by Clea Simon
She took a step. The light above her buzzed and flickered. How sensitive was the motion detector? Thinking back desperately to the days when she and Jonah had made out here, she remembered counting twenty – no, thirty – seconds before the lights went black. But how long before they turned on?
Another step back. The light flickered again, and the footsteps fell silent. Whoever was out there, he was waiting, Dulcie realized. He would head her off, trap her. And he was armed.
But she knew this library, and with a flash of anger, she hit on an idea. Crouching low, she darted back to the wall aisle and dashed a few feet. Sure enough, the next two aisles lit up – and by reaching out her hand, she got one more to react. The footsteps followed. Good! Let whoever was out there think she was running scared. She could wait him out.
Quickly, before the light could shut off, she returned to where the cart had cut her off. Pressed against the wall, Dulcie tried to steady her breathing. Twenty, twenty-one . . . She’d had no idea she was counting until the light snapped off. Thank you, Harry Elkins Widener! Dulcie closed her eyes in relief. She’d give it a few more minutes and then—
But the footsteps had stopped. She’d been following the soft pad of the shoes, hoping to hear them fade away, but they hadn’t. They’d simply stopped, and she could too easily picture someone – a shadow – standing there, waiting. Either he’d figured out her ploy, or he was smart enough to know that no matter how she ran, he had her trapped. She was in a corner of the stacks, up against the outside wall. He stood between her and both the elevators and the stairwells. He was fast, and he had a knife. Dulcie took a deep breath. Smarts were what were called for here. Smarts – and a little help.
Where was her cell phone? She tried to envision it, to picture whether it had been taken from her bag or fallen to the floor. If it was still in the small inside pocket of her bag, she could reach in and flick it on. Sure, she’d be breaking library rules. But assault with a deadly weapon was against library policy, too.
Slowly as she could, she slid her right arm up the side of the bag. Smoothly as she could, she slid her hand inside, feeling for the telltale lump – and jumped when the metal phone hit the floor. It clattered once, but by instinct she’d reached for it, and that was enough. The lights flashed on with a buzz and the footsteps came running.
There was nothing for it. Dulcie shoved the cart back up the aisle in front of her and took off. The footsteps were catching up, on the other end of the stacks, between her and the elevators; between her and the emergency stairs. She’d have to cut through at some point. Dulcie started counting. How many aisles on Level A? Would he be able to pin her against one of the walls? Lights blazed on as she ran, each step marking her trail for her attacker. Could she outpace him?
‘Damn!’ She caught up short. In front of her was a wire cage – ‘Elizabethan Texts. Special Permission Only’. She’d outraced her century, and looked around for a way out. Behind her all was lit up. To her right was the wall. To her left, somewhere, her attacker waited. Dare she double back? She turned. Eight aisles back, a light flickered out, then another. Her every movement was being tracked. She’d run into a corner. She was trapped.
Was that him? She saw a movement, six aisles back. Something low to the ground – a foot? A shadow? She heard the footsteps again, getting closer. There! No, it came from this end. A rat? Here, in Widener? Suddenly, a dark aisle lit up, and then another, and another. A small grey shape was dashing down the aisle away from Dulcie, darting into every stack as she herself had done to ignite the lights. It was Mr Grey, emblazoning the entire floor. She heard the human footsteps pause and stop. She heard them start to run – away from her, toward the light, toward the fleet figure of her phantom pet.
‘Thank you, Mr Grey!’ Dulcie mouthed her gratitude, all doubt gone. She could have yelled the words out loud, but saved her breath for that last dash toward the fire exit, into the stairwell, and up to daylight.
Twenty-Nine
The scene that greeted Dulcie was shocking in its normalcy. As she burst through the door, heads turned – but only because she nearly fell, sprawling out of the stairwell. Instead of darkness and panic, she looked around to light, polished marble, and several startled glances.
‘Are you OK, Miss?’ An elderly clerk left his cart to offer her a hand.
‘Guard! Police!’ Dulcie’s breath came in gasps. ‘Close the exits.’
The clerk stepped back and withdrew his hand. The look on his face made Dulcie wonder for a moment if she had begun speaking in tongues.
‘I’ve been attacked!’ With those magic words, she broke through.
