Lost Things

by Graham, Jo

  But it was Lewis who mattered now, Lewis who stood looking at her like he'd never seen her before. "I don't understand," he said.

  "I know." Gil had given her time to think, time to ask all the questions. It had never occurred to her then how that must hurt.

  "Alma, you're…." Lewis broke off, inarticulate in the face of it. "You mean a lot to me. This is just…. I like Jerry." He said the last almost helplessly, as though it flew in the face of all.

  "Jerry is like a brother to me," Alma said. "Whatever you think or whatever you decide, don't take it out on him. It was my decision to marry Gil knowing exactly what the score was. Nobody has done anything to me."

  Lewis nodded slowly, his eyes troubled. "Ok, Al."

  She lifted her hand to his cheek again. Gil had done just that. Ok, Al, he'd said. Take all the time you need. Think about it all you want to. I'll be here.

  "I'll be here," Alma said. "Take all the time you need."

  Alma turned over in the narrow bunk, looking for a warmth that wasn’t there before she remembered. The Independence’s engines droned steadily, a gentle vibration through everything, and she lay for a moment listening to it, staring at the bunk above her. There probably would never have been a good time to have that conversation, but last night, when she had been floating on wine and luxury and good-fellowship — it seemed especially cruel.

  She rolled over, not quietly, but there was no sound from the upper bunk. And, to be fair, she’d promised to give him all the time he needed, just as Gil had done for her. He deserved that, deserved the time to think things through. She slipped from under the covers, dressed quickly, slacks and her one pretty blouse, and closed the cabin door softly behind her.

  Breakfast was already being served in the lounge, though her watch proclaimed that it wasn’t quite six in the morning. A smiling steward offered her a window table, but she shook her head, and said she needed to stretch her legs. What she needed was privacy, a little space to herself to think things through, but that wasn’t going to happen here. She walked the length of the promenade, then up the central corridor, past the most expensive cabins to the locked door that led to the control cabin, and back again. The crew was up already, stewards at work in the passenger area, flight crew in their padded coveralls taking a shortcut at the change of the watch. She was in the way, at loose ends, and she found herself back in the lounge, taking the offered table. The steward brought her a pot of coffee, fine china badged with Republic’s crest and Independence’s crossed flags, waited while she chose poached eggs on toast, and slipped silently away again.

  Outside the slanting window, she could see the sea, the sun glittering from the dark surface. They were high enough that she couldn’t really make out individual waves, just the occasional flash of white that was a higher swell, and the airship’s ride was so smooth that she couldn’t tell if those breaking crests were driven by wind or just by random chance. She’d never flown over open ocean herself, of course, so she had no comparison to work with.

  She sipped her coffee and wished Lewis were there. Maybe if she hadn’t told him, if she’d made something up to explain why she knew Jerry wasn’t in love with her — Jerry wouldn’t have contradicted her, and he probably would even have understood. But she couldn’t do that to him, any more than she could do it to herself. She had loved Gil, passionately and completely; he had loved her, and Jerry, too.

  She closed her eyes for an instant, remembering a dinner, the three of them for once on leave at the same time, hers beginning and Jerry’s ending. They had lingered over coffee and grappa that tasted like well-aged kerosene, and though she’d known she should excuse herself, let Jerry have his last night, she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. She and Gil had only just come to an understanding; she wanted every minute she could steal. Jerry gave her a grin, rueful and unrepentant — no, he wasn’t leaving, either — and Gil threw back his head and laughed.

  “You know, there is another option.”

  Alma blinked, and then blushed, and when she could look up again, Jerry’s face was just as pink. He managed another smile anyway, and shrugged one shoulder. “I’m game if you are, Al.”

  “Right, then,” Gil said, and beckoned to the waiter.

  They found their way back to Gil’s lodging, a narrow room above a shop, almost filled by an ancient four-poster bed. Alma blushed again, and Jerry looked at Gil, his expression not quite a challenge.

