Spirit and Dust - By Rosemary Clement-Moore Page 0,48
“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.”
Despite 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.”