummy bag as she rubbed her face and tried to get her bearings. “Yes. Sure. Crap.” She hit the button for the bedside LED lamp, and nothing happened. The tent was warm, but the heaters ran on gas, not electricity.
The door opened to reveal Cara and Bill, both dressed in the layers that would see them through a day of fieldwork with shifting weather conditions.
She held up her dead phone in one hand and pointed to the dark lamp with the other. “Power is out. Something must’ve happened to the line to my tent.” She flopped back on the bed, groaning. This was not how she wanted to start her fieldwork.
On the bright side, now that she was wide-awake thanks to a big hit of panic, she realized she felt well rested. Even sleep saturated, in spite of several hours of fitful sleep.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Cara said. “The cook set aside a breakfast for you, and Bill packed you
r lunch so the cook could clean up.”
She smiled at Bill, who’d held up an insulated bag on cue. “Bless you,” she said, meaning it. The man was her new best friend for making sure she didn’t start off on the wrong footing with the cook by messing with the cooking and cleaning schedule.
She rose from her cot and dropped the thick mummy bag that had kept her toasty warm in spite of the cold, windy night. She wore the same thermal underwear for pajamas that Bill had already seen her in yesterday morning, when they’d had breakfast together after her run with Victor, so there was no reason to be shy when she needed to get moving.
“I’ve got to run,” Cara said. “I’m sharing a vehicle with Roy, and he’s anxious to head out. Victor and John left before the rest of us were up, apparently, and they took two vehicles—we weren’t sure if you were with one of them, but the cook said he hadn’t seen you this morning, and he was up at five.”
She did the math on the vehicles. “So if John and Victor each took a vehicle, and you’re riding with Roy, that leaves only one left.”
“Looks like we’re working together after all,” Bill said with an amused smile.
One of the reasons she’d planned to get up early was to claim a solo vehicle, since the archaeological site was on the other side of the island from where the others would be working today. She closed her eyes, regretting very much the times she’d scoffed at the idea of working with Bill. “Please tell me you think your mated pair of gray buntings are on the west end of the island, because that’s where I absolutely must go today.”
Cara flashed Fiona a bright smile. “I’ll let you two work that out. I’m off. There’s a radio for you in the office tent, along with an emergency kit.”
She slipped out the door and closed it behind her, leaving Fiona alone with the man she’d be working with for the next eight to fourteen hours, depending on the weather.
Bill cleared his throat. “I suppose I can start in the west. But it’ll cost you.”
His deep voice had a slightly teasing tone that sent an anticipatory shiver down her spine. How did he do that?
