Love on Loch Ness (15 page)

Patterns

Flynn turned the car key with renewed purpose. Tabitha was right. He didn't need L-PIB. He had his boat and determination. Flynn backed out of the parking space in one smooth motion. His tires squealed as he turned onto the road leading to L-PIB's headquarters. He'd examine the evidence. Maybe Gail had missed something in the heat of the moment.

He was no longer afraid of what he might see. What he wouldn't see interested him more.

L-PIB's headquarters rested in the heart of Inverness on the fourth floor of an old skyscraper, sandwiched between a music school on the third floor and a law office on the fifth. Flynn parked right outside the door and jumped out, locking the car with his keyless entry remote as he entered the building. Last time Flynn had been there, he'd had an interview applying for the grant money and the research team. He took the stairs two at a time, hearing a clarinetist honk out a basic scale and a pianist practice arpeggios.

The corridor leading to L-PIB's office was empty. Debris from the woods littered the floor, along with muddy footprints. Flynn picked up a pine needle. Wet sap stuck to his fingers, and he rubbed it on his jeans.
They were here, all right.
They'd moved the evidence into the office.

He tried the door. The knob jiggled in his hands, but the door wouldn't budge. Would they close up everything so quickly? Maybe they were at the police station, filing a complaint?

Wait a sec… Are there members of L-PIB that don't want Nessie found? Spies? Unbelievers that take any opportunity to shut it down?

As interesting as that thought was, he had no time for conspiracy theories. Flynn leaned against the door, pressing his forehead to the glass. Blinds covered the window, but through a crack where two blinds had stuck together on the way down, he spotted the edges of some cardboard boxes in the back corner of the room that he didn't remember being there the last time he'd visited.

He needed to get in, and he didn't have much time. Gail was at the airport, Blarney was hiking in the woods, and Tom was probably drowning his sorrows at The Blue Flipper. His research team had broken apart and he had hours, at most, to reassemble them.

Flynn shook the knob with more force. He jammed his house key in the socket, then tried sliding his credit card through the slot between the door and the wall, just like they did in spy movies. Nothing.

He pounded his fist on the door in frustration. The glass rattled, but didn't break.

Great James Bond I'd be.

Every minute he wasted, Gail's plane came closer to departing, Tabitha grew more sick, and Nessie got away. No pressure.

He peered into the room again. A window on the side was cracked open about three inches.

Bingo.

Flynn made his way down the stairs, whistling a tune and trying to look nonchalant. Maybe he'd just taken a piano lesson or had an appointment concerning his will. There was no way he was there to break into L-PIB's office and steal their recent find. No, sir.

He stepped outside and slipped around the building to the alleyway.

Rusty metal stairs made a sorry excuse for a fire escape. Flynn ran and jumped, grabbing onto the first rung. Flakes of metal cut into his palms as he hefted himself up. He checked over his shoulder to make sure no one had seen him. The main street bustled with passersby and beeping cars.
So far, so good.

Flynn brushed the rusty flakes off his hands and climbed. He counted the stories until he reached the open window on the fourth floor.

The window was jammed. Some lock inside kept the pane from going any higher. Flynn reached in with his arm and felt around for a latch. A black spider crawled down the outside pane, and he blew the arachnid away. He'd sat on a boat above seven-hundred foot black waters with a monster lurking underneath; spiders were the least of his worries.

His fingers found the latch. He reached in farther, squashing his bicep against the frame, and flipped the metal up. The window started to slide down on top of him and he propped the glass up.

"Mummy, what's that man doing on the stairs?"

Flynn's gaze shot to a little boy tugging on his mother's arm. Hadn't he been in the same circumstance years ago when he spotted Nessie? His mother had turned around, and the creature had disappeared. She never had believed him. Well, he wasn't going to give the boy any more reassurance than he had gotten.

