Spirit and Dust

  “Boy,” said Carson. “You were not kidding about museums being tricky.”

  “I warned you,” I told him, like it was his fault I’d gotten lost in time. Narrowing my focus, I circled the gallery and gingerly poked around with my extra senses, checking the room for any psychic hot spots. “Do you see anything … jackal-y?”

  “You tell me.”

  I didn’t understand what he meant until I looked with my eyes instead of my Sight, going from one limestone-encased cabinet to another, scanning the artifacts on display.

  “Wow. There are a shit-ton of jackals in Egyptian art.”

  “Hardly surprising,” said a stranger’s voice. I whirled. Carson turned calmly, as if he’d seen the guy approaching. The young man went on, “The jackal-headed, or sometimes dog-headed, god Anubis played a vital role in funeral rituals and afterlife beliefs.”

  He seemed nonthreatening, speaking with a sort of friendly condescension, as if he couldn’t quite help himself. He looked way too young to be wearing a tweed blazer with patches on the elbows. Whatever look he’d been aiming for, all he hit was nerdy.

  “Do you work here?” Carson asked. Silly question—dressed like that, where else would the guy work?

  “I’m in the graduate program. Sarah—the volunteer at the front desk—told me you’re looking for something called … What was it?”

  “The Oosterhouse Jackal.” I watched him for a reaction to the name. “We’re supposed to sketch it for art class.”

  “I don’t know about a jackal,” he said, without any artifice that I could tell. “But there was a Professor Oosterhouse here during the nineteen twenties and thirties. Could that be related?”

  “Maybe,” I said, a lot more “Here’s hoping” than “Eureka.”

  He gestured to the exit. “Let’s go up to the research library and see if there’s any information in the archives.”

  Carson didn’t move right away, but this seemed like an excellent plan, so when Elbow Patches led the way out of the gallery, I followed him and Carson followed me.

  “I don’t trust him,” he murmured, when Elbows was far enough ahead not to hear. “Why is he being so helpful?”

  “It’s a research institute,” I whispered back. “This place exists to help people find stuff out.”

  Carson stared at the back of Elbow Patches’ head like he could see into his skull. “He was looking at you funny.”

  “People always look at me funny.”

  He made a noncommittal sound. I let him stay on his guard. One of us should be wary, I figured, even of a nerd with a slightly rabbity smile.

  We went up a flight of stairs and down a hallway lined with office doors, finally reaching the reading room of the archives. Elbows opened the door for me and I had to hold back a squeal of delight. It looked like something out of Hogwarts.

  There were rows of tables, shelves along the walls and more toward the end of the long room. The ceiling was vaulted, buttressed with oaken arches, and intricately painted. At the end of the room was a window with a lotus flower design filling the room with morning light.

  Faint wisps of remnants eddied through the room like snatches of mist. Students at the desks. A tweed-suited librarian shelving books. None of them paid the living any attention—even me. They were merely impressions of the past, going about their business.

  Elbow Patches led the way to a computer. “We’ll check here first and hope we get lucky. The Institute has so many documents and books that it’s an ongoing project getting the older stuff into the database.”

  Carson hung back, arms folded, so I made nice. “That sleek computer looks almost out of place. I’d expect a cabinet with drawers of manila cards and a librarian with a rubber stamp.”

  “Oh, we have that, too,” said Elbows. “The card catalog, I mean. But people log in from all over the world looking for specific papers, maps, and things. Stuff you can’t find anywhere else.” He finished typing into the search box, and a block of text rolled up the screen. “Here we go. Carl Oosterhouse, German-born archaeologist. Born 1887, died 1941. Expeditions to Egypt in 1924, 1926, 1930, 19—well, about seven in all.”

  He’d reached the end of the short biographical paragraph. “Is that it?” I asked, disappointed even though I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. “I don’t suppose it says where he was buried.”

  Elbows checked. A lot of people might think that was a weird question. But not, apparently, an Egyptologist. “It just says he died at sea. The circumstances aren’t listed.” He turned back to me, explaining, “He’s not one of our better-known faculty. I’ve only heard of him because I’ve run across his work in the archives.”

