The Adventure Continues (Continued)

You've probably not read Volume I or II of Tales of the Scarlet Knight, but if you ever do, you can also now read Volume III, which (all apologies to the Decemberists) is tentatively called "The Hazards of Love."  In Volume III the Black Dragoon returns and an even more evil foe shows up as well, pushing Emma to the breaking point.  Worse yet is that she finds herself having to take sides against her best friend.  Are you psyched for it yet?

Read Volume III:  The Hazards of Love

The Adventure Continues

If you read and enjoy this story, the first draft of the sequel tentatively titled "Time Enough to Say Goodbye" is already posted.  In that story our hero faces a life-and-death decision when a madman inadvertently brings Emma's parents back to life. 

Also, if you've read the first story you might wonder, "What's the deal with creepy Marie?"  The sequel explains all that.  See, I'm a clever bugger; I've already planned ahead!

A Brief History of the Scarlet Knight

The character of the Scarlet Knight first made an appearance in my work in 2002.  I was writing a story about a superhero TV show, so obviously I needed a hero--and a sidekick.  Thus was the character of the Scarlet Knight born, though obviously it wasn't a real character.

The Leading Men (2002)

I did a reinvention of that story then in 2006 with more of a Don Quixote-like twist.  In it Henry Barton, the man who played the character on TV, thinks he is the real hero and goes around trying to save damsels in distress and foil criminal plots--with varying degrees of success.

The Naked World (2006)

Then in 2008 I was working on a batch of short stories and brought the character back--sort of.  This is the first appearance of Emma Earl as the hero.  In this case I renamed the character the Scarlet Lady.  (Then later I changed it back because Scarlet Lady sounds like a euphemism for a whore.)  Some of this story has been reworked into the sequel--Volume II of Tales of the Scarlet Knight.  The sequel I wrote to this short story has been disavowed.

Heart of a Hero (2008)

And that's how the character progressed from just a prop in a literary fiction novel to a full-blooded character of its own.  Funny how life turns out.

