Chapter 6
Rory slept like a dead person. A thousand mosquitoes could have made it past the netting and he wouldn’t have noticed. Not a single nightmare about the crash woke him up. He didn’t stir until late the next morning, when the tent became so hot he woke up in a sweat.
The first thing he did was check under the pillow for his billfold.
He didn’t care about anything in there except his ID.
It would be hard to explain why Lincoln Kerr was carrying Rory Baker’s driver’s license.
Hell, Lincoln didn’t even carry his own license or any kind of ID. He had a valet who did that.
Which was just one more strange thing about this doomed trip, Rory realized. When did Lincoln ever travel without his entourage—executive assistant, valet, chef? Something had definitely been different about this trip, aside from how it ended.
He lay back on his surprisingly comfortable pillow and gazed around at his surroundings.
The tent was a large one, at least twenty feet across.
Several cots filled the space, each one with its own mosquito net tucked around it.
Was that Lincoln in the cot next to him?
He raised himself on one elbow to peer through the gauzy netting. His boss was still sleeping peacefully.
Leaving Rory to take care of everything. Typical.
He needed a plan. But before he came up with a plan, he needed to know what he was dealing with.
Right now, he wasn’t sure it would be safe for them to emerge from this jungle and return to normal life.
Too many things weren’t adding up. Why the barebones crew?
Why the insistence on flying despite the conditions?
That was why he’d rejected the offer of a Medivac and an emergency call on the sat phone. Right now, he was pretty sure they were safer here, at least until he found out what Lincoln was up to.
The black box. Crap. The SyberJet had one, of course, as was mandated by federal law. Unless it had been destroyed, it sent out a signal that could be traced. Normally, that would be a good thing. But with their current sketchy situation, not so much.
He needed to get back to the crash site. He’d locate the black box himself and poke around the jet to see if there was anything that might explain Lincoln’s behavior. His laptop was probably still onboard.
The med kit.
Shit. He remembered taking it off the plane along with Lincoln’s briefcase, but after that he’d lost track of it. No surprise; he’d practically lost track of his own head.
He swung his legs off the cot, noticing a few twinges and aches here and there.
He was down to his underwear—he remembered clinging to consciousness long enough to make sure he undressed himself so no one got ahold of his billfold again.
A clean bandage was wrapped around his arm, and he barely noticed any pain from it.
That was a relief. Sasha was a pretty good, though highly opinionated, doctor.
His gaze landed on a tidy pile at the foot of the cot, and he exhaled a breath of relief as he spotted his overnight bag, the med kit, and Lincoln’s briefcase. Hallelujah. Maybe there was something inside those cases that would answer some questions.
The med kit was locked, he already knew that.
The code might be in the briefcase, and there was also a good chance that the briefcase itself held important information.
But when he tried to open the leather case, it too stayed stubbornly closed.
A cryptic red light emanated from a small digital screen, which was more than the med kit had.
What was it, a thumbprint scanner? He’d never paid any attention to how Lincoln opened his briefcase.
He carried it over to the other cot and ducked inside Lincoln’s netting. He picked up his right hand and pressed his thumb on the screen.
No change.
Damn. How had the thing opened in the first place? The crash must have busted it open. Maybe he should drop it from a cliff and hope for the best.
While he was inside Lincoln’s netting, he might as well plant his billfold on him. He slipped it into the front pocket of Lincoln’s formerly immaculate linen slacks, which were folded on the foot of the bed. Hopefully no one would notice a lump that hadn’t been there before.
“Lincoln,” he said in a low voice. “Lincoln, wake up. You’re not dead, but things are definitely weird. Come on, wake up. It’s Rory. Pilot Rory.”
Lincoln had a habit of referring to his staff like that. Assistant Beth. Lawyer Dan. Pilot Rory. Often he left off the name altogether.
But the man showed no response whatsoever. What was a normal length of time for someone to stay in a trauma-related coma? What if Sasha changed her mind and decided they should take him in for some neurological tests? If that happened, he’d have to come clean. What would Mathilda think of him then?
