IN THE DARK, page 2
Thanks a heap, Don.
Well, there was no hurry.
Back behind the circulation desk, she picked up the envelope. She removed the note and the fifty-dollar bill, and studied them both.
She had rarely seen any denominations higher than twenty dollars. The fifty seemed a bit alien. On one side was a portrait of President Grant, on the other a rendition of the U.S. Capitol. She supposed it was real.
She also supposed that she was meant to keep it. After all, the thing had come in an envelope with her name on it.
Why would anyone want to give me fifty bucks?
Was it supposed to be a gift? she wondered. Or maybe payment for some real or imagined services?
Payment in advance?
Cute, she thought. Maybe now he expects something from me. Figures I’ve taken the money, so I owe him.
That’s what he thinks.
She read the note again:
Dear Jane,
Come and play with me. For further instructions, look homeward, angel. You’ll be glad you did.
Warmest Regards,
MOG
(Master of Games)
The “come and play with me” sounded sort of like the eager request a child might make. Will you come out and play?
Of course, “come” was also a rather vulgar euphemism for an orgasm. “Play with me” also carried some strong sexual implications. Maybe this was an invitation—payment enclosed—to mess around with its sender.
He wants to fuck me.
The idea blasted away Jane’s composure. Anger, humiliation, fear, revulsion, and an unexpected surge of desire seemed to hit her all at once, stealing her breath, making her heart race, surging heat through her body.
“The bastard,” she muttered. Here’s fifty bucks, now come and play with me.
Maybe that isn’t what he means, she thought.
And maybe it is.
She suddenly looked up. She turned her head, scanning the entire room.
She saw nobody. What she saw were countless hiding places: in among the rows of bookshelves, down low behind the tables and chairs, behind any of the several shoulder-high card catalogs, behind the photocopy machine.
In front of my desk.
She pushed her feet against the rung of her chair and raised herself off the cushion. Hands pressed against the desk top, she leaned forward and gazed past the edge.
Nobody there.
She settled down onto her seat again.
I oughta get out of here, she thought.
Then she thought, How dangerous can a guy be if he’s giving me fifty bucks?
Also, he must be familiar with literature. The “look homeward, angel” business was definitely an allusion to the Thomas Wolfe novel—one of Jane’s favorites.
She read that part of the note again. “For further instructions, look homeward, angel.”
Further? He sees this note as the initial instruction. He has more for me. Maybe the further instructions will be given face to face.
Maybe not.
Maybe I’m supposed to go home and look in my mailbox for the further instructions. Look homeward. Maybe I’ll find an envelope with another note inside—and another fifty dollars.
Maybe I’ll find it in the book.
Tucked inside a copy of Look Homeward, Angel.
The library’s copy, if not checked out or misplaced, should be on a shelf in the fiction section.
In the upstairs stacks.
I need to go up there anyway, she reminded herself. I’ll just take a quick look at the book.
What if he’s waiting for me there?
CHAPTER TWO
Jane folded the note around the fifty dollars and tucked it back inside the envelope. Her hands were trembling. She felt a little crawly in her stomach. As she walked into her office, she wondered if she really planned to go upstairs all by herself when there was a real possibility that the author of the note might be lurking there.
What am I supposed to do, leave?
Leave without shutting off the upstairs lights, without making sure everyone has cleared out? No way.
She crouched beside her office desk and slipped the envelope into her purse. Then she stood up. From the top drawer of the desk, she took her switchblade knife.
She’d found the knife a day before her seventeenth birthday, while hiking in the woods near Mount Tamalpias. The point of its slim, three-inch blade had been buried in a redwood trunk. She’d worked it loose and kept the knife.
It made quite a nice letter opener.
She released the lever at the base of the blade, then folded the blade into the handle, where it clicked into place.
If I need to take something like this with me, she thought, I shouldn’t be going at all.
She looked at the office phone.
Call the police? That’d be very cute. Explain that somebody gave me fifty bucks, so now I’m afraid to go upstairs and turn off the lights.
They’ll think I’m a weenie.
Bringing in the cops over a matter like this would be foolish. But she tried to think of a friend she might ask to come over.
Hello? I’m a little bit spooked about going upstairs here at the library, and I was wondering if you’d maybe like to come over and keep me company? Shouldn’t take more than five minutes.
She did have a few friends who would be quick to respond if she called—but none who lived in Donnerville. Most of them lived at least an hour away. She certainly couldn’t ask any of them to drive out here on such a lame pretext.
And it really is lame, she told herself. For one thing, this Master of Games character might be long gone. For another, he’s probably harmless.
Maybe nothing but a twerpy kid. MOG, Master of Games. Sounds like the brainchild of a nerd who’s spent too much time playing Dungeons and Dragons, or something.
Well, she thought, we’ll soon find out.
For better or worse.
Just in case of worse, I’ve got my trusty knife.
On her way out of the office, Jane rubbed the switchblade against her right thigh, trying to slip it into her pocket. Having no success, she looked down. She was wearing her denim skirt, not her culottes. The culottes had pockets, but the skirt didn’t.
