by Greg Weisman
“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 si
de, 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.
Of course, I’d lay odds he had no idea he could juggle either. Maq can be rather fuzzy on those sorts of details. His memory is as thin as his old straw hat, which was currently on the ground in front of us, collecting no small amount of change from passing tourists wowed by our antics. Unfortunately, said antics turned suddenly clownish as the balls came tumbling down, bouncing and rolling every which way, some right off the dock and into the water. I scooped one up, but Maq had already forgotten them. There was no thought of collecting the tools of his recent success to repeat the exercise later. Now he was focused only on the money in the hat and the meal it would provide for us within the hour. Maq, you see, is extremely distractible. Then again, tell me, who could focus on the present or the past when able to see into the future? Maq knows where our next meal will come from. He knows where the next zemi will be found. And that prescience of his makes up for a lot.
As for me, I can’t see the future, and I’m not all that interested in the past. I’m canine. I focus on the now. But I am very good at the now. In fact, I’m virtually omniscient when it comes to the now. For example, I knew that right now Miranda—cheered by Maq’s foolishness—had resolved to face Renée with a smile, an open mind and only the tiniest bit of caution. In that moment, I knew her mind better than I know my own tail. To be clear, I had no idea how it would all turn out. But at present, I knew Miranda was going to give Renée—and herself—the opportunity to be friends.
I also knew that at present, Rain was in the N.T.Z., standing before the sandstone entrance to the Cache.
CHAPTER SEVEN
STUDY HALL
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8
The air was still and smelled too sweetly of vanilla orchids and banana plants, as if the N.T.Z. were a dessert left out to curdle in the thick humidity and afternoon sun. Worse, after the fast-paced journey uphill through the jungle, Rain’s T-shirt was sticking uncomfortably to her back and chest and stomach. Dropping her backpack on the ground, she tried tugging the top away from her damp skin, flapping it to create a bit of breeze, but it helped little.
Shadows were just starting to lengthen but as yet provided no real shade.
She took a quick glance around to assure herself she was alone. Then she slipped the zemi off her arm and knelt beside the sandstone slab at the edge of the cliff. She pushed aside a couple of stray vines that partially covered the circular indentation in the stone. She placed the snake charm in the indentation, twisted it a half turn and pulled it out, exactly as she would the key to her room at the Inn.
Instantly, the sandstone began to glow with blue light, a blue to match the eyes of the Searcher snake on her zemi. The sight—the Sight—was one of Rain’s gifts: her ability to see the magicks that greased the wheels of her quest. Rain jumped back as those mystic wheels caused the block to move. The night before, the first time—perhaps in centuries—that it had opened, this movement was accompanied by a grinnnndinnng loud enough to wake the dead. Today, the slab was practically soundless as it glided aside along the frictionless blue glow to reveal the stone steps that led down into the Cache.
Rain descended a few steps and paused to breathe in the cool air washing over her skin. She reached out a hand to slide it across the smooth stone walls … and felt a curving groove. The light was dim, so she leaned in close. It was another circular keyhole for her snake charm key. This is perfect! She had been worried that while she was down in the Cache, a hundred other local kids could have shown up and found the sandstone slab open to the world. She reached up and yanked in her backpack. Then she placed the zemi in its interior slot and twisted. She ducked her head as the block glowed again and slid closed with an echoing thunk, leaving her in semidarkness and making her nervous about what would result if someone happened to be in the way of that slab when it thunked. It brought on her icky-face and a shiver and a conscious effort to push the thought away before descending farther.
In her head, Rain heard a bassoon with violin accents as she followed the indirect light down the circular stairway. She passed the extinguished torch on the wall and issued a command: “Light!” Nothing happened. “Torch!” Nothing. She tried to remember the exact words she had used to bring it to flaming life the night before, but she couldn’t quite recall, and ultimately it didn’t matter. There was enough illumination leaking up from below. Maybe that’s why the torch won’t light. It isn’t truly needed. Or maybe, like ’Bastian, it doesn’t work before the sun goes down …
She emerged into the Cache, a wide terrace cut into the cliffside and open to the elements directly in front of her. Shadowed by its stone ceiling thirty feet above, which provided a floor to the N.T.Z., the air in the Cache was easily twenty degrees cooler. While there had been no breeze atop the cliff, down here a gentle zephyr of salt-scented sea air washed over Rain’s skin, causing her to breathe a satisfied sigh of relief. She slid her backpack off her shoulder and gently lowered it to the floor.
To her right, along one side of the rectangular cave, were nine stone thrones, carved out of the wall itself. She ignored these and crossed to her left instead. Here was the long stone shelf, and behind it the wall that still bore the charred message that had officially launched her on her quest:
BIENVENIDO, BUSCADORA, A LA CACHÉ.
BIEN HECHO. HAS ENCONTRADO EL PRIMER ZEMI.
COMO TÚ, ES EL BUSCADOR Y EL CURADOR.
COMO TÚ, TAMBIÉN ES EL PRIMERO DE NUEVE.
TENEMOS POCO TIEMPO Y SÓLO UNA OPORTUNIDAD PARA CURAR LA HERIDA.
ENCUENTRA LOS NUEVE. PARA TI Y PARA ELLOS SON LAS LLAVES QUE ABRIRÁN EL VERDADERO ACERTIJO DE LAS FANTASMAS.
Once more, Rain made her best approximate mental translation from the Spanish. “Welcome, Searcher, to the Cache. Well done. You have found the first zemi. Like you, it is the Searcher and the Healer. Li
ke you, it is also the first of nine. We have little time and only one chance to heal the wound. Find the nine. For you and they are the keys to unlocking the true mystery of the Ghosts.”
Rain found herself smiling. I’m the Searcher. I’m the Healer. I’m the keyto unlocking this mystery! It was pretty great. She turned toward the nonexistent fourth wall and came very, very close to shouting that to the world. After all, shouldn’t they know? Shouldn’t the whole world know this quest was hers?
Still, a part of her was quite aware she’d never be believed, and what little she could prove could easily be taken away from her. The zemi. The Cache. These could be classified as archaeological finds and put in the hands of the very people who would laugh derisively at her ghost story—even with Charlie as a witness. And if they took the zemi, they’d be taking ’Bastian away from her too. She could not allow that. So except for an unintelligible grumble, she kept her mouth shut.
She ran her hand along the stone shelf, studying each of the nine indentations carved to house the nine zemis—or they would house them, once she’d found the other eight. The first indentation was yet another circular keyhole for her snake charm. The second was a small cylindrical hole. The third was a thick equilateral triangle. The fourth looked something like a cross. The fifth was a shallow cup; the sixth, a circular ring; the seventh, an oval ring. The eighth was a deep widening groove that called to mind a gigantic dagger or maybe the kind of stake one used to stab an oversized vampire. The last—the ninth—was carved into the distinctive shape of a skull.
She backtracked along the shelf in reverse, pausing to look once again at the second slot, the next slot to fill. She stuck her index finger into the hole and could just barely touch the bottom. She had no idea what the second zemi would look like, but it seemed to be more or less the shape of a roll of quarters. Not much to go on. She needed another clue.
