Spirit and Dust

26


“YOU HAVE GOT to be kidding me,” said Carson, staring at the spot where the ghost had been. “Find the artifacts that lie with his bones? How do we do that?”

“Find his grave,” I said, going to grab the robe Gwenda had given me with the pajamas. “And a shovel.”

“That’s not funny.”

“That’s because I’m not joking.” Belting the robe, which wasn’t much heavier than the pj’s, but adequate now that the ghost was gone, I headed for the door. “I never joke about disinterment.”

Carson followed me, unappeased by my calm. “Where are you going?”

“To get some breakfast. I’m not planning any tomb raiding on an empty stomach.”

He must have seen the sense of that, because he followed without argument.


Aunt Gwenda was, no surprise, a late sleeper, but there was a note from her on the kitchen counter telling us to make ourselves at home since Matthew had the morning off.

The apartment was sort of urban vintage—exposed brick walls and beams, wood on the floors, copper or brass on the fixtures. The kitchen was huge and the appliances were commercial grade and intimidating.

Carson headed for the coffeemaker—an apparatus that looked like it could pilot the space shuttle. Maybe someone had gotten a bargain when NASA shut down that program. “The note says there’s a bag of bagels by the toaster. You can work a toaster, right?”

“Of course,” I answered. Neither of us said anything while Carson ran the coffee grinder, but once he’d measured out the grounds and, I don’t know, programmed a geosynchronous orbit, he turned to me.

“Where’s the ghost now?” he asked.

I did a quick poke around with my psychic senses. “There’s just a faint trace of him in the bedroom, where the artifact is. Manifesting that long wore him out.”

He leaned against the counter and folded his arms. Not a receptive sort of posture. “Are you sure he can’t hear us? The Egyptian girl at the museum, she could leave her object.”

“You mean Cleopatra?” The reminder brought a fresh pang of failure, that I hadn’t protected her. “She was an extremely strong shade, thanks to her place in history. This poor guy—”

“Poor guy?” Carson echoed.

“Well, his institution booted him out. They were willing to keep the artifacts he collected, though.”

“I’m worried there was a reason for the Institute to distance themselves. Something more than just eccentric theories. I think you’re identifying a little closely with this one, Daisy. He’s not one of your lost lambs.”

“It’s not that,” I protested, maybe a little too much. “People like to be remembered. You heard the guy at the Institute—no one outside the archives has ever heard of him, in Egyptology, where everything is about being remembered.”

“No one outside the archives and the Brotherhood,” Carson said.

“You just don’t trust anyone, do you?”

“No. And your bagel is burning.”

Nuts! I popped it out of the toaster, but the damage was done. Tossing the blackened bread into the trash, I turned on Carson as if that were his fault. I found him standing much closer than I expected.

He spoke low, as if he really thought Oosterhouse’s remnant could be listening from the other room. “I think he knows more than he’s saying. Which is a lot of words and not a lot of information.”

I pitched my voice the same way. “He’s a professor. Of course he uses big words.” I grabbed the bag to take out another bagel.

“Here’s a big word for you, Sunshine.” He didn’t move out of my way, so I had to reach around him. “Obfuscate. It means ‘to blow smoke up someone’s ass.’ ”

I scowled. “You’re cranky before caffeine. Isn’t the space shuttle done making it yet?”

“I’m cranky,” he said, finally moving to get two mugs from a glass-front cabinet, “because—call me squeamish—I’m not exactly thrilled about desecrating a grave. We dodged that bullet with Mrs. Hardwicke, and now it’s coming back.”

“You’ll steal cars and museum artifacts and snatch reasonably innocent psychics off the street, but you draw the line at digging up bones?”

He finished pouring before he answered. “One, cars are just things. Two, my plan was to take good care of the psychic and return her undamaged. A grave, though … that’s like spitting on someone.”

The coffee he held out to me was extra light and extra sweet, exactly the way I’d fixed mine at the diner forever ago. When I reached for it, he didn’t let go until I met his eye.

“Three,” he said, with the ring of an oath, “I’m not drawing the line. I’d do whatever it takes to rescue Alexis. And if this Jackal is an unlimited power supply, it’s almost as important.”

“Okay,” I said, solemnly accepting his promise and noting his priorities. “Let’s say we manage to find the Jackal. I think maybe it’s time to talk about what we’re going to do with it.”

We had to rescue Alexis. But I didn’t want to hand over that kind of power, infinite or not, to the Brotherhood. Or, for that matter, to Maguire.

“We use it to get her back,” said Carson, without hesitation. “To find her and rescue her.”

“And not hand it over?” I asked, making sure we were clear on that.

“And not hand it over.”

There were so many problems with that idea, but I wanted to believe we could do it. That I could do it. Rescue Alexis … and Carson, too, from the hold Maguire had on his loyalty.

“I’m in,” I said, offering my own promise. “And it has nothing to do with the triple swear or any threat from Maguire. This has been voluntary ever since I realized they were messing with my remnants. And whatever is between you and your father—”

He gave me no warning before he kissed me. Didn’t move closer, didn’t take me in his arms, just swooped in and stopped my words with his mouth. Thoroughly. He drank down whatever I was going to say, and when I was speechless, only then did he lift the coffee cup from my hand and put it on the counter behind me. I almost didn’t notice because he did it without taking his lips from mine.

