Bookman's promise cj-3

by John Dunning

  “I don’t know. How big is it?”

  “Not big—few thousand people, one main drag, buncha winding little streets. But it helps if you know where you’re goin‘. It can get dark here.”

  I held up a paper and read my own writing in the glare of oncoming lights. “Where is Hill Street?”

  “I can take you there.”

  “Just wondering if it can be walked from downtown.”

  “If you like to walk. It’s uphill both ways, as my kid likes to say.”

  We crossed a river and were suddenly in Howard County. We clattered over a railroad track, passed a large stone building, and started to climb. “My wife comes from around here,” the cabbie said. “Her dad had a gas station.”

  If I expected just another sprawling suburb, this was a surprise. Everything seemed to be narrow, winding, carved out of stone and at least a century old. Frederick Road had become Main Street, with stone buildings on both sides. What I could see in the night reminded me of Colorado. The town made me think of Central City.

  The road took a turn and a moment later the cabbie said, “This is as downtown as it gets. Hill Street’s straight ahead on your left, maybe a quarter of a mile. It’s no skin off my nose to drive you there.”

  “Thanks.” I thought about it, then said, “I’ll get out here and go on my own.”

  I stood in the shadows of Main Street as the taxi disappeared back down the hill. It had to be eleven o’clock by then: pretty late to go groping through a strange land. I still felt jittery and I couldn’t shake the notion that I was being followed. I walked along a street flanked by pubs and eateries and various shops that had closed hours ago. Night-lights shone through darkened windows, and beyond the street I could see an occasional light higher up, as if on a hillside. The Central City image grew stronger as I walked past something called Church Road and continued up the hill.

  I passed a fire station and a bar. Stopped for a moment and looked back. A few cars were there on the street behind me, a few people were out on the sidewalk. No one who seemed to care, no one who watched, no one who followed.

  Near the top was an old church. Hill Street led away to the left, looking like a lithograph, like a country lane in the moonlight.

  The climb continued with only the moon as a guide. Occasionally I could see lights from a house but most were dark, their people asleep for the night. I had no flashlight but I remembered what Koko’d said: the fifth house on the right and her name was on the mailbox.

  I saw it then, a low, flat dwelling on a large piece of land, surrounded by trees. Surprisingly there was a light, a faint glow that might have come from a lantern or a gas lamp. I stepped along her walk and clumped up onto her porch. Knocked on her door.

  I heard a bump. The house was quiet then for what seemed a long time.

  A shadow passed at the side window. I saw a hand, then a face in silhouette.

  The porch light came on. I saw a dark figure looking at me through a small window. The shape looked female but I couldn’t be sure yet.

  “Koko? It’s Janeway, from Denver.”

  The shadow backed away from the window and a moment later the door opened just a crack. I saw nothing of a face, only the rims of her glasses reflected from the porch light. But when she spoke, I recognized her voice.

  “Mr. Janeway?”

  “I know it’s late. I’m sorry. I did try calling earlier.”

  “I was meditating. I can’t hear the phone when I’m in that room.”

  “I should come back tomorrow.”

  I hoped she would counter but she said nothing.

  A moment passed. I took a chance. “Listen, Koko, what I really need is to talk to you right now, tonight. Some things have happened since we spoke on the phone.”

  I heard her take a breath. “This can’t be good if it brings you here at midnight.”

  “A friend of mine has been killed.”

  She leaned closer to the door and said, “I’m sorry.” I saw the shadow of her face move across the crack in the door and she regarded me with her right eye.

  “How was he killed?”

  “She. The police think it was just a neighborhood burglary.”

  “Sounds like you don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t know what I believe. It’s not like me to make up spooks, but I’ve been thinking all kinds of crazy things since I got to Baltimore.”

  “Things that have to do with Josephine.”

  Before I could confirm that, she said, “My manners are terrible. Come in.”

  I stepped into a dark hallway. The entire house was dark except for the dim orange lamplight in the room off to my right, and Koko was still nothing more than a shadow. She led me toward what was apparently a living room and I had a vision of a slender girl with a shawl over her shoulders, surrounded by books. The shawl was dark, I saw in the lamplight from the doorway; the girl, from her own description on the telephone, would be a woman somewhat older than me, but the girlish image persisted as she crossed the room into the light.

  There was a hint of incense in the air. The room was slightly hazy, like a scene in an art film. She turned and motioned me to a chair. She was indeed slim. Her face was young and unwrinkled, her age just hinted by the glasses and her hair, which now in the orange light looked to be black speckled with either white or gray. Even with the salt-and-pepper hair she looked no older than thirty-five. Her face like the rest of her was thin, but warm in the fuzzy light. I could see a line of sweat on her forehead, though the house was cool. She said, “Please sit,” and she took a chair facing mine.

  I looked in her eyes, which seemed to be blue. “You’re younger than I thought.”