Her only pockets were on the front of her blouse. The white blouse, big enough to be comfortably loose, had a large pocket on each side of the chest. As she headed for the staircase, she unbuttoned the flap over the pocket on the right, lifted it, and dropped in the knife.
The plastic handle bumped against her breast. It turned sideways as it slid downward. From the tip of her breast, it fell to the bottom of the pocket. It hung there as if caught in a hammock, swaying back and forth as she walked.
Terrific, Jane thought. She’d forgotten how enormous these pockets were.
The damn knife won’t do me a lot of good if I have to spend five minutes fishing it out.
She was already at the fire door, so she went ahead and pushed it open. The lights in the stairwell were still on. The bulbs gave off enough light to illuminate the stair treads. Just fine for safety. But they were dim and yellowish.
Not exactly cheerful.
I really should get them changed, she told herself. Just buy some new ones myself. Might help the dismal atmosphere in here.
While I’m at it, have the stairs de-squeaked.
Every one of the old wooden stairs groaned or creaked or squawked as she climbed.
This is a regular spookhouse. Why did I ever take this job in the first place?
Cut it out, she told herself. The job’s just fine.
Right. It’s the building that sucks.
As Jane arrived at the landing, halfway up, the swinging bottom of her pocket reminded her that she wanted to retrieve the knife.
Get it now, while the getting’s good. If you wait till you need it…
I won’t need it, she told herself.
Lord, I hope not.
Continuing to climb, she shoved her fingers down into the pocket. Her thumb didn’t go in with them, but she didn’t think she would need its help.
She worked her fingertips between the knife handle and the bottom of her pocket (felt like some sand down there—where’d that come from?) and began to raise the knife. Having no grip on it, she could only bring it up by sliding it against the underside of her breast.
As she set her foot on the top stair, the door burst open and a man charged at her.
She yelped, flinched, reached for the banister.
The man gasped, “Whoa!”
As Jane grabbed the banister with her left hand, her right squeezed the knife in her pocket.
She felt the hard nub of its button sink down.
Uh-oh!
She dropped the knife as the blade sprang from its handle. It whipped up against her nipple while she stumbled backward and the man skidded to a halt and clamped a hand on her shoulder.
The hand stopped her, held her steady.
“I’m sorry,” the stranger blurted. “Are you okay?”
Jane nodded. She tried to catch her breath. Her heart was thudding quick and hard. Her nipple tingled and burned. She looked down, half expecting to find the pocket of her blouse soaked with blood.
No blood.
But half an inch of shiny steel point jutted out from the side of her pocket.
The stranger looked at it, too. Then he met her eyes and said, “Are you sure you aren’t hurt?”
“I’m all right.”
“You didn’t cut yourself, did you?”
He’s talking about my boob! Man!
“It sort of felt like it, but I don’t see any blood.”
He still held Jane’s shoulder.
She wanted to get away from him, wanted to hold her hurt, wanted to check the damage. “Were you on your way down?” she asked.
He nodded, but didn’t take the hint. “I shouldn’t have been in such a hurry. Afraid I didn’t realize it’d gotten so late. You’re the librarian, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Coming up to shoo me out?”
“I didn’t know anyone was up here.”
“I’m really sorry.” He released her shoulder, turned around and opened the door for her.
“Thanks,” she said.
She expected him to head on down, but he followed her out of the stairwell. She looked back at him.
He gave her a smile that looked friendly and a little sheepish. “Do you mind? Maybe I could help you pick up, or something. I hate to leave you alone up here. Especially right after I’ve arranged to scare the daylights out of you.”
Jane knew she shouldn’t trust him. What was he doing up here after closing time? He might even be the man who called himself MOG. But nothing about him seemed threatening. He looked very normal: his hair slightly unkempt; his clean-shaven face attractive but not handsome in any striking way; his shirt and jeans casual but neat and clean.
For the first time, Jane noticed that he was carrying a book. It must’ve been in his left hand all along.
A very thick book.
The nape of her neck began to crawl.
Look Homeward, Angel. Has to be. Can’t possibly be anything else.
“What’s that?” she asked.
The stranger raised the book. “Youngblood Hawke. Wouk? I’ve been meaning to read it for… too late to check it out tonight?”
“No. No, that’s fine.” She released a shaky breath. “You can either stick around, or wait downstairs. This’ll only take a couple of minutes.”
“I’ll walk along with you, if that’s all right.”
“Fine.”
From the stairwell door, an aisle stretched the length of the room. To the aisle’s right, study carrels lined the wall. To the left stood row after row of bookshelves that reached to the ceiling. The stranger stayed at Jane’s side, but half a pace behind, allowing her to lead the way.
Except for their footsteps and the creaking floorboards, there was silence.
“Was anybody else up here?” Jane asked.
“Just now? I don’t think so, but I was reading. I tend to block everything out when I’m in a good book. Want me to grab these?” he asked, gesturing toward several books that had been left at one of the carrels.
