The next morning, Ben and I spent several hours poring over Uncle Theo's old photo albums. The bulk of them were devoted to images of his various expeditions. There were very few of any more intimate nature.
Uncle Theo had never married, preferring to devote himself to his work and to keep his own company. I suspected we were similar in that way, though Uncle Theo dismissed concepts like asexual and aromantic as superfluous—evidence of existential desperation in a culture where identity had become the currency of social worth.
Maybe he was right, but I valued these labels nonetheless. They gave form and substance to a nature that otherwise sometimes seemed as difficult to grasp as air, and that defied the comfort of a binary mindset.
But while I experienced romantic attraction, Uncle Theo seemed indifferent to even that, and as far as I knew, had never had a relationship of that nature. Then again, I was beginning to realize I might not know as much about my uncle as I'd previously thought.
The albums ranged from the late '80s through the early 2000s. After that, Theo had made the reluctant switch from film to digital, and stopped compiling physical albums, which I found unfortunate. There was something about a physical print, set in a book with time and care, that a collection of digital files just couldn't replicate.
By the end of our search, we'd found two more photos that showed possible references to the sphere. One was from an earlier dig than the first, and the second dated from around 2004, as far I as could tell.
The former appeared to have been taken at a site in Egypt. Uncle Theo crouched behind a collection of potsherds spread out on the ground, one of which showed a hieroglyph of a man holding a glowing ball. It might have been a typical depiction of Ra, if not for the odd markings encircling it.
The second was a shot of my uncle in another desert place—Kurdistan, I guessed, from the mountains in the background—holding a small chunk of broken bas relief in the palm of his hand. It showed the figure of a man surrounded by a ring of the unknown script.
"Well," Ben said, closing the last album with a snap. "I don't know what this tells us, but at least it's something. Maybe someone at the University would know more. You should try asking your godmother, for a start."
We were in the sitting area, Ben on the couch and me seated on the floor. We'd removed the three photos from their books, and they now lay spread before me on the coffee table.
"You're right. She hasn't had much contact with Uncle in a while, but they used to be close. If these pictures tell us anything, it's that he was looking for the sphere, and he's been at it for a long time."
Ben glanced at his watch. "I've gotta go. The movers are showing up later with my stuff, and then I've got a meeting in the city tomorrow." He looked up at me. "Will you be all right? I still don't like the idea of you being alone. Especially if that pervert ghost is hanging around."
I laughed. "Pete's not a pervert." Actually, I didn't know that, but it was beside the point. "I'll be fine. And I'll be sure to keep my phone charged. Also I can ward the house against anything paranormal or supernatural—in theory, at least."
"What if the intruder comes back?" Ben asked. "I mean, he's already broken in twice, and he didn't get what he was after. What if he tries again?"
"I'll be on my guard," I said, more confidently than I felt. "I'll be fine."
Ben looked like he wanted to argue, but only nodded. "Okay. Call me right away if something happens."
I promised I would. A short while later, Ben left, and I was alone.
It was a relief, in a way. I'd enjoyed Ben's company, and having him here had certainly helped relieve my fears, but I couldn't ever really relax unless I was alone. Or as alone as one ever was in a house full of haunted objects.
The last thing I wanted to do was go out, but Ben's advice had been sound. I needed to talk to Annabel Chissaud. Her office hours were from 2 to 4, so I decided to drive up to the University and have lunch at the Creekside Cafe first.
I parked in one of the lower lots, deciding the long walk across the sprawling campus would do me good. The day was unusually warm for November, and I wore slacks and a thin t-shirt under a light jacket. I could have done without the jacket, but even in free-spirited Santa Marina I imagined the markings would draw notice.
The campus stretched across a broad swath of steep hills at the base of the mountains. The lower half of the campus was all open fields and sunlight, while the upper half was nestled within the reaches of the redwoods. By the time I reached the top of the long hill and crossed beneath the shadows of the trees, sweat dampened my shirt and I was breathing hard.
I left the main road and took a smaller side-trail, a shortcut that took me through a narrow gully spanned by a wooden bridge. I slowed my pace, enjoying the coolness of the shade, the primordial scent of fern and forest, and of dark, secret places untouched by the sun.