  I waited for him to go on, but when he didn’t, I prompted, “What kind of work? Articles and stuff?”

  “Oh.” He shook himself and returned his gaze to the computer screen. Carson was right. Elbows had been looking at me funny. “Journal articles, yes. And we should have his field notes from his Institute-funded expeditions. Upper Nile valley, 1931, lower Nile valley—”

  Carson interrupted the recitation. “Would the field notes say what sort of things he found on his expeditions?”

  Elbows looked from me to Carson and back again. “What kind of project did you say you were working on? You must really want a good grade.”

  “It’s more of a prize, actually.” I nudged Carson to get out his phone. “We’ve got competition. I don’t suppose you’ve seen this girl around here?”

  Carson showed him the picture of Alexis. Elbows glanced at it, then looked closer. “I’ve met her. She came to an event for prospective graduate students. I think she was there with one of my classmates.”

  Without visibly changing his posture, Carson seemed to go on high alert. “What’s his name?” Carson asked.

  “Michael Johnson. He’s a first-year.”

  “Is he here today?”

  Elbows shifted uncomfortably. The way Carson was firing questions at him, I would squirm, too. “I haven’t seen him.” He gestured at the computer. “Do you want me to print out the call numbers for those journals?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, extra nice to make up for Carson. “We really appreciate your help.”

  Elbows turned quickly to the keyboard, but his ears went pink, giving away his blush. I grabbed Carson’s arm and pulled him to one of the tables.

  “Now we have a name,” I whispered. “Have you ever heard of this Michael Johnson?”

  Carson frowned. “I didn’t even know that Alexis was thinking of going to graduate school.”

  “What else is she going to do with a degree in Latin and Greek?” I glanced over to make sure Elbows was still at the computer. “I think we should call Agent Taylor and give him the name.”

  That left Carson speechless for a whole second. “You think we should call the FBI? Is that a royal we, Sunshine? Because I’m not doing that.”

  “Don’t be stubborn.” I hissed, like we were arguing over whose turn it was to pick up the check. “Taylor can look this guy up, trace his movements. The feds have resources we don’t.”

  “If I want resources,” he said, “I’ll call my boss.”

  Someone cleared his throat before I could answer, and we both looked up. Elbow Patches stood nearby, holding a huge stack of books.

  “That was quick,” I said, changing gears and hoping he hadn’t heard anything. I jumped to help him put the heavy volumes on the table. “Are these actually from the nineteen thirties?”

  “Or bound facsimiles. That’s why getting everything online is an ongoing process.” He seemed pleased that I was impressed. Then he said, “I’ve been trying to think where I’ve seen you before.”

  Poor guy. That was the best line he could come up with? Carson, out of the grad student’s view but directly in mine, rolled his eyes. “Maybe around campus?” I suggested, because it might not be so funny if he’d somehow seen me on the news from Minneapolis.

  “Oh, I figured it out,” said Elbows. “Here, look.” r />
  He laid a book on the table. I caught a glance at the cover before he opened it. Female Pioneers in Archaeology. He turned to a grainy black-and-white picture of a tall, slim woman in a desert setting. She wore jodhpurs, riding boots, a dark jacket, and a don’t-mess-with-me attitude. The caption underneath said Professor Ivy Goodnight, Thebes, Egypt, 1932.

  I didn’t quite gasp, but only because I stopped myself. I knew every inch of that photo from the family albums at home. The Goodnight lineage isn’t lacking for pioneers who don’t make the history books. Magical contributions to society are either secret or rationalized. But Aunt Ivy had managed to do something marvelous by normal standards as well as secret, supernatural ones.

  I slid the book closer. “This is my great-aunt. Do we really look that much alike?”

  Carson leaned over my shoulder to look, his breath tickling my ear. “It’s a strong resemblance.”

