by JoAnn Ross
“Good call,” Nate said easily. “And yet more proof you belong working here. The actual fact is that we bought the iris scanner at a discount from Whitney’s father’s company and the contract has another year to run. She initially voted against earlier palm scanners as unhygienic due to having to put the hand on the scanner, but this one you only need to hold it near. Still, sometimes it’s easier just to go along to get along.
“So, now we’ve ended up with a two-part system, which can be a pain, but then again, it is double security, which is never a bad thing in our business. Especially since some of the people working here have national security clearances. You can tell them because they never interact with anyone and look sort of like vampires.”
“Vampires?”
“You know. Pale. Like they’ve never been outdoors during the daylight. Which, from what I can tell, they haven’t. They have their own wing to themselves and aren’t the least bit sociable, so we don’t see them much, anyway.”
After his credentials were taken care of, Nate opened yet another series of doors, leading into a long, wide hallway on which individual laboratories had been built on either side. Most of the doors were shut, but he paused at the open one just as the occupant looked up.
“Hey, Fred,” Nate said. “Meet Sebastian Blackthorne. He’s going to be one of us for a while. Sebastian, this is Fred Simpson.”
“Hello,” Sebastian said. Since the man did not stand up from behind his desk or invite him in, he did not hold out his hand.
“Is he working on your project?” the man said as he swept a gaze over Sebastian. His eyes were a pale blue, hidden behind the lenses of black horn-rimmed glasses. He was wearing red suspenders over a black T-shirt that read Asteroids are nature’s way of asking “How’s that space program coming along?”
Although Sebastian couldn’t see behind the desk, he’d have bet he was wearing the high-water pants that were still a nerd staple nearly two hundred years in the future in another galaxy. He wondered if the nerds of his time had taken their fashion sense from the same old forbidden films he and his sister enjoyed.
“Yeah. He’s the new guy I was talking about hiring.”
“Oh.” Apparently deciding there was nothing else to say, he returned his attention to the monitor and began tapping away.
“Is he considered one of those more sociable scientists you have here?” Sebastian asked as they continued walking down the hallway.
“No. He’s nerdier than most. I don’t think he’s rude as much as shy,” Nate said. “Though he’s got a twelve-year-old’s crush on Whitney.”
“Who would eat him alive.”
Nate laughed. “Called it in one. He’s genius-level brilliant, though. He’s working on the Chaos Theory.”
The mystery, also known as the butterfly theory in this time, concerned deterministic systems whose behavior could in principle be predicted. Chaotic systems might be predictable for a while and then appear to become random.
“That has been answered,” Sebastian said as they came to a dead end at a set of curving stairs. “At least in part, concerning weather and traffic conditions.”
“Really? Wow. I want to hear more, but no way am I going to share that with Fred. He’s having too much fun—”
“That was difficult to tell.”
“He’s probably one of those guys who dances inside. Besides, if I tell him, then the question’s now moot, and he’d lose his federal grant. With scientific funding being cut back every day, no way would I do that to him. Even if he isn’t exactly Mr. Personality.”
They were halfway up the stairs when Nate stopped. “Damn, I’m dense.”
“Why?”
“Because it just sank in that you’re here because you learned about my theory from reading my book.”
“True.”
“Which I wouldn’t have written if you hadn’t landed here on the island and Kirby hadn’t taken you home.”
“Possibly true.” Sebastian suspected that Nate would have eventually achieved the theory on his own.
“Well, for the sake of argument, let’s say it is. Which means that we’ve got ourselves an actual predestination paradox time loop going on here.”
“That had occurred to me,” Sebastian said. “But is it temporal or causal?” Causal being unchanging and self-orientating, while in a temporal time loop, there was a possibility for change.
“Good question. And one we might not really know until you get back to Logosia.”
“In which case, you may never know the answer,” Sebastian pointed out. “Unless you come forward in time and space and meet up with me.”
“And wouldn’t that be wicked cool?” Nate said cheerfully as he held his palm up to a plate next to a thick metal door. “I could be like Indiana Jones in space.”
Despite the antiquity of the tree’s decorations, Nate’s laboratory turned out to be far more advanced than any other of his time. The textbooks had claimed that Nathaniel Pendleton was extraordinary, and after spending a morning listening to him explain how he’d come up with his idea of quantum physics providing the key to time travel, Sebastian was more than a little inclined to agree.
It didn’t take long for them to come to the conclusions that the magnetic electrical field caused by the solar flares had undoubtedly been the cause of him going off track as he’d slid around the folds and warps of subspace that had allowed him to cut across the light-years.
While Sebastian felt perfectly comfortable with that logical hypothesis, there was something else troubling him. Something he was not prepared to share with Nate.
Because the errant thought teasing at the far reaches of his mind was that perhaps solar flares were not the only answer. What if—and this was admittedly farfetched—he’d been drawn here by Kirby? By her sensual fantasy?
The idea was too unsettling and illogical to be taken seriously. But still, as hard as he tried, Sebastian found it impossible to completely dismiss.
