Elisha's Bones Part 9

Before those two words finish their digital echo, my brow is furrowing, although it will take a little longer for me to figure out why.

"Gordon, I need a favor."

There is a few seconds' pause before he asks, "What sort of favor?"

And then it clicks; one of the things that has most impressed me about this man has been his accessibility. When we've talked, the atmosphere has been one of equals. Now I sense a patrician iciness, and I can't keep a sick feeling from swelling my stomach. Despite that, and what it might portend, I press on. "Mr. Reese, I need you to transfer fifty-seven thousand, five hundred dollars to the bank account of a man who is holding me at gunpoint."

I see Ernesto frown, but he does not move to end the call. Even he understands that the bold truth is sometimes the only way to go.

Reese doesn't answer right away, although I can hear him breathing so I know the signal hasn't cut out. It's an odd request, even of a man with his fortune, so I give him the time he needs. Meanwhile, I keep an eye on Ernesto, knowing that his magnanimous sensibilities won't last long. Finally he asks, "What will happen if I do not transfer this sum?"

The question chills me. "Then this man will kill me," I say.

I don't have to look to Ernesto for confirmation. He will kill me for the money, whatever the consequences. What I do see is the look on Esperanza's face-the realization that our situation is even more precarious than she may have thought. I give her a wink.

Gordon releases a sigh, and my heart begins to work its way up to my throat. I do my best to keep panic from surfacing on my face, but when Gordon gives me his answer, it's all I can do to keep from dropping the phone.

"I'm sorry, Jack," he says, and the line goes dead.

There's no telling how long I hold the phone in my hand. I can't focus on anything until I hear Ernesto clear his throat. With that, it hits me that Gordon Reese has just signed my death warrant. My mind is a vacuum, despite the half-formed thought that I've just been fired-which I will take a great deal more offense at if Espy and I survive. When I look up, it is not Ernesto's eyes I search out, but Espy's, and it doesn't surprise me that there's nothing but calm in them, even though she has to know what has just happened.

"Am I to a.s.sume that you'll be unable to make good on your debt yet again?" While he sounds smug, there is also a hint of disappointment in Ernesto's question. He would have preferred to earn his money without the inconvenience of disposing bodies.

"Wait," I say as Ernesto gestures at one of his a.s.sociates. When the man wraps an arm around Esperanza, gripping her throat in beefy fingers, I repeat, "Wait! Please!"

Before Ernesto can say anything, or make whatever gesture means break the pretty girl's neck break the pretty girl's neck, I stab at the b.u.t.tons on the phone, praying I get the number right the first time and angered with myself for not putting it in speed dial. I hold my breath as the phone dials, and it's into the fourth ring before Romero answers.

"Romero! It's Jack. I don't have time to explain, but I need to ask for a very large favor."

"Jack?" It takes my friend a moment to orient himself, but when he does, he doesn't hesitate with his response. "What do you need?"

"I need you to transfer money to a bank account." I clear my throat and add, "I'm good for it, I promise."

"How much?"

"Fifty-seven thousand, five hundred . . ."

There is a sound that might be a m.u.f.fled curse, but while I feel for my friend, I have no other choice. Romero is a high-end supplier of artwork and antiquities to the world's wealthiest people, and I know what his markups are. Out of all the people I know, Romero is the likeliest to have this sort of available cash.

Ernesto is watching me with the expression of a man pondering which of the lobsters in the tank looks the tastiest.

Romero knows that his sister is with me, and it's probably that knowledge which prompts what he says next, even though I'd like to think it's the result of a trust built over a decade of friends.h.i.+p.

"What's the account number?" Romero asks.

I look to Ernesto, who provides me with a bank account number. When I relay the information to Romero, there's a pause as he writes it down.

"I have it. I'll call my bank as soon as we hang up." He then says in a quiet voice, "And if anything happens to my sister . . ."

"Understood," I say.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Romero presses.

"I'll tell you when we get back. Thanks, Romero."

I hope he can hear the grat.i.tude in my voice, but his acknowledgment is a mere grunt before disconnecting.

Several anxious minutes follow as we await confirmation that Ernesto's account-one I'm certain is a dummy, untraceable back to him-has taken the transfer, and Espy is silent throughout. But when Ernesto, with a phone call, verifies that his account has grown by a considerable amount, and he graces us with a satisfied smile, she says, "Are you going to tell me what's going on now?"

Ernesto offers a smile that is almost gracious. "Dr. Hawthorne and I simply had an old debt to settle."

When she hits me this time, I am wholly unprepared. And since my midsection has suffered a grievous injury, the solid blow does more damage than she'd likely antic.i.p.ated.