It irritated him that he cared. What did it matter what a nerdy scientist thought of him, no matter how cute she was? Besides, he’d been lying to her from the first moment she’d opened the cabin door. He’d pretty much kissed her good opinion goodbye at that point.
He tucked Lincoln’s netting back under the foam mattress and turned his attention to the briefcase. The highest surface inside this canopy tent was a folding table that held a battery-operated lamp, a jug of drinking water, and the headlamp Mathilda had given him last night.
He cleared everything off and gingerly sat on top of it, then carefully—the thing wobbled—rose into a standing position.
His head brushed the canvas ceiling of the tent, meaning he could go no higher than this.
He grabbed the handle of the briefcase, then raised it as high as the canvas would let him.
But before he could drop it onto the floor, someone unzipped the entrance flap and ducked inside.
Mathilda’s mouth dropped open when she spotted him standing on the table.
Her sunny blond hair was tucked under a baseball cap with a University of Hawaii logo.
She wore tan shorts that ended just above the knee, low rubber boots, and a bikini halter top.
The scent of warm skin and sunscreen wafted into the tent, and he spotted a streak of white on her neck where she hadn’t applied it thoroughly enough.
“What on earth are you doing?”
He thought fast. What possible reason could a billionaire have for wanting to smash his briefcase?
“I…uh…have trade secrets in here worth millions. It’s best if I destroy them in case…”
“In case a mongoose steals your identity?”
“Yes. No. The other. What was it…the mini hooney? What is that, a local gang?”
She stared at him a moment, long enough for him to appreciate the soft aqua shade of her eyes under the gray brim of her cap. “You can relax. The menehune aren’t interested in your trade secrets.”
“Okay. But still. The point remains.”
She gave a shrug. “If you want to destroy your briefcase, that’s up to you. But I don’t think throwing it onto the floor is going to do it. Here, hand it over. I can put it into our burn barrel. We should be firing it off pretty soon.”
Shit. He didn’t want to incinerate the damn thing. Lincoln would kill him if he did that. “I’ll figure something out. This material might be toxic.”
She eyed the leather briefcase skeptically, as she should.
Change the subject. Fast. “You look like you’re dressed for the beach.”
“That’s why I came to check on you. Most of us are heading out on a scouting expedition in the direction of one of our favorite waterfalls. Robert volunteered to stay here with you two. I just wanted to let you know. He can show you around the kitchen, such as it is, if you want breakfast.”
Of course he wanted breakfast. He was ravenously hungry. But he was also interested in this waterfall, and maybe hanging out with Mathilda at the waterfall.
He shoved the thought aside. This could be the perfect opportunity to go back to the crash site and look around.
“Thanks for the heads up. What’s it for?”
“Excuse me?” She was already turning aside, eager to get on with her expedition.
“What are you scouting for?”
“Oh. I’m trying to locate Hector. He’s an ‘alalā.” She shot him a wary glance, as if testing his interest. “Also known as Corvus hawaiienses. The Hawaiian crow. It’s a Hawaiian bird that’s now extinct in the wild. We’re trying to reintroduce it.”
“Is that difficult?” He tucked the briefcase under his arm and climbed off the table.
“Very. Their primary predator is the ‘io, which goes after them when they’re young. The hawk,” she added at his blank expression.
“When the ‘alalā first fledge, they don’t fly very well and they’re sort of sitting ducks for the ‘io. So to speak. Also the ‘alalā’s habitat is always under threat. Their natural habitat is ohi’a forests, and those are increasingly rare.
You can blame invasive species for that, including developers and humans in general. ”
“Sorry to hear that.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You don’t sound very sincere.”
How much was he supposed to care about a crow? His only impression of crows was that they had black feathers and made unpleasant cawing sounds. What more was there to know?
But he kept that opinion to himself. If this obviously intelligent woman cared about Hawaiian crows, they must be important. “I look forward to learning more about the ‘alalā.” Maybe over a mai tai, he wanted to say. Or curled up on a blanket next to that fire pit he’d noticed.
“Any change in your pilot?” she asked. “Sasha asked me to check on him.”
“Not a blip. I checked just now. He’s exactly the same—except a lot more tolerable,” he added without thinking.
