Spirits of Ash and Foam (12 page)

Alonso had just gone downstairs after assembling Rain's desk against the wall beneath the window that looked out on the widow's walk that surrounded the entire floor.

Over dinner, he had asked his daughter if she wanted him to remove 'Bastian's old Spanish desk. It was more decorative than functional, and its dark, masculine wood no longer seemed to fit the occupant of the room. Without waiting to consult 'Bastian, Rain had said she wanted to keep it right where it was.

Now she found herself studying the antique map unrolled flat on the desk's dark wood and held in place by two paperweights: a steel-cased compass and 'Bastian's homemade astrolabe. The map was labeled “The Ghost Keys” and dated”Summer, 1799.”

“It's a forgery, of course. Something to fool tourists,”'Bastian said, standing over her shoulder.

“Really? Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. Look at the names of the islands.”

Her eyes ran across the eight Ghosts from left to right, that is, from west to east: Sycorax Island, San Próspero, Tío Samuel, Malas Almas, Ile de la Géante, Teatro de Fantasmas, “The Pebble” and Isla Soraya. “They look right to me,” she said.

“Raindrop, no one in 1799 was calling Sycorax by its
corporate
name. It was called Isla Majagua way into the twentieth century. And Tío Samuel wasn't renamed for Uncle Sam until the Civil War. Even then, I don't think it became official until after Pearl Harbor. Sometime in early 1942. I'm not sure ‘The Pebble' was a real name back in the eighteenth century either.”

“What was Tío Sam's before it was Tío Sam's?”

“
San
Samuel, I think.”

“Where'd you get it?”

“What, the map? I bought it.”

“Why?”

“That's a damn good question. There was this curio shop on Camino de las Casas. It's not there anymore. Must have gone out of business decades ago. But I wandered in one day and was browsing around. There was a lot of voodoo stuff and ‘authentic pirate doubloons.'” He made air quotes with his hands. “I saw the map, and it just appealed to me. Also, I think the old woman that ran the place fast-talked me into making the purchase. She must have thought I was a tourist, and I guess for that five minutes I was sucker enough to be one.”

“Huh.”

“You sound disappointed.”'Bastian sounded amused. In fact, Rain
was
disappointed. Way more disappointed than she could explain or justify. He tried to throw her a bone. “It's a good map, though. Accurate. But not two-hundred-plus years old.”

Rain stared at the map for another two-plus seconds before turning away to finish unpacking the last box. She pulled out a small, faded white pillow, embroidered with irises. Rain propped it faceup—hiding the brown water stain in back—on 'Bastian's big old armchair.

“Now
that's
a real treasure. Your Grandma Rose made it for your mom.”

“I know.” Rain smiled, the map forgotten.

She emptied the cardboard box, carefully laying two framed photographs on her bed. One was the picture of the
Island Belle
and its crew. The other was a wedding photo with a gold-embossed caption that read
SEBASTIAN & ROSE BOHIQUE
.

Rain removed a couple of nails from her father's toolbox and stuck one in her mouth. Then she picked up Alonso's hammer and picked out a spot on the wall beside the Spanish desk. She quickly hammered in the nail and hung the wedding picture. With the second nail still between her teeth, she said, “I want to get a copy of Mom and Dad's wedding picture and hang that too. Oh, and one of Grandpa Miguel and Nana Kate.”

“That would be nice,”'Bastian said with a warm smile as Rain hammered in the other nail and hung the
Island Belle
over her nightstand.

 

 

Callahan was methodical; in three nights he had conducted his own personal excavation of about a quarter of the dig. It was excruciatingly dull, and his back ached. His skin and clothes and hair were caked with sweat and soil. And he had found nothing. Still, Setebos' promised payoff kept him working until the predawn sky signaled it was time to go. He vanished into the jungle moments before Isaac Naborías appeared from around the corner.

Isaac clicked off his flashlight. Though the sun hadn't quite risen, there was just enough light in the eastern sky to allow him to save his batteries. Not that he paid for those batteries, but he didn't like wasting Mr. Guerrero's money.

