Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (7 page)

As Matt stepped in, the unannounced guest’s arm appeared just behind him, and Iris made a snap decision, spinning round in place, and facing, inexplicably, the potted
Dracaena
palm tree in the corner.

“Uh … Iris?” Matt said, justifiably baffled.

Iris squeezed her eyes shut, smiling uncontrollably at the ridiculousness, knowing she had no choice but to turn around, and all-too-aware that the guest would see in an instant exactly why Iris had turned her back to them. She sighed, her shoulders burdened by weighty defeat, and faced them with a welcoming smile.

“Well hello there!” Iris enthused, arms crossed high, covering her chest.

Matt took in the sight, smirked, and swallowed—amused and apologetic, but mostly amused. He cleared his throat. “Joss, this is my sister, Iris … I.T., I don’t believe you ever met Joss Lynn Leland.”

Iris knew the name, but couldn’t place it. “Nice to meet you.”

The guest stood half-hidden behind Matt, with perfect makeup and hair, dressed in tight jeans, boots, and a dangly V-neck. This “Joss” was pretty to be sure, but more like a hot comedienne than cover girl. Iris guessed she was around the same age—late twenties to early thirties—though how would this visitor assess the
drain clog
standing before her? Pushing forty? And exactly who was she to Matt? He’d never been the sort to just bring someone home, and after his recent trainwreck relationship, Iris knew he’d be happily single for another year before opening himself up like that again. Especially while Little Miss Bonkers was still calling every day.

As Joss smiled and greeted her, her eyes remained sympathetically affixed to Iris’s. Joss said, “Hi,” but Iris heard,
“Sorry.”

Well, that’s a small relief,
Iris thought. A
less gracious
woman might’ve given her a visible once-over before reaching out to make her shake hands.

“Sorry I didn’t call ahead,” Matt said, and Iris turned to him with a static, closed-lip smile and unblinking eyes.

“Mm-hm.” She glanced down at the paper bags of takeout food. “Why don’t you get all that going in the kitchen? I’m going to go
freshen up.
” She turned briskly and went down the hall to her bedroom to change.

She stripped off her top, grabbed a bra from the dresser, and went to the closet for a proper shirt. Matt was in for an ass kicking.

* * *

Joss ambled along the edges of Matt’s living room, eyes drifting from paintings to book spines to seemingly random trinkets dispersed throughout the recessed shelves: a monocle, presumably ancient oblong coins, engraved tiles, wood pieces, a dagger. She was confused and intrigued. She glanced Matt’s way—visible over the bar dividing the living room from the kitchen. He was busy opening food containers and fetching utensils.

She continued along the shelves, peering at and touching various items. “You have a lot of really old stuff.” She picked up a shiny black sculpture of a human female, with seemingly exaggerated hips, backside, and breasts. “Look at this sexy mama.”

“Fertility idol,” he said without looking up.

She set the figurine back on the shelf and picked up the inscribed wooden block beside it, tracing the engravings with a fingertip.

“Not much of these are
really
old.” Matt was suddenly right beside her. She flinched a little. “The two shadow box cases on the wall there …” He gently took the wooden piece from her, returning it to its spot, and pointed her toward the end of the shelves.

“Sorry.” Joss shrank beneath him. “Guess I probably shouldn’t be touching-”

“Nah.” He brushed it off with a shrug, as if she could touch whatever she wanted, but she felt more than a little herded away from anything she could put her hands on. He guided her to a big, wall-mounted, wooden case, and pointed through the glass. “This one’s a flint hand axe. About half a million years old.” Joss nodded, impressed. Matt motioned her on to the second case: a smooth, metallic frame projecting a few inches out from the wall. “And
this
is from Kenya. A
bit
older ... About a hundred and fifty million years.”

Stunned, unable to wrap her head around such a length of time, Joss looked closely at the dull metal object suspended behind the glass. A little less than a foot long, and maybe two inches wide, it looked like a pipe, cut lengthwise in half to reveal the interior. Fused to the inside, every couple inches, were angled half-discs that led to small holes in the pipe. Joss couldn’t imagine what such a thing would be used for.

She peered up at him. “What is it?”

Matt’s gaze hung on the artifact for a couple seconds before he responded. “It’s part of a pipe.” He turned and headed back to the kitchen, continuing from the counter. “They used tools like that to separate certain types of molten metal. They refined everything they mined and found uses for each material.”