‘You poor dear!’ The clerk moved forward again to support her, and from over by the entrance a blue-uniformed guard came running.
‘Are you hurt? Lie down. I’m calling for an ambulance.’ He pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt.
‘No, no, I’m fine!’ Dulcie freed herself from the clerk’s supporting arm. ‘But there was someone trying to trap me. He slashed my bag.’ She held up the ruined messenger bag. As if to prove her point, a pen fell through it to clatter on the marble floor.
‘Hang on. Cancel the bus.’ The guard turned toward her and pulled out a pad. ‘You saw this? You saw an intruder with a knife or some other sharp object? Can you describe him?’
‘No.’ Dulcie was catching her breath. Two more library staffers had come up, curious and concerned. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’ Eight sets of eyes stared at her. Twelve, if you counted the glasses. ‘I was looking for a book, and when I got back to the carrel, my bag had been slashed. Then, when I went to reshelve the book – I’m sorry, but I knew right where it came from.’
The clerk nodded his forgiveness.
‘Anyway, I started hearing footsteps. And, well, someone was coming for me.’
The white-haired clerk raised his bushy eyebrows. His hands were now clasped in front of him. The guard stopped writing. ‘And you knew someone was coming for you how?’
‘By his footsteps. He was following me up the rows of stacks, trying to trap—’ Dulcie stopped. She sounded hysterical, but she had to make her point. ‘Somebody was there. Somebody slashed open my bag. I called out and nobody answered, but somebody was dogging me – at the very least.’
‘Well, what we have here is vandalism and attempted theft, for sure. Did the perpetrator get anything? Wallet? iPod?’ Dulcie shook her head. ‘Well, I’ll take a report and we’ll post a warning. Do you want to pursue it further? I am authorized to call in the city police in cases of violence or threatened violence. This is your option as a member of the Harvard community.’
As her panic faded, Dulcie heard his voice. He was repeating something learned in a sensitivity seminar. He didn’t believe her. She sighed. If a Harvard guard didn’t, what were the chances a Cambridge cop would? They already thought she was off; attention-seeking. She closed her eyes and didn’t realize she was swaying until she felt the old clerk’s arms around her again.
‘Are you OK, Miss? When was the last time you ate anything?’ Other arms reached out to her, and she let them lower her to the cool stone floor.
‘I . . . I had a muffin this morning.’ She did feel dizzy, and hung her head down toward her lap.
‘It’s nearly three,’ said the guard. ‘I think you’ve had a scare and someone tried to rip you off. Would somebody get her a drink with some sugar in it, please? Orange juice perhaps?’ Dulcie heard footsteps hurry off, heavy ones this time. ‘And is there a friend we can call for you, or a room-mate, perhaps?’
Maybe I am losing it. Dulcie was sitting in the guard’s office, drinking yet another glass of orange juice. Maybe I’m hearing things – footsteps, ghost cats. She’d already signed the Harvard Police form, letting the entire terrifying experience be filed away as an act of ‘vandalism and/or attempted theft’.
‘It’s like someone tried to rip off my bicycle,’ she muttered.
‘Excuse me?’ The guard looked up. He seemed to be taking a long time with
his report, and Dulcie had a sinking feeling that whatever he was writing wasn’t complimentary to her.
‘Nothing. May I go now?’ At least, with all the hubbub, the clerk had made the effort to check her books out for her. She now held them on her lap, along with her various pens, pad, and the mutilated bag, in a black garbage bag.
‘Are you sure you feel well enough to be on your own?’ He didn’t like it, she could see. Dulcie had told him simply that she lived alone. To bring up Tim’s murder, at this point, was just going to make more trouble.
‘Yes.’ She stood up. The world had stopped spinning. ‘I’d really like to go home now.’
‘OK, Ms Schwartz.’ He stood up as well, either to see her out or to make sure she didn’t topple over and injure herself on his watch. ‘I’m sure we’ll be in touch.’
‘I’m sure.’ Knowing that every eye was on her, Dulcie stepped carefully out through the electronic gate, past the huge glass doors and on to the granite steps. Only when she was halfway down did she dare put on her flip-flops once again. She really didn’t need another incident in her life today.
