Page 96 of Homeport

“He’s there. He gave me his word.”

“Yeah, like you gave me yours.” He approached the door, setting down his bag to prepare to work. Then his eyes narrowed as he studied the fixture beside the door. “Alarm’s off,” he murmured. “Your friend’s careless, Dr. Jones. He didn’t reset the system from inside.”

She ignored the rippling chill over her skin. “I suppose he didn’t think it necessary.”

“Um-hmm. Door’s locked, though. That would be automatic once it was shut. We’ll fix that.”

He unrolled a soft leather strip, using his body to shield his tools as best he could. He’d have to wipe them down well later, he mused. Couldn’t risk rust.

“This shouldn’t take long, but keep your eye out anyway.”

He hummed lightly, a tune she recognized as a passage from Aida. She crossed her arms over her chest, turned her back to him, and stared into the driving rain.

Whoever had installed security hadn’t wanted to deface the beautiful old door with dead bolts. The brass knobs were sad-faced cherubs that suited the medieval architecture and guarded a series of efficient but aesthetically discreet locks.

Ryan blinked rain out of his eyes and wished vaguely for an umbrella.

He had to work by feel alone. The pounding of the rain prevented him from hearing that faint and satisfying click of tumblers. But the sturdy British locks surrendered, degree by degree.

“Bring the bag,” he told her when he pulled the heavy door open.

He used his penlight to guide them to the stairs. “You explain to your friend that I’m helping you out, and I’ll take it from there. That is, if he’s here.”

“I said he’d be here. He promised me.”

“Then he must like to work in the dark.” He shined his light straight ahead. “That’s your lab, right?”

“Yes.” Her brows drew together. It was black as pitch. “He just hasn’t gotten here yet.”

“Who turned off the alarm?”

“I . . . He’s probably in the chem lab. That’s his field.”

“We’ll check that out in a minute. Meanwhile we’ll just see if your notes are still in your office. Through here?”

“Yes, through the doors and to the left. It was only my temporary office.”

“You put the data on your computer’s hard drive?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll get it.”

The doors were unlocked, which gave him an unhappy feeling. Deciding to err on the side of caution, he shut off his flashlight. “Stay behind me.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.” He eased through the door, blocking her body with his. For several humming seconds he listened, and hearing nothing but the whoosh of air through the vents, reached over to turn on the lights.

“Oh God.” Instinctively, she gripped his shoulder. “Oh my God.”

“I thought scientists were tidy,” he murmured.

It looked as if someone had indulged in a vicious tantrum, or a hell of a party. Computers were smashed, and the glass from monitors and test tubes littered the floor. Worktables had been overturned, papers scattered. Stations that had been surgically ordered were now a jumble of wreckage. The stench of chemicals unwisely mixed smeared the air.

“I don’t understand this. What’s the point of this?”

“It wasn’t burglary,” he said easily. “Not with all these computers busted instead of lifted. Looks to me, Dr. Jones, like your friend’s come and gone.”

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