Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [51]
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 modicum 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 entity. 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 reassuring 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 anticipated.
“Thanks.”
My gratitude 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 Cristóbal 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