Cursed Blessing (Trilogy of the Chosen Book 1)

by J. M. LeDuc

  The library had been closed for about two hours. Brent unlocked the doors and escorted everyone down the steps to their cars. Once back inside, he was so pumped from his victory that he wasn’t ready to call it a day. He suddenly remembered the boxes under his desk and practically ran back to his office.

  Brent moved some of the paperwork off his desk to make room for the boxes, and dragged the first one out. “Err,” Brent grunted, “I forgot how heavy these boxes are,” he said to himself as he hefted it up onto the desk.

  Brent reached into his pants’ pocket, pulled out his army-issue utility knife and cut the tape. Each book had been meticulously wrapped in a special soft cloth that had been chemically treated to repel moisture and stop the growth of mold. Wow, these books were packed by someone who knew what he was doing, Brent thought. They weren’t packed by a distraught widow just following her late husband’s wishes. He unwrapped the first book. What he saw amazed him. It was a first edition of Don Quixote de La Mancha written by Miguel Cervantes and published in 1615. Brent had to sit down. He was almost afraid to touch it. Before he went any further, he opened the top drawer of his desk and put on a pair of white cotton gloves to keep the oil from his skin from damaging the pages of the book. This has to be worth a fortune, he thought. His next thought was the spilled coffee from that afternoon. I’d better completely clear off the desk before I do anything else. There are no second chances if I spill coffee on this.

  Brent could have looked at that book for hours, even days, but he wanted to see what else lay hidden beneath the pieces of cloth. Each book was more incredible than the last. All were masterpieces, first editions in near-perfect condition, and written by the world’s most celebrated authors: Dickens, Shakespeare, Dostoevsky and Melville. But it was the last one, the only one in the second box, that he just couldn’t even imagine was his.

  By this point, he was slowly and meticulously unwrapping each book. The last one didn’t seem to even be a book, not a bound one, anyway. It took him a few minutes to decipher the language since it was written in longhand. Once he realized what he had in his hands, his heart beat so fast that he had to sit back for a moment. He composed himself and then leaned forward to touch a part of literary history. He was holding one of the original seven copies of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, which had been hand copied by Sophie Behrs, his wife. He knew it to be her handwriting because under the hundreds of pages lay a letter to the publisher, signed by her personally.

  Brent looked at the clock—12:15 a.m. I’d better put all of this away and get home while I’m still coherent. I can’t believe what time it is. He repacked the books in the first box just the way he had found them, and he knew where he had to put them—at least for now. He walked to the bookcase, and behind a copy of Jekyll and Hyde, he found a small lever that had been built into the bookshelf. He depressed it, unlocking the entire case from the wall it was attached to.

  He pushed the entire unit, which was attached to a track on the floor. He slid it to the side, revealing a door. Again, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his utility knife and found the tool that was an exact replica of the original key he kept in the safe-deposit box. He placed it in the keyhole and turned it for the first time in nearly twenty years. The reason Brent was so adamant about preserving this building was not entirely altruistic. His great-great-grandfather, an architect, had built a secret room behind the bookcase, and Brent had promised his grandfather that he would always take care of it. He had been the last owner of the key and the maintenance manager of the library.

  Brent used to accompany his grandfather when he worked at night and played in the secret rooms and passageways built into this old building. After his grandfather passed away when he was seventeen, he couldn’t bring himself to enter these rooms again, and until now, there was no reason to do so.

  A tear came to his eye as he stepped into the room behind the bookcase. Memories of the man he loved and admired more than any other flooded his mind. Brent placed the box on the floor, then went back to pack up the second box. Until he was able to contact Lucille and talk to her about the books, he wanted them safe and totally out of sight. He placed the handwritten copy of War and Peace in the box along with Sophie’s letter and was just about to re-tape the box when he noticed another envelope.

  This one was taped to the underside of the top flap of the box, and had his name on it. This mystery just keeps getting thicker, doesn’t it, he thought. He removed the envelope and stared. It sent chills up his spine. Something in the way his name was written was eerily familiar. He opened the envelope, removed its contents and began to read. He was struck by déjà vu for the second time that day.

  Trust No One

  With Age Comes Wisdom

  Youth Is For the Foolhardy

  Foolishness Leads to Death

  The Pen Is Mightier Than the Sword

  Both Can Kill You

  Use Them Wisely

  ________________________

  No Man Is An Island

  Brent read and re-read the lines. Then it came to him. “It can’t be,” he said. “It’s not possible. But somehow, it must be because I’m looking at it.” What he held was a note or a warning, he wasn’t quite sure which, written in his grandfather’s handwriting.

  CHAPTER 5

  Brent gathered himself together, placed the box next to the first, and walked out of the secret room, making sure to lock the door and shut the bookcase. He placed everything back on his desk, which was probably overkill, but he did not want to raise any suspicion. He then left the library for the night. He set the alarm and shut the door. He was never so happy that the locked gate was there. Walking home, Brent’s mind was so entrenched on the events of the day that he didn’t see the black Hummer once again following him. He couldn’t stop thinking about the note that he now had in his pocket. “What a weird day. What does it all mean?” he asked himself. Only one person knew for sure, and he would call her first thing in the morning. Well, maybe two people knew, and both were women. Great, Brent thought, I have a hard enough time understanding them under normal circumstances, and these are anything but normal.

