The Man From Forever. Dawn Flindt

to decide they’ve been duped.”

      “You’re assuming they’ll come away disappointed. But if they don’t—”

      “What are you saying?”

      For such a brief period of time that she might have imagined it, Fenton lost his self-confident air; she could almost swear he’d started to glance out the window. Then, smiling deliberately, he briefly touched his hand to her shoulder. “I’m telling you this because, like I said, we’re in the same business. We’re both looking to make a name for ourselves, you through what you can gain from an extinct culture, me from what it’ll do to my career if I turn this park around. Anything and everything is open to different interpretations. For example, those who have been working here for years either count themselves tuned into something—shall we call it otherworldly?—or they don’t. Whatever it is, none of them quite know what to make of what’s been happening lately.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      “You’ve got me. I’m not the one going around admitting I’ve been seeing things, but there have been sightings.”

      When he stood there staring at her, she nearly screamed at him to tell her what he was talking about. But there was no way she was going to let him think she believed in this ghost or spirit or whatever he was rattling on about; neither would she do anything to discourage him from talking. Finally he shrugged and moved to the window and looked out as if assuring himself that their conversation would remain private. “What gave me the idea of capitalizing on things is that all of these sightings, or whatever you want to call them, are the same.”

      “Are they?”

      “Yep. A warrior, brave, whatever you want to call him.”

      “A warrior?” She thought her voice squeaked a little at the end, hoped it didn’t.

      “Good-looking stud, at least that’s what some say. Damn imposing, too. He’s always way off in the distance so no one can ask him what the heck he’s up to, but those who do see him are convinced he’s real.”

      Convinced he’s real. “You say he’s always a long way away.”

      “A real shy fellow. Not that I mind, because that keeps the mystery going.” He ended that with another of his winks, this one lasting longer and punctuated by a slight upward turn of his mouth. “That’s what I’m trying to get the director to understand. We don’t have to come up with anything folks can either prove or disprove. In fact, that’s the last thing we want. But if every once in a while people see something or someone they can’t explain, that’ll keep them coming.”

      Could Fenton have already put his plan into operation? Was that what she’d seen, nothing more than some actor Fenton James had hired to perpetrate this elaborate hoax of his? If that’s what it was—and she wanted the explanation to be that simple—she could tell Fenton that the actor was very, very good.

      “It’s certainly different from anything I’ve heard,” she said and moved away as if to leave.

      “It’s more than that. It’s a stroke of genius, if it works.”

      “If it works? It sounds as if you’ve done more than just presented the idea to the director.”

      “Maybe I have. Maybe I have.”

      Chapter 3

      Five minutes later, Tory had finally extricated herself from the talkative Fenton and had started toward her cabin. By now people were beginning to arrive at park headquarters, their voices following her until she’d traveled a good quarter of the way. If the heat kept increasing, she’d have to change to shorts before going out again. She should have brought her camera this morning; she wouldn’t make that same mistake again because—

      Biting the inside of her mouth, she stopped the errant thought. She’d been about to tell herself that a camera was absolutely necessary if she was going to prove the existence of a ghostly warrior for all concerned when there was no such thing.

      By effort of will, she forced her thoughts on nothing more complicated than the best place to search for ground squirrels and other scurrying creatures. Looking around, she became aware of her isolation in a way she hadn’t been last night. True, she could see the faint jet trail left behind by a plane, and it was a simple matter to get in touch with someone via the walkie-talkie at the cabin, but she doubted that anyone would hear if she screamed.

      Scream? Why would she do that? Hadn’t she asked for the remote cabin because she wanted a little time with her own company, a welcome change of pace from the hectic meetings and yet more meetings?

      After unlocking her door, she stepped inside the single room. She’d left her small duffel bag on the couch because there didn’t seem to be much purpose in settling in if she was only going to be here two nights. Thinking to change into shorts, she started rummaging through her belongings. She stopped when she came across the folder filled with newspaper clippings. Although her own role in the Alsea project was essentially a supportive one, she’d been quoted numerous times and had had her picture taken on more than one occasion. Dr. Grossnickle teased her that she was robbing him of top billing, but that wasn’t true and they both knew it. Still—

      Frowning, she opened the folder and studied the most recent articles. Not only was she photographed alongside Dr. Grossnickle, but two paragraphs of the accompanying article were about her successful effort to discredit the Oregon Indian Council’s claim that they alone had the right to excavate and record. Not only was the article one of the most accurate ones that had been written about the project, it had appeared on the front page of a recent Oregonian newspaper. If Fenton James had read the article and seen her name on the guest register and decided—

      Decided what? To convince a high-profile anthropologist that something unexplained lurked around the lava beds? Taking the argument as far as it would go, he had struck up a conversation with her and immediately introduced the subject of ghosts or spirits or whatever he wanted to call them.

      But he’d also told her straight out that he was trying to come up with a way to capitalize on people’s overactive imaginations and mine them for the park’s financial benefit. There’d been nothing veiled about his intentions.

      Warned by the threat of a headache, she turned her thoughts to the less weighty question of whether to stay with boots or change into more comfortable shoes for her next trek into the wilderness. When she started unlacing her boots, she told herself it was not because she could run faster in tennis shoes.

      It was dark by the time Tory returned to her cabin, and she needed to use a flashlight to find her way home. Throughout a long and eventful day, she’d gone through three rolls of film while documenting the park’s wildlife and had eaten both lunch and dinner with vacationers who’d insisted she share burgers and hot dogs with them. True, she hadn’t put up much of an argument when the invitations were offered. It wasn’t that she was a great fan of stale buns and wilted lettuce, but being around people kept her from thinking about that morning. And if there’d been times, like when she was trying to get close enough to capture a small herd of antelope in her telephoto lens, when she felt as if she were being watched, she’d chalked it up to that overactive imagination of hers.

      At least she tried to; only now, surrounded by night and alone with her thoughts, she couldn’t shake the suspicion—all right, the conviction—that something, or someone, had had his eye on her.

      Warrior. Although she barely whispered the word, it took on a life of its own, existed beside her in the small, kerosene-lit cabin, floated just beyond the two windows.

      Warrior—a man willing to give up his life for freedom.

      Unexpected emotion touched her, but she didn’t try to argue it away with twentieth-century logic. Once, men who answered to no name except “warrior” had roamed this land; that evocative word had spoken of what lived in their hearts.

      She’d seen their land today, at least what had once been theirs. The past year of her life