Clockwork Nessie, Part 11
Thomas rowed with sure strokes. The island lay less than two kilometers from our boat launch, and soon the tiny vessel scraped the rocks of its eastern shore.
We walked to the lodge, but found it locked. A large sign affixed to its door said, “Closed until September 1. Trespassers may be shot.”
“See, Miss. We’d best clear out lest someone make good on yon threat.”
“Oh posh. That’s to keep the riff-raff away, which is why it says ‘may be shot’. We mean no harm. Come along.” I started down the path leading away from the main lodge.
Closer to the water’s edge, nearly fifty yards away, stood a barn. As we neared, a door flew open and man who appeared to be in his late twenties stepped out. He wore a lab coat and welder’s goggles, which he pushed down around his neck. He paused on the stoop and blinked into the sunlight, like Apollo on Mount Olympus.
He raised a hand to shield his eyes, and gazed our way. “Cyrus? Did you forget something? Oh. You’re not Cyrus. The island is off limits this time of year.”
On a hunch I asked, “Are you Robert, by any chance?”
(To Be Continued)