"You owe someone else money? What's the matter with you?" And then she starts in again with the cursing in Spanish.

"I still don't understand why someone would pay that much to have you killed," Ernesto says. "I'm not certain you're worth it."

"I've wanted to have him killed," Esperanza responds. "And I would have probably paid a lot to see it happen."

Ernesto laughs. "I like her."

"Now that we're settled up," I say to him, ignoring the budding camaraderie, "can you tell me anything about this guy?"

After my brief conversation with Reese, I'm convinced that, rather than the Australian who has entwined himself in my affairs, the man who made the deal with Ernesto was Gregory Hardy. The timeline fits; Ernesto's visitor made his offer two days ago, and Hardy showed up at the dig site the following day, yesterday. I don't believe in coincidence. It doesn't help me understand why Reese would want me dead, but at least it's a plausible theory.

"My curiosity got the better of me, too," Ernesto answers. "Which is why I had him tailed."

"You beautiful human being." I'm choosing to ignore the failure of that statement on so many levels.

"He's smart. Three vehicle changes. We almost lost him."

He's waiting for some sort of vocalized appreciation for keeping an elusive quarry in his sights, but he's not going to get it from me.

"Whoever he was," Ernesto continues, "he spoke with an accent that at first I thought was South African, but we determined it was likely Australian."

The chill that seems like a frequent visitor returns now. Ernesto's information would seem to indicate that my Reese theory is wrong. "How did you determine that?"

"Because he caught a charter flight to Caracas, where he boarded a plane bound for Sydney," Ernesto says with a wink.

Criminal distrust is a wonderful thing.

"Anything else you can tell me?"

"Regrettably, no."

"How were you supposed to prove that you killed me?"

"By emailing a picture of your carca.s.s to him."

"Oh."

Ernesto has walked us to the door of the business, which is a legitimate industrial supply company where he rents office s.p.a.ce. He's told me that the other SUV escaped and, while he had orders to eliminate anyone traveling with me, he thought that bringing the chase into the city would have been imprudent. I'm glad Antonio got away. I imagine the superst.i.tious man thought he was being punished for desecrating holy ground. He probably drove all the way back to Caracas, crossing himself the entire way. I wish him G.o.dspeed. Ernesto had no information about the car driven by Gregory Hardy. According to his men, there were only two vehicles in our party at the time they opened fire. At this point, I can't spare the resources necessary to care about him.

Ernesto leads us outside and, with no parting words, allows a metal door to close between us. Esperanza and I are alone on the sidewalk in the less-than-touristy part of San Cristobal. Warehouses rise up on either side of the street, and there is a smell in the air that more than hints at chemicals and burning rubber. The ground is wet, and there are brown puddles everywhere and hundreds of drowned worms around us.

I start walking, picking a direction that takes us away from an alley filled with people sitting amid refuse. There's an intersection ahead, where we may be able to catch a cab.

"What kind of life do you lead?" Espy calls after me. "People with guns, mysterious Aussies taking contracts out on you, a trail of bad debts all over the world?"

I can't help but laugh. It's funny because of the truth: that I am a boring college professor who seldom leaves my apartment. It's this place-this crazy country-that has made me into something else.

"Why are you laughing? I'm hungry, my leg hurts, and I want to be back in my apartment taking a long bubble bath."

Despite her irritation, I laugh harder, until there are tears pooling in my eyes. This whole thing is absurd. How did I get here? Evanston University seems like a world and a lifetime away. It's something I want to get back to, but I'm not sure how. There are things left unfinished-things I have to see through if I ever want to have even a modic.u.m of peace teaching. The irony is that I was leaning toward giving up. I was going to let my fear of opening up something large-something quixotic-keep me from pursuing the matter. I would have stuck my head in a hole and kept out of the whole sordid business. I would have flown to Dallas, reported to Reese that I could find no evidence to support his theory, and that would have been that. If they'd left me alone, that would have been the end of it. Instead, someone tried to have me killed-either Reese or this mysterious Aussie who has inserted himself into my life. Maybe they're part and parcel of the same ent.i.ty. Regardless, they've proven that I cannot return to my former existence-not without forever looking over my shoulder.

I get control of myself and put my arm around Esperanza's waist.

"I'm going to take you home. You can take your bubble bath, and I'll let Romero hit me a few times for putting you in danger. After that, I'm getting on a plane to Sydney."

It takes a long moment for the last part to sink in.

"You're what?"

"I'm going to Sydney."

"What on earth for?"

"To find out who's trying to kill me." I pause before adding, "And who killed Will."