  She smiled slightly. “I’m afraid that’s a huge illusion. If I look younger than I am, it’s because I’ve been doing the right things for about thirty years now. It’s no great secret—just do what they all tell you.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Herbalists, medicine men, a shaman or two. I stretch, I walk, I get violent, fierce exercise at odd moments of the day. Just before you came, as a matter of fact. I eat right. And I don’t smoke. That’s the absolute worst thing you can do to yourself.”

  She had a kind smile, which began in her eyes and radiated through her face. She smiled now and said, “I’ll be sixty-two next month.”

  “Get out of here!”

  “You look pretty fit yourself.”

  “That’s because I’m young at heart.”

  “You look like you’re thirty-five and you talk like a wise guy.”

  “I’m thirty-seven. I run obsessively, drink occasionally, take in way too much caffeine, and dispense more verbal trash than you’ll get from a dozen other sources in a month of Sundays. That’s the wise guy part of my nature. But I don’t smoke.”

  “Good for you. Can I get you something? I was just about to have tea.”

  “At midnight?”

  “I’m retired, Mr. Janeway. I have no clock to answer to, so I sleep when I want, stay up all night if I feel like it, and drink tea whenever it pleases me.”

  “I would love some tea at midnight.”

  “Good. I’ll be right back.”

  While she was gone I got up and looked around the room. She had books shelved everywhere, works on Eastern philosophy, on India and Egypt, Sufism and hypnosis; some poetry, some literature, a few fascinating individuals. The works of Rabindranath Tagore, the life of Gandhi, all the obvious books by and about Richard Burton. She had tacked a small framed quote from Tagore on the end of her bookcase: Modern civilization has gathered its wealth and missed its well-being. I looked into a dark hallway and I could see more books on both sides.

  “I read a lot.” She stood behind me, holding a tray with cups and a steaming pot.

  “And you move like a cat.”

  “It’s a solid house. Not many creaking boards. And I never wear shoes inside.”

  I looked back at her books. “Interesting collection.”

  “Does i
t tell you anything about its owner?”

  “Sure. There are no better indicators of character than the books you have.”

  “What do you look for when you go into a house and there are no books at all?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever’s there, I guess. But I always feel a sense of…what’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “Pity’s the word.”

  “That’s a strong, judgmental word.” But I thought about it and said, “Yeah.”

  “I couldn’t live without books. What amazes me is how many people can. I know writers who have no books at all, if you can believe that.”

  I not only believed it, I knew some of the same writer types. Glory seekers who want to make lots of money writing books but would never think of buying one.

  “Come drink your tea before it gets cold.”

  I took a sip and said, “What is this? It’s not tea.”

  “It’s an herbal concoction. Do you like it?”

  “Yeah, I think I do.”

  “It’ll put hair on your chest.”

  I laughed. “Never had that problem, actually.”

  I asked her what kind of name Koko Bujak was.

  “My father was what’s called a White Russian. My mother was from Baltimore.”

  We looked at each other. “So what can I do for you?” she said.

  I owed her the truth and I told it all: facts, suspicions, everything.

  She didn’t say a word the whole time. She barely moved in the chair. Her eyes were riveted to mine, a compelling gaze that made me keenly aware of her hypnotic skills as I talked. She must have blinked during the half hour but I never saw her do it. After a while her eyes were like pinpoints of energy and the rest of her went out of focus. I wasn’t telling this story, she was pulling it out of me, but that was okay, none of it was against my will; I never had the feeling of going under or being out of my own control. If I wanted to I could get up any time, in the middle of a sentence, walk out, and fly back to Denver. It was almost pleasant except for the reality that someone had killed Denise and my sudden hunch that the killer might be in Baltimore, not Denver.

  “That’s why I’m here at midnight,” I said as her face came into focus.

  I didn’t know what I expected her to do with it. What I didn’t expect was how the conversation went from there.

  “So you think I may be on someone’s list, is that what you’re saying?”

  “I don’t know, Koko. That sounds pretty goofy, doesn’t it?”

  “A week ago, maybe. Now, it doesn’t.” She took a deep breath, let it out through her nose. “I’ve had a feeling for the past week that someone’s been watching me.”

  “Have you seen anybody?”

  “I had a prowler last night. But I felt someone there long before that happened.”

  “What kind of prowler? Noises?”

  “No, not just a sound. Someone I actually saw in the yard behind the house.”

  “How much of a look did you get?”

  “Not much. He was back there in the trees, just for a moment.”

  “What time of day was it?”

  “Middle of the night. Just about this time.”

  “How’d you happen to see him?”

  “Felt a cat cross my path. Went to the back door and there he was, in the yard.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “Oh yes. He was crossing the yard, looking toward the house when I came to the door. I couldn’t have been more than a silhouette from where he was but we saw each other. He stopped in his tracks, then he veered into the trees and ran off that way.”

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “What good would that do? He was gone before I could even get to the phone. Besides, the police would only blame the blacks.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “There’s a black housing project up on Mount Ida Drive. Lots of low-income black families, lots of crime. The police are always over there about something.”