“They can wait till morning. Thanks, though.”
“Welcome. My name’s Brace, by the way.”
Jane looked over at him. “It’s what?”
“Brace. Brace Paxton.”
Deciding not to question him about his unusual name, she went ahead and introduced herself. “I’m Jane Kerry.”
“I thought it might be James Bowie.”
“Are you a wise guy, Brace Paxton?”
“Sorry. But maybe you oughta take that knife out of your pocket. I’d hate to see you trip and fall with it open like that.”
“Me, too, actually.” Halting, she turned toward the gap between two rows of shelves. Her back to Brace, she delved into the pocket of her blouse. “It’s a switchblade,” she explained. “That’s how it opened. Its safety thing doesn’t work.”
Carefully, she fingered her nipple through the fabric. It felt a little tender, but the pain had faded away. The blade must’ve given her no more than a harsh, stinging flick. “I was trying to take it out when you rammed through the door, and I pushed the button by accident.”
“Hope it didn’t do any damage.”
A blush spread sudden heat through Jane. She quit fingering her breast and reached deeper into the pocket. “I guess I’m fine.” She curled her fingertips underneath the knife handle.
“Be careful taking it out.”
“I’m trying to be.”
This is a lousy idea, she thought. He can’t see my hand, but he sure knows where it is. Next thing you know, he’ll be offering to help.
“If I’d been keeping better track of the time,” he said, “none of this would’ve happened.”
“No harm done.”
“I’m glad we met, though.”
Wish I could say the same, she thought. Then she said, “Well, thanks.”
She tightened her precarious grip on the knife. Then she pushed her knuckles against the pocket, bulging the blouse away from her body to put her breast out of harm’s way, and drew the knife upward, sliding its blade free of the slit. “There. Got it.” She turned around and showed him the weapon.
“You’re sure you aren’t hurt?”
“I’m fine.” She folded the blade shut.
“Where’ll you put it, now?”
“Guess I’ll just carry it.”
They continued on their way down the aisle, Jane checking between the rows of shelves, Brace walking slowly beside her.
As they made their way toward the end of the room, Jane realized she was growing more and more tense. At first, she wasn’t sure why. Then she knew.
Because they were almost to the Ws.
Should she check for Look Homeward, Angel?
Why not?
She’d spent enough time reshelving books up here to know the exact location of the Thomas Wolfe novels. She would be walking right past them.
What about Brace? she asked herself.
If you don’t want to do it in front of him, you’ll have to go all the way downstairs with him, usher him out, then come back up here by yourself.
Or wait till tomorrow.
She couldn’t wait, just couldn’t.
“Maybe I’ll pick up something for myself,” she muttered, then sidestepped out of the aisle. She found herself facing shelf after shelf loaded with hardbound novels. She crouched down. Wolfe was lower still—level with her knees.
“Are you going for Wouk?” Brace asked.
“Wolfe.”
“Bonfire boy, or…?”
“Thomas.”
She spotted two copies of Look Homeward, Angel, followed by an empty space, after which was a single copy of The Web and the Rock, another open space, then two copies or You Can’t Go Home Again.
Jane pulled out a copy of Look Homeward, Angel. Elbows on knees, she opened the book and flipped through it.
“That’s just about my favorite book of all time,” Brace said.
“It is?” She looked up at him.
Her heart thudded hard.
What the hell.
“Did you leave a note on my chair tonight?”
“Huh?”
“Master of Games?”
Frowning, he shook his head. The confused way he looked, Jane might’ve been speaking jibberish.
“The what?” he asked.
“Are you the one who left the note?”
“What note?”
“I mean, it’s all right. I’m just curious, okay? It’s not very often I get mysterious notes with money in them.”
“I don’t know anything about any note.”
“You don’t, huh?”
“What sort of note?”
“ ‘Come and play with me? For further instructions, look homeward, angel?’ That sort of note. With a fifty-dollar bill in it?”
He looked mystified. “It wasn’t from me. If I had a fifty-dollar bill, I wouldn’t be giving it away.” A smile suddenly lit his face. “Well, maybe to you. If you needed it very badly. Maybe.”
If this is Mog, Jane thought, he’s got an odd way of lying.
“Okay,” she said. “Maybe it wasn’t you.”
“Anything in the book there?” he asked.
She returned her attention to the novel, riffled through its pages, and made sure that nothing was hidden in the dust jacket. As she slid it back into its place on the shelf, Brace said, “I think that’s another copy…”
“I know.” She dragged the second copy forward. Even before lifting it from the shelf, she spotted a strip of white paper protruding from its top like a bookmark.
“There y’go,” Brace said, sounding pleased.
Jane opened the book. Tucked into its gutter was an envelope.
The envelope looked identical to the one she’d found downstairs on her chair. Even her handwritten name looked the same.
She plucked it out and shut the book.
“Woops,” Brace said.
“What?”
“Maybe it was there to mark a passage.”
“You sure you don’t have anything to do with this?”
“Honest. Just trying to help.”
