Spirits of Ash and Foam (5 page)

“Well, that's all right,” Renée said. “We can manage without you. Right, Miranda?”

The bell rang. Charlie jumped at the opportunity. He pointed at Miranda's music case. “Flute, right? I'm percussion. We better get to orchestra. Madame Conduttore hates it when we're late.”

Rain and Renée watched Charlie drag Miranda away. Then they turned to face each other. Renée smiled her cold smile at Rain and shrugged.
Game on.

Rain sighed and shrugged back. Then, backpacks over their shoulders, they took off in opposite directions.

Charlie hesitated outside the door to the orchestra room—another resource shared by all three schools. Miranda watched him look back at the departing Rain.
Dios mío, he's
so
into her, and she doesn't even—

Just then, he seemed to notice Miranda's attention and turned an embarrassed smile toward her, before leading the way inside.
Dios mío,
she thought, as she followed him.
That is one great smile.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE PALE TOURIST

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8

Jean-Marc Thibideaux cut a striking figure in his dress white uniform as he strode past tense and curious Sycorax employees toward the cave where they had found the body. Forty-five years old, Thibideaux was a fit and slim 5'll" with coffee-and-cream skin, close-cropped black hair and distinguished graying temples. As the top man at the Prospero Keys Constabulary (known locally as the Ghost Patrol), Constable Thibideaux was on his turf and in his element and dreading the job at hand nonetheless.

Thibideaux was based out of San Próspero, but the P.K.C. had jurisdiction over all but one of the Ghost Keys' eight islands. (Only tourists, the tourist board, various government agencies and official maps referred to these islands as the Prospero Keys. To the native born, like Thibideaux himself, they were the Ghost Keys or simply the Ghosts.) Five other islands—Tío Samuel, Malas Almas, Ile de la Géante (where Jean-Marc was born), Teatro de Fantasmas and “The Pebble”—curved to the northeast of San Próspero in a gentle arc. Tío Sam's was the one hundred percent domain of the United States Navy, and Teatro and the Pebble were uninhabited rocks (though a single constable was routinely stationed on Teatro during the Shakespeare Festival to discourage rowdiness). The last island in the chain, a storm-tossed jungle known as Isla Soraya, lay some small distance south of the others but was also uninhabited. So most of Constable Thibideaux's (mostly alcohol-related or theft-oriented) business originated on Próspero, Almas or La Géante. Sycorax Island was to the west of San Próspero, just across the bay, but since 1995—the year Sycorax Inc. finally privatized its island—company security had dealt efficiently with virtually every concern, so it
would
take something like a corpse to bring Thibideaux here.

Two deputy constables and three Sycorax security guards—including an embarrassed Isaac Naborías—stood in a semicircle near the cave. They made way for Thibideaux, who checked his watch (2:33
P.M.
), then checked the sun to confirm the time. The bright orb stared into the entrance, illuminating what to Jean-Marc looked like the World's Palest Tourist, lying on his back as if asleep in a Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts and Mexican sandals. Dr. Josef Strauss knelt beside the body. The German-born transplant did double duty as an emergency room physician at San Próspero Island Hospital and as the territory's lone coroner. He glanced up at the constable, nodded, and spoke in slightly accented, staccato sentences: “Male. Caucasian. Age thirty-five to forty. No I.D.”

“Cause of death?”

“Loss of blood. To put it mildly.”

“I don't see any blood, Josef. I don't see any wounds.”

“Here,” Strauss said, using a steel pencil to indicate the victim's neck.

Thibideaux crouched to get a better look. There were two open sores on the throat of the Pale Tourist. Anyone who had seen a movie in the last eighty years knew what those marks meant. Thibideaux looked Strauss straight in the eye and deadpanned, “So. Vampire?”

Strauss tried not to smile and largely failed.

But for Naborías, smiling was the furthest thing from his mind. He vividly remembered the bat that had flown into his face in the wee hours of the morning—the bat that discouraged him from entering the cave. Still, he quickly brushed all thoughts of vampires and vampire bats aside without voicing them.