  Elbows shrugged. “Compare enough representations of pharaohs, you start to see family traits. Bone structure, supraorbital process, zygomatic arches …” He trailed off into awkward silence, his gaze sliding away from Carson’s. “Not that I was staring. Dr. Goodnight features in the archives because of her work, and … Er, well, I’ll let you get down to business, then.”

  He scurried off, which unfortunately made him look even more rabbity than before. I winced in sympathy and turned on Carson. “You want to be a little less cranky with the guy helping us out?” I asked. “There’s a saying about flies and honey.”

  Carson pulled the top book off the stack and sat down with it. “I don’t trust anyone that helpful. And he’s got no reason to be so interested in your zygomatic arches.”

  “It means cheekbones.” But I blushed anyway. “Medical examiners talk the same way.”

  “He was way too interested in all of you.” Maybe he was being protective (and maybe I got stupid girly flutters at the thought), but more likely it was plain old suspicion.

  I slid into a chair across the corner from him. “Not everyone is working an angle, you know.”

  “No.” He didn’t lift his eyes from the index of the book in front of him. “I don’t know.”

  That? Was really, really sad.

  You would think that with what I do—talking to the dead, solving murders—I would be more cynical. But in bringing them justice, or at least rest, I was adding to the ledger of good in the universe. And I knew how many people were striving to do the same.

  I pulled the book with Aunt Ivy’s picture closer and turned the page to a photograph of her working on the excavation of the massive stone pharaoh I’d seen downstairs. Aunt Ivy had always been my hero because of how she’d made her mark in two worlds, but I hadn’t realized until that moment how much it would mean to me to be in her old stomping ground.

  Hang on. I was about to have a moment of brilliance dulled only by the fact I was a moron for not having thought of it a lot sooner.

  “Carson,” I said, sliding the book toward him, “I know how to get more information on Oosterhouse, and maybe this Jackal of his.”

  He studied Ivy and the excavation and put the pieces together quickly. “You think there might be a remnant of your aunt attached to the statue downstairs?”

  “Yeah.” I made sure my voice was low and Elbows was nowhere near. “The problem is, I didn’t feel anything when I was there before. Which means that I’m going to have to get my hands on the thing.”

  He followed my meaning there, too. “So you need to worry about an alarm.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. No one could steal that without heavy-lifting equipment. I’m more worried about security cameras. I’m sure someone would have something to say about my copping a feel on the pharaoh.”

  Carson tapped his thumbs on the table, looking around as if searching for something to MacGyver into a solution. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “I can give you a minute or two, I think. But we’ll have to split up.”

  “What are you going to do?” The last time we’d parted company, he’d stolen a car. Splitting up made me nervous.

  “Something with the electricity or the camera feed, I imagine.” He stood and closed the book. “I’m making this up as I go along.”

  “Then how will I know when it’s safe to do my thing?”

  “Give me ten minutes, then go.”

  “I don’t have a watch.”

  “How do you not have a watch?”

  “I always use my phone, but someone stole it.”

  He calmly unfastened his wristwatch, fiddled with it, then took out his phone and set a timer with the clock app. “Ten minutes from … now.”

  He started the timer as the second hand on the watch hit twelve. I put out my hand for the phone, but he handed me the watch instead. Obviously he didn’t trust me that much after all.

  “I’m going to the restroom,” he announced, stacking up the books. “Meet you downstairs?”

  “Sure,” I said, playing my part. “I’ll just put away these journals and be there in a jiffy.”

  Jiffy earned me an eye roll. But he sauntered off like he knew where he was going. I waited until he was out of sight, then dashed over to one of the catalog computers to see if I could access the Internet proper, but no luck. Then I remembered all the offices we’d passed on the walk from downstairs. I rebelliously ignored the sign telling me to reshelve all materials and hurried—trying not to look like I was hurrying—out and down the hall.

  I felt slightly guilty for what I planned to do with my ten minutes, but the geas wasn’t weighing in on the subject, so I squashed my conscience and ducked into the first empty office I came to.

