Spirit and Dust - By Rosemary Clement-Moore Page 0,70
you come in on your own, I’ll help you, you know that, right?”
He didn’t mean with the investigation. He meant with the criminal charges. But I chose to misunderstand him. “Agent Taylor, if you tried to help me with this one, they’d schedule you for a psych eval.”
He paused to process what I was saying. “That weird, huh?”
“That weird. Tell Agent Gerard I’m turning off this phone, so don’t bother to trace it. Also, don’t call my aunts. They’re freaked out enough as it is.”
“Anything else?” There was a hint of humor there, in spite of everything.
“Yeah,” I said, holding on to the hope of holding on to his good opinion. “Trust me.”
Then I hung up and turned off the phone before heading back to my seat, body aching, brain full, and heart torn.
When I returned, Carson had the netbook open on the seat-back table and the flash drive from the mausoleum plugged in. He didn’t glance at me as I sat beside him, or even pretend to believe I’d been powdering my nose that whole time. “Did you turn off the phone when you were done so they can’t track the GPS?”
Jeez, how did people in real relationships cheat on their boyfriends? I couldn’t even manage it with Carson and Taylor, and neither of them even came close to that description.
Pocket-picking lip-locks excluded.
“I’m not an idiot,” I said.
“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” Carson said. “I think you’re a nice girl who hasn’t ever had to think about the FBI tracing her calls.”
“I’m not a nice girl.” Not in the way he meant, which sounded too much like naive. “Any luck unlocking the flash drive?” I asked. Not that I was changing the subject or anything.
The password field dominated the screen. Carson typed, the field said Denied. “I’ve tried all her usual passwords, her favorite bands, pets, colors, birth dates, mother’s maiden name.…”
He must have been trying things the whole time I was gone. Maybe he was more nervous about my talking to Taylor than he let on.
“Did you try Oosterhouse’s name?” I asked, and from his look, he’d thought of that. “Black jackal? The Black Jackal?”
He did try that last suggestion but was denied again.
“What about Latin or Greek?” I suggested. “She knows both, right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “But I don’t.” He sat back, narrowing his eyes at the screen as if trying to stare it into submission. “It’s a good idea, though.”
Nice try flattering me. “Have you looked at the jackal from the museum yet?”
“I was waiting for you.” He reached under the seat and pulled out McSlackerson’s messenger bag, putting it safely between us. “You’re the one who can tell if it has any psychic kick to it or if it’s some kind of red herring.”
I took out a bundle about the size of a cantaloupe, but oval. The high seat backs and the rail noise gave some privacy as I unwrapped the cloth, leaving it protectively around the fragile figurine. It definitely looked like the illustration in Oosterhouse’s excavation report. The jackal-headed man was tiny, only a hand-span tall. One ear was slightly chipped, but it looked like an old injury. The gold leaf from the wide collar looked good, as did the painted skirt and tiny jewels.
But as far as spirit energy, I didn’t feel a thing. Maybe there was nothing to feel, but more likely I was still zapped. Though I had gotten a very powerful jolt from McSlackerson’s jackal tattoo, so if this was the Jackal, I was pretty sure I would know it.
“This isn’t the Black Jackal,” I said.
“That’s what Johnson said, back at the museum.”
“I noticed you used McSlackerson’s real name.” With the password and the mini jackal dead ends for the moment, there was no sense putting off the pants-on-fire discussion. “And while we’re on the subject of real names …”
He went still and then relaxed, as if he’d been bracing for the question and was relieved to have it over with. “Yeah. About that.”
I gently bundled the little statue back up and slipped it into the bag. “You’re going to want me in a good mood for this discussion, Liar Maguire. And I will be in a much better mood in the snack car.”
23
I STARED AT the cardboard-flavored microwave pizza in front of me and added it to the debt of Carson’s offenses.
“It was that or a cold turkey sandwich,” he said, sliding into the booth across from me. “I guessed that you wouldn’t want another of those.”