The look on her face is one for the ages, and it almost sets me to laughing again, even through the fresh pain. Instead, I give her a rea.s.suring squeeze.

"I'll explain everything. I promise."

We walk a ways in silence and I imagine she's wondering what connections she's missed, how I've linked this to Will. Too, she's probably going through a litany of arguments she can use to talk me out of it. But she knows me-knows that I am going to Sydney.

"Sydney's a big city. And you have no idea who you're looking for."

"That's why I'm glad I know your brother."

CHAPTER 11

Seldom does physical confrontation rear its head in educational circles, and for good reason: anyone who has ever witnessed two academics engaged in fisticuffs can testify to the wrongness of the activity. I suppose that's why I'm a bit jumpy. Within the last week, I've been hit-twice. By the same woman. I've also had guns pointed at me three times, with one of those instances resulting in the firing of actual bullets, as well as the violent crash of an expensive truck. So I think I can be forgiven my anxiousness as Romero's large hand comes toward me, offering a piece of paper.

"It was a light manifest," he says.

I take the paper, a Qantas moniker in the top right corner. Under a heading for Flight 2976 there's a list of perhaps fifty names. My friend has crossed through a number of them, the obvious female ones. That still leaves more than half, and I'm beginning to realize that this might be more difficult than I'd antic.i.p.ated.

"Thanks."

My grat.i.tude covers both the manifest and the fact that Romero has decided not to injure me. Even though I'm not directly responsible for his sister having been in danger, I understand that brothers don't always react in a reasonable manner. How could I have known there might really be a global conspiracy intent on keeping some ancient and dangerous secret? None of us thought the outing was anything other than an interesting academic exercise.

When we called Romero from San Cristobal to fill him in and to let him know we were on our way back, I thought he might come through the phone. I'm not sure whom he would have fixed his anger on: the ones who forced us off the road, or me. I'm thankful for the hours that separated us from this meeting. And when we finally arrived at the Caracas airport, his eyes were hard and looked dangerous. They still do.

We are in Esperanza's apartment, and she has yet to sink into the solace of a bubble bath, even though she favors her right leg. She showed me the bruise during the flight. It's an ominous discoloration of flesh that covers much of the area above her knee. I showed off my own injury while still in San Cristobal, removing the bandages, cleaning and rewrapping the wound. With any luck I'll avoid an infection. I'm amazed we walked away from the crash. There is a certain giddiness that comes from having survived something that would cause an actuary to soil himself. That might explain the grin I'm wearing.

"What will you do now?" Romero asks. He is standing near his sister as she rests on the couch, her injured leg spread across the cus.h.i.+ons and covered with three ice packs.

The answer to that question became obvious during the flight back. I know who and where Reese is, whereas the Australian exists outside of any parameters I can place around him. Right now he commands most of my attention.

"That's simple. I have to match one of these names with a picture in my head, then find out who wants me dead."

"If that's the criteria, I may be on that manifest," Espy says with a smirk.

"And how will you do that?" her brother asks.

"Hopefully with a phone call." I don't have any delusions that it will be that simple, but I cling to optimism anyway.

Romero settles onto the arm of the couch with a grunt, careful to avoid b.u.mping his sister's hurting leg. He fixes a hard gaze on me, much like one of the looks I've suffered from Duckey, as if I'm a specimen beneath a magnifying lens. The years of bearing up beneath the looks of my professor friend serve me well here as I maintain my smile under the Venezuelan's scrutiny.

"It's a fool's errand," he says. "You're rus.h.i.+ng off to a big city half a world away, picking a fight with someone with enough resources to know where you were and what you were up to. You'll end up getting yourself killed."

When I do not answer, he says, "Think about it. An alarm bell went off somewhere, and it told them that you were messing around in something you shouldn't have been. And I think you were reasonably discreet. If you go off half-c.o.c.ked to Sydney, do you think they will not know you're coming before your plane leaves the ground?"

"You forget. They think I'm dead."

"Not for long. When they do not get any pictures in their email, they will know they've been betrayed."

"By that time, I'll already be in Sydney."

"That's what I'm afraid of." He glances down at the floor, then back at me. "I'm going to hate myself for telling you this, but I found a reference."

"To what?"

"The little research project you a.s.signed me." The words come grudgingly.

I feel a tingle along the back of my neck, that feeling I get at the moment of discovery which can make months of exhausting labor worth every pulled muscle and incidence of second-degree sunburn.

"A reference book at a library in Berkeley mentioned a family disinterment in 1629. They moved an ossuary from Samarc to Gatai."