Flocks of small birds flicked past through the undergrowth, and the quiet whisper of a small stream rose from below. I paused in the center of the span, enjoying the scene. I'd stood there for a few minutes when an uncomfortable sensation prickled along the back of my neck, and I was struck by the sudden conviction that I was being watched.
I glanced to my left and right, but the bridge and path were deserted. The fern-clad slopes of the gully were too steep to be easily traversed on foot, and the creek-bed below was little more than a stony cleft.
I turned around and peered in the other direction, where the gully ran up steeply into the forested hills, but there was nothing. Remembering I'd had a similar feeling on my last visit to my godmother, I decided I was being paranoid; the ancient instinct to be wary among the dense trees echoing down the ages.
Giving myself a firm mental shake, I continued up the winding series of paths to the farthest reaches of the campus.
The Creekside Cafe was near my godmother's office, in a small building nestled against the side of yet another shallow gully, through which ran another thin stream. It served the typical array of campus fare, and I ordered a salad and iced tea. I sat at a small table by broad floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the fern-covered gully and the little creek. Even as I ate, I was again struck by the odd feeling of being watched, but rather than from the undergrowth outside, the feeling seemed to originate from some much closer, and more human, source.
A quick glance revealed few possibilities. The girl at the register was absorbed in her work, and the rest of the patrons seemed to be likewise engaged. A few students read books over their meals, while others clustered in small groups. From their animated chatter, I guessed their conversation had little to do with academic pursuits.
If any of them were paying me any attention, they were hiding it extremely well. And yet the feeling persisted.
Unnerved, I dumped my unfinished salad in the trash and made my way outside. Even as I climbed the steps to the path that would take me to the Orwell Building, the sense of being watched never eased. I hurried across the parking area and inside, taking the stairs to the fifth floor.
At the end of the hall, I knocked on the door of my godmother's office.
Dr. A. Chissaud was emblazoned in bronze letters on the door, a sign of her tenured status, I supposed. There was no answer from within. Typically, she left her door open during office hours, and I wondered if perhaps she had closed it to address some student's more personal concerns.
I almost retreated, thinking I could return and check again in a half-hour or so, but then I stopped. Whatever tribulations Dr. Chissaud's students undoubtedly faced, for once I felt convinced my own worries merited precedent.
I tried the door, and found it locked. "Dr. Chissaud?" I called. "Um...Annabel? It's me, Ari...I'm sorry to interrupt you but I really need to talk to you about something."
I waited, but no answer came. Maybe she'd changed her schedule, I thought, and forgot to let me know. The next door down on the left creaked open, and Dr. Parsons peered out. He looked old enough to have seen Abe Lincoln live at Gettysburg, but the eyes behind his unfashionable tortoise-shell glasses were sharp as chips of flint.
"Dr. Chissaud's not in," he said irritably. "If you want I can take a message."
"Oh, er... Do you know where she is? It's important."
"I'm sure it is, young man, I'm sure it is." His tone suggested his true opinion was quite the opposite. "However, I'm not at liberty to reveal such information. Now, do you want to leave a message or not?"
"No. No, thanks. I'll, er, send an email."
"You do that." He nodded, and then shut his door with a sort of slow finality that made me think it was a skill he'd honed to perfection over the course of his long career.
~
The walk back to the lower parking lots and my jeep was not pleasant. Despite the warm air and the graceful beauty of the woods, I couldn't shake the chilling sensation of being watched. As the sun slipped into a bank of clouds low in the western sky, I realized that watched was not the right word. Hunted was far more fitting. I felt as if something stalked me, an unseen threat lurking just out of sight.
Resisting the urge to scan the parking lot for sinister figures, I climbed into my jeep and slammed the door. I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe slow and deep.
When at last my pulse slowed, I started the engine and proceeded to drive home at a deliberately law-abiding speed.
As I pulled up in front of the house, I noted with annoyance that an obsidian black Mercedes roadster occupied my reserved space. I parked further up on the street and marched back towards the interloping vehicle, intending to tell its occupant in no uncertain terms to get lost, when the driver's side door opened and the most beautiful man I'd ever seen stepped out.