  “This prowler you had, were you able to see him well enough to—”

  “He was white. It never crossed my mind that he might be some local kid. Maybe I couldn’t see him well enough to identify him, but there was moonlight, like tonight. I know what I saw.”

  “Anything else?”

  “You mean other incidents? No, nothing that obvious.”

  “Anything at all.”

  “Like I told you, I’ve been restless for about a week. Actually, it’s been more than a month now, but for the past week since I talked to you it’s been more…intense. I’m not sleeping well, and that’s unusual. I wake up after a few hours with a feeling that my life’s been invaded. That probably makes no sense at all and I can only tell you that it makes as much sense to me as seeing that man in the yard. I’ll get up at, say, two o’clock in the morning and go straight to the back door, as if someone had knocked on it.”

  “But there’s never anyone there.”

  “Except that one time, no. But on Tuesday…” She shivered suddenly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I felt it just now. It’s probably talking about it that gives me the creeps.” She got up and went to the window. “See? Nobody there.”

  She came back and sat in her chair, but I could see she was still nervous.

  “You were about to tell me what happened Tuesday.”

  She smiled wanly. “You’re pretty serious with your questions. Almost like a policeman yourself.”

  “I was one, for a long time.”

  I told her a bit about it, hoping to gain her confidence. Then I asked her again what had happened on Tuesday.

  “I went to the store out on the highway to get some groceries. I was gone maybe an hour. When I got home I had a feeling even before I got out of the car. Like, somebody’s here, only it was stronger than just a feeling. For a few minutes I was absolutely certain someone was in my house. I sat in the car for a long time, working up the courage to go inside. When I finally did, there was nothing…and yet the feeling wouldn’t go away.” She looked at the window. “Obviously it never has gone away. I still have it.”

  “Did you look through your stuff to see if anything was missing or out of place?”

  “I looked through everything. If I’d had a burglar, he was a very good one. Nothing was missing. And the first thing I did was look at the Burton material.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “I had a hunch. If you haven’t figured it out yet, I follow my hunches.”

  “So you thought all along that this had something to do with Burton and Josephine. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “There’s more to it than that. Did Jo tell you about the Tread-wells?”

  “She said one of the old Treadwells stole her Burton books eighty years ago.”

  “She always believed that. One of the first things that came out of our sessions was the name Treadwell. I was surprised to learn about that store, how it’s still in business, and Jo was haunted by it. I don’t think that’s too strong a word—she was just haunted by the idea that something they did all those years ago might have had such a negative effect on her life. It became such an obstacle that I knew we’d have to confront it, so one day I suggested that we go down there and see the place, look around. She leaped at the chance. I never thought we’d be in any kind of danger.”

  “So what happened?”

  “One afternoon we went and at first it was just what I thought— a look around. She had me carry her bag, which was heavy. I didn’t know what was in it then. There was a woman running the place. Jo asked if the Treadwells still owned it and the woman said yes. Jo asked if she could speak to them, and a minute later a man came out of the office.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Small…cold.”

  “Carl.”

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve seen him—talked to him, so to speak.”

  “Well, at that point I didn’t know what was going to ha
ppen, what she was going to do. ‘Show him my book,’ she said, and I looked in the bag and there was this exquisite old book—it turned out to be the African book. I was as surprised as Treadwell; I had no idea she had anything like that. ‘What’ll you give me for this?’ she said, and Treadwell got all shaky and tense. I mean, truly, you could see it all over him. ‘Where’d you get this book?’ he said, and it was almost like an accusation. ‘What’ll you give me for it?’ Jo said again. He looked at her hard, like he was trying to size her up. Then he said, ‘Two thousand.’ Jo smiled. It was a bitter smile, not funny, and she said, ‘I thought so. You’re still a den of thieves.’”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow. But what happened then still shivers my timbers. He reached over and put his hand on the book and said, ‘I’ve got to tell you something: this looks like a stolen book to me. I’ll have to confiscate it till we learn where it came from.’”

  “Wow. Then what happened?”

  “I snatched it away from him. Said, ‘Don’t you even think of trying to take this lady’s book. I’ll go to the cops so fast it’ll make your head swim.’”

  “What’d he say to that?”

  “Nothing. I put the book back in the bag and we walked out. But he saw us drive away, got a good look at my car.”

  “And maybe the plate number. So was that when…” “That’s when it started—that spooky feeling I had. For a while I thought it was just nerves, but I’m not usually like that.”

  “So that day, when you went to the store, you had good reason to worry about your Burton stuff. But nobody had touched it?”

  “I have it well hidden.”

  “Here in the house, though, right?”

  She took her time answering that. At last she said, “If somebody wanted to tear the house apart, he could find it. Whoever was here had decided—at least for the moment—not to do that. He wanted to keep me thinking no one had been here. I don’t know how he could even get in without breaking something, but somebody was here. That’s what I think, since you asked. I think someone was here. And he looked through my Burton books, the ones on the open shelf. He went through my things, then very carefully he put them all back. Then he left, just a few minutes before I got home. But his aura—his heat—was still here. That’s what I think.”