14
Not fully believing her brother’s explanation about Sebastian’s strange appearance on the island, as soon as she got to her office, Kirby contacted her former partner in Venice, who’d informed her that he couldn’t find any record of a Sebastian Blackthorne ever living in the city. Nor had he ever had any warrants issued on him, been fingerprinted, gotten a driver’s license, bought a home, served on a jury, or voted anywhere in the state of California.
Not as surprised as she might have been, she spent the next three hours doing an exhaustive search of all sixteen Maine counties. The only people who’d gone missing over the past three days were an elderly Bangor man with Alzheimer’s who’d wandered away from home while his wife and grandchildren were busy decorating the Christmas tree and a family of five from Bethel who’d headed out to cut their own tree in the White Mountains in next-door New Hampshire.
Fortunately, the elderly man had been found eating a chocolate-frosted long john at the Dunkin’ Donuts not far from his home. The owner had recognized him and called the police.
The family had spent a chilly night in their SUV, which had gotten stuck when it had slid off the road, but fortunately they’d been well prepared. According to the ranger who’d found them the next morning, the mother, who’d been openly displeased with her husband, had stated that in the future they were going to cut their damn tree at one of Maine’s numerous Christmas tree farms.
Kirby also went to various businesses, showing the photo around, asking if anyone had seen him.
When that drew a blank, she returned to the office, more stumped than ever. None of his belongings had shown up anywhere on the island. No one could remember seeing him before she’d discovered him on the road. And since strangers were a rarity in this remote little corner of the world, especially in winter, she was forced to conclude that he’d been mugged on the mainland, taken to the island, and dumped.
During a blizzard? When the ferry wasn’t running and taking a boat across the choppy, icy waters in near-whiteout condi
tions could be suicidal?
But, in the event that had actually happened, who’d even attempt to pull it off? And why?
Just as was the case in California, no New England police department from Maine to Massachusetts had any outstanding warrants for a man named Sebastian Blackthorne. It was almost as if he were a ghost. Or had dropped into her life from the blue.
Kirby sipped her coffee and was drumming her fingers on the scarred wooden arms of her father’s old chair, trying to sort her professional feelings for the dark, mysterious stranger from her personal ones, when the door opened on a gust of frosty wind, and her sister blew in carrying a thermal bag.
“I heard about Grandmother Pendleton’s pot roast,” she said, placing the bag on the wooden counter between them. Snowflakes glistened in her sleek brunette hair. “I thought you might be hungry, having gone without dinner.”
“I had half a lobster roll left over from lunch.”
“Well, wasn’t that handy? But this is lobster mac and cheese.”
“It sounds terrific.” Some people might find eating the readily available Maine lobster two days in a row excessive. Kirby was not one of them.
“It is,” Emily said easily. Their parents had taught them the fine art of being proud of their accomplishments without sinking to braggadocio, which was definitely not approved New England behavior. “I also have plates, utensils, and napkins.”
Of course she did. Which was why she was running a B and B and Kirby was keeping the peace. “What else did our brother tell you?”
“Oh, you know.” Emily unzipped the bag, came around the counter, cleared a space on Kirby’s desk, and placed a woven red, green, and gold Christmas plaid placemat on each side. “Just this and that.”
The flatware was a good stainless steel Lexington pattern from Liberty Tabletop. A perfectionist, Emily had originally intended to use the Pendleton family sterling that had been passed down from generation to generation since the late 1800s, but Kirby had argued it would probably take about a month of guest pilfering for her to be down to plastic takeout forks and knives. The fact that the company was the last to make flatware in America had won her socially conscious sister over.
“We talked about the weather.” Emily placed two white plates dead center on the mats.
“As one does.”
“True. And, of course, about his work.”
“Which he never talks about because it’s always hush-hush.” Kirby went over to the counter against the wall and poured two cups of coffee from the pot she’d made right before Emily had arrived.
“Again true.” The office filled with the amazing scent of three types of cheese and buttery lobster as her sister scooped the mac and cheese onto the plates. “I made enough for you to take home and freeze.”
“Super.” One of these days she was going to have to learn to cook, Kirby decided. Especially since nearly every restaurant in town closed down for the winter. “Thanks a bunch.”
She was just thinking Nate might have actually kept the news of Sebastian to himself when Emily said, as if an afterthought, “Oh, and the naked stranger you took home last night came up over the course of the conversation.”
So much for thinking her brother would treat her life with the same secrecy he did his own. “He wasn’t naked.” At least he hadn’t been when she’d first found him, but there was no point in getting into the details of her stripping those beach jams off. “But he is a stranger. I’ve taken his photo to every business in town, along with emailing it to various police departments around the tri-state area and came up with zilch.”
“Maybe he was visiting friends,” Emily suggested.
“Maybe. But if you had a friend who didn’t come home the night of the worst blizzard in fifty years, wouldn’t you call in a missing person report?”
“I would. Unless he’d worn out his welcome.”
Kirby gave her a hard look. “Ha-ha.” She took a bite of the hot lunch and nearly swooned. “This is the most amazing thing ever.” Even better than sex. Not that Kirby could swear to that, since it had been so long since she’d actually had sex with a partner that her memory could have faded a bit.