  “Ok, now what?”

  “I think you two should kiss,” Gil answered, and Jerry looked at her.

  “Ok, Al?”

  If she said no, it would never be mentioned again; she could walk away and neither of them would blame her. But she would always regret what might have been. She took a step closer, turned her face up to his. “Yes,” she said.

  They traded kisses for a while, her and Gil, her and Jerry again, and then Gil and Jerry, exciting in ways she’d never imagined. And then they’d found their way into the featherbed that nearly smothered them until Jerry kicked it onto the floor. She ended up on her knees between them, Jerry’s big hands cupping her breasts, pulling her hard against his chest, while Gil worked her with his fingers, bringing her to a shaking climax. Afterward, she lay watching while Gil took Jerry, too fascinated and aroused to think of jealousy, finally fell asleep on Gil’s shoulder while Jerry sprawled on his other side, and woke before dawn to find Jerry already dressed, peaked cap in hand. He’d kissed Gil, who barely stirred, then came hesitantly around the end of the bed to kiss her as well.

  It had never happened often, maybe twice or three times more, but it had been a delicious secret, a hint of spice among the three of them. She did not, would not, regret a moment. If it cost her Lewis — surely it would not. He had accepted her as she was, pilot, the company owner, and now the lodge. Surely, surely, he could come to accept this, too.

  The steward appeared with her breakfast, offered another pot of coffee, and she smiled and nodded, her mind still worrying at the problem. There was no need to tell him more than she already had, not now, not ever — she curbed her thoughts with an effort. She had promised to give him time, and she would give him time, treat him carefully, as normally as she could. There was more than enough to keep them busy until they got to Paris.

  It was with a sense of immense satisfaction and subtle well-being that Jerry settled himself in the airship's lounge. True, he couldn't enjoy his coffee and his cigarette at the same time, due to all smoking aboard the Independence being relegated to the interior smoking lounge, so he'd had his cigarette first and was now settling in for coffee. There were very few people in the lounge, though the sun was high, streaking in through the right side windows.

  Jerry glanced at his watch. Only seven am in New York. He hadn't reset it yet. But they were somewhere mid Atlantic, and the sun had climbed much higher here. Ten o'clock? The airship's crew would know, crossing six time zones from New York to Paris. Forty hours on the crossing – it was incredible, actually. Months and months on tiny, crowded disease ridden sailing ships reduced to this, cruising along in the clouds across thousands of miles.

  A fragment of poetry came back to him, something a friend had given him once, before war and all of that, disjointed bits that almost made a verse. It had caught him at the time, a student of archaeology; because the poet addressed the future archaeologist who might someday parse his words. I care not if you bridge the seas, or ride secure in the cruel sky…but have you wine and music still, and statues and bright-eyed love?

  Not a thousand years to conquer the sky. Twenty years, perhaps, since the words were penned.

  "Music," Jerry said, "And bright-eyed love." He flipped open the late edition of yesterday's New York Times left folded neatly on the side tables for the lounge's patrons. Reviews of the gallery openings of inexplicable painters. A rather good review of a show he'd never heard of. Jerry had little patience for theater. Gil had always laughed and said that if it happened less than a thousand years ago Jerry wasn't interested
. Two thousand, Jerry had replied. Plautus had nothing on Euripides.

  Gallery showings…. Was there nothing except paintings by experimental moderns? Jerry flipped the page.

  Noted Archaeologist Found Dead. Dr. William C. Davenport, an internationally recognized authority on Roman antiquities and member of the faculty of the University of California at Los Angeles, was found dead this morning in his hotel room.

  Jerry blinked, then read the article twice over with a mounting sense of panic.