Chapter 1

Chapter 1             The first time I saw the greatest of our order, she was about to be mugged.  She had made the grave mistake of thinking she could use the paved trails of Robinson Park for her morning jog.  At one time the park's engineers may have thought that, but by now every sane person in the city knew you didn't venture into the park before the sun came up.  During the nights the park belonged to the gangs, the Mafia, and the occasional sole proprietor.             One of these saw her jogging along the trail as well.  While he finished urinating on a tree, he watched her with awe:  the red ponytail swinging like a pendulum, the firm breasts bouncing inside the blue T-shirt, and pale legs pumping confidently.  Her eyes, behind a pair of bulky sports goggles, stared straight ahead, unconcerned for anyone around her.  Further demonstrating her naiveté, she wore a garish set of yellow headphones over her ears while she ran.  The entrepreneur pissing behind the tree said a quiet prayer at his good fortune, though of course I was the only one who heard it.             As soon as he zipped up, the man took off in pursuit of his latest client.  This turned out to be much more difficult than he thought as the man's stubby legs and beer gut made it impossible for him to ever catch this young woman—a girl, really—when she was in flight.  He got lucky for the second time that morning when she stopped at a park bench to stretch her ropy calf muscles.             This girl was so oblivious that she didn't look up when the sole proprietor said, "Give me your money, sweetheart."  She gave no indication she'd heard him.  He finally had to tap her on the shoulder and wait for her to take off the ugly headphones.             "Can I help you?" she asked.             "I want your money.  Now."             The last thing I expected was for this gangly little girl to lash out with her left hand to expertly chop her friendly neighborhood mugger in the throat.  With no small amount of amusement I watched as the mugger's face first turned red and then purple as he struggled to breathe.  He dropped to the ground, rolling around like a caught fish.             If the girl had simply run off like any sensible person would have done the encounter would have ended right then.  She could have finished her jog and her attacker would eventually get his wind back and find someone else on which to prey.  That was the law of Robinson Park—the law of the jungle.  She upset this law by squatting down next to the man, patting him gently on the back.             "I'm sorry," she said.  "I only ever practiced on a dummy before."             This was back at Northwestern University, outside of Chicago, where even a tenderhearted fool like this girl knew a self-defense class could come in handy.  It was the only class she ever dropped out of, though not for a lack of skill.  She had the reflexes of a black belt and the wiry strength of a nurse, but her heart didn't have the capacity for violence.  That the plastic dummies didn't mind being struck didn't matter to her.             The dummy lying on the ground of Robinson Park did mind.  Even as she comforted him, the mugger reached into his waistband for an old .38 pistol.  He jammed the silver barrel against the right lens of the girl's glasses.  "Money," he said.  "Now."             Once again she stared at him as if not hearing, though this time not because of the ugly headphones.  Her mind had flown away in that instance, flying back eleven years to the last time she had seen a gun—and what guns could do.  The mugger waited a moment and then, seeing her shell-shocked state, he reached into her fanny pack for the paltry five dollars she carried in it along with her bus pass.  He staggered away, picking up speed as he fled.             I stayed with the girl, wondering if she would eventually snap out of her trance.  It happened in an instant, as if someone had flipped on a switch.  Then she straightened and took off in hot pursuit of her attacker.  This was the first sign to me that she might be more than some silly girl jogging at the wrong time of day; she might be the one I'd waited thirty years to find. #             There's no telling what might have happened if the girl had caught up to her mugger.  He might have shot her dead or she might have chopped him in the throat again—this time much harder.  It's just as well for both of them that he had too much of a head start for her to catch up to him in the park.  From there he simply melted away into the labyrinth of alleys comprising the city.             The girl might have run down all of those alleys in search of him, in the process getting herself mugged again—or worse.  It was just as well for her that a police officer happened to be in the area.  The police, like the rest of the public, avoided the park until the daytime hours, preferring to let evolution take its course, but this cop happened to be sitting in her car, watching a "social club" known for catering to wealthy men of Italian descent.             The cop saw the girl streak past and followed her, lest the girl get herself filled with holes thanks to the club's trigger-happy bouncers.  Like the mugger before her, the cop found chasing the girl down to be problematic, though she was in far better shape to do so.  The cop finally caught the girl by reaching out to grab a handful of ponytail, yanking the girl's head back.             Had she not been a veteran of the city's streets for the last ten years, the cop might have wound up choking on the ground.  Instead, she managed to deflect the girl's blow.  "Hey, calm down," the cop said.             "I don't have any money," the girl said.  "He took it already."             The cop let go of the girl's hair.  "Is that why you were running?"             "I was trying to catch him.  To get it back."  Even as she said this, the girl's face turned red, and not from the effort of jogging either.  She no doubt realized how foolish she'd been, especially over five dollars.  "I'm sorry."             The cop put an arm around the girl's shoulders, steering her back to the car.  "It's all right.  No harm done."  They reached the car, the cop opening the door for the girl to crawl into the passenger's seat.  "Did he do anything to you?"             "No.  I hit him and he pulled out a gun."             The cop considered this for a moment.  "Are you new to the city?"             The girl nodded.  "How did you know?"             "Just a hunch.  What's your name?"             "Emma Earl."             The cop held out her hand for Emma to shake.  "I'm Lottie Donovan—Detective Lottie Donovan.  These streets aren't safe for unarmed young women before dawn, trust me on that."             "I understand."             "How about I give you a ride home, Emma?"             "I don't want to be a bother."             "It's all right.  Doing my civic duty."  Detective Donovan smiled, the same smile she used to comfort children who found themselves orphans.  "Where do you live?"             Emma gave her the address for a rundown apartment complex in an area lovingly known as The Trenches.  Detective Donovan, like any member of the police force, had seen more than her share of activity down there.  "My friend lives there," Emma said, looking down at the shiny white Reeboks the mugger might have taken if he'd had the wherewithal.  "Her old roommate graduated and since I was moving to the city, we thought it would be nice to live together."             "That is nice," Detective Donovan said, continuing to smile as she put the car into gear.  To keep Emma talking, she asked, "What brings you to the city?"             "I'm working at the Plaine Museum."             "Tour guide?"             "Researcher."  She tugged at her blue Berkeley T-shirt.  "I finished my PhD this summer."             Detective Donovan stared at this girl and if I still had a jaw it might have dropped at the thought this little girl could have a PhD.  "What are you researching?"             "Meteors.  I'm part of the geology department."             "That's really interesting.  I've gone to the Plaine Museum a few times on my days off.  It's a nice place."             "I've wanted to work there since I was a little girl."  Detective Donovan didn't question how long ago this might have been, though I didn't think it could have been more than five years earlier.  "That's an admirable dream," she said instead.  She stopped the car in front of a tenement that had been old when the girl's grandmother had been born.  "Here we are."             "Thanks for the ride."             "You're welcome."  The detective cleared her throat.  "If you want my advice, join a gym if you want to exercise.  It's a lot safer."             "Thank you, ma'am."  With that Emma bounded inside the building, leaving the detective and I to watch her for a moment.              "This place is going to eat her alive," Detective Donovan said, shaking her head. #             There was no reason for me to follow Emma Earl upstairs, but something about her fascinated me.  When you reach four thousand years old you start to develop a sense about people and I knew there was something special about her.  As the detective had muttered, this city could eat her alive, but I doubted it.  Chopping that mugger and then taking off after him, those weren't the traits of someone easily bullied.  There was a toughness inside her, a solid core beneath the soft flesh and softer voice.             This was demonstrated by the fact she didn't cry on the long climb up five flights of stairs to her new lodgings.  At least it didn't appear to me that the moisture on her face was anything other than sweat.  Nor did she sag or hunch as if defeated.  She continued to walk proud and march up the stairs.             Only when she reached the door did she pause, hesitating before turning the knob.  Her roommate waited in what was generously called the living room.  In actuality it was a tiny square with ratty gray carpet, a black-and-white television, two beanbag chairs, and a stack of pizza boxes for a coffee table.  The young woman lounging on one of the beanbag chairs had such girth that she overhung both sides of the chair.  With a grunt she heaved off the chair to get to her feet.  I couldn't imagine she would ever have to worry about being mugged while jogging in the park.             "How was your run?" she asked.             "It was like you said.  I got mugged."             The roommate threw her arms around Emma, nearly crushing her in a hug.  "I'm sorry, kid.  I warned you, though, didn't I?"             "You did.  I'm sorry."             "How much did he get?"             "Just five dollars.  A police officer gave me a ride home."             "I hope you aren't expecting them to find this creep.  They have a lot of other crooks to look for in this town."             "I know."  Emma managed to wriggle out of her friend's hug.  "I better shower."             "There's probably not any hot water.  I yelled at the super yesterday, but he said they aren't going to have parts for the water heater for another week."  The roommate snorted at this.  "He's been saying that for the last three weeks."             "I could use a cold shower," Emma said.             "That's the spirit."  The roommate patted her on the shoulder.  "When you finish and get dressed we'll go out for breakfast.  My treat."             "You don't have to—"             "Come on, it's your first day in the big city.  We got to do something fun."             A smile came slowly to Emma's face.  "All right.  I'll be quick."             I didn't follow her into the shower; it was much too soon in our relationship for that.  I floated through the rest of the apartment, what little there was to see.  Emma Earl had arrived in town only the night before; her belongings were still in boxes with the address of her dorm at Berkeley neatly printed in marker on the top.  There were only three of these boxes in her tiny bedroom along with a smaller box of personal items in the even smaller kitchen.  Of course Emma Earl was used to traveling light, never spending more than three years in one place.             Coasting into her roommate's bedroom, I deduced they could easily become a modern Odd Couple.  Where Emma was meticulous and neat, her roommate left dirty clothes lying everywhere; I tried not to look at the bras as even the undead should have a sense of decency.  On the dresser, among a pile of old textbooks and socks, I found a picture of the apartment's occupants as little girls.  It was obvious even then what they would become in future years:  Emma tall and thin while her friend was shorter and much heavier.  In the picture they wore matching plaid jumpers and white blouses—a school uniform—with identical white ribbons pulling their hair into pigtails, the only difference being the roommate's hair was a dirty blonde gradually turning to its current dark brown.  There was something else in their smiles:  Emma's shy and wary, her friend's confident yet weary, as if she'd already seen the cruelty of the adult world.  On the back—hidden from any normal eyes—was an inscription in childish scribble:  "Emma & Becky, Friends 4-Ever."             I drifted back out to the living room, where Becky examined the comments of her purse.  "I told the girl," she grumbled, not realizing she had an audience.  "I told her how dangerous it was.  Just because she has a PhD she thinks she knows everything."  Becky sighed as she zipped up her purse.  "This place is going to eat her alive."

