by Rachel Grant
“We can’t always be carefree and young.”
“Amen to that.”
His words made her wonder what had been the event that pushed him into responsible adulthood.
“Do you still dive?” he asked.
“When I can. I sometimes wish I’d pursued nautical archaeology.”
“I love diving. Photographing marine wildlife is one of my favorite hobbies. After we go hiking, we can go scuba diving together. It’s even more important to have a dive buddy than it is to have a fieldwork buddy.”
That made her smile, and she pushed away sadness over her brother and questions about Bill’s dark past, whatever it might be. “I thought we were going to hold off on making plans until after we know each other better. Besides, that summer in Jamaica kind of ruined diving in cold Puget Sound for me.”
“Hey, earlier you said I was your favorite person in the world. I’m striking while the iron is hot. You’ll have to deal with the cold water, though, because I think it’s too soon to start planning a tropical vacation together.”
She laughed. “But think of the hikes we could do in Hawaii!”
He grinned, his blue eyes narrowing in a sexy way. “Okay then, putting tropical vacation back on the table.”
She’d bet he looked amazing in a wet suit. Or better yet, no suit at all . . .
She shook her head. This was not the time or place. She had a job to do. She finished her snack and rose to her feet, dusting herself off. “I’m going to do a pedestrian survey of the area, make sure we didn’t miss anything. When I’m done, we can head to the volcano.”
“Can I help?”
“No. I really need to walk it myself. You might not recognize something as cultural.”
She set off, doing five-meter transects up and down the landform. She dropped blue pin flags in a few places where she found pieces of metal—a reminder that the US military had been all over this island during World War II—and red flags in a few places that she thought might be other semi-subterranean houses. If there were more intact houses, she might be able to forgive herself for the destruction.
Right now, the guilt of it weighed on her.
What would have happened if she’d missed the boat that day? There had probably been enough supplies to last a few days. They would have come back for her after the storm passed. She could have ensured the site was completely closed and protected.
She should have taken that risk, but it hadn’t even crossed her mind at the time.
Bill also walked the area as she conducted her transects, but his path didn’t intersect with hers, and she appreciated that he gave her room to work as he photographed the area.
There was something about his body language when he had the camera in his hands. She’d noticed it that first night on Adak. Something had shifted from the moment he’d started taking pictures.
Lots of birders were excellent photographers, so that was no surprise. What caught her attention was that without the camera, he seemed almost . . . anxious. Worried. But when the camera came out, he was like a cigarette smoker finally getting a nicotine fix. It calmed him in some way.
She didn’t know anything about cameras but guessed the one he was using had cost a lot. It wasn’t the kind of camera one usually brought to Chiksook. The EIS didn’t require National Geographic–worthy images. Point-and-shoot was all they needed.
That he was willing to bring expensive equipment—and at this point, she’d seen him use no less than three different cameras—not just to Chiksook but also out to the field made her wonder at his finances. A guy who was desperate for a last-minute contract after a job fell through wouldn’t necessarily be loaded.
Why risk his good cameras? Pollux Engineering was supposed to provide him with a camera for this job, so even if he didn’t have a less-expensive one to bring to the field, he could have gotten one at no charge.
It was another little piece that nagged at her. He wasn’t familiar with the NEPA process. He’d been far too interested in Dylan Slater’s forgotten gear. He’d brought not just one, but at least three expensive cameras into the field. His charm and looks weren’t enough to stop the camel’s back from starting to bow.
She reached the end of her transect and found a rock to sit on to jot down some notes. Several birds took to the sky when she sat, and she realized they’d been hidden in the low vegetation.
Bill had his back to her and didn’t turn when the birds called out to each other.
“I don’t suppose any of those are the birds you’re looking for?” she asked when he failed to notice the activity.
He turned, looking almost startled to discover a dozen birds flying overhead. What had he been so focused on that stopped a birder from noticing birds?
She wanted to blow this off; after all, she’d be offended if he tried to tell her how to do her job, so she shouldn’t tell him how to do his. But she couldn’t let it go.
He aimed his camera at the birds and, she presumed, snapped away. He was too far for her to hear the snick of the shutter.
He lowered the camera, letting it hang from the strap as he approached her. “No. Not gray buntings, but they’ll go in my inventory. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“How are you going to calculate the potential number of takes an operational sub base might trigger?” She kept her voice neutral. Casual question. Not suspicious of you at all.
He paused, looking at his camera screen, and she had the distinct feeling he was trying to figure out how to answer her. Finally he said, “I won’t be calculating potential takes on this trip.”
She gave a stiff smile, trying to keep her response friendly sounding, because his answer was . . . odd. “Yeah. Well, that would be impossible given that they haven’t given us the engineering plans yet.”
There were a lot of factors in determining takes under the Endangered Species Act or the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. She’d heard complaints from other ornithologists that the two acts even had different definitions of the term take, and sometimes they had to write one section for ESA and another for MBTA, if the study area was home to both endangered and migratory birds.