  The tiny room was its own archaeological excavation, with layer upon layer of books, papers, maps, sketches, more books, and in the middle of it all, a desk with a fairly ancient computer, big enough to hide me from the door.

  I woke it with a tap on the keyboard, checked Carson’s watch, then opened a browser window and my web mail account. I had a hundred sixty-seven new messages, all from family members. I guess the Goodnight Alarm System was operational.

  I skipped all those and started a new message to Agent Taylor. It was going to have to be short, no time for sweet.

  Check out Michael Johnson, grad student at U. of Chicago. Alexis’s boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend? I have a feeling. I hesitated a second, then added: Trust me. —D.

  There wasn’t time to do more than click Send and close the browser window. I needed to be downstairs and in position in six minutes and seventeen seconds.

  I checked the hall before I headed for the stairwell. I was almost there when I heard my name, at a very un-librarylike volume.

  “Miss Goodnight!” I turned to see Elbow Patches hurrying toward me, a lock of blond hair falling into his eyes. My first thought was, Crap, I’m going to get into trouble for not reshelving my materials. My next was, Crap, he knows my last name. And now everyone on this floor knew I was here, too.

  He was holding out a book, open to a detailed line drawing. The pages were aged, but not worn; it wasn’t a book that had seen much use. “I found this,” he said, excitedly. “It’s the field notes of Dr. Oosterhouse’s last expedition. Do you think this could be what you’re looking for?”

  I took the slim volume from him to look closer, because the sketch was of a jackal-headed man, with an Egyptian collar and skirt. The notations underneath said that it was made of lacquer over wood, with gold leaf and enamel details. I didn’t get any kind of psychic rush, but hope was its own kind of adrenaline. “It could be. I must have missed this in the display downstairs.”

  “Oh, it’s not downstairs. I looked it up by the catalog number.” He reached across to tap a number under the drawing. “It’s out on loan.”

  I checked the watch. Four minutes and twenty-something seconds. “Where? Please don’t say Australia.”

  He chuckled longer than that deserved, being as my desperation was no joke. “No. Not so far as that. Just St. Louis. The St. Louis Art Museum.”

  Des
pite the ticking watch, I wanted to express my gratitude to Elbows. “Thank you,” I said, giving him back the book. “You’ve gone beyond the call of duty.”

  He blushed. “I’m an archivist in a very specialized museum. I don’t get to show off very often.”

  As he took the book from me, something slipped from the pages. We both bent to grab it and nearly bumped heads. He got flustered, and I got the manila card that had fallen to the tile floor. At first I thought it was the catalog card, but when I turned it over I saw, drawn in what looked like Sharpie, an ear. Vaguely anatomical, definitely recognizable.

  “That’s an odd sort of bookmark,” said Elbows.

  Yes, it was. I had no sense for magic, but I had two brain cells to rub together and a bad feeling about this. If it was some kind of spell, what else would an ear mean but that someone was listening?

  So much to think about, but the clock in my head was ticking. I ripped the card in half, hoping it would break the spell, then turned again to Elbows. “Can you look up who last checked out this book?”

  “Well, you can’t check out books from the archives,” he said, sending that lead into a nosedive. Then he added, “But I can probably see who last pulled it up in the catalog.”

  “That would be so great.” Maybe I laid it on a little thick, but my gratitude was very real. Spell or not, whoever last looked up Oosterhouse and his Jackal could be the best lead for finding Alexis.

  It would be even more awesome if he could go look that up quickly so I could get downstairs in the next two minutes and fifty-seven seconds. When the silence stretched to awkward, I pointed toward the stairs. “I’ll be right back. I just need to, um …”

  “Oh!” He blushed again, and I was happy to let him assume whatever kept him from asking for details. “I’ll just be in the …” He sidled back the other way.

  “Awesome.”

  The instant his back was turned, I hurried down the steps, with the pieces of the manila card still in my hand. I put the scraps in my pocket as I reached the ground floor, and not-quite-ran toward the Egyptian gallery. I reached it with a minute to spare …