Spirit and Dust (15 page)

“Awesome. A floor show.” He pulled open the heavy front door and gestured me in with a flourish. “I’ll look forward to that.”

The building felt of age and academia, and I found myself treading lightly, like in a library. Only the smiling volunteer behind the info desk convinced me we weren’t trespassing.

“Are you students at the university?” she asked, handing us a brochure map of the place. “Or visiting from out of town?”

Carson gave her our prearranged cover story. We’d decided we couldn’t be students in the Egyptology department, because they probably all knew each other. “We have this crazy sketching assignment for one of our classes. It’s sort of like a scavenger hunt.”

The volunteer gave a sympathetic nod and a glance at our clothes. “Ah. Art students.”

“Our art history teacher’s a little bit of a head case,” Carson said, with just the right mix of drama and indifference to fit the stereotype. He was scary good at this. “We’re supposed to sketch something called the Oosterhouse Jackal.”

The woman’s frown seemed genuine. “I’ve never heard of any pieces called that.”

“Any jackals you can think of?” asked Carson, with a hint of that devilish grin.

She smiled back like she couldn’t help it. I rolled my eyes for the same reason. “Down that hall and to the right is the Egyptian gallery,” she said, pointing to a pair of double doors leading off the foyer. “I’m sure there are plenty of jackals represented there.”

“Thanks,” said Carson. “One more question.” He took out his phone and pulled up a picture of Alexis. “This is the girl we’re trying to beat to the prize. Has she been in here recently?”

The lady looked carefully at the photo, then shook her head. “I’ve never seen her. But I only work here on Thursdays.”

Carson thanked her again, and she waved us on, wishing us luck.

I’d already started down the hall, drawn by the ginormous carving at the end of the gallery. It covered most of the wall—a winged bull with a man’s head. Assyrian, maybe? The distinction was probably important to someone who knew it.

There were no individual shades or remnants that I could sense. But the carefully curated artifacts saturated the air with history, bearing ancient witness to births and deaths and dynasties. My head was full of snatches of sound and color—Iron Age forges and sun-saturated desert.

“Hey, Sunshine.” A hand waved in front of my eyes. “Twenty-first century calling.”

I blinked myself back to the world as it was—high ceilings and climate-controlled cabinets and an almighty crick in my neck from staring up at a seventeen-foot-tall statue of a pharaoh.
I looked around, surprised to find that I’d gone from ancient Iran to ancient Egypt without noticing.

“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.”

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.”