“Yeah, that would help for sure.”
“Plus, for your take calculation, you’ll need to look at the electric facility and power lines. I mean, that alone would require an APP.”
She specifically didn’t say “Avian Protection Plan” instead of APP, because she wanted to know if he was familiar with the acronym at all.
“Yeah. All of that. It’s a lot to factor in with endangered birds to consider.”
Unease slid through her. The gray bunting was a migratory bird, not an endangered species. ESA didn’t apply here. And he, the ornithologist hired to find a very special migratory bird, should know the difference far better than an archaeologist who knew squat about birds.
Her suspicion was only heightened by his continuously vague answers, but she didn’t know enough about ESA to really grill him.
Except . . . every archaeologist working in Cultural Resources Management knew that Section 106 of the National Historic Preservation Act was the primary driver of their work. Similarly, every wildlife biologist working under NEPA could cite Section 7 of the Endangered Species Act for the exact same reason.
“At least consultation as outlined in Section 27 of the ESA has teeth to make sure all forms of ‘takes’ are taken into account under NEPA.” The statement was a word salad with extra croutons. If he was the ornithologist he claimed to be, he’d correct the section number or ask what the hell she meant. She had no idea how many sections there were in the ESA, but she doubted there were more than twenty.
Bill shifted to scan the horizon. He didn’t want to meet her gaze. “Yeah. I’ll make sure all potential takes are counted.”
Fiona studied his back, trying to even out her breathing so he couldn’t hear the sudden panic his words just triggered.
There was no way in hell Bill Lowell was the ornithologist with NEPA experience he claimed to be.<
br />
TEN
He blew it. He hadn’t had enough time to study for this role. He’d looked at the regs but clearly hadn’t memorized them, didn’t know the lingo.
And Fiona had noticed.
Dammit, he knew gray buntings were migratory, but he got tangled in the regs, and he’d just made it worse from there. He’d probably made multiple mistakes but had no clue what they were.
Less than two weeks ago, he’d seen Pollux Engineering’s call for an ornithologist. The preliminary fieldwork for endangered species had been done months ago, and no endangered birds were known to nest on Chiksook. The report of the gray bunting call had triggered a new study with the focus on migratory birds, and the original ornithologist was no longer available.
Dean saw an opportunity and had wasted no time calling in favors. He had an investigative reporter friend who wrote exposés on endangered-species trafficking. She cultivated sources on the shady side and was able to help him. A few phone calls and $1,000 later, he had a fake ID in the name of Bill Lowell that would pass close examination.
He’d scoured Bill’s website for background information and combed through the regs for NEPA work. He’d read the bird section of a few EISs he’d found online. But clearly, ten days of cramming government regs wasn’t enough to pass the social conversation test. A true expert on the Endangered Species Act or the Migratory Bird Treaty Act would use words like take with ease.
They’d have worked on enough EIS documents to recognize the difference between NRHP and NHPA—the National Register of Historic Places versus the National Historic Preservation Act. It was his confusion over NHPA that had tripped him up the first night. And now he’d somehow screwed up the regs he, as an ornithologist, should know backward and forward.
They hiked back to the side-by-side in silence, Dean well aware that anything he said to correct his mistakes would only make it worse, as he couldn’t be certain what his errors were beyond confusing endangered with migratory. And an attempt to correct that one would only highlight his confusion over the very law that was his reason for being here.
Was she afraid of him now?
He considered coming clean, but given that she’d lied about her relationship with Dylan, never mentioning that they’d been involved, that could be a bad idea. He needed to keep his focus and not forget that he should be suspicious of her.
Until she admitted there was more to her relationship with Dylan than the working one she’d described, he didn’t have a lot of faith that what she’d said so far was true.
It was entirely possible she had something to do with Dylan’s disappearance. That could be the reason she was so closemouthed about his exit.
The thought had been in the back of his mind from the start, but as he got to know her, he’d brushed aside the concerns. Because he liked her. He didn’t want her to have betrayed his brother.
It was time to drop the wishful thinking and start probing her for information.
Now they would head to the volcano. It was a pathetic starting point, but it was all he had. He would revisit the sensors Dylan had placed and monitored. He’d spent his days out here studying Mount Katin. Maybe he’d find some clue to what had happened there.
It was almost a shame he had Fiona with him now, as she’d expect him to do ornithological things. He’d go through the motions and take photos and hope his cover would last a few more days.
They reached the side-by-side. As Dean reached for the keys, Fiona said, “I’m driving.”
“I thought you didn’t like driving out here?”
“Now that I’ve seen the condition of the roads, I’m okay with it.”
She was lying, which was a bad sign. She was scared of him. And now she had a need to be in control of their vehicle.
He had no choice but to give her the keys. It was a small gesture, but it might go a long way toward regaining her trust.
The main study area where the other scientists and engineers would be was on the far side of the island. Between Fiona and the group of people she knew and trusted was one rather large volcano.