“Isn’t it?” Emily actually preened. As was her right, considering that if she were ever a contestant on Chopped, she’d win, hands down. “I’m planning to serve it for a wedding rehearsal dinner party I’m hosting in the parlor.”
“Since when did you become a party planner? I thought the whole idea of a B and B meant people get a bed and a breakfast. And perhaps some local tourist tips.”
“That’s usually the case, although some offer dinner. But although I wasn’t planning to be open this month, I got a call from Connie Bratton. You remember her, right?”
“Of course.” The daughter of an old New England family who’d made their fortune in whaling, then later banking, she, her parents, and bratty brother had “summered” on the island. Despite having been the first person Kirby had ever heard to use the season’s name as a verb, despite her wealth and obvious privilege, Connie had been a nice, unpretentious girl.
She’d invited Kirby and Emily to her home several times for sleepovers, although she’d seemed to prefer spending time at the Pendletons’ house.
“Well, she’s living in Boston now. She and her fiancé—whose family has lived on Beacon Hill forever—are both stockbrokers.”
“How nice for them.” Kirby didn’t really care that much about the pair, but since they were keeping Emily from probing more about Sebastian, she was more than willing to keep this conversation going. “You’d think they’d want a big shindig in some fancy venue. Not that the house isn’t lovely the way you’ve fixed it up, but—”
“You’re right. To keep his parents happy, they’re having a do-over full-mode Gatsby reception in the Grand Lobby of the Opera House next June. But Connie’s husband-to-be was pushing for them to tie the knot before the end of the year. Something about investments and taxes and other financial stuff I honestly zoned out on when she called in a panic last week.
“One of the reasons I brought it up is that they’re bringing a bit of a crowd with them. Nothing like the two hundred besties they’re inviting to the June blowout, but enough to fill my place and every other B and B and motel in town. The Whale Cove Inn, which you know closes down every year after the Labor Day weekend crush, even opened up especially for the occasion.”
Emily paused as she took a bite. Chewed. Then took a long drink of coffee. Making Kirby wait for her to cut to the chase. “So, the point I’m making is that, if you don’t find out where your naked stranger belongs, you’re going to have problems finding him a place to stay. Unless you put him in a cell.”
“Not doing that,” Kirby said.
“Maybe he could stay at the lab? Since he’s working there?”
“That’s a possibility, I suppose.” Kirby felt just like that time she’d brought home a stray beagle she’d named Buster when she was six. She’d insisted that he’d followed her home from school, leaving out the part about luring him with bits of the Oreos she’d bought at the market along the way. “Can I keep him?” she’d asked her parents, who’d given in as they always had.
Her mysterious houseguest might take logic seriously. Not being nearly as rigid, Kirby wasn’t having all that much trouble with the illogical desire to keep him.
“The thing is,” she said, “the sleeping rooms at the lab are like monks’ cells. I’d hate to think of him spending the holidays alone out there.”
Emily arched a brow and studied Kirby over the thick rim of the white stoneware mug. “Do you actually expect the man to be on the island that long?”
“I’ve no idea.” Kirby shrugged. “But I can’t exactly throw him back into the sea like a short.” A short being, in Maine fishing law, a lobster too small to keep. And she knew firsthand that there was nothing small about her mysterious house guest.
Her sister frowned, proving what Kirby had suspected all along. The lunch had been merely a ru
se. Not that different from the vending machine Coke and chips she used to use to bond with bad guys so they’d confess. At least Emily’s mac and cheese was far tastier.
“You don’t know anything about him. He could be dangerous.”
“I’m a cop who has both a Taser and a Glock and knows how to use them.” Not that she’d ever had that occasion on Rum Runner Island, and she hoped she never would.
“Now you can sleep with your eyes open?”
“No. But I have good instincts that were honed by years of law enforcement. He’s a nice guy, Emily. Despite being a bit too analytical and formal for my taste.” Which should have been true, were it not for the fact that having experienced that tear in the steely curtain of Sebastian’s self-restraint, she was dying to test it further.
“I just don’t want you to end up as a Dateline murder victim of the week.”
“Not going to happen. And, speaking of strangers in houses, I don’t see you running an FBI background check whenever you take a reservation.”
“That’s different since my guests tend to be couples.”
“So were Bonnie and Clyde.”
Emily frowned. “That’s not funny.”
Realizing that her sister was serious, Kirby was forced to consider how she’d feel if their situations were reversed. Hadn’t she worried about Emily opening up her house to total strangers when she’d come up with the idea of the B and B after having worked her way up to being Director of Hospitality at the Boston Whitfield Palace Hotel?
She stood up, went around the desk, and hugged her sister. “But I do appreciate your concern.”
“Thank you. And I want to meet him.”
“Given up on Tinder, have you?” It was a joke, given that Emily was the least likely woman she’d ever met to enter into the hit-it-and-quit-it Tinder hookup lifestyle.
“I’d rather run stark naked down Old Town Road at the height of the summer tourist season than join that dating apocalypse,” Emily claimed with a shudder. “And no, I’m not interested that way in your naked stranger. I just want to check him out.”