Part 12 (1/2)

”Hey, Suns.h.i.+ne.” 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 s.h.i.+t-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, G.o.d 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 cla.s.s.”

”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 inst.i.tute,” 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, b.u.t.tressed 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 Inst.i.tute has so many doc.u.ments 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 circ.u.mstances 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 Inst.i.tute-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 compet.i.tion. 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 cla.s.smates.”

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 s.h.i.+fted 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, Suns.h.i.+ne? 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.