‘Suze, where are you?’ She left another message for her errant friend. ‘You wouldn’t believe what’s been going on. Call me.’
At least her door, when she arrived home, was locked shut. And if the living room window was still covered over by plywood, a stiff breeze fluttered the curtains in her bedroom. Her pretty sundress lay across the chair. Had her date with Luke been only last night? Leaving the dress on the chair, she leaned across it to open the window wider and walked down the narrow hall to open the windows in Tim’s room – Suze’s room – too. The cross breeze sang down the narrow hall, fluttering the papers on her desk. A storm was brewing, she’d seen the clouds skittering across the sky as she’d walked home, but the eaves overhanging this top floor would keep the rain from blowing in.
Dulcie lay down on her bed and smiled. Mr Grey had always hated this kind of weather; some combination of thunder and the pressure dropping had made him a little needy, a little on edge. Maybe she was thinking of him too much. Maybe she . . .
A rumble of thunder announced the beginning of the rain. Dulcie arranged her arm, moving it away from her side. She was just beginning to feel the pressure of paws, the kneading of her pet, when she fell asleep.
Thirty
Maybe it was the pressure of those paws. Maybe it was the memory of seeing her pet in the library. Maybe it was the conviction deep in her heart that the feline phantom had run interference, had possibly saved her life. Or maybe it was simply that she was finally beginning to work on something that could possibly result in a decent doctoral thesis. Dulcie didn’t know why, but she woke feeling more confident than she had in ages. She wasn’t going crazy, she told herself as she showered; or becoming Lucy, which might be worse, she reminded herself as she dressed. She simply had a feline spirit looking out for her. And that, she repeated to herself as she trotted to the T, made all the difference.
At least until she walked up to the Priority building, with its oversized glass entrance reflecting the light like gigantic dark glasses. ‘This place will always give me the creeps,’ she muttered, pushing the heavy metal door open in front of her. Thank God, the summer was almost over.
And so, it seemed, was her job. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Schwartz.’ The elderly guard looked at Dulcie’s ID and pushed her opened bag back toward her. ‘No work today.’
She pushed the bag back at him. It was her old purse, a leather satchel that was worn and peeling in the corners. But it was still open. He could still look through it, shabby or not.
‘No, Miss Schwartz. There’s no temp work today. All the data entry clerk typists are being sent home.’
‘But . . .’ This didn’t make sense. The agency hadn’t called her. She’d accepted the lousy new desk, and everything. ‘But . . .’ Dulcie looked into the wrinkled face of the old-timer. His eyes were a pale grey; the lashes, when he blinked at her, pure white. ‘But I get paid by the hour!’
It might not matter to this old guy, but it was a cry from her heart. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated and blinked again. Stalemate.
‘Come on, Dulcie!’ A strong hand grabbed her arm and spun her around. Joanie, black sweater dress crossed by a chain belt, was leading her out. By her side, a skinny redhead provided a flash of contrasting colour.
‘I don’t understand.’ The three were back out in the sunlight, the morning already getting hot. Joanie had let go of Dulcie’s arm, but motioned for her to follow. Dulcie trotted to catch up.
‘I need more coffee. Come on.’ Joanie marched ahead.
‘What’s going on? Do you know?’ Dulcie asked the lanky redhead.
‘Just that you’re really smart.’ He really did have an endearing grin. ‘And Joanie thinks you’re being framed.’
‘Great.’ Dulcie stood still and closed her eyes, waiting for the world to catch up. ‘Just great.’
‘Hey, Joanie! Wait up!’ Ricky waved and the black-clad Goth girl came trotting back.
‘What’s wrong? Dulcie, are you sick?’
‘No.’ Dulcie opened her eyes. Two pale faces stared into hers. ‘I just want to know what’s going on.’
‘Well, number one, we’re going to get paid.’ Joanie marked off her first point on her finger. ‘We’re contracted. We showed up at the assignment. That’s all the agency needs to know – and they’ll hear it from me if they try to say otherwise. Number two, this whole mess is finally coming to a head.’
Dulcie looked at her, waiting for her to continue.