Chapter 2

Chapter 2             By the time the girls reached the sidewalk, the morning commuters were already out in force.  Like a blind woman or running back, Emma stayed behind her friend, letting Becky's large body clear the way for both of them.  They didn't have to worry about muggers on the sidewalks after sunrise, just the pickpockets who circulated through the crowds.  Had one of these tried to grab Emma's purse, he likely would have received a nasty surprise in either the form of a blow to the head or finding that Emma carried only two dollars in cash, a credit card with a $100 balance, and a gift card for the cafeteria at Berkeley with three dollars remaining on it.             They reached a coffee shop unmolested, where Becky bought herself a plate of eggs, sausage, and toast while Emma had only a whole-wheat bagel (no cream cheese or butter) and mug of tea.  I have long since forgotten the taste of food, but the eggs Becky received looked greasy and runny enough to remind me I wasn't missing much.  "Are you sure you don't want anything else?" she asked Emma.  "I'm buying."             "I'm too nervous to eat much."             "Is this still about the mugging?  If it is—"             "No.  It's the job.  What if I can't do it?  What if they don't like me?"             Becky snorted at this.  "Can't do it?  The only thing I've never seen you able to do is dance.  They aren't asking you to do that, are they?"             "I don't think that was in the job description."             "And of course they'll like you.  Everyone likes you."             "That mugger didn't."             "OK, every law-abiding person likes you.  What are you really worried about?"             Emma stared at her bagel, her cheeks reddening.  "I don't want to blow this.  I've wanted to work here so long.  It's my dream, you know?"             Becky reached the table to pat her friend's hand.  "I know, kid.  You'll be fine.  Trust me on this.  I've never steered you wrong, have I?"             "Not yet."             "Damn straight.  I'm not going to start now."  I drifted away from the table, embarrassed to eavesdrop on the rest of this sisterly moment.  As I cruised around the coffee shop, I found another young woman staring at me.             It's not impossible for someone to be able to see me.  In Sussex during the Great War a fortuneteller had conjured me up in her crystal ball, receiving the shock of her life to see an actual ghost for a change.  It was such a shock that she crossed over to the other side right then and never came back.             This young woman was not a fortuneteller, at least so far as I could tell.  She wore the pink scrubs and sensible shoes of a nurse.  Yet it was clear that her eyes were looking not just at me, but through me.  If I'd still had any nerve endings I would have shivered.             I floated up to the counter, where she sat with a glass of water and piece of toast.  Her eyes—so dark they bordered on black—narrowed at my approach.  "Are you real?" she whispered to me.             "Yes," I said.  For the sake of etiquette I added, "Boo."             "You're a ghost," she said without surprise.             "Well done."             "My doctor says ghosts aren't real."             "Then your doctor is a bloody quack."             She considered this statement for what seemed like a full minute.  "Maybe."             "Still, I don't think you better let anyone know I'm here."             "OK."             "That's a good girl."  If I could have I would have tousled the brown hair she still wore like a little girl with a plastic headband holding the greasy, waist-length tresses away from her face.  "Better finish your breakfast."             "OK," she said again, turning obediently back to her food.  I might not have been able to shiver, but even a ghost can still get the willies.  The penetrating gaze mingled with the vacant express and hollow voice reminded me of the old horror movies I'd seen at the drive-in theater in Parkdale.  In those movies the creepy girl with supernatural powers always turned out to be trouble.  I only hoped I wouldn't be around to see it. #             At the coffee shop the girls separated, promising to rendezvous later for dinner.  Emma wasn't the only one with a new job; Becky was spending the fall as an intern with the Roy Lintner campaign for mayor as part of her political science studies.  "It'll probably just be stuffing envelopes and answering phones," Becky said.             "I'm sure you'll learn something," said Emma, the eternal optimist.             They hugged one last time.  "You call me if you need anything," Becky said.             "I will."  I couldn't help noticing the way Becky watched her friend leave, as if Emma were toddling off to her first day of school.  She wasn't the only one watching Emma leave; the creepy girl from the coffee shop was also watching.  At the time I assumed she must have been watching me.              On her own, Emma navigated the sidewalks of the city with considerably more difficulty.  Only her quick reflexes saved her from running into other commuters or the homeless plying the sidewalks for handouts.  The way she could sidestep an onrushing fat man with a briefcase and then fling herself between a pair of bums with their hands out was a thing of beauty rivaling any ballet.              At the end of this dance she came to the steps of the venerable Plaine Museum.  I knew the museum well, having spent most of the last fifty-five years there, in what amounted to the closest thing I had to a home.  The building was constructed about a hundred years before that as the River City Museum of Natural History.  The original half of the museum was built in the Greek revival style with marble pillars and an imposing set of steps.             These steps presented no problem for young Emma, who bounded up them without getting winded.  At the top lingered a man built like one of the stuffed grizzly bears in the zoology wing.  He hustled over to a surprised Emma, taking her hand in both of hers, pumping it hard enough to make her entire body reverberate.  "You must be Dr. Earl.  I'm Ian MacGregor, head of the geology department."  Ian MacGregor and I were similar in that we both hailed from Scotland and by coming to America we had lost much of our accents.  There was still something uncommonly Scottish in his hale and hearty attitude.  "They said you were a young one.  Not even of the age to drink yet, are you, lass?"             "No," Emma said, her voice quivering.  "Not for another year."             "That's all right.  Don't touch the stuff much anymore myself."  With an arm around Emma's shoulder, MacGregor led her to the front doors.  "As I recall you're a local girl, aren't you?"             "Yes, sir.  I'm from Parkdale."             "Nice town, that is.  Been out there a few times myself."  He opened the door for her, ushering her inside.  No such courtesy was extended to me, but I could easily pass through the glass doors.  "I suppose you already know your way around the place."             "Most of it."             "That's good.  We'll go straight upstairs then to where you'll be doing your work."  They walked past a ticket counter manned by a sleepy old woman to the skeleton of a mastodon known as "Alex" for its discoverer a hundred fifty years ago.  Beyond this were doors leading to exhibits on butterflies, precious gems, and flora of the South Pacific.  A sign on one set of doors promised a new exhibit coming soon.  I had already slipped inside to see the makings for a scale-model Egyptian pyramid.             In the elevator to the third floor, MacGregor said, "I read a copy of your thesis on the impact of meteors on global warming.  Fascinating stuff."             "Thank you, sir."             "You don't have to call me 'sir.'  We don't stand much ceremony around here.  You can call me Ian."             "Yes, s—Ian."             "Is it all right if I call you Emma?"             "Yes, s—Ian."             "Very good.  I'm sure you'll like working with Dr. Brighton.  He's the most experienced member of our team.  Forty-four years of research experience in the field.  There's a lot you can learn from him."             "I hope so, s—Ian."             The elevator opened onto the third floor with a line of wooden doors with frosted glass indicating the fields of study.  