“The dome people, right?”

“Yes. You ready to eat? I.T. should be back out any minute.”

Joss was supposed to view his interest in these objects as detached—purely academic—but her barometer was better than that. When she was growing up, her bipolar father (they called it “manic-depressive” at the time) had inadvertently taught her to catch the slightest shifts in mood, to predict when one of his dark periods was on an upswing or—more frequently—when the light was bleeding out of him. Sometimes, she or her mother could head off the plunge with distractions and exaggerated reminiscing.
“Remember that amazing idea you had one time, Daddy? When we just drove, like out of nowhere, and ended up at a carnival in Maine? It blew our minds!”
But more often, for all three of them it was like being tied to a sinking boulder, fighting to swim upward. Matt wasn’t necessarily hiding some deep, dome-people-related sorrow, but his indifference was an act. Joss wondered just how much time he’d spent with them.

“I’m ready,” she said, and joined him in the kitchen. “So after we eat, you want to sit down, the three of us, and talk about this whole …” she fluttered a hand in the air toward the cluttered makeshift office area down the hall “…
project,
before you take me home?”

“Definitely.” Matt pulled fruit juice cartons from the refrigerator.

“Good. ‘Cause I hate when something’s hanging out there, like when someone says ‘we need to talk,’ but that talk’s supposed to happen at some unspecified future time. Screw that. We’re talking now,
I
say.” She grinned, but he didn’t look. That could’ve come off bitchy without the associated smile. Hopefully he got her snark by now.

Joss turned to the sound of approaching footsteps on the hardwood floor. Iris was back. Still casual, but she’d put on a bra and new shirt, some subtle lipstick, and brushed her hair into a tighter ponytail. She was cute, Joss thought, with features so similar to her brother’s that Joss automatically snapped a look at Matt’s face for comparison. They shared that lighter skin tone, the same shade of light-brown hair, and their eyes, both in shape and sage color.

“I know,” Iris said, catching Joss’s alternating gaze. “Practically twins, right?” She extended one hand to Joss while pointing her other thumb behind her. “Sorry about that … before … If I’d known he was bringing a guest-”

Joss took her hand and shook it. “Oh please, don’t even! You have nothing to worry about.
Trust
me.”

A ringtone sounded behind Joss.

“Damn, that’s right,” Matt said as he looked at the screen. “I have to take this. You guys go ahead and eat.” He rushed past them, down the hall toward the side of the house Joss had yet to see. “Hello? … Yes, go ahead, Markus.”

Joss and Iris shared an awkward smile, silent for a beat.

“Sorry,” Iris said, brushing past her. “But I’m fricken starving.” She grabbed a plate, handed it to Joss, and then picked up one for herself. “Here, so I don’t feel like a pig.”

“Oh, no,” Joss said with a smile. “We’re on the same page. I think we’ll be getting along
just
fine, you and me.”

Iris froze, then shot Joss a quizzical look, surely wondering about the nature of this apparently
ongoing
relationship. Had Matt begun dating someone without telling his sister?

Joss hadn’t intended ambiguity when she’d said it, but she let this teaser hang out there for a moment, guiltily enjoying the sight of gears cranking in Iris’s head.

“I’m your employee now!” Joss revealed with a grin.

Iris’s reaction wasn’t exactly relief, or recognition, or even acceptance. She just smiled politely, said, “Hm, well, welcome,” and began serving herself.

Had Joss been too familiar? Overly friendly? Maybe Iris’s jury was still out on whether there was something more to this surprise visit. Or perhaps her stomach was as incorrigible as Joss’s, and digesting anything other than food would have to wait.

* * *

Matt passed Iris’s bedroom and turned into his own. “Sorry, but before you get to all that, tell me if you’re looking for me to travel somewhere.”

“Yes, Matthew,” Markus said in his ever-cordial, butleresque tone. “You’d be required to come here, to Ukraine. Naturally, Mr. Ostrovsky would never allow the artifacts of interest to leave the property.”

Matt envisioned Markus wearing a sleek white suit,
reclining
in a high-backed leather chair in his office at the Ostrovsky estate, a room where Matt and Markus had exchanged a few words several years ago, just days before everything went to hell in Cuba.