Flynn pushed the window all the way up and jumped through. He landed on the floor with a thud, hitting his elbow. Pain shot up his arm to his shoulder. Cursing like the sailor he was, he stood and rubbed his elbow. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he gained his bearings. Piles of papers cluttered the front desk. Nessie swam back and forth on a computer screen as a screensaver. Someone would be back soon. Flynn bet he knew the password to break into the files, but he hadn't come for that.

The cardboard boxes were stacked in the back of the room. Flynn hefted the first box down. He pried the cardboard open.

Fins.

The various shapes and sizes boggled his mind.

Flynn pulled them out one after another, marveling at the collection. Some of them felt almost real with a slimy, slick surface while others were clearly cheap plastic reproductions from the local convenience store. Shaking his head, he pulled a rubbery tentacle from the bunch and dropped it in a heap on the floor.

Flynn kept digging, looking for the fin Gail had spoken of. He threw one labeled
shark dorsal fin
on top of the tentacle. Reaching toward the bottom, he pulled out a long, webbed fin labeled
plesiosaur
. A current of doubt stirred in his gut. Wasn't that what Gail thought the imprint had been? Maybe she was right, and he'd just broken into L-PIB's headquarters for no reason other than to prove himself wrong.

No. The scale couldn't have been faked. Gail had found it along the impression. Surely there had to be a differentiating factor, something that proved the impression hadn't been left by the hoaxers.

Flynn forced himself to examine the pattern of webbing on the edge. He ran his fingers over the crisscrossing lines, feeling the depth of the indents. It looked remarkably like the cast he'd taken that morning on the beach. But something was off. Flynn held the plastic up in front of him. The fin was so long, the end trailed on L-PIB's grungy carpet. The size and shape were spot on. It curved in the same places.

Flynn went back to the webbing. The pattern matched, but something about the fin made it look less real than the impression he'd found in the sand that day.

Maybe the difference was the environment? The forest could make anything seem more natural, and right now, standing in front of a swimming Nessie computer screen with a plastic fin, the pattern didn't seem so real.

Flynn took out his phone. He'd taken a picture of the cast the day he'd made it. Although it should have been in the boxes, he couldn't find it and he didn't have time to keep looking. Had someone destroyed the real evidence on purpose? He scrolled through the images, then compared the picture to the plastic fin.

The pattern on his cast was less predictable, more random. The fin seemed manufactured, yet the pattern on the casting occurred at varying intervals, gradually widening and narrowing.

Flynn gazed around the office. He had to be sure.

A potted fern sat beside a sofa where he'd waited to be seen as an applicant for the grant. Flynn yanked the fern out and dumped the soil on the carpet. L-PIB would have to understand. He pressed the fin into the soil, applying the same amount of force as a two-ton dinosaur.

Or at least he tried.

Throwing the fin behind him, he bent down and examined the imprint. The grooves were distinctly geometric. So perfect a math teacher would shout with glee.

Flynn wanted to shout with glee himself. Instead, he took another picture with his phone. He needed evidence if he was ever to convince Gail to come back to the team.

Flynn checked his watch. Three-sixteen. Gail's flight left at four-thirty.

He'd have the evidence, all right. Could he get to her in time?

For You

"Flight seven sixty-one with service from Inverness to Boston is now boarding rows one through fifteen, passenger class A."

Gail glanced at her ticket. She was in row thirty-four, class C. Why did they always have to board the front of the plane first? Or better yet, why did she always get stuck with a seat in the back? Once they landed, it took forever for everyone to collect their bags and exit the plane, driving Gail nuts.

Because I got this last minute, remember?

Gail folded and unfolded Flynn's brochure again. His picture was on the inside, along with a full biography detailing his experience with Nessie and his boatmanship skills. He was smiling in the picture, his hair windblown and the sun shining behind him like a fond memory. She ran her fingers over the freckle on his cheek, the one she'd kissed as they'd lain together in his bed.

She still had no idea what to do with the brochure. She wanted to take it with her as a remembrance of her time with him, but the logical part of her brain told her to leave it where she'd found it.

"Now boarding rows thirty to forty-five, passenger class C."