  By the time he got home and settled into bed, it was two in the morning. He wouldn’t need nightmares to keep him awake tonight. Today proved the old adage, truth is stranger than fiction. Needless to say, Brent didn’t sleep much. He lay there in limbo, half awake, half asleep, as if he were hovering over the mattress. At six o’clock, he gave up trying and rolled over. He lit a cigarette. He lay there blowing smoke rings; watching them float toward the ceiling, trying to decide what to do first. Always there in his mind was his grandfather’s note. What was the connection between his grandfather and Joseph Conklin, he thought. Did Lucille know who he was? They couldn’t have been friends, they were a generation a part. Did Joseph and Lucille Conklin know his parents? Wouldn’t that just beat all?

  Brent hadn’t even known his parents. They had been killed in an accident when he was two years old. He was reared by his grandfather from then on. He couldn’t remember that period in time and when he was old enough to ask questions, his grandfather sidestepped the topic each time it came up.

  “Grandpa, how did my parents die?” a seven-year-old Brent would ask.

  “I told you, buddy, they were in a bad accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “A car accident. Say, you want to go play catch?” Or his grandfather would start to play fight or tickle him—two good distractions.

  When Brent grew older, he tried other tactics to get information. “Hey, Gramps, I need to write a report on my parents for school. Can you tell me more about them?”

  “They loved you very much and would be here with you if it were possible.”

  “Do you have any pictures of them?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It was too painful for you to look at them when
you were very young, so I decided to get rid of all of them. That way, they wouldn’t make you upset.”

  “All of them? You got rid of all the pictures?”

  “Yes, it was the best thing at the time. I’ll call the school and explain. Hey, I know, why don’t you do a report on me, okay?”

  “Okay. I love you, Gramps.”

  “I love you more.” That was always how his grandfather would reply, and it always made Brent feel better. Brent put the cigarette out and got up to take a shower, knowing what he had to do. Arriving at the library just before eight, he walked up the steps. That’s when he spotted a note on the gate. Another note? This is getting out of hand, he thought. He looked around to see if the person who left the note might still be in the area, but it was impossible to tell. The bustle and city traffic were in full force. He took the note and opened it. Just then, the wind blew, causing him to catch a whiff of the scent on the paper. It was the same scent on yesterday’s letter; only this time, it was much stronger. He brought the paper up to his nose and breathed deeply. Mmmm was the only sound he could make. It was a guttural, subconscious sound, and one that surprised him.

  He had never smelled such a scent before, yet it was familiar. He couldn’t explain it—not flowery, or sweet, or musky, but everything he’d want a woman to smell like. It was intoxicating. A car horn blew behind him, jolting him back to reality. Brent moved the note away from his nose and opened the envelope.

  I thought you would have called me back by now.

  If you want to know the truth, meet me at The Emporium on

  State Street at noon.

  Maddie

  Brent shook his head to clear it as if he had been given smelling salts. Then he unlocked the library doors and went inside.

  Inside a coffee shop across the street from the library, Maddie waited. She sat at a table by the window, anticipating Brent’s arrival. Much like a hunter watching a deer from a bluff, she watched as Brent opened the note. Quietly the hunter sits, hoping the deer picks up the scent of the bait left for it. Once the deer has the scent, it moves closer to the hunter, close enough for the hunter to go for the kill shot. Brent took the bait, and Maddie knew he was hers. She removed her cell phone from her purse and text-messaged someone.

  “He took the bait. I’ll call you after we meet.” She replaced the phone inside her purse and then took out her compact to check her makeup. Through the mirror, she noticed the man across the way staring at her. She closed her compact, stood up and straightened her dress, adjusting and flattening the hem. She’d been watching for Brent with such intensity that she hadn’t realized her dress had slid halfway up her thighs. As she pulled it back down, she noticed he still stared at her. Maddie walked over to the man’s table.

  Bending forward, she whispered, “Close your mouth when you stare, it’s very unbecoming. Just so you don’t have to think so hard, it only gets better as the dress goes higher.” She turned and walked away, with the cocky smile she wore when she knew she looked hot.

  CHAPTER 6

  Once inside the library, Brent went directly to his office and pulled out the telephone book. He flipped through the pages until he found the entry he was looking for: Conklin, J and L. Nervously, he dialed the number, hoping to find Lucille at home. She answered, though she sounded a little garbled.

  “Hi, Mrs. Conklin. This is Brent Venturi. I hope I didn’t waken you.”

  “Oh no, it’s just that, as I get a little older, my body wakes up in stages and my voice is always last,” she rasped. “I hope you were pleased with the books? My husband was adamant that they go to you.”

  “Um, yeah. I mean, of course, they’re incredible. Thank you, Mrs. Conklin. Is it possible for the two of us to get together later? I have so many questions.”