“I figured as much.” Matt hadn’t yet worked out how he’d tweak his plans around this Ostrovsky involvement. For now, he’d focus on legitimate concerns and feigned curiosity. “Now, aside from the shenanigans going down in your country right now, tell me why in a million years I’d agree to go anywhere near Mr. Ostrovsky or his property. How could I possibly trust him?”

“Well, I’m not sure what this
shinan
word-”

“Shenanigans. Military movements. Political upheaval. Invasion-”

“Yes, I inferred this is what you meant, and I can assure you there’s no cause for concern in the area here. As in business, Mr. Ostrovsky always aligns himself with the appropriate team. Travel would be coordinated outside the traditional systems, and absolutely safe. As for trust … Mr. Ostrovsky, would you care to answer this one?”

Vitaliy Ostrovsky’s thick Ukrainian accent joined the conversation—jubilant, and with a bit less of the husky smoker’s croak Matt recalled. “Of course! If there is one thing I appreciate, it is distrust. In business, if person not questions me, I think this man is weak. I maybe look for how I make terms more favorable for me, okay? So yes, this is good. Matthew, first let me start by saying this thing with you and Gray: not personal, and not me.”

Thing with you and Gray? Could Ostrovsky know what I’m doing?
No, no way. He’s talking about Cuba.

Ostrovsky went on, “This was favor for
business
. Territory one of my company needed in Africa. He’s nobody then, but connected. First saying give me this, give me that. I tell him ‘Fuck you, I go elsewhere with my money.’ Some people die, but not relevant.” The sound of ice in a glass, a deep gulp and breath. “What I was saying? Yes, a couple months later, he phones me, saying he knows you’re on way with this professor, tells me if I say ‘fuck off’ to professor, I get my land deal. Well, small part of deal. He breaks balls to this day for what I still need, but this is other story. Now you understand.”

Matt was quiet a moment, recalling again, through a burst of images, the eventual consequences of Ostrovsky’s rejection of Dr. Rheese: the disintegrated opal, the loss of Tuni, the deaths of numerous innocents, Matt’s father among them. “I’m not sure I do.”

“It wasn’t me! This is what I’m saying. You have no reason to distrust. We never ourselves met for business together, you and me. This is new. We are same, you and me. How do I tell this so he gets? Markus?”

“Yes,” Markus rejoined. “What Mr. Ostrovsky is trying to convey, Matthew, is that he’s asking for your forgiveness, and to put the past behind you both as it has no connection to the proposed meeting and arrangement. Further, Mr. Ostrovsky would like you to see him as an equal in this transaction, on level ground. There are, of course, certain concrete assurances he will provide to allay any remaining fears you may harbor. Now, if I may proceed.”

“Right,” Matt said, and sat down on the side of his bed. Neither could say anything to convince him that Ostrovsky was even marginally trustworthy, but The Gray was indeed the responsible party—the sole puller of strings leading to every tragedy—and would soon be held responsible. “Go ahead.”

Matt’s phone vibrated against his ear.

Markus said, “You should receive a photograph any moment.” Matt pulled the phone away and opened the image. Markus’s voice was small and tinny through the minute speaker. “Matthew? Are you there? Did you receive it?”

“I got it. Just a moment.”

Matt zoomed into the photo and rotated his phone sideways. He knew this artifact from another picture, but he’d never seen this side of it.

On a black surface, beside a coin placed for scale, sat the craggy length of carved granite, like a gamepiece from Jenga, but with three long sides instead of four. A deteriorated row of engraved symbols covered most of the camera-facing side, and they were not the characters Matt had expected.

He said aloud, “That’s odd.”

“Yes, yes!” Ostrovsky cheered. “Odd indeed!”

Matt forwarded the image to his personal email address. He put the phone back to his ear just as Markus asked again if Matt was still there. Time to turn on the poorly restrained interest. “I’m here. So what exactly do you think this thing is? What’s the significance? I see it’s inscribed in different languages. Markus mentioned the Library of Alexandria earlier.”

“That’s correct, Matthew,” Markus said. “It’s believed that, prior to one of the many disasters befalling the great library, a group of patrons evacuated some or all of its treasured scrolls to a secret location. In the face of a prolonged invasion, this artifact was intended to guide a later generation of Alexandrians to the hidden site.”