MacGregor led Emma to the end of the corridor and the research labs for the meteor section of the geology department.  Along the way, he said, "I hope you don't mind my saying, but someone as bright as you must have received better offers.  What brings you to our little museum?"             "My parents used to bring me here when I was little."             MacGregor waited for Emma to expand on this, but she didn't.  Finally, he nodded.  "That's a good reason.  My parents never took me to any museums, but then we lived on a sheep farm a ways from Glasgow.  Only came to the big city twice a year."  This was supposed to make Emma laugh or at least smile, but she only stared sadly at him like the creepy girl in the coffee shop.  "Anyway, this is where you'll be working.  Security will have you come down this afternoon for your keycard.  In the meantime, just knock if you need let in," he said with a wink.             "I will, s—Ian."             MacGregor swiped his card through the reader and then opened the door.  The inside of the room looked as if Becky had organized it with old journals and textbooks scattered about the desks.  Microscopes and other equipment rested on a table in the back that was kept level by a matchbook from the "social club" Detective Donovan had been monitoring.             "Your desk is over here," MacGregor said, motioning Emma towards a gunmetal gray desk in one corner covered with so much dust it could have started a sandstorm if anyone turned on a fan.  "We'll have you a computer this afternoon."             "Thanks, s—Ian."             "Dr. Brighton's office is through here."  MacGregor led Emma to the opposite corner of the office with a door marked, 'Dr. F. Brighton.'  MacGregor rapped loudly on the frosted glass, loud enough that it could have woke my body were it not long since turned back into dust.             An old man opened the door, peering through his thick glasses at MacGegor as if trying to remember who he was.  "What do you want, you haggis-eating rascal?" Brighton asked.             "I'm just bringing up your new researcher.  This is Dr. Emma Earl."             Brighton peered even harder through his glasses at Emma.  "Is this some kind of joke?  I don't want to spend my last years here babysitting some girl."             "Dr. Earl is an accomplished student.  The board and I feel she'll benefit greatly from your experience."  The way MacGregor enunciated each word indicated that if Brighton wanted to reach retirement he had better shut up and play ball.             "Yes, I'm sure she will," Brighton said, grimacing.  He held out his hand.  "Welcome aboard, young lady."             "I'll let you two get to work now, but I'll be up later to check on you," MacGregor said, the last part a threat aimed at Brighton.             "Lousy kilt-wearing bastard," Brighton muttered as MacGregor closed the door.  With a sigh he turned back to Emma.  "Well now, young lady, I expect you'll be wanting to get to work."             "Yes, sir.  What should I do?"             Brighton waved vaguely towards the book-strewn tables  "The boy you're replacing was doing some work over there.  He probably left some notes."             "I'll get to it right away, sir," said the eager young student.             "Good."  With that Brighton slammed his door in her face. #             Watching a geologist work is as interesting as you might think.  Looking at samples of rocks in a microscope might have fascinated Emma Earl, but it held no such fascination for me.  I left Emma to her hopelessly dull chores while I drifted downstairs to watch the visitors stagger inside.  The groups of little children were always amusing to watch as they vexed their chaperons by running to and fro, screaming their fool heads off.  More amusing were the ones who sullied the museum floors with their bodily fluids, which then would lead to another stampede.             I did have a childhood, though I can't really remember it anymore.  Watching these mischievous brats always served to remind me I wasn't missing much by not remembering.  Running around like an idiot and wetting myself in public didn't seem like anything too important to lose.             While watching a group of boys try to break through the velvet ropes to scale Alex the mastodon, I noticed the nervous young man making his way to the elevator.  The way he was sweating and adjusting his tie, I thought he might wet himself at any moment.  That seemed like something worth seeing, so I tagged along as he got into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor.             I was as surprised as the elevator's passenger to find MacGegor waiting at the elevator doors.  The young man flinched, but his bladder held firm.  "And you must be Dr. Dreyfus.  I'm Dr. MacGregor, head of the geology department."             "Yes, sir," Dreyfus said.  MacGregor gave him the same spiel about the supposed informality of the department.  "I was told I'd be meeting Dr. Simmons today."             "There's been a bit of a snafu, I'm afraid," MacGregor said, leading Dreyfus down the corridor.  "She's at a symposium this week in Cairo.  Turns out she thought you were arriving next week."             "Oh, I see."             "We should have a desk for you in anthropology by tomorrow.  In the meantime, I hope you don't mind crashing with us for today?"             "No, s—Ian."             MacGregor opened the door to the meteor section.  At that moment Emma was attempting to reorganize some of the clutter in the office, a stack of books in her hand.  She dropped this stack on the floor the moment she saw Dreyfus standing there.  Her face turning the same shade of red as the mugger's when Emma chopped his throat, Emma seemed on the verge of wetting herself.  "Dr. Earl, this is Dr. Dreyfus.  He's bunking with us today until anthropology gets their stuff together.  I hope you don't mind a little company?"             "No, sir.  Not at all," she whispered.             "You can use that desk over there Dr. Earl has so kindly cleared off for you."  MacGregor checked his watch.  "If you kids don't mind, I have a meeting."             Even after the door closed, Emma and Dreyfus stared at each other.  It was the kind of stare described in Romeo & Juliet and other works of fiction.  The gaze from across the room that means love at first sight.  I wanted to throw up, if that were possible.             Contrary to what many in the Order believe, I do know something about love.  The details are hazy, but I remember something about a shepherd girl in the hills.  I believe my method of courting was to clobber her over the head with a heavy stick and then run like hell a minute later after I finished with her.  It was certainly far more direct and less revolting than watching these two gape at each other.             Dreyfus broke the awkward silence first by saying, "Let me help you with those."  They bent down at the same time to begin picking up the books Emma had dropped.  From the way both their hands shook, it seemed likely they would end up dropping the books again.  Somehow they managed to get the books onto the nearest desk, leaving them to stare at each other again.             "You're in anthropology?" Emma finally asked.             "That's right.  I'm an Egyptologist."              "Oh really?  That's fascinating."             "It is."  Dreyfus shifted from one foot to the other.  "I just finished a dig over there.  I'm supposed to make a presentation on it."             "Wow."             He cleared his throat.  "You study meteors?"  She nodded.  "That must be interesting."             "Not really," she said with a chuckle that might have been a cough.  Clearing her throat now, she pointed to the desk MacGregor had indicated.  "You can work over there.  If you want.  I was just cleaning up."             "I won't get in your way.  Dr. MacGregor said tomorrow I'll be out of your hair."             "I'm sure you won't get in the way."             With a nod, Dreyfus carried his briefcase over to his temporary desk.  I finally got some entertainment when he spilled its contents out on the floor and then banged his head against the edge of the desk.  Emma rushed to his side, helping him onto a chair.  "Are you all right?"             "I'll be fine," he said.  I knew they were not going to be fine.  They were in love.

