He needed to get back to the crash site. He’d locate the black box himself and poke around the jet to see if there was anything that might explain Lincoln’s behavior. His laptop was probably still onboard.
The med kit.
Shit. He remembered taking it off the plane along with Lincoln’s briefcase, but after that he’d lost track of it. No surprise; he’d practically lost track of his own head.
He swung his legs off the cot, noticing a few twinges and aches here and there. He was down to his underwear—he remembered clinging to consciousness long enough to make sure he undressed himself so no one got ahold of his billfold again. A clean bandage was wrapped around his arm, and he barely noticed any pain from it. That was a relief. Sasha was a pretty good, though highly opinionated, doctor.
His gaze landed on a tidy pile at the foot of the cot, and he exhaled a breath of relief as he spotted his overnight bag, the med kit, and Lincoln’s briefcase. Hallelujah. Maybe there was something inside those cases that would answer some questions.
The med kit was locked, he already knew that. The code might be in the briefcase, and there was also a good chance that the briefcase itself held important information. But when he tried to open the leather case, it too stayed stubbornly closed. A cryptic red light emanated from a small digital screen, which was more than the med kit had. What was it, a thumbprint scanner? He’d never paid any attention to how Lincoln opened his briefcase.
He carried it over to the other cot and ducked inside Lincoln’s netting. He picked up his right hand and pressed his thumb on the screen.
No change.
Damn. How had the thing opened in the first place? The crash must have busted it open. Maybe he should drop it from a cliff and hope for the best.
While he was inside Lincoln’s netting, he might as well plant his billfold on him. He slipped it into the front pocket of Lincoln’s formerly immaculate linen slacks, which were folded on the foot of the bed. Hopefully no one would notice a lump that hadn’t been there before.
“Lincoln,” he said in a low voice. “Lincoln, wake up. You’re not dead, but things are definitely weird. Come on, wake up. It’s Rory. Pilot Rory.”
Lincoln had a habit of referring to his staff like that. Assistant Beth. Lawyer Dan. Pilot Rory. Often he left off the name altogether.
But the man showed no response whatsoever. What was a normal length of time for someone to stay in a trauma-related coma? What if Sasha changed her mind and decided they should take him in for some neurological tests? If that happened, he’d have to come clean. What would Mathilda think of him then?
It irritated him that he cared. What did it matter what a nerdy scientist thought of him, no matter how cute she was? Besides, he’d been lying to her from the first moment she’d opened the cabin door. He’d pretty much kissed her good opinion goodbye at that point.
He tucked Lincoln’s netting back under the foam mattress and turned his attention to the briefcase. The highest surface inside this canopy tent was a folding table that held a battery-operated lamp, a jug of drinking water, and the headlamp Mathilda had given him last night.
He cleared everything off and gingerly sat on top of it, then carefully—the thing wobbled—rose into a standing position. His head brushed the canvas ceiling of the tent, meaning he could go no higher than this. He grabbed the handle of the briefcase, then raised it as high as the canvas would let him.
But before he could drop it onto the floor, someone unzipped the entrance flap and ducked inside.
Mathilda’s mouth dropped open when she spotted him standing on the table. Her sunny blond hair was tucked under a baseball cap with a University of Hawaii logo. She wore tan shorts that ended just above the knee, low rubber boots, and a bikini halter top. The scent of warm skin and sunscreen wafted into the tent, and he spotted a streak of white on her neck where she hadn’t applied it thoroughly enough.
“What on earth are you doing?”
He thought fast. What possible reason could a billionaire have for wanting to smash his briefcase?
“I…uh…have trade secrets in here worth millions. It’s best if I destroy them in case…”
“In case a mongoose steals your identity?”
“Yes. No. The other. What was it…the mini hooney? What is that, a local gang?”
She stared at him a moment, long enough for him to appreciate the soft aqua shade of her eyes under the gray brim of her cap. “You can relax. The menehune aren’t interested in your trade secrets.”
“Okay. But still. The point remains.”
She gave a shrug. “If you want to destroy your briefcase, that’s up to you. But I don’t think throwing it onto the floor is going to do it. Here, hand it over. I can put it into our burn barrel. We should be firing it off pretty soon.”
Shit. He didn’t want to incinerate the damn thing. Lincoln would kill him if he did that. “I’ll figure something out. This material might be toxic.”
She eyed the leather briefcase skeptically, as she should.
Change the subject. Fast. “You look like you’re dressed for the beach.”
“That’s why I came to check on you. Most of us are heading out on a scouting expedition in the direction of one of our favorite waterfalls. Robert volunteered to stay here with you two. I just wanted to let you know. He can show you around the kitchen, such as it is, if you want breakfast.”
