Library of the Dead

by Glenn Cooper

  JULY 29, 2009

  NEW YORK CITY

  W ill's hangover was so mild it almost didn't qualify as one. It was more like a light case of the flu that could be cleared up in an hour by a couple of Tylenol.

  The night before, he figured he'd drop off the deep end, bump along the bottom for a good long time and not surface until he was nearly drowned. But a couple of drinks into his planned bender he got angry, angry enough to rev down the self-pity and keep the flow of scotch at a steady state where his input matched his metabolism. He leveled off and engaged in largely rational thought for much of the night instead of the usual volatile nonsense that masqueraded as logic, quickly forgotten. During this functional interlude, he called Nancy and arranged to meet early.

  He was already at one of the Starbucks near Grand Central, drinking a venti, when she arrived. She looked worse than him.

  "Good commute?" he quipped.

  He thought she wanted to cry and half considered giving her a hug, but that would have been a first-a public show of affection.

  "I got a nonfat latte for you," he said, sliding the cup. "It's still hot." That nugget set her off. Tears started flowing. "It's only a cup of coffee," he said.

  "I know. Thanks." She took a sip then asked the question: "What happened?"

  She leaned in over the small table to hear his reply. The store was packed with customers, noisy with chatter and explosions of the milk steamer.

  She looked young and vulnerable and he reflexively touched her hand. She misinterpreted the gesture.

  "Do you think they found out about us?" she asked.

  "No! This has nothing to do with that."

  "How do you know?"

  "They haul your ass to H.R. and tell you. Believe me, I know."

  "Then, what?"

  "It's not us, it's the case." He drank some coffee, glancing at each face that came through the door.

  "They don't want us to arrest Shackleton," she said, reading his mind.

  "That's what it looks like."

  "Why would they block the capture of a serial killer?"

  "Great question." He massaged his forehead and eyes wearily. "It's because he's special cargo."

  She looked quizzical.

  He dropped his voice. "When is someone taken off the grid? Federal witness? Covert activity? Black ops? Whatever it is, the screen goes dark and he's a nonperson. He said he worked for the feds. Area 51, whatever that is, or some such bull crap. This smells of one part of the government-us-bumping up against another part of the government, and we lost."

  "Are you saying that officials in some federal agency decided to let a killer walk?" She was incredulous.

  "I'm not saying anything. But yeah, it's possible. Depends how important he is. Or maybe, if there's some justice, he's dealt with quietly."

  "But we'd never know," she said.

  "We'd never know."

  She finished her latte and rummaged her purse for a compact to fix her makeup. "So that's it? We're done?"

  He watched her remove the streaks. "You're done. I'm not done."

  His squared-off jaw was set in a classic pose of truculence, but there was also a serenity, the troubling kind when someone perched on a ledge has decided to jump.

  "You're going back to the office," he said. "They'll have new work for you. I hear Mueller's coming back. Maybe they'll team you up again. You'll go on and have a great career because you're one heck of an agent."

  "Will-" she blurted.

  "No, hear me out, please," he said. "This is personal. I don't know how or why Shackleton killed these people but I do know he did this to rub my face in this dung heap of a case. It's got to be a part-maybe a big part-of his motivation. What's going to happen to me is what's supposed to happen. I'm not a company man anymore. Haven't been one for years. The whole idea of minding my fucking p's and q's to coast through to retirement has been bullshit." He was venting now, but the public space was keeping him from really broadcasting. "Screw the twenty and screw the pension. I'll find a job somewhere. I don't need a lot to get by."

  She put her compact down. It looked like she'd have to redo her makeup again.

  "God, Nancy, don't cry!" he whispered. "This isn't about us. Us is great. This is the best male-female thing I've had in a long time, maybe ever, if you want the truth. Apart from being smart and sexy, you're the most self-sufficient woman I've ever been with."

  "That's a compliment?"

  "From me? It's huge. You're not needy like one hundred percent of my exes. You're comfortable with your own life, which makes me comfortable with mine. I'm not going to find that again."

  "Then why blow it up?"

  "Wasn't my intent, obviously. I've got to find Shackleton."

  "You're off the case!"

  "I'm putting myself back on. One way or another it's going to get me booted. I know how they think. They won't tolerate the insubordination. Look, when I'm a mall security guard in Pensacola, maybe you can get a transfer down there. I don't know what they've got for art museums but we'll figure out ways to get you some culture."

  She dabbed her eyes. "Do you have a plan at least?"

  "It's not a very sophisticated one. I already called in sick. Sue'll be relieved she won't have to deal with me today. I'm booked on a flight to Vegas later this morning. I'm going to find him and make him talk."

  "And I'm supposed to go back to work like nothing's happened."

  "Yes and no." He pulled two cell phones from his briefcase. "They're going to be all over me as soon as they realize I'm off the reservation. It's possible they'll put a tap on you. Take one of these prepaids. We'll use them to talk to each other. Unless they get our numbers, they're untraceable. I'll need eyes and ears, but if you think for a second you're compromising yourself, we're going to pull the plug. And give Laura a call. Tell her something that puts her at ease. Okay?"

