Free Elisha’s Bones by Don Hoesel

for?” Her tone indicates that she doesn’t quite believe me, yet among the derisive names I’ve earned over the years, liar isn’t one of them, and she knows that.
    The waiter returns then with the receipt, and I add a generous tip to the paper and slip the card back into my wallet.
    When Esperanza stands, I follow, saying, “So, what now?”
    “If you’ve only got three weeks, then we need to get started. And we’re not going to learn anything about your mystery organization sitting here.” With that, she heads for the door with a look in her eyes that I remember from those years ago. It’s the one she gets when she’s excited by something, and I know it’s there because of Reese. Even a continent away, the man casts a shadow.

C HAPTER 6
    T he library of the Central University of Venezuela looks more modern than its older cousin back at Evanston. Lines of large windows render the main reading room bright and airy. It reminds me of a cafeteria. The commonality is that paper cuts hurt, regardless of which side of the equator one is on.
    It’s been three hours and I’m certain that every square millimeter of each of my fingers has at least one paper cut. A pile of books obscures most of the long table we’re using, the majority of them spent of their usefulness. Espy is scouring a text from the 1930s, and with each rapid page flip, the frown on her face grows deeper. I have to admit, if only to myself, as my sore nose admonishes, that it’s fulfilling to see her growing frustrated. Even though I’m relying on her, there exists a small portion of my psyche that wants some minor recompense for the assault back at her office. And she likely knows that, which would only serve to increase her irritation.
    During the short drive here, Espy had slipped into silence, and I hadn’t pressed. This has to have hit her hard, and I’m amazed at her equanimity—the strength of character that has her acting with civility. True, part of her temporary willingness to set aside the past is almost certainly a result of the mystery I’ve dangled in front of her; had I shown up on her doorstep without an intellectual carrot, it is likely she would have done a good deal more violence to my person.
    She reaches for a water bottle, her eyes fixed on a page. I’m supposed to be helping, and I’m making something resembling an effort, but I’m out of my depth. She’s admitted that this is like looking for a very large needle in a small haystack—difficult, but not impossible—and I do not bring much to the table. I’m passing the time watching her work, and becoming more amused every time I see her do something that reminds me of the time when we were together. Most of them are small things: the way she purses her lips when she’s deep in thought; the way she absently brushes aside a strand of hair. The collection of mannerisms peculiar to a person. I’d forgotten how much she reminds me of her brother.
    Even so, I can’t escape the impression—even taking into account how long it’s been since we’ve been in the same room— that there is something markedly different about her, something I can’t put my finger on. It’s almost as if she’s wearing a metaphysical outfit with which I’m familiar, but she’s accessorized with a new scarf. I ponder this analogy for a moment before returning my attention to the open book in front of me.
    After a while, she closes her book and sets it aside. With a sigh, she reaches for another. It’s substantial and I can’t see the name for the faded spine. She opens it and flips through the chapters with the eye of one reconnecting with an old literary friend. I have no doubt that she’s read most of the books on this table, but time would have relegated most of them to the position of third cousin at a family reunion—the one whose name is always just out of reach. The pages of this one give a satisfying crinkle as she turns them. I sink into my chair, giving up even the pretense