It was a perfectly choreographed move, a short step to wrap his arm around me and press me up against the cabinet. Not that I offered any resistance. I kissed him back, savoring the play of his lips on mine and the taste of black coffee on his tongue. I was revising my preference for cream and sugar, and revising my stance on guys who made me feel melty inside. Because I was melting like ice cream on a hot San Antonio sidewalk.

His free hand came up to my neck, lacing his fingers in my tangled hair as he kissed along my jaw, his chin deliciously scratchy on the ticklish skin under my ear.

“Maguire owns this apartment,” he whispered. “It might be bugged.”

It took me a moment—or two, or three—to figure out what that had to do with our current entanglement. I couldn’t remember if I’d been saying something we wouldn’t want Maguire to know. Jeez, I couldn’t remember how to talk.

Oh, wait, yes I did. I jabbed a finger into his shoulder and pushed him back so I could see his face. “You kissed me to shut me up?”

Carson met my narrow-eyed glare with humor and zero apology. “No. But it makes a good excuse. And paybacks are hell.”

So I gave him a punch in the ribs, but not very hard at all. “You’re a pretty good kisser for a jackass.”

His brow lifted. “Have you kissed a lot of jackasses?”

I pretended I wasn’t leaning on the counter because I was weak in the knees. “At least one too many.”

“Ouch.” His hands slid off the silk of my pajamas with only one side trip over my hips, almost brief enough to be accidental. Then he pointed to a computer tucked away on a small built-in desk. “I’ll take care of breakfast. You find us a grave to rob.”

Okay. So I guessed we were moving on now. But something had changed, not because he’d kissed me. Because I’d confessed what I’d known since last night—that I was here voluntarily. I guess that made us partners.

I went to the desk, woke the computer, and pulled up a browser. Researching obituaries was nothing new to me, and I remembered the year of the professor’s death, which was an advantage. So I felt strangely optimistic as I went to one of my favorite online obit archives and started a search for Carl Oosterhouse, date of death, 1941. Maybe it was the familiar territory. Maybe it was the concrete goal.

It didn’t take me long to find the obituary, and I started reading the important parts aloud to Carson. “Noted German-American archaeologist Carl Oosterhouse … emigrated before World War I … numerous expeditions … University of Chicago … blah blah blah stuff we know …” Then my heart took a dive, along with every hope of solving this problem with a shovel and a bit of nerve.

I must have made a sound or cursed or something, because Carson came to see what I was reading. I pointed to the screen. “… was returning from an expedition to Northern Africa for the purpose of saving as many artifacts as possible from the destruction of war, when the British transport ship was sunk by a German U-boat. All hands and all cargo were lost.”

Blessed Saint Brendan. Those poor sailors. I had a short list of ways I would prefer to go—my gift gave me a bit of insight on the subject—and drowning was not on it.

The shipwreck was a dead end for Carson and me, too. “That means no grave to dig up,” I said. “Not unless Maguire has a sideline in deepwater salvage.”

Carson turned away from me, paced to the toaster, and stared into it, hard enough to brown the bread himself. His arms were braced on the counter, his shoulders tight with frustration.

“Dammit,” he said.

“Yeah,” I answered. My heart was on the floor and I was tempted to crawl down there and join it.

He turned back abruptly, still vibrating with tension. “Google deepwater salvage and Egyptian artifacts.”

I supposed a shot in the dark was better than giving up. Pulling myself out of my dejected slump, I typed the terms into the search field.

“There’s a lot of hits, but they’re really scattershot.”

“Add Chicago.” I did, and he came back to read over my shoulder, pointing at a news article from the Chicago Tribune. The headline: EGYPTIAN MINISTER OF ANTIQUITIES SEEKS RETURN OF SALVAGED ARTIFACTS.

I glanced at him, too close to really focus. “Are you the psychic now?”

He shrugged and continued to read the article. “A hunch. Something lodged in my subconscious.”

“What?” I asked, trying not to suspect he was holding back information.

“Something I read a while back.” Before I could push for more than that, he gave me the recap of the article. “A deepwater salvage company, funded by a private collector, recovered some artifacts from a shipwreck, one that sounds a lot like what you just described.”

“Who’s the private collector?” I asked.

He pointed to a name. “It says the Beaumont Corporation. So whoever owns that.” I’d rolled the chair to the side to give him a better view of the screen, and me a better view of his face as he read. “But there’s no written provenance to say whether the stuff was removed from Egypt before or after it was illegal to do so, and the British have their noses out of joint since the wreck may fall under the underwater war grave protection act …”

“I get it,” I said. “Big legal battle. Where are the artifacts now?”

He smiled as if he’d conjured them himself. “On display here in Chicago.”

Holy cats, what a lucky break. Maybe too lucky. Maybe too convenient. Maybe I didn’t care, if it led to the Jackal, the Brotherhood, and Alexis.

“Are there pictures?” I asked, reclaiming the computer mouse. I clicked on a link (helpfully labeled PHOTOS). The first was of a team working to restore and preserve the items. The next, a picture of the collection in an exhibit. The caption said ON LOAN FROM THE BEAUMONT CORPORATION, and prominently featured, was a large basalt statue of the god Anubis in his animal form.

A black jackal.

So close. Light-at-the-end-of-the tunnel close.

What had the shade said? Find the artifacts that lie with my bones. “If that statue sank with Oosterhouse, it did lie in his grave—his watery, unmarked one. If it’s the one, I’ll know as soon as I see it.”

“Seeing it is going to be the easy part.”

He tapped the banner of the Web page and I understood what he meant. Stealing from the Field Museum was going to be a helluva lot harder than jumping another cemetery wall and digging up a grave.