  She took one of the phones. It was already damp from the brief time in his clutch. "Okay."

  Mark was dreaming about lines of software code. They were forming faster than he could type, as fast as he could think. Each line was spare, perfect in a minimalist way, without an extraneous character. A floating slate was filling fast with something wonderful. It was a fabulous dream, and he was appalled that it was being zapped by ring tones.

  It jarred him that his boss, Rebecca Rosenberg, was on his mobile. He was in bed with a beautiful woman in a magnificent suite in the Venetian Hotel and the Jersey voice of his troll-like supervisor was stomach-churning.

  "How are you?" she asked.

  "I'm fine. What's up?" It wasn't lost on him that she had never called like this before.

  "I'm sorry to bother you on your vacation. Where are you?"

  They could find out if they wanted from his mobile signal so he didn't lie. "In Vegas."

  "Okay, so I know it's a real imposition, but we've got a code problem that no one can fix. The lambda HITS went down and the watchers are freaking out."

  "Did you try rebooting it?" he asked blearily.

  "A million times. It looks like the code got corrupted."

  "How?"

  "No one can figure it out. You're its daddy. You'd be doing me a big favor by coming in tomorrow."

  "I'm on vacation!"

  "I know, I'm sorry to have to call you but if you do this for us, I'll get you three extra vacation days, and if you finish the job in half a day, we'll get you Lear-jetted back to McCarran at lunchtime. So what do you say? Deal?"

  He shook his head in disbelief. "Yeah. I'll do it."

  He tossed the phone onto the bed. Kerry was still sound asleep. Something was fishy. He had covered his tracks so flawlessly, he was certain the Desert Life business was undetectable. He just had to bide his time, wait a month or two before starting the voluntary resignation process. He'd tell them he'd met a girl, that they were going to get married and live on the East Coast. They'd gnash their teeth and lecture him about mutual commitments, the length of time it took to recruit and train him, the
difficulty in finding a replacement. They'd appeal to his patriotism. He'd hang tough. This wasn't slavery. They had to let him go. On his way out the door, they'd give him a good hard scrub and find nothing. They'd watch him for years, maybe forever, as they did with all past employees, but so be it. They could watch him all they wanted.

  When Rosenberg hung up, the watchers took their earpieces out and nodded their approval. Malcolm Frazier, their chief, was there too, stiff-necked with an inanimate face and a wrestler's body. He told her, "That was good."

  "If you think he's a security risk, why don't you pick him up today?" she asked.

  "We don't think he's a security risk, we know he is," Frazier said gruffly. "We'd prefer to do this in a controlled environment. We'll confirm he's in Nevada. We've got people over at his house. We'll keep tabs on his mobile signal. If we think he's going to be a no-show tomorrow, we'll move."

  "I'm sure you know your jobs," Rosenberg said. The air in her office was permeated with the scent of large athletic men.

  "Yes, Dr. Rosenberg, we do."

  On his way to the airport it began to drizzle and the taxi's wiper blades beat like a metronome keeping time for an adagio. Will slumped in the backseat, and when he nodded off, his chin came to rest on his shoulder. He awoke on the LaGuardia service road with a sore neck and told the driver he wanted US Airways.

  His tan suit was speckled with raindrops. He caught the ticket agent's name, Vicki, from her name tag and engaged her in small talk while he presented his ID and federal carry license. He absently watched her as she typed, a chunky, simple girl with long brown hair clipped into a pony tail, an unlikely nemesis.

  The terminal was awash in gray light, a clinically sterile concourse with little pedestrian traffic since it was mid-morning. That made it easy for him to scan the hall and isolate persons of interest. His antennae were up and he was tense. Nobody but Nancy knew he was taking a walk on the wild side but he felt conspicuous anyway, like he had a sign around his neck. The passengers waiting for check-in up and down the hall looked legit, and there were two uniformed cops chatting near the ATM machine at the far end.

  He had an hour to kill. He'd grab a bite and buy a paperback. When he was airborne he'd be able to relax for a few hours, unless Darla was working this leg, in which case he'd have to wrestle with the quandary of cheating on Nancy, though he was pretty sure he might succumb to the "what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" slogan. He hadn't thought about the big blonde for a while, but now he was having a hard time getting her out of his thoughts. For a full-bodied gal, she had the tiniest, most weightless lingerie-

  Vicki was stalling, he realized. She was shuffling a few papers, staring at her terminal with frightened eyes.

  "Everything okay?" he asked.

  "Yeah. The screen's frozen. It'll clear."

  The cops by the ATM were looking his way, talking into their radios.

  Will snatched up his IDs from the counter. "Vicki, let's finish this up later. I've got to hit the restroom."

  "But…"

  He sprinted. The cops were a good sixty yards away and the floors were slippery. He had a quick shot straight out the door to the curb, and he was out of the building in three seconds. He didn't look back. His only chance was to move and think faster than the cops following him. A black Town Car was dropping off a passenger. The driver was about to pull away when Will opened the back door and plunged through it, tossing his travel bag onto the seat.

  "Hey! I can't pick up here!" The driver was in his sixties with a Russian accent.

