Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island (22 page)

Raoul set the phone down. Now he was worried. The boss had been very angry. Had the girl seen Fredric's face? How trustworthy was he? Fully, Raoul had said. But in reality he didn't know. They'd never done anything like this, kidnapped someone. Fredric was a good buddy, had been for years. But he'd only had to trust Fredric with situations between the two of them. When a third party becomes involved, new factors enter. And in fact, four factors were at play here: the two of them, the girl and the boss. No, he had to assume Fredric was completely trustworthy.

The boss had pointed out that if the girl had seen Fredric's face, they'd have to get rid of him. No, he's always masked when he goes to feed her; she couldn't have. Get rid of Fredric? He would never do that. Scare Fredric, keep him in line, sure. But kill Fredric? Raoul couldn't even imagine it.

And then there was the order. That one he could handle.

The office of the president of Morsely University, more correctly the suite of offices, took up the western half of the third floor of the Mansion. An outer office staffed by Mrs. Ann Buttrick protected the president from unwanted visitors. Mrs. Buttrick wore her owl-eye spectacles like a weapon of instant destruction, her eyes behind the lenses drilling into the face of any unexpected arrival. Joseph Martin from EST-K-Sum was no exception, nor was his companion, Edgar Dupres. Though Martin had made an appointment, Mrs. Buttrick treated them as anointed representatives of the unwelcome. Martin's flat-top crew cut, Windsor-knotted bright-blue tie and navy suit, like Dupres's rounded face, flat ears, red polka-dotted bow tie, yellow shirt and also navy suit, screamed: We are not Morsely! She knew she would have to show them in to Richard's office soon—Richard was expecting Martin—but for twenty minutes she let them cool their butts. The waiting room held no magazines, no pictures hung on the walls. The smart visitor always brought a book. Martin looked distressed with nothing to do; Dupres seemed agitated.

Suddenly, as if just having received the signal, Mrs. Buttrick stood. “President O'Hara can see you now.” Three long strides and she reached the door behind her desk, turned the handle, and pushed the door open. Martin loped quickly as if in fear she'd shut it again, and Dupres, far taller than he had looked sitting, strode after. She said, “Mr. Martin and Mr. Dupres to see you, Dr. O'Hara.”

O'Hara had nothing for Martin, not even a date for the possibility of making a promise. This morning, when he'd spoken with Mick Dubic, Mick had reiterated that he could not and would not pressure Rossini to sell or lease his invention. Richard stepped out from behind his desk. “Come in, gentlemen, come in.”

Mrs. Buttrick closed the door behind them.

Introductions by Martin, Dupres a colleague, also with EST-K-Sum. Richard, back behind the desk, but not feeling protected. The two visitors in chairs facing, leaning forward. A few moments of very small talk: Did they take the ferry over? They flew. Will they be staying the night? No.

Martin, cutting to the chase: “Dr. O'Hara. Have you obtained the rights?”

Richard O'Hara wished for nothing more. With the rights to Rossini's discovery, the entitlement to lease it out, and with Martin's offer four weeks ago, Morsely would be on solid financial footing once again. He had to give Martin something now, the most tentative of promises. “We're getting there,” he said. “Professor Rossini needs more time. He's still in the early stages of his experiments and—”

“How much time?”

“He has to do more human trials and—”

“He was given that permission over a year ago.”

How did Martin know this? Oh dear. “It's a very slow process, and I'm sure he's moving as quickly as is safe.”

Dupres bent farther forward, set all ten fingers on O'Hara's desk as if taking possession, and stood, leaning halfway across the desk, well into O'Hara's space. “O'Hara?” His first words, each syllable pronounced singly, a low growled voice. “Get those rights.”

Dr. O'Hara heard the words as a threat. No one threatened Richard O'Hara, and especially not in his office, not at his desk. But this fellow Dupres looked—no, was—intimidating. So Richard stood, his head now higher than the leaning Dupres, and stared into the man's eyes. Such a round head on such a tall man. “Sir. Sit down.”

Dupres, not moving, repeated, “Get those rights from Rossini. Or we'll get them directly.” He held O'Hara's glare for a moment, pushed back and sat.

Richard's great fear—that he and Morsely be cut out of the deal. He had spoken with Larry Rossini at least half a dozen times about the university's constitutional rights to all of Morsely's research. Except he, Richard O'Hara, had made the exception: Rossini retained the rights even though he was working at Morsely. Without that in the offer, Larry would never have left Duke. But how to make him understand that he, Larry, threatened the very fate of the university? Madeleine Augustiner, his CEO, had been over the contract as closely as it could be read, and found no way to bypass or rescind the clauses relating to Rossini's right to retain his intellectual property. With time it might be possible to convince Larry of his duty, but if these two government bullies threatened him now, he would remain forever obdurate about sharing with Morsely. “If you go near Larry Rossini—”

“Yeah?” rumbled Dupres.

“You'll get nowhere. Farther away from Rossini's work than you are now.”

“You doubt our powers of persuasion?”

