Forty minutes later, he had the basics in place: the mini fridge for samples, a small centrifuge, a pressure cooker, a shaker, an incubator, and two microscopes. He had all his flasks, tubes, plates, and pipettes arranged. All of the chemicals he’d need—resin, alcohol, and more—were lined up alphabetically on the long coffee table. Good thing he’d brought his own power strips, because the bungalow—which was probably built or at least updated in the fifties—was severely lacking in outlets. It’d be a miracle if he didn’t blow a fuse when he had everything up and running.
Oscar pulled on his work vest and tucked gloves and syringes into their slots. The rest of his equipment (Cubitainers, glass bottles, and biohazard bags) he packed in a small cooler. Then, slinging it over his shoulder like a messenger bag, he set off on foot with a bottle of water in hand.
Might as well get started.
* * *
It was a pleasant hike on a defined path, but one that clearly didn’t see a lot of foot traffic.
Though he’d been to every continent except Antarctica, and visited the West Coast and Southern U.S. often, Oscar hadn’t ever been to Michigan. What he’d seen so far since driving across the border from Ohio was a sort of natural melting pot.
The Great Lakes State had everything from flat farmland to rolling hills to small ski mountains; thick, lush forests, to tall, scrawny, piney ones, and broad meadows of farmland where alfalfa and rows of corn flourished. Pretty much every time you turned around, there was a lake or pond or river or creek in view; and yet, here at the shoreline of the vast and powerful Lake Michigan, there were desertlike sand dunes studded with scrubby clumps of grass. And adjacent to this smidge of desert shore was a thick, dark forest that reminded him of Grimm’s fairy tales.
Though heavy with humidity today, the air was clean and smelled loamy and fresh. Oscar spotted several species of wildflowers he could name thanks to his Scouting days—Indian paintbrush, Queen Anne’s lace, daisies—and others he’d never seen before. Moss grew everywhere in a variety of textures: short, bright green that reminded him of a miniature putting green; another patch in a hue closer to the color of grass that had slightly taller stems, which reminded him of the close-cropped fur of Marcie’s terrier; and still others in shades of olive, reddish-bronze, yellow.
After a good twenty minutes of hiking—along the bridge back to the mainland, then south from the promontory—he heard the faint rumble of rushing water. At last. Now he just had to follow his ears through the forest.
Climbing over fallen logs, avoiding eye-level pine branches and wild raspberry bushes, Oscar picked up the pace, his knapsack thunking companionably against his side. The forest was dead silent but for the rumbling and an occasional rustle of leaves, or the call of a bird. Once in a while, the distant purr of a vehicle buzzed by in the far distance.
He saw a doe and her fawn, which shocked him when they merely stared at the intruder before bounding off into the forest, flipping up their tails to show the white that gave them their name. The slender, dark whip of a snake slithered into the underbrush when he disturbed its place in a sunny patch on the rough path. Meanwhile, the water’s rumbling was growing louder, and Oscar was aware of a little spike of enthusiasm.
A natural hot spring was, after all, a unique ecosystem. In this case, it was the only known one in the region. Maybe there’d even be something interesting there—some new bacterium or alga that could be useful. Or at least something he could mess around with to keep his mind off home.
At last, he could make out the stony outcropping that appeared to make up the backdrop of the pool. Then he saw the steam rising into the air.
At last the pool came into view: a gently roiling mass of steaming water.
And, sitting in the water, messing up his plan and contaminating it all to hell, was awoman.
Oscar stifled a groan, but went on.
She looked over at him as Oscar approached.
“Nice day for a swim,” she said.
Though her hair was dry, her face was rosy and moist from the steam. It was a pretty face, no denying it, with large eyes, arching brows, and full lips. And from what he could see above the surging water, the rest of her wasn’t too bad either. She had brown hair pulled back in a clip or something, and even from here, he could see that her eyes were filled with humor.
Oscar looked around. She seemed to be by herself. “Yep.”
“Though on a hot day like today, I’m not sure a steam bath is the best idea. Still. Here I am.” She shifted, and he caught sight of more cleavage than was healthy for a guy who was currently avoiding women like the plague.
“You here by yourself?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin and gave him a mild look. “Is there something wrong with a woman being in a hot spring by herself instead of with some guy—or another woman, for that matter?”
“No. Just wondered.” He unslung his tool bag, considering whether there was a polite way to ask her to get the hell out of his ecosystem.
Probably not.
“If I were a nervous sort of woman—which I’m not—with a great imagination—which I do, in fact, have—I’d be wondering what’s in that bag. And why you want to make sure I’m here all alone.” She narrowed her eyes at his things. “For all I know, you could have rope in there. Or duct tape. Maybe a gun or a knife, even. A camera, to take pictures of the scene?”
“Or syringes and plastic baggies and gloves.” He produced them with a flourish. “You do have an imagination.”
“Yeah. Sometimes.” She slumped down in the water so it bubbled up around her shoulders, suddenly looking miserable. “Onlysometimes.” She tipped her head up, closing her eyes as she rested her head against the stone rim behind her.
Oscar ignored her as he pulled on a pair of gloves. He could still take a sample, but he’d much rather have one not freshly contaminated with sunblock, perfume, deodorant, and whatever else she might have clinging to her body. Shampoo. Body lotion.
“Gloves? Hm. Maybe Ishouldbe worried.” She was sitting up again, watching him with interest.