What had happened to the B people? Gail glanced around, but no one seemed angry. Everyone either stayed in their seats or shuffled into line.

I'm not ready yet.

The airline attendant shot a glance at Gail from her podium where she collected and scanned the passenger's tickets. Her hair was woven into a bun so tightly it amazed Gail that her eyes hadn't popped out. The attendant raised an eyebrow at Gail.

Gail stared back, shocked. How did the attendant know which seat she had?

A passenger waiting to board asked a question, and the attendant turned back to her work, smiling a big, red-lipsticked grin.

Get up and get on the plane.

Gail stood and her knees buckled underneath her. She straightened her legs and forced herself toward the podium.
I'm making the right decision. If I stay here, I go against everything I've ever been.

"Good afternoon, madame. Can I see your ticket?" The attendant's bun bobbed with her words. Her nametag read Anne Whipper.

Gail had a feeling if she didn't produce her ticket, Anne would be whipping
her
. She fumbled with a piece of paper, but it wasn't her ticket, it was the brochure. Hadn't she left it on the seat?

The attendant tightened the sides of her lustrous lips as if to say
you should have your ticket ready, dummy.

"Just one second." Gail stuffed the brochure into her pocket. Her ticket had been in her other hand all along.

The attendant wiggled her fingers. She'd lost her smile. "Ticket please."

"Oh, yes. My ticket."

Gail handed the woman her ticket just as someone called out from behind her, "Gail Phillips, don't get on that plane!"

Gail's chest swelled. She recognized that voice.

The attendant took the ticket, but Gail refused to let go as she scanned the crowd.

Ms. Whipper tugged harder. "Miss, if you'll please let go."

Flynn pushed through the line of passengers waiting to get on the plane. He huffed, totally out of breath as though he'd run all the way to the gates just for her.

Gail yanked the ticket from the attendant's hand and whirled toward Flynn. "What are you doing here?"

He took a deep breath, balancing his hands on his upper legs. "I've come to ask you not to go."

Gail's heart stammered. Did she not want to go? She couldn't deal with that decision just yet. "How did you get past security?"

"I bought a ticket."

"A ticket to Boston?"

"No. Those were sold out." He glanced at the paper in his hand. "I think it's to somewhere in Mexico, but that doesn't matter. There's something I need to show you, something that will make you think twice about getting on that plane."

Just seeing him stand there made her think twice, but Gail wasn't going to admit that. She stepped out of line and the next passenger took her place.

"What is it?"

Flynn took out his phone. "You're going to need to sit down to see it. Or at least, I'm going to need to sit down."

"Oh my, right." Gail helped him to area seat. "Did you run all the way here?"

"I sped down the highway, then ran." Flynn plopped down in a chair and flipped through the pictures until he found one that looked suspiciously like the imprint he'd found on the beach.

Not again.
Gail wasn't about to get her hopes up just to have them crushed. "So? It's the impression from the beach, right?"

"No." Flynn urged the phone into her hands. "Look closer. This is the impression I did at L-PIB's office of the fake fin."

"You went to L-PIB?"

The speakers buzzed on. "Now boarding rows fifteen to thirty, passenger class B."

Now she asks for the B people.
Gail didn't have time for this. If Flynn kept her much longer, she'd miss her flight. Yet there she was firmly planted beside him and much happier than she'd have been on that plane.

Flynn ran his hand through his hair. "I don't have time to explain. Just look. Trust me."

Gail brought the screen closer but didn't notice anything different. All it did was prove her point. "I don't see anything."

"Look at the pattern in the webbing." Flynn leaned over her and pressed the next picture on the camera. The image of his cast popped up. "Now look at this."

The image on the cast had slight variations, whereas the image produced by the plastic fin was exact and unchanging.

Gail stuffed down a current of hope. "Are you sure you used the right fin?"

Flynn held her gaze with a steady, intense stare. "It said plesiosaur."

"What about the identical recordings on their sonar equipment?"

"The hoaxers could have recorded Nessie that night, just like we did. They could be using a real call to draw people in."