‘OK, I don’t know the details. Ricky?’ She looked up at her tall companion. Dulcie did, too. He sighed, color appearing and disappearing almost as fast behind his freckles.
‘This is worth my job.’ Joanie stared at him. Dulcie waited for her to bat her eyelashes. She didn’t. ‘Well, OK, I already told her this anyway.’ He jerked his head toward the diminutive dominatrix. ‘They’ve traced it. Nobody is supposed to know yet, because they’ve not yet made the arrests, but they figured out where the bug went in and I think they know who put it there. I think it’s all going to break loose tomorrow.’
‘And we’re supposed to come back for that?’ Dulcie imagined those large guards coming for her, once again. ‘We’re supposed to be there?’
‘Hey, we’re still on the Priority payroll, more or less.’ Joanie, deprived of coffee, pulled out a cigarette. ‘And I wouldn’t miss it for the world!’
It was all too much. Dulcie made her excuses – a headache, school work – and left the couple on the sidewalk.
‘Don’t forget to come in tomorrow for the fireworks!’ Joanie called after her, as Dulcie sought the cool comfort of the subway. The train had emptied of its rush-hour commuters, and Dulcie had room to put her feet up as the car swayed on the track. Was she going to be arrested? Should she show up the next day? Had someone been out to get her specifically yesterday, or had the attack in the library just been random – a foiled purse snatcher making one more attempt? As the Central Square station approached, Dulcie realized that her head really did ache.
The whole thing really was too much. She needed to focus; to see if she could salvage some of that clarity about her thesis. Climbing up to the surface, she looked around. Not Widener, not today. Somewhere she could think, but with other people around.
The little bell on the coffee-house door sounded welcoming as she walked in and up to the bar. ‘Iced coffee, please. Lots of cream.’
‘Dulcie!’ At the sound of her name, she looked up with a start. Luisa was standing right behind her. ‘Sorry, did I startle you?’
‘Crazy morning.’ Dulcie tried to smile and motioned to the empty stool to her left. Maybe, if she played her cards right, she wouldn’t have to do any relationship counseling today. ‘You’ve been all patched up.’ In truth, Luisa was beaming, but the heavy hair that fell over her face didn’t hide the bandage on her forehead.
‘Thanks. My chin is still sore.’ She gingerly touched h
er face, and Dulcie could see the darkness of the bruise. ‘And I’ve got this on, still.’ She motioned to the bandage and turned to order a cappuccino.
Dulcie waited till the barista had moved on. ‘But you look happy. You’ve got a glow.’
Luisa blushed, the color surging up from her neck. ‘It’s – Bruce. I’ve told him everything. After – what happened – I felt I had to.’ Her mug arrived and she bent over the foam, hiding her face.
‘You mean, your fall on the steps?’ Dulcie twirled her own glass between her hands; she couldn’t bring herself to say ‘accident’. ‘Do you think that had something to do with Tim?’
The younger girl looked up and stared at the espresso machine, biting her lip. ‘I don’t know. I don’t even remember really what happened. But the only reason I was there was because of his stupid computer. Oh!’ She turned toward Dulcie. ‘And because of me, you didn’t get it, either! And you probably had a really good reason to want it!’
‘It’s OK, Luisa. It doesn’t matter now.’ If Tim had transferred some kind of files to Dulcie’s own laptop, used her computer as a cat’s paw, it was out of her hands anyway. The Cambridge police would probably find the virus on her own laptop – and the missing photo of Mr Grey was long gone. For a moment, the two drank their coffee in silence. Still, the old questions lingered in Dulcie’s mind.
‘So what were you looking for anyway, Luisa?’ She thought of Alana. ‘Were there – well – did Tim have pictures of you?’
‘Oh, no!’ Luisa’s blush deepened and she looked down into her mug. ‘Just emails that, you know, said things.’
Dulcie remembered the papers she and Luke had uncovered among Tim’s stuff. They’d seemed so innocent. ‘I think we found some printouts, when Luke and I were cleaning out Tim’s room.’ Maybe the girl wasn’t a ditz, just young. Dulcie tried to make her voice gentle.
‘He said he’d never print them out. They were—’ she paused, ‘private.’ She seemed so distressed that Dulcie suspected she wasn’t giving up the entire truth.