Chapter 3

Chapter 3             For the rest of the day I attempted to entertain myself by floating through the museum and then out onto the city streets.  Robinson Park was much quieter in the daytime, providing little in the way of entertainment except for the occasional child losing a balloon.  Even most of the alleys were quiet, the nocturnal predators napping in preparation for when the sun went down.  The mob operated in plain sight on the docks, but they never did anything interesting before midnight.             At five o'clock I returned to the museum to find Emma and Dreyfus saying their nauseatingly shy goodbyes.  They both looked down at the floor, their cheeks reddening in unison.  "I guess I'll see you around," Dreyfus said.  "Maybe we can have lunch."             "Sure.  Lunch.  That might be nice," Emma whispered.             "Well, I better get going."  He stuck out his clammy hand for her to shake.  "It was good to meet you Emma."             "You too."  With that they parted, Dreyfus taking a cab uptown while Emma waited for the bus.  She pulled out a book from her purse—no surprise it was a field guide for identifying marsh birds as opposed to a trashy romance novel—and read while buses came and went.  Hers arrived a half hour later, the special bus that went to Parkdale and other suburbs.             Like many of the more immediate suburbs that had sprung up in the late 1940s, Parkdale had fallen on hard times in recent years as the problems from the city spilled across its borders, forcing the wealthier to search for suburban bliss farther away.  The poor were forced to stay behind, squatting in the rotting husk of a small city with a declining budget to face the rising problems.              Emma had not returned to her hometown in five years, since she'd gone off to Northwestern for her bachelor's degree.  In the meantime the decline of Parkdale had accelerated with swaths of houses boarded up, walls covered in graffiti, and only the occasional street lamp still flickering with life.  She kneaded the soft leather of her purse as she watched the ruins drift by her window on the bus.             There was only one reason for her to come back to Parkdale:  her aunt Gladys.  When Emma had left for Illinois, she had left her aunt in the care of the Park Glen Rest Home, where the old woman could spend her golden years in the care of nurses.  Early on Emma had written letters, but these went unanswered.  When she tried to call, she found her aunt unable to focus on a simple conversation.             Dementia had claimed Gladys so swiftly that Emma had no time to prepare.  One morning her aunt had been making breakfast for her and the next she stared at a spoon, unable to remember why she was holding it.  As was her fashion, Emma blamed herself for this decline.  If Gladys hadn't been forced to take custody of a little girl—especially one with Emma's special problems—her mind might have not been taxed so much.  As a scientist she should have known this was bollocks, but that didn't stop her from thinking it anyway.             Emma's former elementary school resided next to the Park Glen Rest Home.  The school had closed years earlier, the windows she had once looked out of broken and the playground equipment she had once used rusted.  From the way she stared at the crumbling building, I knew I wasn't the only ghost on the bus.             The rest home itself had aged much better, its faux-Alpine-chateau walls still a bright white and rich brown.  Someone had even planted flowers along the driveway, the brilliant reds and purples contrasting with the gloominess everywhere else.  Emma paused at the door, hesitating from the guilt of not seeing her aunt in so long.  With a deep breath she opened the door and went up to the reception counter.             "I'm here to see Gladys Cabot," she said to the nurse.             "Your name?"             "Emma Earl.  I'm her niece."             "Oh, yes, there's a note here saying you were coming out.  Right this way."  The nurse led Emma down the dark corridor to a pair of heavy-looking wooden doors, on which a sign read, "Recreation Room."             The recreation room was painted a dull beige and the same dullness seemed to affect all of the residents inside.  A few watched the television set in the corner, two others played checkers, and one read a newspaper.  In one corner, a woman with hair the same red as Emma's only streaked with silver, stared at nothing.  Her cloudy blue eyes cleared up for a moment when her niece sat down in front of her.             "Hi Aunt Gladys," Emma said, taking the old woman's hand.  "It's Emma."             The old woman squinted and then nodded.  "You're getting so big I can hardly recognize you anymore."             "I know."             "Where's your mother?  Don't tell me she let you come here by yourself?"             Emma gulped, her eyes straining to hold back tears.  "She's out in the car.  I just wanted to see how you were doing."             "How sweet of you.  You're such a little angel."             "Thanks.  Is everyone here treating you all right?"             "I'm fine, sweetie.  How about you?  How's school going?  Your mother said you were starting the second grade last week."             "Oh, right.  It's great.  I love it."             "Are you making lots of new friends?"             "I made one new friend.  His name is Dan Dreyfus," Emma said.             Gladys wagged a wrinkled finger.  "A girl your age shouldn't play with boys."             Emma's face turned red.  "We're just friends, Aunt Gladys.  That's all."             "Good.  Boys are nothing but trouble.  You remember that when you get older."             "I will."             Somehow the creepy girl from the coffee shop earlier materialized beside Gladys, though I couldn't remember seeing her enter the room.  A nametag pinned to her pink cardigan sweater identified her as Marie.  "Excuse me," she said, her voice softer even than Emma's.  "I need to give Miss Cabot her pills now."             Gladys looked up at the young nurse.  "Are you one of Emma's friends?  You're so adorable."  The old woman pinched the girl's cheek, which did not even make her flinch.             Emma took the paper cup with the pills, pressing it into her aunt's hand.  "It's time for your medicine now, Aunt Gladys."             "I don't need any medicine.  I'm healthy as a horse."             "These are vitamins.  To help you keep healthy."             Gladys considered this for a moment.  "Well, I suppose you can't be too careful."  She downed the cup of pills, followed by another of water.  Then she reached out to pinch her niece's cheek.  "You're so thoughtful.  My little angel."             At this Marie stiffened.  Her strange eyes focused on Emma and though I was hovering above the scene I could still feel those eyes boring into Emma, looking inside her for something.  Emma must have sensed this as well, as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.  "I better go before Mom gets worried."  She leaned over to kiss her aunt on the cheek.  "I'll see you next week."             "Of course, sweetie.  You can see me anytime."             Creepy Marie didn't try to follow Emma as she headed for the door, remaining behind to care for Gladys.  But before Emma could escape, the man with the newspaper put it down.  "I thought I recognized that voice," he said.  "Look at you, almost grown up now.  If I were forty years younger—"             "Forty?  More like sixty you old coot," I grumbled.             "What's he doing here?" the old man said, looking up at me.  It was the second time that day someone had recognized me, a disconcerting experience considering how much I'd come to enjoy my invisibility over the last thirty years.             "Who?" Emma asked, looking around.             "Never mind.  What brings you here?"             "I'm seeing my aunt."  She nodded towards where Gladys had fallen asleep in her chair with Marie still hovering next to her.             "You're her niece?  She's always going on about some wonderful kid.  I should have known.  She looks just like you."             "Thanks, Mr. Graves.  When did you start living here?"             "About four years ago.  My worthless son got tired of putting up with me."             "There's a shock," I said.  Graves glared at me but didn't say anything.             "That's too bad.  How are you feeling?"             "Fine except for this bum leg of mine.  On the plus side I always know when it's going to rain.  You might want to keep an umbrella handy for tomorrow."             "I will."             "What are you up to these days, kiddo?"  Emma told him about her new job at the Plaine Museum.  Graves had also worked for the museum, as a janitor for thirty-five years until they decided to finally put him out to pasture.             Graves and Emma had met sixteen years ago when Emma was one of the toddlers racing around the museum to my amusement.  Like the boys earlier that day she had wanted to duck under the velvet rope to touch Alex the mastodon.  "Pwease, Daddy?  I just wanna touch him," she had said.             "Sorry, honey.  It's not allowed."             As the little girl began to cry, Graves came by with his broom.  "Excuse me, sir, I just got to sweep up over here."  With a wink he unfastened the velvet rope and pretended to sweep inside the secure perimeter, allowing Emma's father to follow him.  One of the girl's tiny hands reached out to pat the mastodon's right tusk.              "Daddy, he's so cold!" little Emma squealed.             She had returned numerous times after that, at first with her parents, later with her aunt, and finally in her early teens by herself.  