He walked around the perimeter of the excavation toward the cave, confident there was no longer anything to fear. A mosquito buzzed past his ear, and he waved it away. Then another buzzed past the other ear, very loud. He waved that away too. Then he felt a little sting on the back of his neck and slapped it. He pulled his hand away to gaze at the results in the dim light. There was a dead mosquito—bloated but smashed—on his palm amid a small red circle of his own stolen blood.

This triggered a memory, distant and vague … but the search through the archives of his mind was interrupted by the sight of another mosquito landing on his forearm. He slapped at that one too.

Then another mosquito landed on his other arm. And another landed on his nose. And another. And another. And another.

Isaac Naborías slapped and waved his arms and even seemed to dance as the swarm surrounded him, sucking away his blood, one small bite at a time.

He started to run. He ran away from the cave and right across the excavation. He ran east toward the guard shack. Toward the shore. Fortunately for Isaac, toward the rising sun.

The swarm kept pace, biting and buzzing.

Just shy of the guard shack, Isaac stumbled and fell to his knees. The swarm seemed to pounce. It felt like the insects were eating him alive. And that buzzing, loud in his ears—was it Isaac's imagination or did it sound a little like
laughter
?

Just as the sun peeked out to start the day, Isaac struggled to his feet, desperate to get inside the shack. Finally, weak and faint, he managed to lurch his way in and slam the door shut. He slapped at the ten or twenty mosquitoes that had entered with him. Dead and crushed bugs were all over his skin and clothes and hair. He looked through the window, expecting to see the shack engulfed by the bloodsuckers.

The swarm had dissipated and was gone.

CHAPTER TWELVE

FULL CIRCLE

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 11

Morning.

Jean-Marc Thibideaux hit the snooze button on his alarm clock but made no attempt to turn over or go back to sleep—since he hadn't actually been asleep in the first place. He reached for his smartphone, unplugged it from its charger and turned it on. He had an e-mail waiting from the F.B.I., who had identified his Pale Tourist from the dead man's fingerprints. Milo Long, a.k.a. Milo Cash, a.k.a. Matt Cash, a.k.a. Miles Tallman, had been convicted on three counts of felony larceny and served three years in an Arizona prison.
Okay, I know who he is. Now all I need is the lab report to find out what killed him.

Jimmy Kwan, meanwhile, sent an e-mail to his superiors from the computer in the guard shack, though he could barely believe what he was typing. Isaac Naborías—Mr. Responsibility, Mr. Company Loyalty Himself—had abandoned his post
before
shift change, leaving behind his flashlight as a paperweight to hold down a brief signed note:
I resign. Effective immediately.
Jimmy stared at the keyboard for a second, then picked a dead mosquito out from between the
H
and
U
keys and flicked it away.

 

 

Noon.

“Come on,” Miranda said, exasperated.

“I'm there,” said Renée.

Rain and Charlie exchanged a look he had no trouble interpreting. Miranda had once again invited them to come hang at her place—after school the next day. (She figured twenty-four hours' notice would provide less of an excuse to say no.) However, Rain had made up her mind that Friday afternoon would mark the official launch of their Search for the second
zemi
. She still had no idea what that entailed, but they had to start sometime.

Still, Miranda was determined. “It'll be fun. We can play tennis or use the pool or the sauna or
the hot tub
…”

Rain and Charlie exchanged a second glance.

 

 

And night.

“So what was it?” Charlie asked. “The tennis courts or the hot tub?”

“The dead body and the possible vampire,” Rain said. Then, not bothering to suppress a smile, she added, “Although I am bringing a suit. Do you think we need our own towels?” She, Charlie and 'Bastian were climbing the hill toward the N.T.Z. Rain had been to the Cache every afternoon, but this was the first time her male compatriots had come along since Sunday night, when they had discovered the place.

“Wait a minute. What dead body?”'Bastian asked seriously.

“Some tourist died on Sycorax,” Rain told the ghost. “Near an archaeological dig. Rumor is his body was drained of blood. I thought I might be able to talk to him. His ghost, I mean. He might know where the next
zemi
is.”

“What makes you think that?” Charlie asked before 'Bastian could.

