"May I go with you, Dr. Jones?" she asked.

She reminded him of a little girl. It hadn't been so very long ago when this child of Brody's oldest child had first ridden into his life-a whirling dervish on an antique bicycle with a million questions and a way of connecting answers. She was nineteen now. Alone in the world.

It had been a rough two years.

"No. Finish this, then we'll talk."

She sighed. She'd already completed her degree. She was working on a masters, then would go for her doctorate. Her life was laid out before her in one giant rut. She'd get a job as a librarian or docent in some university library or museum. She'd never get into the boy's club.

"Dammit," she muttered, turning away.

"Hey, kid," he offered an embrace. He tucked her close, knowing that she'd be okay, that she'd be better off without him and his stigma. "Maybe they'll give you my classes."

"I'll try to stay off government watch lists," she promised. "Call me."

"I will."

The call came sooner than she'd expected. He called her from his home the day after they'd said their good-byes.

"What do you remember about South American Pre-Columbian skulls?"

"Death masks?" she asked. "Mexico is huge into the skulls. And skeletons, for that matter. They're not considered gruesome there. Even grandmothers and parish priests and old neighbor ladies have them."

"Go back further," he told her. "Change materials. What's filed there under crystal skulls?"

She snorted. "Have you been drinking?"

He laughed. Mutt looked at him. "I've got a letter from an old pal. You want to help an old man muddle through an ancient language he doesn't remember very well?"

She thought about it. "You have to take me."

"Take you where?"

"Letters, languages, and a laugh in your voice mean you're leaving. Again. With a destination this time. I want to go. I've never been to South America. I've never been anywhere interesting. You have to take me or you can spend the next sixteen years wandering around the same tree in the jungle."

"You're thinking of your dad, dear," he told her.

He knew by her silence that she wasn't giving in.

"I think my phone's probably tapped," he told her.

"Then we'd better get the hell out of Dodge, don't you think? You get what you need, I'll pack what I need, we'll meet in the middle." She hung up on him.

The middle wasn't really the middle, which sounded like a place approximately equidistant and convenient to both parties. In this particular case, however, it meant nothing of the sort. Marcus Brody and Henry Jones, Sr. had big fans of this little joint in the next town. So far as Indy knew it had no name. It was tucked in a crowded row of little shops and stores and tea spots on a cobbled street. In the middle of an antiques dealer and a tiny, old-fashioned library. It smelled of cigarette smoke and roasting beef.

"This is the guy who broke your dad's statue," Jones said as he approached the table. He ducked a kiss on the crown of the pretty head and slumped into one of the mismatched chairs.

"I didn't-not really," Mutt started. She looked like every 'good girl' he'd ever seen in his life. Impossible to age, she could have been fifteen or thirty depending on how she dressed. She wore a slim skirt and heels with a butter-colored blouse embroidered with a springy leaf pattern at the edge of the puffed sleeves.

And she smiled at him.

"I know. I ignore Dr. Jones when it suits me. The way I heard it, a car rammed Dad's monument after having chased you all through most of the campus. And that you lost him by trashing the library."

Jones shifted uncomfortably. "News travels fast."

She merely arched a brow at him. Mutt figured her for an academic snob.

"This is Sanford Brody, son," Jones said, gesturing. "Daughter of the renowned and beloved Marcus Brody, who was my dad's best friend. San, this is Mutt. Mutt Williams. Does the name Mary Williams mean anything to you?"

San flinched before she shook her head, obviously displeased that it didn't. She shifted her gaze to stare unabashedly at the younger man. He was handsome, appearing on that cusp between being uncomfortable in his skin and making the world comfortable with who he was.

"Wife or mother?" she asked.

"Mother. She's in trouble. So is the Ox."

"Oxley, do you-"

"I remember Professor Oxley stories," San interrupted. "So you run in the same circles?" she asked.

Mutt shrugged. "Apparently so."

"Good deal. Let's get down to business," she smiled. Whatever secret criteria she reserved had been passed and he was allowed in, just like that. It changed her whole demeanor.

"What did you drive?" Jones asked her as they pushed back from the table and he dropped cash to cover their meal.

"My car. But the truck's at the house. What do you need?"

"I'm packed and good to go. Is there anything you need to make this work that we can't get at a department store?"

San reached beneath the table and came up with a small, soft-sided case. "There are two flights out of PanAm this afternoon," she told him.