Graves usually spoiling her by giving her exclusive access to the museum exhibits, letting her touch the stuffed animals or finger the geodes.  She rewarded his faith in her by never taking anything or destroying museum property.  Instead, she handled everything almost reverently, as if the museum were like a church to her.  Perhaps it was no coincidence that Graves stopped working at the Plaine Museum not long after Emma went off to college.             "I'm sure within a year you'll be running the place," Graves said.  "No one knows that place better than you do—except for me."             "I don't know about that," Emma said, blushing.             "You just be mindful about the company you keep," he said, glaring at me.             "Everyone there has been really nice so far."             "Yes, well, you just be careful in the big city. It's not a place for a sweet young girl like you."             Emma didn't mention the mugging to him, saying only, "I'll try."             "Good.  And don't be a stranger around here.  It does an old man like me good to see a friendly face once in a while."             "I will, Mr. Graves."  She bent down to give him a hug that last much longer than she intended because he was reluctant to let her go.             I lingered behind after Emma left.  "How are you getting on, Percival?  Enjoying your retirement?"             "What are you doing with the girl?"             "I'm just observing."             "You stay away from her.  I don't want her getting mixed up with the likes of you."             "Don't be daft, man, she can't even see me."             "What is it you want with her?"             "Me?  Nothing.  I find her amusing."             Graves grunted at this.  "She's a good girl, too good to get involved with you."             "She's special.  You can sense it too."             Graves poked at me, his finger going through my body, an experience I always found unpleasant.  "If you try to recruit her, so help me—"             "You know the rules of the Order, Percival.  It's whoever answers The Call.  I have nothing to do with it.  It might be her, or it might not be.  Of course it's all still there if you want it.  Maybe go out in a blaze of glory instead of withering away here."             "I told you thirty years ago I'm never going to do that again.  The Order will have to find someone else to do their dirty work.  But not her.  If she answers The Call, you tell her to bugger off."             "It doesn't work that way.  You know that."             "I don't care!" he shouted this loud enough that some of the dazed residents actually turned to look at him; even Gladys woke up for a moment.  In a lower voice he growled, "She isn't yours.  Ever."             "We'll see about that."             Creepy Marie materialized beside Graves.  Looking at me, she said, "Visiting hours are over now.  You'll have to come back tomorrow."             Graves smirked at this.  "Looks like you made a new friend."             "I'll be getting on then," I said.  "Good to see you're doing well, Percival."  I floated off, Marie seeming to watch me even after I had left the rest home's grounds. #             Emma took the bus back to the city to meet Becky for dinner, reading her book along the way.  From the way she kept staring at the same page I knew she wasn't actually reading the words on the page.  She only wanted people to think she was reading so no one would bother her while she immersed herself in memories of her aunt and old friend, which inevitably would lead back to her parents—as all things did.             Becky also sensed her friend's discomfort.  "Something wrong, kid?" she asked as they sat down at a Chinese restaurant close to their apartment.             "It's Aunt Gladys."  Emma sighed.  "She thought I was a little girl."             "Well, aren't you?  You haven't even kissed a boy yet," Becky said, no doubt trying to lighten the mood.             The ploy didn't work.  "She thought Mom was still alive."             "Oh.  I'm sorry, kid."  It was Becky's turn to sigh.  "I'm sure it's rough for you."             "I wish there was something I could do."             "I know.  You'll just have to try and ride it out.  You want me to come with you next time?  For moral support?"             "That's all right.  I can handle it."             The waitress came to take their orders, giving them the perfect opportunity to switch gears.  As Becky went on about her first day at the campaign headquarters for Roy Lintner, I drifted away, feeling a tug on my being.  I felt myself drawn back towards Parkdale, onto another bus heading into the city.             Marie sat in the back of this bus, seeming to stare at nothing in particular.  I floated onto the seat next to her.  "We seem to keep running into each other," I said.             "Did you see the angel?" she asked.             "What angel?"             "Inside her.  I saw it.  She was white.  A real pretty white."             "Do you see the angel now?"             "No."             "That's good.  I was starting to question your sanity."             "I can't wait to tell Veronica."             "Who's Veronica?"             "My friend."             "Right."  I imagined Veronica must be a teddy bear or doll Marie kept on her bed; she didn't seem like the type to have any human friends.  This turned out not to be the case, though not by much; Veronica's mother did everything possible to make her look like a doll by forcing her to wear a ridiculously frilly pink dress and wear her black hair in elaborate curls with bangs that swallowed her forehead.  From the way Veronica squirmed in the chair there was no doubt she was human.             The only problem was she wasn't human in this century, or even the last century.  From what I could tell, Veronica lived in the city circa 1885.  Yet somehow when Marie sat down in her bedroom of a halfway house and stared at the wall, she opened a portal back into the past.  As Marie's body sat on the bed, her spirit floated away as though she too were a ghost.             I followed her through the portal in the wall, into the same bedroom a hundred fifteen years earlier.  Veronica's mother must have supervised the room's decoration, painting it the same pink as the little girl's dress with an elaborate canopy bed covered in porcelain dolls.  "Mama, I want to go play," the girl protested.             "You stay up here and be a good girl," her mother said.  "We can't be having you go outside and get all muddy before dinner.  You want to look pretty for your father, don't you?"             "Yes," Veronica said quietly.             "Good.  I'll have Anita fetch you when dinner's ready.  Stay here and behave."             "But, Mama—"             "No buts young lady."             After the door closed, Veronica threw herself on the bed, tears coming to her eyes.  "It's not fair," she whined.             "Your mama wants you to be happy because she loves you," Marie said, drifting close to the bed.             "Yeah, that must be it," I grumbled, though Veronica didn't seem to hear me.             The little girl rolled over so that she could face Marie's spirit.  "I wish Mama could see you.  She said you're not real."             "Of course I'm real."  There was more confidence in Marie's voice, as if she were a different person here in the past.  Perhaps she was.  "I'm your friend."             "I know."  Veronica wiped the tears from her eyes.  "Can you tell me a story?  One about airplanes and automobiles?"             "I have an even better story.  It's about an angel."             "An angel?  Like in the Bible?"             "That's right."  The little girl edged up to the head of her bed, tucking herself in and pressing one of her dolls against her chest as she waited expectantly for Marie to begin.  "There was a woman, just an ordinary woman like you'll be some day when you get to be a big girl.  Only when I looked inside her I could see an angel.  It was white and beautiful—the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."             "It lives inside her?"             "That's right.  In here," Marie said, one spectral finger touching Veronica's heart.             "Is there an angel in me?"             "No, sweetie."  Seeing the look of disappointment on the girl's face, Marie sought to quickly recover.  "But when you go up to Heaven you're going to become an angel."             "I will?"             "Yes and you'll be the prettiest angel ever."             "Oh boy."  Veronica thought for a moment.  "When will I go to Heaven?"             "Not for a long time.  Not until you're an old lady like your grandmother."             "Do I have to wait so long?"             "I'm afraid so.  In the meantime you do what your mama tells you and be extra nice to her and your daddy.  Can you do that for me?"             "Yes."             "Good.  I'll be back tomorrow."  Marie's left hand passed through the girl's cheek.  Then she backed out of the room, pulling me along with her through the portal, back into the drab bedroom of the halfway house, the pink walls faded to gray and the canopy bed replaced by a utilitarian model.  Marie sat on the bed, continuing to stare as if her spirit hadn't reentered her body yet.  Maybe it never truly did and a part of her was always out of phase with the real world.  Were it possible I would have snapped my fingers or tried to shake her to see what would happen.             I left her to her private world, returning to the Chinese restaurant, where Emma and Becky were finishing their meal—Becky finishing hers and most of Emma's.  For a moment I watched Emma sitting there, her eyes still clouded with worry about her aunt.  I tried to look inside her as Marie had done, but I couldn't.  Still, I suspected the creepy girl was on to something.