Richard O'Hara despised and feared violence. Even the threat of violence. He could think of no answer to Dupres's question. “You gentlemen better be careful,” was all he could think to say.

Joseph Martin said, “Whatever it takes to get the rights.”

O'Hara closed his eyes, opened them. “Don't you think I want to lease you the rights? My leasing them to you is best for all of us.”

“Then make it happen,” said Dupres.

“Listen, Richard,” said Martin, “we're the good guys here. You should know we've been authorized to increase our offer by 20 percent. And to present you personally with a 10 percent commission above the purchase price. But you have to get those rights. We'll take Professor Rossini along with his product—he'll be able to work on it, develop it, be recompensed more than fairly. What could be more just than that?”

President O'Hara sighed. “I'll do my very best.”

“Call me when you succeed,” said Martin. “In any case, we'll be back in a month. And when I return I want the invention. Your very best attempt may not be good enough.”

“We both want the same thing,” said O'Hara.

Martin stood, then Dupres. “We'll make our own way out.” They turned toward the door.

Richard O'Hara watched it close behind them. How was he going to convince Larry? The man was immovable.

Noel made up an itemized receipt for Morsely University's English Department and emailed it to their office. Then he shoved two pillows against the head of his bed, lay down and propped the Twain autobiography against his thighs. A weighty tome . . . 

In his pants pocket his phone vibrated. He pulled it out. Didn't recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Mr. Franklin, it's Larry Rossini again.”

“Yes, Professor?”

“Could we change the time of our appointment? You wanted to meet sooner. I've been called back anyway, so we could talk this evening. Say, 7:30?”

A quick thought: sure. And if they couldn't help Rossini, Noel could get the mid-morning ferry. Tonight a final conversation with Kyra. “Okay, 7:30's good.”

“See you then,” said Rossini. “Thank you.”

Noel put the phone back in his pocket. He lay down on the bed, picked up the book, read four or five pages, but he could feel his eyelids trying to crash down. He fought for a couple of minutes to keep them open, then thought better of it. Napping, he wouldn't have to think about Kyra's baby project or any involvement with Peter. His eyelids won.

A vibration against his thigh. A tickle. Pleasant, let it go on. But instantly he dragged out his phone again. Rossini wanting to change the appointment? Didn't recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Noel Franklin?” Low voice, slight undeterminable accent, something European maybe?

“Yes. Who is this?”

“You will leave San Juan Island. You and your partner will not poke your nose into island business. Obey me. Do you understand?”

“Who the hell is this?”

“Leave the island or someone will be hurt. You or someone you care for.”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“No joke, Mr. Franklin. Leave.” The line went dead.

Noel stared at his phone. He'd just been threatened! He felt caught between sudden anger and a slap of fear. No one had ever threatened him before. Not anonymously, anyway. He felt outrage.

He got up and walked to the front door, opened it, looked out. No one. Of course not. Closed the door, walked through the living room, kitchen, dining room. Again. Someone intimidating him because he was investigating plagiarism? Was there more to the Beck affair than he or Kyra had sensed? The voice had sounded nothing like Beck's. Too deep. The accent, hardly Beck's. But Beck had many voices on paper; maybe he had a range of spoken voices too. But the Beck he'd met wasn't a man who would threaten. Then again, his written material seemed to come from two different people. The mild-mannered Beck masking a man capable of bullying? Possible? Doubtful.

Poking around in island business. What else had they poked at? Nothing. Maybe they'd be poking around for Larry Rossini. So far, just Jordan Beck.

He looked at the time. He'd slept for nearly an hour. Well, better call Kyra. Tell her what? That they'd both been threatened? It wouldn't scare her. She'd likely laugh and go on sightseeing. But with a niggling sense that Noel might be upset. And that'd spoil her afternoon or at least make it less enjoyable. No, if he called, he wouldn't let on that he gave a damn. Just so she knew. But why should she know if not to worry. Damn.

He poured a glass of water and drank half of it. Good water here. Maybe he should call Peter. After all, it was Peter's case. Or had been—they were off it as of before lunch. Still, Peter should know about this development. He'd just drive into Friday Harbor and tell him. Good idea. He opened the front door and stepped out onto the deck. No Honda. What—? Of course, Kyra had taken it. Call him then. Or wait till they met him at 5:30? With the guest standing there, Noel saying,
Hey Peter, some guy called and told me to get off the island or I'd get hurt?
Pretty melodramatic. Where'd he put the damn Blackberry? There, on the bed. He picked it up and tapped in Peter's number. His message broke in. Noel asked Peter to call when he could.

Should she keep going north, Kyra wondered, check out Roche Harbor? Supposed to be a pretty little enclave. The clock was pushing four. Better head back; if she had time, she could stop at the American Camp. To the car. According to the map, she could take a different route. Past an alpaca farm, and a little lake. The turnoff, Mitchell Bay Road, her route. No, straight ahead. A large herd of cattle on the left. Very rich grassland. Tiny roads, heading in both directions.