Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's: THE LOST WORLD

London Edition – vol.104

"Ned," Veronica said quietly, yet the word was surprisingly loud in the silence.

"We cannot allow ourselves to be drawn into this charlatan's games!" Challenger warned, with a harshness that he hoped would galvanize the group.

Veronica recoiled at his callused tone, "But, this news is real – you said so yourself, Professor."

"Yes, I believe these newspapers are authentic. There are likely human remains in route to England, but to whom do they belong? –Malone? –Summerlee? –or some unlucky thief with Ned's pack?" Challenger paused to let his point sink in. "Olmec is our best hope of discovering the truth."

"He holds all the cards," Roxton said.

"Yes," the professor agreed. "You may well lose your title, John. And with the forfeit of my research grants, my own dear Jessie might be put out onto the street. To stop that from happening, we need to set our death record straight – and this trickster may be our only chance."

"Now that we've started shooting at him," Veronica said, "he may not even return."

"Oh, he'll be back," Marguerite assured. "Didn't you hear him laughing at us?"

"Us?" Roxton said in mock surprise. "He wasn't laughing at me… my shot would have hit him." He watched closely for the woman's reaction, but she ignored the bait.

"Well, we have the day then – to prepare a reception for our morning caller," the professor concluded. The team had started work early and the day passed slowly under the weight of uncertainty. Eventually, the tree house settled back into its normal rhythm, and a plan began to take shape.

It was late afternoon by the time Marguerite was able to talk with John alone. She had been considering how she might broach the subject of his impending fall from nobility. The news had clearly affected him. It was presumptuous of her to believe that his true fear was the loss of her affections – that her interest in him had never been more than just his title. But she had done her part to fan that fire, and she was unsure how deep it might burn.

He was constructing a hunting blind just outside of the fence line as she approached. She made a small pretense of offering her assistance, but he dismissed the gesture without comment.

Roxton could read her tentative behavior, and he cut straight to the matter. "If you're worried about Avebury, don't be," he said, although he hadn't meant to be ambiguous. It bothered him that this woman – with so many secrets of her own – could see right through him. She knew full well that he didn't give a damn about that title.

"John, do you really think I care about that old house?"

"I don't know, Marguerite. But isn't that the way of it? I never know anything!" He hadn't realized just how frustrated he had been. The words were coming fast, "Maybe it is just the name you want: Lady Marguerite Roxton!"

It hurt to be on the receiving end of such bitter words and she felt her walls rising. If she let loose her own venom it could take months to repair. Instead, she took an unfamiliar step onto higher ground, and said, "We're all on edge, John – worried about those unidentified remains. I'll let you get back to your work."

As she walked away he called out her name. She stopped and closed the gate behind herself, looking back at him. "That title had you seduced long before me, Lord Roxton," she said in a controlled voice. "I'm just not as practiced at hiding it." And then she crossed the clearing to the elevator.

Roxton was unsettled by her accusation. He had always been indifferent to his station – hadn't he? Or, had he been playing the high-wire-hero for so long that he'd forgotten about the net? He looked up at the sky; he was losing the light. He put his mind back on his work. Olmec was his priority. Completing the hunting blind was only part of the plan. He and Challenger had laid a great deal of groundwork earlier and he liked their chances of capturing this shifty prey.

The hunter began checking his sightline from the newly constructed blind to the front gate – but he wasn't alone. Hidden high in the canopy, the trickster watched.

Olmec questioned whether the man truly intended to shoot him. Surely, he saw the flaw in that plan? Perhaps the hunter would just take him at the knee... he didn't like the sound of that. He would be certain to have the rifleman disarmed as his first measure. The professor had spent hours running wire near the front gate, but that area would be pitifully simple to avoid. He had seen enough, he didn't need to know their entire plan before morning; he wouldn't mind a few surprises.

The trickster slipped from his tree branch and fell twenty feet to the ground, landing deftly in a silent crouch. He moved a safe distance deeper into the jungle and took a small handful of translucent dust from a pouch at his hip. With a flourish of his hand, the fine powder ignited into a shimmering pane of light – and there, stretched out just beyond the threshold, were the gray streets of London.

The planet's rotation favored him. He would have a late night on the town, a comfortable bed in a hotel, breakfast on the Thames, and still have enough time to pick up the morning paper and return to the Plateau before first light. Olmec stepped through the iridescent gateway just before it winked shut.

END – vol.104

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