Strauss had swallowed his half-smile and was back to business, again using his steel pencil to indicate points of interest on the person of the Tourist. “He's got dirt under his fingernails. Recent scrapes on knees and elbows. And he's also covered head to toe with this rash. I'll know more after the autopsy and labs. But right now I can't rule anything out. Could be accident. Could be foul play. Could be something else entirely. I'll keep you posted.”

“Time of death?”

“I'm estimating one
A.M.
”

Naborías winced audibly, saying, “This is my fault.”

The constable and the coroner both stared up at the security guard. Thibideaux rose with a questioning expression. “Isaac?”

Naborías sighed and explained. “I was hoping this happened after my shift. But I guess not. Should have checked the cave. Usually do, but I didn't last night—or, uh, this morning. He must have been here when I walked past on my last rounds at around four
A.M.
I know he wasn't here at eleven
P.M.
I did check then.”

“That fits,” Strauss said.

“You don't recognize him?” Thibideaux asked. “He's not an employee?”

“He's not Sycorax,” Isaac said, turning toward his fellow guards for confirmation.

Both nodded, and Jimmy Kwan said, “Between the three of us, we know everyone who works for S.I. Dude's a complete stranger.”

“Okay,” Thibideaux said, “but I'll need to confirm that later.”

Naborías nodded. “Of course. Mr. Guerrero was here a few minutes ago and told us to cooperate fully.”

“How gracious. Where is your boss?”

“He had a teleconference with Lipton—or, uh, maybe he said Lisbon. But he wants an update from you before you leave.”

Making an effort not to bristle at the demand, Thibideaux instead changed the subject. He nodded toward the excavation. “What's going on here?”

“They want to build another factory,” Naborías said.

“Another
cannery,
” Jimmy corrected.

“I think it's going to be a store for the folks who take the tour,” said the third guard, the one Thibideaux didn't know. “They'll sell honey, guava, pineapple. Sycorax T-shirts and hats. Everything.”

Naborías glared at his fellows.
Who has seniority here, boys?
Both lowered their gaze and shuffled back a step or two. Isaac turned back to Jean-Marc. “Whatever the end result, they want to start construction. They already had E.I.R. clearance, so…”

“So now they needed the archaeologists to check the site and give the go-ahead.” This was standard procedure anywhere on the Ghosts, even on Tío Samuel. All proposed construction was preceded by an Environmental Impact Report. Once that was approved, a committee from the University of Florida's Department of Anthropology would initiate a dig to make sure the site wasn't concealing priceless pre-Columbian indigenous treasures.

“They started two weeks ago,” Naborías was saying, “but the cave was full of about a thousand bats. One of the professors thought one looked rabid and wouldn't work until the bats were … relocated.”

Thibideaux looked from Naborías to the Pale Tourist to Strauss. “Could this be rabies?”

Strauss shook his head. “No. Besides, we haven't had a case of rabies on the Ghosts since I moved here in 2004. Sounds more like that professor suffered from chiroptophobia.” Thibideaux cocked his head impatiently.

Dr. Strauss clarified. “A fear of bats.” Then he pulled a pocket flashlight off his belt, clicked it on and shone it around the cave. “I don't see any here.”

Now Naborías clarified. “They hired exterminators. Laid out poison. Only had to kill a couple dozen before the rest moved on. Mostly.” Naborías, who had his own issues with chiroptophobia, cautiously reached past the constable and pointed—without actually crossing the threshold—into the cave. Strauss followed the sightline with his flashlight and quickly found a poison trap. Then another and another. There were traps spread throughout the cave.

Again, Thibideaux turned a questioning eye on the Pale Tourist and his last physician. “Poison, maybe?”

Strauss shook his head again, but he looked less confident. “No, I don't think so. But I need to get the body to the morgue.”

The constable turned back to Naborías. “Any protests against the proposed construction or the exterminations?”

“Not that I know of.” He turned back toward Jimmy and the third guard, who both smiled at again being included in the investigation—but knew better than to push their luck. “No” and “No” was all they said.

“So we're back to vampire,” Jean-Marc said with a growl of frustration.