  Dr. Davenport's body was found just short of noon by the chambermaid, who notified authorities. The cause of death was undetermined at press time, but appeared to be natural causes. Dr. Davenport was en route to his dig in Italy, where he is engaged in the excavation of the Nemi ships at Aricia, a find described by Dr. Davenport himself as "quite extraordinary." Dr. Davenport had arrived the previous evening by air, and was scheduled to sail for Europe today. "His death is a tragedy for the profession," said Dr. E. M. Compton of Columbia University. "He was one of the brightest lights in the field of Classical Archaeology."

  Jerry got to his feet, the paper clenched in his hand. He hurried down the narrow interior corridor of the airship to his own room.

  Mitch was combing his hair in front of the tiny dresser mirror, the comb carefully dampened.

  "Davenport's dead," Jerry said.

  Mitch looked around, frowning. "What do you mean, Davenport's dead?"

  "I mean he's dead," Jerry said, waving the late edition of the Times at him. "He was found dead yesterday before the Ile de France sailed."

  "Dead?" Mitch said again.

  "Dead! It's not like you to be this stupid! Dead!" Jerry expostulated. "Davenport is dead. Yesterday morning. While we were trying to figure out how to catch the Ile de France, he was already laid out by the coroner."

  "Crap," Mitch said succinctly. "The damn thing's jumped."

  Jerry nodded. "And we have absolutely no idea where or to whom."

  Mitch ran his hand through his hair, ruining his careful combing job. "In New York twenty four hours ago. He could have jumped to anybody. To the maid. To somebody else staying in the hotel. To…." He shook his head. "Anybody. It could have jumped to anybody going anywhere in the world."

  "Meanwhile, we're on an airship bound for Paris," Jerry said. "And even if Henry will blow another thousand dollars letting us bum a ride back on the return trip, it will have five or six days’ lead on us in New York. It could literally be anywhere in the world."

  "Alma's going to pitch a hissy," Mitch said.

  "Alma's going to have to live with it," Jerry said. "And she's going to have to live with the fact that we're not any good without Gil. We're not even really a lodge anymore." Jerry pulled up, swallowing. No, he would go on. It was time to say the thing he'd been thinking, that they'd all been thinking whether they admitted it or not. "Maybe it's time to pull the plug on the Aedificatorii Templi."

  Mitch looked away, as though there were some answer in the unmade upper bunk or the wardrobe door. "We have oaths, Jerry. We can't walk away from those."

  "We don't have to have a lodge to live by our oaths," Jerry said gently. "Mitch, you know we haven't worked effectively as a lodge since Gil died."

  "We were pretty good in Henry's hangar the other night," Mitch said. "The amulets worked. They probably saved Alma's life."

  "We were, and they did. And Lewis is a nice guy. But he's a completely untrained oracular talent, and none of us have the faintest idea how to train him." Jerry shook his head. "Be realistic, Mitch. We're not a lodge. We're a bunch of drifters who maybe one day were going to amount to something."

  Mitch's mouth tightened. Eleven years ago he'd been a hero, a handsome twenty five year old with a good education, a nice guy with girls dripping off him, a real live flying ace better than you see in the movies, cleft chin and clipped jaw and big blue eyes. He'd even been picked to do some goodwill trips before he came back to the states after the Armistice, the very picture of a good American boy. Now what was he? A guy who lived in an apartment over his friend's garage and flew planes.

  Not that Jerry could talk. Mitch at least had a regular job.

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  Mitch shrugged. "Jerry, we've got to keep going. It's what we do. It's all we've got." He paused as though he were searching for words. "We're a team. And we have oaths. In the end it doesn't matter whether we won or not. It just matters that we were true to ourselves and each other."

  Jerry dropped his eyes. "I know," he said.

  "You're pissed because it got away. I'm pissed because it got away." Mitch ran his hand through his hair again. "We screwed up. I lost it in Chicago, and that's my fault, not Lewis'. Lewis didn't know what it could do. He's the new guy, and I was in charge. Mea maxima culpa. So we need to sit down and figure out what to do next."

