schedule , and a second from Rynn.
The last person I wanted to talk to right now was Rynn. I was working. I opened the message anyway.
Call me.
Damn it. I’d told him I was going to Bali before stepping on the plane, what more did he want from me? I texted back: No. I’m working. Back tomorrow afternoon—call you then.
Next, I called Benjamin, my contact in Toronto. Benji was a nice archaeology boy who’d had the misfortune of running into a supernatural dig site a few years back. He was a nice, normal kid who’d grown up in a nice, middle-class home. He was a bit geeky in an indie rocker, wears corduroys and black-rimmed glasses kind of way, but he’d gotten into the kind of trouble that requires advice from someone like me. He’d had the sense to follow it—and he still owed me, big time.
He answered on the third ring. “Yeah?” he said in a hesitant voice.
“Benji? How’s it going on your end?”
I heard the sigh, likely for my benefit. “I told the team I’m sending down a friend for a tour.”
Benji wasn’t on this dig, but half his supervisor’s students were. The team was staying in a Sanur hostel, and Benji had organized for them to take me—Charity—with them to the catacomb dig site tomorrow morning. As I said, it’s all in the name.
“But listen, Owl, that’s it. Anything else, I can’t help you.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes at Captain. People are real happy to make friends with you when a two-thousand-year-old mummy knocks off half their team, but returning the favor always pisses them off. No one likes to pay up out of the goodness of their heart; that’s why I usually get cash up front. I’d just felt sorry for Benji and figured I could leverage some access later on, the ungrateful little . . .
“No good deed goes unpunished,” I said to Captain.
As much as I wanted to tell Benji exactly where to shove his whining, I didn’t. All he wanted was to go back to pretending the supernatural didn’t exist. Run, hide, and forget it ever happened. I was putting a severe kink in that game plan. I couldn’t blame him for being afraid, either—it was healthy, smart. “Look, Benji, I know you’re not happy about me calling in a favor this close to home—”
“If anything happens that can be traced back to me, and I mean anything—I’m not stupid, I know you take stuff out of sites—”
“Nothing will happen. I wouldn’t have contacted you if I didn’t need your help and if I wasn’t one hundred percent certain you couldn’t be traced.” And here I go with the white lies. Oh well, I didn’t think Benji needed to hear that I was almost certain I wouldn’t be traced back to him. The last thing I needed was him chickening out and calling the local authorities or his team.
There was a pause on the other end. I got the impression he hadn’t had a lot of sleep. “I could go to jail,” he said.
No shit. Welcome to my world. My understanding, Good Samaritan patience was up. “Yeah, well I could have gone to jail for helping you cover up those South American mummies who decided it was time to get up and kill a few people. Hell, I didn’t even have to help you out. If you screw me over, you realize there are photos . . .”
He sighed, “No, I appreciate it, I still do. But the stuff you do . . .”
I didn’t bother adding anything where he trailed off. His distaste in associating with my types could go screw itself.
“Your university has teams at all five catacomb digs and I need access to all five if need be,” I said.
“OK, I emailed the group. They know you’re there for surfing and might want to go check out some of the sites. They’re letting you stay in the building they’ve rented from the hostel for their research. But you promise no one will know—”
“They won’t have any idea I’ve even looked through their work. Now, badges? Permits? Lock codes?”
“I’m emailing you what I have. I don’t have the gate codes though.”
“But
The last person I wanted to talk to right now was Rynn. I was working. I opened the message anyway.
Call me.
Damn it. I’d told him I was going to Bali before stepping on the plane, what more did he want from me? I texted back: No. I’m working. Back tomorrow afternoon—call you then.
Next, I called Benjamin, my contact in Toronto. Benji was a nice archaeology boy who’d had the misfortune of running into a supernatural dig site a few years back. He was a nice, normal kid who’d grown up in a nice, middle-class home. He was a bit geeky in an indie rocker, wears corduroys and black-rimmed glasses kind of way, but he’d gotten into the kind of trouble that requires advice from someone like me. He’d had the sense to follow it—and he still owed me, big time.
He answered on the third ring. “Yeah?” he said in a hesitant voice.
“Benji? How’s it going on your end?”
I heard the sigh, likely for my benefit. “I told the team I’m sending down a friend for a tour.”
Benji wasn’t on this dig, but half his supervisor’s students were. The team was staying in a Sanur hostel, and Benji had organized for them to take me—Charity—with them to the catacomb dig site tomorrow morning. As I said, it’s all in the name.
“But listen, Owl, that’s it. Anything else, I can’t help you.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes at Captain. People are real happy to make friends with you when a two-thousand-year-old mummy knocks off half their team, but returning the favor always pisses them off. No one likes to pay up out of the goodness of their heart; that’s why I usually get cash up front. I’d just felt sorry for Benji and figured I could leverage some access later on, the ungrateful little . . .
“No good deed goes unpunished,” I said to Captain.
As much as I wanted to tell Benji exactly where to shove his whining, I didn’t. All he wanted was to go back to pretending the supernatural didn’t exist. Run, hide, and forget it ever happened. I was putting a severe kink in that game plan. I couldn’t blame him for being afraid, either—it was healthy, smart. “Look, Benji, I know you’re not happy about me calling in a favor this close to home—”
“If anything happens that can be traced back to me, and I mean anything—I’m not stupid, I know you take stuff out of sites—”
“Nothing will happen. I wouldn’t have contacted you if I didn’t need your help and if I wasn’t one hundred percent certain you couldn’t be traced.” And here I go with the white lies. Oh well, I didn’t think Benji needed to hear that I was almost certain I wouldn’t be traced back to him. The last thing I needed was him chickening out and calling the local authorities or his team.
There was a pause on the other end. I got the impression he hadn’t had a lot of sleep. “I could go to jail,” he said.
No shit. Welcome to my world. My understanding, Good Samaritan patience was up. “Yeah, well I could have gone to jail for helping you cover up those South American mummies who decided it was time to get up and kill a few people. Hell, I didn’t even have to help you out. If you screw me over, you realize there are photos . . .”
He sighed, “No, I appreciate it, I still do. But the stuff you do . . .”
I didn’t bother adding anything where he trailed off. His distaste in associating with my types could go screw itself.
“Your university has teams at all five catacomb digs and I need access to all five if need be,” I said.
“OK, I emailed the group. They know you’re there for surfing and might want to go check out some of the sites. They’re letting you stay in the building they’ve rented from the hostel for their research. But you promise no one will know—”
“They won’t have any idea I’ve even looked through their work. Now, badges? Permits? Lock codes?”
“I’m emailing you what I have. I don’t have the gate codes though.”
“But
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