  Lucille knew from the tone in his voice, like that of a child trying to keep a secret, that he realized the note was from his grandfather.

  “Certainly, why don’t you come by my place at lunch time? I’ll fix you a sandwich and we can talk.”

  Excited that she had agreed, Brent quickly replied, “That would be great.” Then he remembered Maddie’s note. “Oh, wait. I almost forgot I have a meeting at lunch. Is it possible for me to come by later?”

  “Well, I play bridge from two until five. How about you come around six this evening?”

  “I’ll be there,” Brent replied. “Let me take down your address.” While writing it down, Brent said, “That’s very close to my place.”

  “Well, good. Then you’ll have no trouble finding it, Mr. Venturi.”

  “No, not at all. And please call me Brent.”

  “Wonderful,” she responded, “and I insist that you call me Lucille.”

  “Okay, Lucille,” Brent said. “I’ll see you at six.”

  “I look forward to it, Mr. Venturi…I mean, Brent.” She replied in a less raspy, much sweeter voice much like it was the first time they met the day before.

  Just as they were about to hang up, Brent quickly interjected, “Wait, Lucille. I almost forgot. Do you know anybody by the name of Maddie Smith?”

  There was a long pause, an awkward moment of silence before Lucille replied in a much more serious tone, “Why do you ask?”

  Hesitatingly, Brent said, “She left me a note at the library yesterday, saying she knew things about your husband’s death. She left another note this morning, asking me to meet her at lunch time.”

  “Brent, listen to me. I don’t know what she wants, but she is not to be trusted. Do you understand? Don’t believe what she tells you, but don’t forget it, either. I want you to tell me everything tonight. One more thing, don’t get too close to her. She’s like a black widow. She’ll lure you in and…just don’t get too close. See you at six.”

  She hung up before Brent could utter a sound. Brent placed the phone on its hook and sat back trying to take it all in. As he sat there, he picked up the note he’d received that morning. Without even thinking, he brought the paper to his face. His nostrils flared open as if to engulf the scent completely. He couldn’t place the smell, yet he knew he wanted more of it. It was as if he could smell it in layers. It wasn’t the first that intoxicated him, though it did smell great. It was the deeper, more subtle fragrance. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it made him think of a woman’s body—Chloe’s body. He closed his eyes and thought about her. He imagined holding her close and smelling her hair. He remembered how comforting it was to be able to not only hold her, but to smell her shampoo and perfume. Her scent heightened his feelings of…Brent opened his eyes and felt his heart beating faster and stronger.

  “Lust!” he said. “That’s it. This scent, this note, this perfume smells of lust.” He had just come out of the dreamlike stupor when he heard a knock on his door. It opened and Joan walked in.

  “Good morning, Brent,” she said. “The paperwork arrived by courier just now. I thought you’d like to have it right away.”

  Brent glanced at the package and looked at Joan. As she walked toward the door, he said, “I need you to clear my schedule between noon and one. I also need to leave a little bit early tonight, around five.”

  Joan turned to look at him. Kiddingly, she asked, “Do you have a couple of hot dates? It would be about time; it’s been six months since you and…”

  Brent interrupted, “Just business, Joan. Just business.”

  “Too bad,” she said, “you look like you could use some female company.”

  “Is there anything else we need to discuss or can I get back to work?” he asked.

  Joan just smiled and turned again to walk out.

  After she left, Brent opened the package. He looked at the stack of forms and paperwork he needed to fill out to get the library declared a state landmark. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he knew it wasn’t going to fill itself out. Before starting, Brent closed his eyes and said a shor
t prayer. “Lord, I don’t know what’s going on with these notes and the books, but you do. What I do know is that I don’t like the way this situation makes me feel. It brings back too many memories. Please watch over me and keep me safe. Amen.”

  Brent worked diligently all morning, filling out never-ending forms. After a while, they all started to look alike. At 11:35, he finished the last form and signed his last signature. Perfect timing, if I do say so myself, he thought. He went to the closet, changed his shirt, and washed up. This should be an interesting lunch, he thought. He walked out of his office and closed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 7

  When Maddie left the coffee shop, leaving her admirer choking on his croissant, she’d felt confident that her day was going to go just as she wanted. When it came to men, Maddie always got what she wanted. She walked behind the building to her waiting car and settled into the back seat. The driver lowered the glass between the front and back seat and asked, “Where to, madam?”

  “Home, please,” she answered. With that, the black Hummer pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the ocean. The driver pulled into the oceanfront high-rise condominium and let Maddie out.

  “Will you be wanting my services anymore today, Ms. Smith?”

  “No, thank you,” she said. “Please tell Mr. Ferric that I appreciate him letting me borrow you this morning.”

  “Certainly, madam. Have a good day.” Maddie cringed when he called her madam. She didn’t like the age reference, or maybe it brought back too many memories. She just smiled and let it go. Through the reflection in the glass doors of the entrance to her building, she could see the Hummer pull away. The concierge hurried to open the door for Maddie.