  "I'm also pissed because it killed Bill Davenport," Jerry said. He hadn't meant to, but he did anyhow. "He was a pain in the ass and I didn't like him, but I knew him for twenty years, Mitch. And nobody should die like that."

  "Aw, crap," Mitch said, as though he'd just realized something. "I'm sorry, Jerry."

  "It's not as though he was a friend," Jerry said. "We were in school together. That's all. He was insufferable even then, stuck on himself and endlessly self promoting. It's not like I cared about him or something."

  "Of course not," Mitch said. "But it's hard to lose one of your guys. Always is, even if the guy is an ass." He clapped Jerry on the shoulder. "Come on, Jerry. Let's tell Alma and Lewis. And then we'll figure out how to track down this thing. It's going to pay for it. And we're the ones who will bring it in."

  "How the hell are we going to do that?"

  "We've still got the tablet. We can dowse for it again. It can run but it can't hide, Jer." Mitch's hand was on his back, steering him out of the compartment. "We can follow it wherever it goes, like bloodhounds on a scent."

  "That's true," Jerry said. And that made the nauseated feeling a little less.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Henry was making himself scarce again. Jerry leaned against the promenade railing, staring at the ocean a thousand feet below. He supposed it made sense: this was the Independence’s maiden voyage, though by the time Henry let paying passengers on board, especially celebrities and reporters, Jerry was sure all the kinks had been well worked out. Henry never bet except on a sure thing. And maybe that was it, Henry making sure his bets stayed good, but beyond a glimpse at the champagne toast on launch, and occasional quick sightings in the public areas, they’d seen more of the airship’s chief pilot than they had of its owner. Not that Jerry hadn’t enjoyed his brief conversations with the pilot — Georg Federman, his name was; Henry had lured him away from the Zeppelin Company with the promise of better pay and quicker promotion — but they did need to talk to Henry, and preferably before they landed in Paris. He’d sent a note forward to the control car after lunch, but there’d been no response.

  Maybe at dinner, he thought. Surely Henry would have to put in an appearance then. The Sparkling Starlet was looking a little neglected, and one of the reporters had managed to insinuate himself into her circle. Henry would want to control that interaction as much as possible. He moved away from the rail, trying to decide what to do until then. Maybe he’d grab a cigarette, then fetch some books from his cabin, and take them into the lounge where he could spread out a little. The airship’s movement was smooth enough that nothing was going to roll away — smoother than a plane, smoother than a train or even a liner, so smooth that he barely needed his cane. Alma had said she could get used to traveling like this, and so could he.

  “Dr. Ballard?”

  Jerry turned to see Joe Palmer coming down the promenade from the bow of the ship. “Yes?”

  “I’m glad I found you. Mr. Kershaw got your note, and said if you were free, he could see you in the observation car.”

  Clever Henry, Jerry thought. The observation car, with its glass walls, had proved unnerving for mo
st of the passengers. Everyone had dutifully visited, and just as quickly left, most of them pleading the chill of the unheated space. Jerry hadn’t liked it much himself, but it was the most private public space on board. “Thanks,” he said aloud. “I’ll head straight down.”

  The stairs into the observation car were some of the steepest, and it took concentration to negotiate them without looking like a cripple. The car was empty, except for Henry, and Jerry spoke before he’d reached the last step.

  “Davenport’s dead —”

  Something tingled on his skin as his foot touched the floor, like a door closing, and Henry straightened, turning to face him

  “Yes. I saw the Times.”

  Not Henry, Jerry thought, the air cold on his skin. It wore Henry’s body, Henry’s face, but he could feel the darkness behind its eyes. The amulet was still in his pocket, hooked onto his watch chain; he didn’t dare reach for it, it would protect him just as well there, and he took a step backward, groping for the stair rail. His hand struck something cold and solid; he knew if he turned, he wouldn’t see anything, but there was no escape that way. That had been the tingling, the trap snapping shut, sealing them off from the rest of the airship.