Dawn Flindt - The Man From Forever

Things were now clear for work to begin. That’s what she told Fenton, the explanation as brief as she could make it.

“At least we don’t get much of that around here.” He gave her what he must think was a conspiratorial smile. “There’s an Indian council, but they don’t care what we do here. At least if they don’t like something, I haven’t heard about it. Not that I’d have time to deal with any opposition. I’ve got my hands full trying to put this park on solid financial footing.”

She listened with half an ear while Fenton explained that because of governmental cutbacks, the park was hard-pressed to match last year’s budget, let alone plan for the future. He’d left a “choice position”—his words—with a San Francisco bank to spearhead a budget drive here, but so far all he’d met with was opposition. “Casewell calls my plan manipulation. Deception. I call it a stroke of genius. You tell me, what’s wrong with capitalizing on a few ghost sightings?”

She’d been glancing at the window, both eager to be outside and grateful for the room and its proof of normalcy. Now Felton’s comment captured her full attention. “Ghost sightings?”

He shrugged, his gesture casual when she was on edge. “Spirits. Ghosts. Whatever you want to call them.” Although they were alone, he leaned closer and would have whispered in her ear if she hadn’t pulled back. “I’ll tell you because you’re in the same business, so to speak. Most people, they come here, take a look around and say how amazing it is that the Indians held out so long, then go on their way. But some of them, particularly those who walk around Captain Jack’s Stronghold, say they feel something there.”

“Something?”

Again he shrugged his maddening shrug. “You tell me. I’ve never felt anything, but I’d have to be fourteen kinds of a fool not to realize there’s a potential in this. The way I look at it, people with overactive imaginations stand where the Indians stood and they convince themselves that the Modocs left something of themselves behind when they were hauled off to the reservation. I think folks want to believe that. That way they don’t have to feel guilty about what was done to the Indians.”

“Maybe.” She hedged. “But you’re not talking about something that actually exists.” Or does he? “How can you capitalize on that?”

He gave her what she thought might be a sly wink. “The power of suggestion. A few well-placed leaks to the press and we’ll have people swarming here, either because they want to believe, or because they’re determined to disprove the rumors.”

“But when they don’t see anything, it won’t take long for them 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.”

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—