counter and booths for troublemakers. The change jingling in his pockets could have been spurs.
“Coffee, Terrence Junior.”
The poor kid fumbled the pad he’d held poised to take my order and scrambled to pour the sheriff a cup of coffee.
“Mornin’ Doctor Fisher,” he said and tipped his hat. I hoped he mistook my smile as friendly rather than mocking. Could he not see how ridiculous he was?
“Mornin’, Sheriff. How’s your day going?”
“Well, aside from Miz Louise’s disappearing.” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen anything strange on your way into town, would you?”
“Nope.”
“Hear anything last night?”
My cheeks warmed, and I hoped he didn’t see the flush that must have been there. “Nope. Slept straight through.”
Terrence Junior set a mug of coffee by the sheriff and one for me. I gave him my breakfast order—a biscuit with jam—and fixed my coffee. When I looked up, my gaze met the sheriff’s, who still studied me with suspicious creases under his eyes.
“Hear you have a butler now.”
I decided to treat this as I had my dissertation defense—only answer the question, and don’t volunteer anything that might get you in trouble. “Yep.”
“Did you hire him?”
“Nope.”
“Who did, then?”
“My grandfather.”
Breakfast appeared, which allowed me to chew as I pondered how to answer the sheriff’s forthcoming questions.
“Where’s he from?”
“England.” Okay, Scotland, but it’s not like the sheriff would know the difference.
“Is he permanent?”
“Don’t know yet.”
Sheriff Knowles appeared to become impatient with my lack of elaboration. “Got to find these things out, you know,” he said, switching to a friendly, persuasive tone. “With all that’s been going on around here, we can’t be too careful.”
“I agree. What do you think happened to Louise?”
The level of background noise plummeted as people paused to hear the sheriff’s answer. I realized no one asked him questions—they just answered his and tried to get out of his way.
“Under investigation, young lady.” He put his coffee cup down a little too firmly, and I winced as it almost broke. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Have a good day, Sheriff. Oh, and thanks for buying my breakfast,” I said as I slid the fiver he put down on the counter over to Terrence Junior. With a wink, I got up and stalked outside, my heart pounding. I felt an odd mix of elation and terror, like the kid who had just gotten away with putting a whoopee cushion on the teacher’s chair.
“Doctor Fisher?” The deep voice made my heart skip a beat and I felt the rush of adrenaline that precedes panic. I turned slowly to see Leonard Bowman.
“Mr. Bowman?”
“Doctor as well, actually.”
“Oh?”
Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his hair hung in waves, still damp from his morning shower.
“Sleep in this morning?”
He blinked as though he didn’t understand the question. He had nothing of the angry attitude from the night before or two days previously, and now—in the full sunlight—our encounter began to feel more like a dream. Except for my wrist, which throbbed after I had thoughtlessly used that hand to open the diner door.
“Look, do you have something to say to me? Because, quite frankly, I have things to do, and I still need one good hand.”
Instead of becoming angry, he raised his right hand to his face, placed his thumb and forefinger on his temples and massaged them. “Would you believe I don’t remember much of our encounter last night?”
“What? Were you drunk? Drunk and trespassing? Or were you high?”
He put his hand down and looked around. “I have a lot I need to explain to you. Can we go somewhere?”
“What do you mean?”
“Can I buy you lunch?”
“Can you buy me lunch?” I knew it was stupid, repeating what he said, but this was a different Leonard Bowman than either the cocky young man or the rage-filled one I’d seen early that morning, and I wasn’t sure what to expect from him.
“Please?” he begged. “I just put together who you are and what you do for a living. I’ll take a look at your wrist.”
“What do you mean?”
He held out his hand, and I slowly put mine in his. Like Gabriel, Leo’s fingers were cool, but roughened like he had worked hard with them. But when he turned my hand over, it was with the fingers of an expert.
“I was doing my residency in orthopedics,” he explained, “when I got CLS.”
My heart skipped a beat. All my better instincts told me to say no, but I couldn’t resist. Plus, that biscuit hadn’t been enough to satisfy my appetite.
“How about Tabitha’s?”
The world wasn’t ready for the new breed of genetic disorders. Normally Nature seeks to advance the development of organisms. But Nature is a true lady and can admit her mistakes, one of which is that too much intelligence, opposable thumbs, and a self-centered outlook is a dangerous combination. Where Leonard Bowman fit into all this, I had no idea. But by accepting his lunch invitation, I stepped right back into that world of questions.
The walk from the town square to the restaurant gave me time to think about the first time I’d heard of CLS. And when I first met Robert. It seemed his memory would haunt me as much as my former life as a researcher. I had been twenty-seven, just out of graduate school, and was looking forward to starting my first real job. Robert, the first man I’d seen at Cabal, had been similar to Leo with dark hair, but old enough for his wry sense of humor to trace lines at the corners of his eyes.
“You the new intern?” He’d come up behind me and startled me so I almost dropped the box of books I carried. He took the load from me without asking, and all I could do was follow, openmouthed, as he led the way.
“Ah, no, it looks like you’re the new epidemiologist.” The lines crinkled, and I caught my breath at his smile.
“And you are…”
“I’m Robert Cannon, a geneticist, and your boss. I’d shake your hand, but I’m carrying this ridiculously heavy load of books.”
“Right. I’m Joanna.”
“Fisher, as I recall. Chuck Landover’s granddaughter.”
“Yes.” The mention of my grandfather had startled me at the time, but I forgot about it with the rush of information I’d gotten from Robert.
“So here’s the deal, Fisher,” he said and indicated I was to precede him into a laboratory with computers on one side and a host of genetics equipment—most of which I couldn’t identify yet—on the other. I held the door open and he set my box down on the table next to a computer.
“Is this my desk?”