Chapter 4

Chapter 4             Since she couldn't run in the park, Emma solved the problem of where to exercise by running inside the Plaine Museum.  She got on an early bus, arriving at 7am and then taking the elevator down to the subbasement, which was used primarily for storage.  There she could run among the crates of Victorian chamber pots, flowers taken from the Galapagos, and chunks of ancient meteors taken out of cornfields.  No self-respecting mugger would ever come down there, nor would anyone on the museum staff except lowly interns dispatched down there to fetch something.             I watched her run for a while, waiting for her to trip on something and wipeout on the floor.  Her reflexes saved her, though, so that while she came close a few times, she never broke her gait.  Once she'd worked up enough of a sweat, she went upstairs to use the shower in the zoology department laboratory.  Changing into her work clothes, she went outside for some fresh air—or as fresh as the air ever got in the city—only to find Dan Dreyfus sitting on the stairs with a crumpled newspaper in his hands.             "Is something wrong?" she asked.             He looked up, tears sparkling behind his glasses.  "Oh, hi," he said.  Taking off the glasses, he tried to salvage his manhood by pretending to wipe his glasses and then using the handkerchief to dry his eyes.  "It's all over.  Ruined."             "What is?"             "My presentation.  All the work I did."  He held up the newspaper, the front page dominated by news of the narrow presidential race between Bush and Gore.  In a box in the right corner was the tiny headline, "Freighter Sinks in Atlantic."  The article described a cargo freighter sailing from Morocco that had sunk in the Atlantic en route to River City.  According to the article, the captain had forced the crew to abandon ship at gunpoint and then scuttled the cargo vessel.  The crew had been recovered in a life raft near where the ship had gone down, but the captain had not survived.  "Our artifacts were onboard that ship.  Now we don't have anything for the exhibit."             Emma sat down on the steps next to Dreyfus, struggling to find something positive to say.  "Maybe something will turn up," she said.             "Maybe.  Months from now it might wash up on a beach in Morocco or the Bahamas so some junk dealer can sell it to tourists.  We'll never see it again."             "I'm sorry."             "It's not your fault."  Dreyfus threw up his hands.  "What was that idiot thinking?  Was it supposed to be some kind of political statement?  Karlak II was four thousand years old; he wasn't Christian or Muslim or Jewish.  It doesn't make sense."             "Karlak II was on board?  I thought he was just a myth."             "We found his tomb near Giza.  Two years of work to excavate the place and now it's all gone because of that nut."             "Did you take any pictures?"             "Sure, we have pictures, but the museum isn't going to want to use those in an exhibition.  It was supposed to let the public get up close to the history and all that."             "At least you can still get a journal article out of it."             Dreyfus nodded.  "I suppose you're right.  Still, I was really looking forward to getting up there and making my speech."  His cheeks reddened as he pulled a sheath of papers out of his suit jacket.  "This probably sounds stupid, but I already had it mostly written.  You want to hear it?"             "Of course I do."             His voice trembling, Dreyfus went on to read his speech on the late Karlak II, who was one of the last pharaohs of the Old Kingdom before social upheaval led to the New Kingdom.  As Dreyfus explained it, Karlak was a bridge between the two time periods.  Though a tyrant he was nevertheless known to be wise and fair, laying the groundwork for the changes to come.  I had never had much interest in history—having lived through most of it—but it was interesting to hear about someone older than me.             Emma listened with rapt attention, asking questions at appropriate intervals.  Though not an Egyptologist by training, she seemed to know almost as much as Dreyfus on the subject.  If either of them could have seen me I could have straightened them out on a few points about that grand old culture.  Mostly I could have told them that while they built nice pyramids and such—with slave labor of course—the Egyptians were assholes who more than deserved what they got.             By the time Dreyfus finished his voice had gone hoarse.  "Let's go inside and get a drink," Emma suggested.  They went inside to the museum cafeteria, where Dreyfus bought a bottle of water and Emma a cup of what claimed to be herbal tea, though it looked more like dishwater to me.  Taking their drinks to a corner, Emma said, "I thought your presentation was wonderful.  I'm sure everyone would have loved it."             "I guess we'll never know."  They looked down at their drinks for a moment.  "Thanks for listening to it."             "You're welcome."  Emma checked her watch.  "We should probably go upstairs.  They should have your new desk set up now."             "I suppose so.  Not that I'll be here long."             "You're leaving?"             "If there's no presentation there's no reason for me to stick around here.  Might as well get back into the field and see what else I can find."             "That makes sense."  It was obvious—probably to anyone except Dreyfus—how hurt Emma was at this possibility.  Love is a fickle creature as they say.  It was so much easier back in my day—and Karlak's. #             In the corridor leading to the offices, they came upon MacGregor talking into his cell phone.  "I know, honey.  Don't worry about it.  I'll call the plumber.  No, you don't need to do anything.  I'll take care of it.  I know, honey.  I know.  We'll talk about this when I get home.  Yes, I promise.  All right.  I love you.  Goodbye."  MacGregor hung up the phone with a weary sigh.  "Lousy pipes in our place blew out.  It's making quite a mess as you can imagine."             "That's terrible," Emma said.             "I better get on the phone to the plumbers and then go check on her."  Forcing a smile to his face, he asked, "How are you two getting on?"             "Fine," they said in unison.             MacGregor patted Dreyfus on the arm.  "I heard about the freighter going down.  Terrible shame.  Maybe the coast guard will find something."             "I hope so."             "I should go before she calls again."  With a nod, MacGregor took off for the elevator and to his car in the parking garage.  I decided to follow him, sensing a domestic disturbance in the works.  It would probably be better than watching an episode of Jerry Springer.             MacGregor lived in an old brownstone, the type favored by young married couples wanting an "authentic" urban living experience.  By the time MacGregor reached the door, water was already gushing down the steps.  "Good Christ," he muttered under his breath.  "Sarah?" he called out.             "I'm upstairs," she shouted back.             MacGregor went upstairs, finding his wife lying on their queen-sized bed, both hands rubbing her bulging stomach.  From the look of it, Sarah MacGregor was ready to break her water just about any minute.  "Are you all right, love?"             "I'm fine.  So's the baby.  Where's the plumber you promised?"             "On the way, dear.  You want me to get you anything?  Cup of coffee?  Sandwich?  Glass of water?"             "That's not funny."             "I'm not trying to be funny.  Tell me what you need, love."             "I need to live somewhere that doesn't have something breaking every five seconds.  For Christ's sake Ian, this is ridiculous.  We're not children anymore.  We can't go on living in a place like this."             "You want to leave the city?  Move out into the suburbs?  One of those little subdivisions where all the houses are the same?"             "At least the bloody pipes there work."  So far MacGregor's wife had not gotten off the bed, making the possibility of any real fireworks remote.             That possibility became more remote when MacGregor bent down to take his wife's hand.  "I know, love.  I promise we'll start looking after the baby's born."             His wife snorted.  "I've already been looking."  She reached into the nightstand for a handful of brochures.  "You look these over and tell me which strikes your fancy."             "I don't really care so long as you're there."  He tried to kiss her on the lips, but she turned her face so that his lips grazed her cheek.             "Don't be trying that sweet talk on me, mister.  Not until you get that mess downstairs taken care of."             "Yes, dear."  