“Nothing,” she said, looking at 'Bastian before ducking under a tree branch. “Except … it sorta worked with you.” He appeared unconvinced. She shrugged and continued, “There may be no connection. Miranda heard he had an allergic reaction and died of, uh, anaphylactic shock. But it's mysterious, and we do mysterious now. It just seemed worth checking out.”

Charlie glanced up as they passed the Sign. Then he repeated Rain's words as a question. “We do mysterious now? Like generally?”

The moon had waned slightly since Monday night, but it was still nearly full and dappled the jungle with pools of light. The Dark Man passed through one of these pools and shuddered. He said, “I think you're grasping at straws, kiddo.”

“I
know
I'm grasping at straws. But like you said, there's no owner's manual.”

“Like you
ever
read instructions,” Charlie scoffed.

Rain shot him a dirty look that more than anything else made Charlie want to kiss her. He looked away fast, and she felt satisfied her disapproval had shut him up. “Look, that's why I wanted you both to check out the Cache with me tonight. Maybe you'll spot a straw or two I've missed.”

Or not …

The threesome slid between two banana plants to enter the N.T.Z. and instantly knew there'd be no grasping of straws in the Cache tonight. A small fire blazed in the pit, and beside it, Marina Cortez and Hank Dauphin were making out on a blanket.

His back to Rain and Charlie, Hank was too engrossed in his current endeavor to notice their arrival. Marina faced them, but her eyes were closed as she kissed her partner with
serious
intensity. Rain, Charlie and even 'Bastian were paralyzed by the awkwardness and/or allure of the moment. 'Bastian finally looked away, feeling a little skeezy. But the two thirteen-year-olds seemed incapable of averting their gaze.

Perhaps sensing she was being watched, Marina opened her big brown eyes. Instantly, they went very wide, and she attempted to disengage from the kiss, which turned out to be surprisingly difficult. There were tongues to disentwine, lips to unlock, and the fingers of Hank's left hand were tangled into Marina's long dark hair. She let out a muffled “Wait!” into his mouth, and he finally—if reluctantly—got the message. The two twelfth graders pulled apart, though Hank stared at her with a questioning expression until she gestured with her eyes to look behind him.

It was only then, as his older brother started to turn, that Charlie realized he should not be looking, should not be there, should probably never have been born.
Too late.

“Charlie!” Hank said in a harsh and very loud whisper. Shoulders hunched, he made a movement to rise—and maybe to do some thumping—but Marina put a hand on his shoulder.

“Shhh,” she said. “Chill.”

Hank continued to glower at Charlie, but he sat back down.

Charlie said, “Uh…”

'Bastian aimed one finger and poked Rain's armband, which nudged her out of her stupor. She said, “We're sorry. We didn't know anyone else was up here.”

Marina smiled slyly. “You two have the same idea?”

Charlie looked horrified.
How did she know?!

“No!”
Rain shouted. Charlie turned to stare at her, crushed by the vehemence of her denial. 'Bastian felt bad for the boy.

Hank, on the other hand, was constitutionally incapable of not rubbing his younger brother's face in the burn: “Seriously, who'd
ever
want to hook up with
him
?”

A more sympathetic Marina nudged him gently with her elbow. “Henry, be nice.”

Hank turned toward her, and she gave him a look that actually succeeded in making him feel guilty. Quietly, he said, “Sorry,” though it was more to her than to his brother. Still Charlie felt like something akin to a miracle had taken place, and he wondered how he could arrange for Marina to become a permanent fixture in “Henry's” life.

“Look, we can go,” Charlie said, at long last finding his voice.

Marina stood. “No, come on. It's okay. We have marshmallows.” She crossed to Rain. “Let's find you two a couple of sticks.”

Hank scowled but ultimately waved Charlie over.

As Rain and Marina searched the circular clearing, and Charlie cautiously crossed to join Hank, 'Bastian felt tremendously at sea. He didn't belong here among these teenagers, but he was powerless to depart without the
zemi,
and there was no way Rain could transfer it to him in front of these witnesses. With a sigh, he sat down, cross-legged, before the fire. Then, to distract himself, he tried waving his ghostly hand through it. He felt no heat and stuck his fist into the heart of it. Nothing. For a second, it was just … neat. Then it only served to remind him how divorced he felt from the world.