She frowned at him severely. “That’s not a very nice way to talk about someone who works for you.”
Oops. It was harder than he’d thought to maintain this charade. “That’s, uh, envy talking. Rory’s a tough guy to compete with. Always gets the girl, best pilot in the west, that sort of thing.”
“You’re jealous of your own pilot?” Mathilda shook her head sadly. “That’s kind of…”
“Pathetic? Yeah. That’s fair.”
“Well…” Mathilda gave the other cot a lingering glance. “I look forward to meeting him when he’s awake. Let’s hope he has no long-term effects from the trauma.”
Rory just smiled, realizing his mistake too late.
By fluffing up his own ego, he was encouraging Mathilda to fall for Lincoln.
Lord forbid. They’d be a terrible fit—mostly because Lincoln was godawful when it came to relationships.
He never showed any interest in other people and expected everyone to cater to him.
Some women went along with that, perfectly happy with the perks, but he doubted Mathilda would be one of them.
“Do you need anything else before I go?” she asked.
“No, I think I’m good. Looking forward to breakfast. When will you be back?”
“It’s hard to say, but hopefully before dark.”
That reminded him…he handed her the headlamp she’d lent him. “Better take this, just in case.”
“Thanks, that’s very thoughtful of you.”
She always seemed so surprised when he behaved like a normal human being. Did she have some kind of bad history with a billionaire?
With a bright smile, she tucked it into her backpack. “By the way, Sasha said to tell you to take it easy today. Stick close to the camp, drink plenty of water, and don’t use your arm for anything major.”
He gave her a salute. “Got it. Disappointing that I won’t be able to arm-wrestle Robert, but that’s a guaranteed loss anyway, so fine. I’ll go easy on my arm.”
She was still laughing as she pushed her way out of the tent flap. He smiled at the sound, which seemed to twine around him like a flowering jungle vine.
In the daylight, the Nahele Research Camp was only slightly less dilapidated in appearance.
Wooden tent platforms built off the ground, on lava rocks and a splash of concrete here and there.
Folding chairs arranged around a fire pit, a garden patch, a few chickens pecking at the ground.
A solar array, a metal-roofed shed or two, a catchment tank…
and that yurt, a round structure with a peaked roof wrapped in earth-toned canvas.
He headed there immediately, stomach already grumbling.
After breakfast in the yurt—coffee, bananas plucked from a rack hanging from a string, fried eggs and spam, and half a papaya with lime juice squeezed over it—he lingered at the table watching Robert tidy up.
Every time he offered to help, Robert refused. “You think I want Auntie Sasha on my ass? Sit down and don’t move your arm.”
The big Hawaiian man moved gracefully around the yurt in his flip-flops—no, slippers, Rory recalled from his last trip to the islands. They called them slippers here because you slipped them on. Which made more sense than flip-flops, he supposed.
“What’s your project, Robert?” Rory asked him. “Are you restoring the crow population too?”
“No, like I said, I’m an astronomer. Specifically, an archeoastronomer, studying the role of heiaus in ancient celestial navigation systems.”
“Hay-ow?”
How many Hawaiian terms was he expected to learn in one day?
“Like a temple made of dry-stacked lava rocks. The rest of the structure rotted away long ago. Heiaus can be quite large, big platforms with enclosures, or small shrines. There’s a midsize one near here that was only discovered recently, and I got myself a grant to study it.
” He grinned broadly as he dried off the last mug and set it on the rack.
“How far is it from here?”
“About an hour’s walk. Some of my research is at night, so I’ll be taking off around dusk.”
Maybe he could encourage him to leave a little early. “If you’re sticking around just to babysit me and Rory, that’s not necessary.”
“It’s my night to cook dinner. I’ll leave after that.”
“I can cook,” he offered. Rory had paid his way through college and flight training by working in restaurants. He was an excellent cook.
Robert turned with exaggerated comical surprise. “You? You want to cook for the crew?”
“Absolutely. Don’t worry, I’ve watched my chefs in action. I won’t poison anyone. Just tell me the basics. I’ve got this.”
Robert went back to his sweeping up, muttering something about weird rich dudes. Rory assumed that meant they had a deal.