Spirit and Dust - By Rosemary Clement-Moore Page 0,46
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