Free Ghosts in the Machine (The Babel Trilogy Book 2) by Richard Farr

pointed to a neat question mark you’d drawn with a marker at the center of the island.
    “What that is, Rosko, is weird. Daniel’s marked an area called the Star Mountains. They’re very remote. Almost uninhabited. It’s where Jimmy and Lorna and I lived for a few months with the Tainu.”
    “That tribe you told me about?”
    “Yes. A people whose entire culture revolved around protecting the ghosts of their ancestors so that the ghosts could go on protecting them from the gods. Their language is Tain’iwa—but the word tain’iwa can mean either ‘the language we speak’ or something more like ‘the people who use words.’ I’iwa is the opposite: it means ‘the speechless people.’ Or ‘not-people.’ Or ‘ghost people.’”
    Rosko looked again at the map. That’s when we noticed that it was attached with a paper clip to a second piece of paper. I recognized that instantly too: it was a drawing of your parents’ house.
    Gabi had just finished cleaning up your hand and putting on a large Band-Aid. “Maybe we should have a doctor look at this,” she said.
    But I’d had enough of doctors’ opinions about you. “No,” I said. “He’s fine. Come on, D. I’m taking you over to your parents’ house. We can look through Iona’s stuff. Like Kit said—see if there’s anything that’ll help you.”
    “I really think it would be better if—” Gabi started, but I was running out of patience. I pulled you to your feet.
    “Daniel has worse injuries that need fixing.”

    No drama, no one about. I let us in at the side entrance, tripped over a pair of your running shoes, and felt mildly surprised that the light switches did something as ordinary and predictable as turn the lights on. But it was dusty, and somehow unnaturally silent, and Iona and Bill haunted every inch of it.
    I took you into the kitchen first, because it was always your favorite room and I hoped it would stir those memories Kit had talked about. Instead I found that my own memories were choking me. You, cooking mushroom risotto at that stove. You, kneading bread on that counter. Bill, opening a bottle of wine and pouring a glass for Iona at that table.
    “Those cinnamon rolls you used to make, D. Do you remember? Insanely rich, with brown sugar and cinnamon and pecans, and about three pounds of butter. I loved those things, D! Do you think you could still—?”
    But you held your hand up to cut me off, as if you needed to think or listen for something. You ran your fingertips over the cabinets, the magnetic knife rack, and the knobs on the stove.
    “Here. They were. Here. But—it’s—”
    You stopped, with your head cocked. Then, as if coming to a decision, you walked out of the room and headed for the basement stairs.
    “Where are we going?” I asked, which was a way of making conversation or not listening to the horrible silence, I suppose, because the answer was obvious. Iona’s study. At the bottom step, you flipped the lights on. The house had looked normal, undisturbed, but when we stepped into her work area, I knew something was wrong. Every book and file had been stacked neatly on the floor. Derek Partridge’s office in Rome all over again.
    You stepped in gingerly among the piles and turned slowly, scanning the room. Two paces, and you were at the closet on the far side, pulling out typical basement-closet stuff: a coat; two plastic tubs, one for hats and one for gloves; an umbrella with a broken strut; old gallon paint cans, one with “Downstairs Bath” in black marker on the lid. Up top, at head height, there was a shelf with two brown cardboard boxes—“Spare Bulbs” and “Batteries.” You looked at everything carefully, and then stood at the other end and reached up to touch, with your fingertips, a foot-wide space next to “Batteries.”
    “It’s gone,” you said.
    After that you went into a controlled frenzy, talking loudly to yourself as you systematically ransacked the house. Drawers pulled out.