CHAPTER 8: The Classical Tradition

"Bridget?" I pressed the phone tighter to my ear as another announcement about keeping a close watch on your bags echoed over the background noise of the terminal. So many hard surfaces, I mused. No wonder it's such an echo chamber in here.

"Amy?" She sounded awfully confused. I suppose I never do call her unless it's work related. Six o'clock on a Sunday night would make her think the worst.

"Yeah, sorry to bother you on a weekend."

"Forget it—are you okay?" I heard some clattering in the background. Dishes, maybe.

"Yeah, I'm fine." I picked my nails against the weave of my carry-on bag. After a few days out of the lab I'd actually grown nails. "I'm just calling to tell you I'll be in late tomorrow and I'm probably going to miss class, too."

"What happened?"

"Nothing major. I just took a delayed flight." I shifted in my seat. The black vinyl was starting to feel sticky even through my jeans.

"First class?" She laughed a little, and I pictured her executing her usual hair flick.

"Nah, voucher."

"So we're going to Vegas?" She laughed again; I joined her.

"After the first of the month, baby."

"Yeah, I gotta make rent too." I heard the sounds of glasses clinking together. "I'll hit the paperwork before you get there. Viva Las Vegas."

"Later," I grinned. I leaned my head back on the top edge of the chair and let the vinyl panel support my neck. I could just see Bridget and me in Vegas, shifting uncomfortably in too-revealing clothes we'd dared each other to wear. I forced my attention back to the journal on my lap.

Dr. Foley had tossed it in my direction with a suggestion that I check out an oddball article on reincarnation. I'd tried to read it on the Metro to the airport with mixed success. I find it hard to focus on charts when there's motion in my peripheral vision. At any rate I had picked up the basics. It seemed like a cross between Philosophy and Ecology to me. Human Ecology? Is that what the kids are calling it these days? No—that's a real discipline. I smirked to myself. This, if anything, was detective work.

I took a sip of my substandard Americano. There's nothing like an airport for bad coffee in five-dollar cups. I grimaced at the metallic aftertaste. Burnt, too.

The thrust of the article wasn't the discussion. At least, not to my eyes. It was the finely-sifted tables of interview material. The author had crossed continents to interview people—mostly children—believed to be reincarnated souls. He'd written down their reported memories and attempted to cross-reference them with the lives of the dear departed. I could almost find a theme. Person dies unexpectedly or violently. Child is born. Child begins talking about social networks outside his or her ken. Parents begin to record the child's stories once they've decided the child is remembering a past life. Parents and family seek the prior owner of the soul's family. Story is woven. Enter scientist.

Karne and I don't make charts. We don't; we don't; we don't. Keep telling yourself that, Amy.

But there's the flowering of the rod. Dr. Foley knew I'd remember. The first time I read about the bennu bird, Egyptian phoenix, I wanted to dart off to Karnak and stay there. It's a stupid impulse. But something captures me about the story. The bennu bird dropped a tiny grain into the heart—the urn of the heart, my history professor used to say. A rod grew there. It would blossom. Rebirth.

"…it is a lily, if you will/ each petal, a kingdom, an aeon/ and it is the seed of a lily / that having flowered/ will flower again…" H.D. Trilogy, "The Flowering of the Rod," 10

I didn't realize I'd been mumbling those lines until I noticed a little kid looking at me from two seats down. I sat up straight again and punched the speed dial to Karne.

"Connell." His voice sounded more patient than the last time I'd called. I shifted my weight.

"Karne," I parroted.

"You are calling for an update on my progress. I've had a small success at a neighborhood mortuary."

"What neighborhood?"

"Your tip about the source of the tattoos confirmed my thinking on that point." He paused to light a cigarette. I was jealous all of a sudden, then immediately annoyed with him. If I start smoking again I plan to blame Karne. "You realize the State Department is in the habit of settling refugees in clusters."

"No. Sort of. Go on."

"The neighborhood funeral home to which I referred has had a run of medical cases lately." He let out a long smooth exhalation. I could picture the look on his face, and his usual slouch in his armchair.

"I don't want to know how you know this."

"Probably not." He paused, and I heard him shuffling paper and then crumpling some. I bet he tossed it on the floor. "Where are you, Connell?"

"Washington. I'm at the airport." I shifted my weight again. The airport chair just got worse with time. "I'll be back tomorrow morning."

"And in no shape to aid me."

"Love you too," I muttered. I held the phone away from my ear when he let out a loud laugh.

"The medical cases, Connell." I heard more papers. "I'll need to speak with your friend McLynn, I think."

"That shouldn't be a problem." I dug in my purse for my planner. "Soon?"

"As soon as possible." The shuffling stopped. "It will involve some subterfuge."

"DuPret?"

"Of course."

"She won't care, then." I stood and rolled my shoulders. "When you say medical cases you mean organ donors, right?"

"Yes, yes." I'm willing to bet Karne waved his hand in that gesture I hate.

"So cremations."

"Mm."

"What's that mean?" I sat back down, and was dismayed to find the vinyl was still warm.

"What?" He'd taken on his distracted tone again.

"What's 'mm' mean?" I popped my heel out of my shoe and rolled my ankle around.

"It means I need data." He was starting to sound even more distracted, and I hadn't heard the grind of his lighter again. Intervals between cigarettes are never good.

"I'll set something up with McLynn. She might not meet you without me, though."

"I'm still a psychopath, then?"

"She's a mother, Karne." I paused to think about whether I wanted to say what I thought needed saying. Damn the torpedoes. "Try to understand."

I held the phone away from my ear again as he laughed. "I'm sure we'll both be grateful for your presence, Connell. You can protect her from me."

"Shut up."

"That would make conversing difficult."

"It already is," I grumbled. "Goodnight, Karne."

"Mm." This one was more of a grunt. I rolled my eyes and snapped my phone shut, then cracked open my planner to set up a lunch with McLynn. Whatever Karne thought about it, I actually did need to be there to protect her from his excesses. Keep telling yourself that, too, Amy.