Bill wanted to do his bird hunt around the volcano, so she took the road that skirted the lower slopes and headed to the far side of the mountain. Once she rounded the southern slope, her field radio should be able to connect with Cara, Roy, or John.
She’d feel better once she wasn’t isolated with Bill.
She really wanted to go back to camp and check her email, see if her boss had information on Pollux’s vetting process, but that wasn’t possible. She kept coming back to the question: Why would anyone fake being an ornithologist?
A paid vacation on Chiksook Island this was not.
The sky filled with low, gray clouds. The predicted storm looked like it might arrive earlier than expected. Wind buffeted the vehicle, making her glad they’d finished recording the damage to the site and were in the enclosed side-by-side. She just hoped the rain held off until they were back at camp, because the roads could get swampy.
As anxious as she was about the storm and her suspicions, she went through the motions of aiding his survey and pulled over whenever there was a new bird sighting. He would take pictures and write down the time, date, and location while she checked her phone—still not taking a charge, making her more certain the battery had been fried—and pretended everything was just fine.
After more than an hour of driving and stopping, they were finally in radio range of the study area. Fiona used the excuse of more birds to pull over again.
“I’ve already got pictures of song sparrows. They’re super common here.”
“Oh. Sorry. I couldn’t tell what they were. While we’re stopped, I want to radio the others and check in.”
She reached for her pack, pulled out the radio she’d picked up from the office tent this morning, and turned it on.
Nothing happened. The red LED power light didn’t glow. There was no static. It was dead.
She’d left it off this morning to save the battery while they were out of range anyway. It should be charged and ready to go. Like her phone.
She’d been afraid before, but now . . . she couldn’t breathe.
Last night, she’d seen Bill on the front step of her tent. Had he been inside? Had he messed with her phone? Was that why her alarm failed? Was that why the phone wouldn’t take a charge now?
This morning, she’d entered the office tent to pick up her radio and Bill was already there, waiting. Alone. Had he sabotaged her radio?
“Give me your radio.” Her voice was low and deep, a result of the difficulty she was having drawing in air.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Give me your radio!”
Bill frowned at her sharp tone, then shrugged. “Sure.” He reached for his pack in the back seat and plucked out his two-way radio. “Have at it.”
She yanked it from his hand and turned the knob.
Nothing happened. No light. No static.
Nothing.
Her gaze swung up to meet Bill’s no-longer-attractive blue eyes. “Did you do something to the radios? To my phone?”
He reared back. “Uh, no. Why would you even think that?”
A storm gathered and would be rolling in soon. They were alone on a remote road on a remote island. There were about two dozen Unangas living in a village on the southwest coast, four Pollux employees in the study area on the east end of the island, and a boat captain, cook, and two maintenance men at the camp in the southeast. And she couldn’t reach a single one via phone or radio.
They didn’t bother with satellite phones out here, because cloud cover made them unreliable, but right now she wished she had one anyway on the off chance today would be the day it would work even with the ominous, dark clouds overhead.
She couldn’t name her suspicions while she was alone with him, not while she was trapped without a radio, phone, or anyone who even knew exactly where they were.
She was certain at this point he wasn’t an ornithologist. But wh
at was he?
Who was he?
“Is your phone working?”
“I assume. I haven’t looked at it since last night.”
He pulled out his phone and handed it to her.
Her heart sank as she hit the wake button. It was dead.
She covered her mouth with her hand. Her whole body shook.
“It was working fine when I plugged it in to charge last night. I swear.”
“How did you wake up this morning without your phone?”
He held up his wrist, which sported a sturdy field watch. “Wristwatch. I don’t like relying on phones and things with such short battery life.” He looked at his dead phone. “Maybe this is all just . . . I don’t know. A bizarre coincidence?”
“Right. Every piece of electronics but your camera and this vehicle is dead.” Dread shot through her, and she checked the dash, feeling faint relief at seeing the gas gauge showing three-quarters of a tank.
“I don’t know why our phones and the radios are dead.”
“Was the power working in your tent this morning?”
“I don’t know. I have a battery-powered lamp I brought with me. This morning I grabbed the phone from the charger and shoved it in my pack without checking it. You think there was a power surge that took out both our tents and blew our plugged-in phones?”
“Maybe.” His not knowing if the power had tripped in his tent too could be a convenient excuse. But it also could be the truth.
But then, he’d lied about being an ornithologist, so why should she believe him in this?
She put the side-by-side in gear. “We’re heading to the study area. We need to check in with the others.”
She mentally dared him to challenge her decision, but he simply said, “I think that’s a good idea.”
ELEVEN
Fiona was freaked out, and Dean didn’t blame her. What the hell was going on?
Had a power surge taken out his phone? It was possible his and Fiona’s tents shared a line, given they were next to each other, but were they the only ones affected?
And what was the deal with their radios? The emergency field kits were assembled and maintained by the maintenance team. Was it a coincidence that the two bad radios went to the same two people whose phones had been fried?
