Spirits of Ash and Foam by Greg Weisman

the contempt itself that was so familiar. It radiated off her in unmistakable waves.
    She made her way into the dark depths of the cave. Curious, he followed. (Neither creature required light to see.) She paused beside a small saltwater pool, only three feet in diameter but deep enough to reach the ocean. She scanned the surrounding area—the same area that had been searched rather ineffectively by the two deputy constables earlier that day. But Hura-hupia soon found the item she had sought: a sealed gourd jar that had fallen to the ground and rolled behind a medium-sized stalagmite. As she picked it up and studied the ring of nine carved bats that decorated its circumference, the Hupia retreated a yard or two. Then she dropped the gourd into the pool, where it sank away. This pleased her companion, who drew closer.
    Then, in a language I barely recall, Julia told the Hupia to guard the second zemi. He seemed disinterested at first, until she pointed out how his own survival might depend upon it.
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    Two A.M .
    On the other side of the island, the Bootstrap was anchored just offshore, and another, equally nefarious conversation was taking place between Callahan and his employer, Mr. Setebos.
    Callahan, on yet another burner cell phone, listened to Setebos, who had called to ask if the still unidentified Pale Tourist was connected to Callahan and their enterprise in any way.
    The question set Callahan’s teeth on edge. This was due in part to Setebos’ crisp English accent, which bothered the big Aussie just on general principle. But he also wasn’t fond of admitting errors, either in judgment or execution. So very begrudgingly, Callahan admitted, “Yeah, I subcontracted the search. But don’t lose any sleep, mate. The man knows not to talk.”
    â€œHe’s not talking. He’s dead.”
    This raised Callahan’s spirits a bit. Now he really wouldn’t have to pay Cash. “No worries, then.”
    â€œYou’re not even curious how he died?”
    â€œIs it relevant?”
    â€œHow could it not be relevant?” Setebos sounded a trifle exasperated.
    â€œFair enough. How’d he die?”
    â€œI don’t know yet.”
    â€œRight. Let me know when you find out.”
    â€œMe? Don’t you think finding out is your job?”
    â€œYou’re paying me to find zemis . Not to play Sherlock Holmes.”
    â€œBut he was your man.”
    â€œThere’s nothing to connect us. Nothing to lead the cops to me, let alone you.” Then a new thought occurred. “I get it. You’re worried we have competition. You’re thinking that’s who took him out.”
    â€œActually, that hadn’t occurred to me. But if that’s true, and if he lost the zemi —”
    The cold fury in Setebos’ voice was evident, and Callahan could almost see his next fifty-thousand-dollar payment flying out a porthole. He backpedaled quickly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, chief. I’m personally taking over the search tonight. Give me a few days—a week—before we start panicking.”
    â€œI’ll give you two weeks , ” Setebos said. “After that, I’m going to have to seriously consider other options. And other operatives.”
    Callahan was about to protest, but Setebos had rung off. It was just as well. Never sound needy. Nothing makes you lose the money’s respect faster than sounding needy. It was one of his axioms.
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    Three A.M.
    Constable Thibideaux headed into Dr. Strauss’ cramped coroner’s office beside the morgue in the basement of San Próspero Island Hospital.
    Strauss was stirring heavy cream into his coffee with a chicory stick. He offered Thibideaux a cup, but the constable declined. “It’s too late for me. I drink that, and I’ll never get to sleep.”
    â€œSo you’re sleeping now?” Strauss asked, glancing at the clock over the