Just then a cell phone rang. Thibideaux reached for his own automatically, faster than his brain could register that the ringtone was wrong. He heard Strauss clear his throat, and he looked up to find the good doctor holding up a clear plastic evidence bag containing one cheap burner. “It belongs to our friend here,” Strauss said, tilting his head toward the Pale Tourist and handing the sealed bag to Thibideaux.

Carefully, the constable pressed the hard black plastic
ANSWER
button through the soft clear plastic of the evidence bag and placed the whole package against his ear. “Hello,” he said in a neutral tone.

“Where are you, mate?” asked a slightly muffled and clearly miffed Aussie-accented voice. “I told you I want
daily
reports.”

A hundred options played out in Jean-Marc's mind, but he settled on “Yeah. Sure. Where do you want to meet?”

There was a pregnant pause. Then the line went dead.

CHAPTER SIX

SOMETHING IN THE AIR

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8

Callahan, scowling as usual, tossed his own burner phone off the deck of the
Bootstrap
and into the water of Pueblo Harbor. He knew a copper when he heard one.
Damn that Cash. If he got pinched, he's on his own. And he'd better not talk!

Callahan ran his dry tongue over his chapped lower lip and his gorilla paw through his short spiky hair. All the big blond Australian could think about was the fifty thousand dollars Silas A. Setebos had promised him in exchange for the second
zemi
. One would think Callahan would be satisfied with the fifty thousand he'd already received for the first
zemi.
(Especially since he'd received that reward for unknowingly delivering a forgery, a copy of Rain's armband he'd commissioned in order to make an undetectable switch, but which our Rain had managed to switch back, leaving both Callahan and Setebos none the wiser.) No, the first fifty only made him hungrier for the second.

Setebos hadn't provided many clues. Didn't even really describe what the thing would look like this time out, saying only, “It will incorporate the image of a bat.” But he had told Callahan he'd find it somewhere in the vicinity of the archaeological dig on Sycorax Island. Fortunately, Setebos had paid off or blackmailed one of the university professors into delaying the dig with some excuse or other in order to give Callahan a few precious weeks to search for it. But with Callahan still occupied securing the first
zemi,
he'd subcontracted the after-hours task of searching for the second prize to Cash—who'd clearly blown the gig. On the plus side, at least Callahan wouldn't have to pay the man now.
Besides, if you want something done right …

With surprising agility for a man his size, Callahan swung himself off the deck of the cabin cruiser, his heavy boots landing hard on the dock. He'd make a supply run now, to make sure he had everything he'd need to last him, oh, at least a week. Then tonight, he'd slip out of the slip under cover of darkness so no one saw his heading. By midnight, he'd be dodging the Sycorax rent-a-cops in the pitch black and searching the dig. With a little luck, he might even put his hands on the
zemi
before morning.

Clomping down the dock, he passed the Sycorax Ferry and Renée Jackson, who stood in one of her frozen poses, running complex theoretical equations in her head. She was trying to calculate exactly what Charlie might have told Miranda after orchestra, exactly what Miranda's reaction would be, and exactly how Renée could find a way to turn it all to her advantage. Miss Jackson was nothing if not calculating.

Exiting the pedestrian gate, Callahan passed under the large
WELCOME TO PUEBLO DE SAN PRÓSPERO
sign without giving it a glance—or giving any notice to the young girl who lingered beneath it, quite troubled. Charlie had warned Miranda that Renée was “a piece of work”—a true specialist in the art of making everyone miserable. He thought he was helping. Now, though, she didn't know what to do. She liked Charlie. And Rain. But they still weren't really making her a part of their world. They had adopted her. Like a stray cat. But she wasn't their friend. Not really. Not yet, anyway. Maybe not ever. And the only other person she had even connected with was—according to Charlie—a witch.
So now what?

“So many balls in the air!”

Miranda turned toward the voice and, despite her teenaged torment, couldn't help but smile at Maq and me. Maq was juggling old, split tennis balls he had found in the Dumpster behind the Versailles Hotel. Every thirty seconds or so, I'd pick up another ball off the dock with my teeth and fling it toward him. Without missing a beat, he'd absorb the ball into the routine. Soon I was fresh out, and he was easily juggling some eight or nine tennis balls. It was seriously impressive. I swear I've known the guy forever, and until today, I had
no idea
he could juggle.