Downstairs the water had become an inch deep throughout the kitchen, dining room, and living room, no doubt leaving stains on the couch and chairs they'd bought from IKEA.  Though the domestic disturbance had been averted, I at least got some amusement at watching MacGregor attempt to plug the leak under the sink.  His first attempt at using a towel left him and the towel soaked.  His next attempt at using a wrench only made the leak worse.  If a plumber didn't arrive soon, he would have to call the fire department to rescue his wife from the top floor.             I wondered if a genius like Emma would know how to solve the problem.  She had probably read a how-to manual on plumbing at some point.  This idea didn't occur to MacGregor, who cursed as he fumbled with the wrench.  None of his efforts helped the situation, only continuing to make it worse.  Before the entire house was destroyed, he was saved by the plumber's arrival.             A drenched MacGregor staggered back upstairs to towel off.  "He's got the situation in hand now, love."             "At least someone does."             "I'm sorry, dear.  I'm used to working with rocks, not pipes."             "I know.  I love you anyway."  She reached out to pull her husband down onto the bed, wet clothes and all.  I was curious to see if they would make love despite her present condition, but they stopped at kissing, followed by snuggling together on the bed.  After a few minutes of this revolting display, the plumber called upstairs that he had finished.             MacGregor paid the man, who left with an inch of water still swamping the floors of the lower floor.  At least for the moment nothing would add to the problem.  Disaster averted, MacGregor went upstairs, taking out the suitcase his wife had already packed for her trip to the hospital.  "It'll take a while to clean that up," he said.  "We'll get a hotel for tonight and go through those brochures of yours."             Like a proper gentleman, he led her downstairs and then carried her through the living room, trying in vain not to grunt from the effort this required.  I waited for him to fall, but he made it down the steps, where he set his wife on her feet.  On the way to the nearest hotel, he said, "Don't you worry about a thing, love.  I'll take care of the mess."             "You're damned right you will.  You're the one who wanted to live in that pit to start off with.  I would have moved years ago."             "I know, love.  It's all my fault."  This cowardice would have made me gag if that were possible.  In my day a man didn't apologize to a woman.  If she got out of line you clubbed her a good one.  There was no such thing as divorce then either.  A marriage ended with either the bride or groom—sometimes both—being flung into a bog to decompose.  Much less paperwork that way.             MacGregor left his wife at the hotel with a kiss and a promise to return later, after he cleaned up their house.  The probability for comedy in this was high enough that I followed him back to the house, where his feeble attempts to clean up began by trying to push the water out of the house with a broom and mop.  He might as well have tried blowing on it.             For his first real stroke of genius he picked up the soggy telephone book and found the number for a disaster recovery service.  They promised to come over that afternoon after a little persuasion in the form of a large bonus.  Then he curled up on the damp couch with his wife's brochures.  Given his current situation they probably weren't looking so bad now. #             I returned to the museum to check in on young Emma.  While her new boss snoozed in his office, she examined a chunk of rock in her microscope.  Before I could take off again, there came a knock on the door.  "Hi," Dreyfus said.  "I thought maybe you were ready for some lunch."             Emma, startled, nearly banged her glasses against the microscope.  "Lunch?  Oh, sure.  That sounds good."             In the elevator Dreyfus said, "Do you mind if we go somewhere else?  I know a great little place around the corner."             This I assumed was his way of trying to be smooth; no doubt he would have a romantic lunch prepared for her so that he could lure her into bed later.  I could imagine how clumsy and awkward their sex would be as they were probably both virgins.  The hilarity of that might be worth sticking around to witness and no doubt it wouldn't take very long.              The place around the corner was an Arab restaurant specializing in kebobs and such food.  I had never sampled any of that myself, preferring to eat my food with my hands instead of on a sword.  Emma and Dreyfus sat in a corner booth, where he offered to read the menu for her.  "I can do it," she said.             "You know Arabic?"             "Yes.  I learned it over spring break last year."             "Wow.  That quick?"  His smile faltered for a second as he had probably chosen the restaurant so that he could impress her with his command of another language.  Instead, she impressed him with how quickly she had picked up a second language.             She shrugged, using her menu to conceal her embarrassment.  "It just came to me naturally," she said.             "How many other languages do you know?"             "Spanish, Russian, French, German, Japanese, Hindi, and Mandarin.  I've done a little work with Chinese, but I haven't finished it yet."             "You probably will soon."             She said nothing, her cheeks burning with heat.  Emma was not the sort of person who liked to brag about her accomplishments and yet she had accomplished so much.  That sort of real modesty was hard to find anymore.             The waiter saved them by arriving to take their orders.  I had no idea what they ordered, though none of it sounded appetizing to me.  Before their awkward conversation could resume, Dreyfus's phone rang.  "What?  You're kidding.  No, that's terrific news.  When are they going to have it?  Tonight?  I'll be there.  Right.  Bye."  He turned off his phone, the smile on his face like that of a kid on Christmas morning.  "The coast guard found at least some of our stuff.  They'll have it for us in a few hours."             "That's great news.  What about Karlak?"             "He didn't have all the details just yet.  I suppose anything will be good."             "Maybe you'll still get to do your presentation."             "I hope so."  Dreyfus babbled on about the wonderful Karlak for the rest of the lunch.  I tuned this out, feeling suddenly uneasy.  After four thousand years you start to develop a sixth sense—or more like a third in my case—about things.  Something about this miraculous recovery operation was not kosher.  I would have to find out what. #             I followed Dreyfus to the docks that afternoon where he and his fellow Egyptologists were waiting to examine what the coast guard had found.  The uneasiness I had felt since that phone call continued, growing into a sense of dread.  I hadn't felt this way in thirty years, not since the last time it had turned up.             The coast guard had the items spread out on tarps for Dreyfus and his colleague to inspect.  Most of it was fairly ordinary stuff:  bits of chariots, spears, and jewelry from Karlak's burial horde.  Then came the elaborate sarcophagus depicting the god-king in gold on the lid and boasting of some of his achievements in hieroglyphics on the sides.             "It's him!" Dreyfus shouted.  "Thank God."             God had nothing to do with it; this was the work of another entity, one at the other end of the spectrum.  This became obvious when one of the coast guard officers led Dreyfus over to the end of the tarp.  "We found this floating along the other stuff.  Couldn't find it on the manifest though.  Any idea what it is?"             Dreyfus bent down, running his hand over the smooth black surface of the trunk.  "It doesn't look Egyptian—from any time period I'm familiar with.  What else was on that ship?"             "Bales of cotton, machine parts, oh and this sounds promising:  some sculptures going to auction," the other Egyptologist said.  "You think it could be one of those sculptures?"             "Could be," Dreyfus said.             "It looks like that thing from 2001," the other Egyptologist said.             "It doesn't match the descriptions they gave us," the coast guard officer said.             "I guess it's an orphan," Dreyfus said.  "We'll take it with us."             I wanted to scream at that point, not that anyone would have heard me.  It was happening all over again, as it had for the last four thousand years.  Always it began with curiosity.  Then would come the voices.  Then all hell would break loose.             There was nothing I could do about it as the coast guard loaded the black trunk onto a truck for delivery along with Karlak II and his junk.  Nothing I could do but let nature take its course—again.