  "It's okay!" Will said. "I'm a federal agent." He flashed his badge. "Drive. Please."

  The driver grumbled in Russian but smoothly accelerated. Will pretended to search through his bag, a ruse to lower his head. He heard shouts in the distance. Had they made him? Did they get the tag number? His heart was pounding.

  "I could get fired," the driver said.

  "I'm sorry. I'm on a case."

  "FBI?" the Russian asked.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I got son in Afghanistan, where you want to go?"

  Will quickly ran through scenarios. "Marine Air Terminal."

  "Only other side of airport?"

  "You're a great help. Yeah, only there." He switched off his mobile phone and tossed it in his bag, swapping it for the bulkier prepaid.

  The driver wouldn't take any money. Will got out and looked around: moment of truth. Everything looked normal, no blue lights, no pursuers. He immediately joined the short taxi rank in front of the terminal and hopped into a yellow cab. When it drove off he used his prepaid phone to call Nancy and fill her in. The two of them urgently hatched a small plan.

  He figured they'd be motivated and resourced, so he had to put on a good effort, multiple transfers, zigzags. He had the first taxi drop him off on Queens Boulevard, where he stopped at a Chase Bank and withdrew a few grand in cash from his account and hailed another cab. The next stop was 125th Street in Manhattan, where he boarded a Metro North commuter to White Plains.

  It was early afternoon and he was hungry. The rain had stopped and the air was fresher and more breathable than earlier. The sky was brightening and his bag wasn't heavy so he set off on foot in search of food. He found a small Italian restaurant on Mamaroneck Avenue and holed up at a table away from the window for a languorous three-course time-killer. He stopped himself from ordering a third beer and switched to soda for his main course of lasagna. When he was done he paid in cash, let his belt out a notch and walked into the sunshine.

  The public library was nearby. It was a grand municipal building, some architect's concept of neoclassical design. He checked his bag at the front desk, but because there was no metal detector, he kept his weapon in its shoulder holster and found a quiet spot at a long table at the far end of the air-conditioned central reading room.

  He suddenly felt conspicuous. Of the two dozen people in the room, he was the only one wearing a suit and the only one with a clean table space. The large room was library quiet, with an occasional cough and the scuff of a chair leg on the floor. He removed his tie, stuffed it into a jacket pocket, and set off to find a book to kill the time.

  He wasn't much of a reader and he wasn't sure he remembered the last time he wandered the stacks of a library-probably at college, probably chasing a girl rather than a book. Despite the drama of the day, he was postprandial and drowsy and his legs were heavy. He weaved through claustrophobic rows of tall metal bookcases and inhaled the stale cardboard smell. Thousands of book titles blurred into one another and his brain started getting fuzzy. He had an overwhelming desire to curl up in a dark corner and take a nap, and was on the brink of going fully numb when he snapped back to alertness.

  He was being watched.

  He sensed it first, then heard footsteps, to his left in a parallel row. He turned in time to see a heel disappearing at the end of the stacks. He touched his holster through his jacket then hurried to the end of his row and made two quick rights. The row was empty. He listened, thought he heard something farther along, and crept quietly in that direction, another two rows toward the center of the room. When he wheeled round the corner, he saw a man scuttling away from him. "Hey!" he called out.

  The man stopped and turned. He was obese, with an unruly speckled black beard, and was dressed as if it were winter, in hiking boots, a moth-holed sweater, and a parka. His upper cheeks were pocked and irritated and his nose was bulbous and textured like an orange peel. He had wire-rim glasses with a thrift-shop pedigree. Even though he was in his fifties, he had the petulance of a child caught doing something wrong.

  Will approached him cautiously. "Were you following me?"

  "No."

  "I think you were."

  "I was following you," he admitted.

  Will relaxed. The man wasn't a threat. He pegged him as a schizophrenic, nonviolent, controlled. "Why were you following me?"

  "To help you find a book." There was no modulation. Every word had the same tone and emphasis a
s the last, each one delivered with complete earnestness.

  "Well, friend, I can use the help. I'm not big on libraries."

  The man smiled and showed a mouthful of bad teeth. "I love the library."

  "Okay, you can help me find a book. My name is Will."

  "I'm Donny."

  "Hello, Donny. You lead, I'll follow."

  Donny joyfully hurried through the stacks like a rat who had mastered a maze. He led Will to a corner then down two flights of stairs to a basement floor where he burrowed deeply into the new level with a sense of purpose. They passed a library assistant, an older woman pushing a cart of books, who smiled slyly, pleased that Donny had found a willing playmate.

  "You must have a really good book for me, Donny," Will called out to him.

  "I got a really good book for you."

  With plenty of time on his hands, Will found the escapade diverting. The man he was chasing had all the hallmarks of chronic schizophrenia with maybe a touch of retardation thrown in, and by the look of him, was on big-time meds. Deep in a library subbasement, he was in Donny's house playing Donny's game, but he didn't mind.

  Finally, Donny stopped midway down an aisle and reached over his head for a large book with a worn cover. He needed both sweaty hands to wriggle it free before offering it to Will.

  The Holy Bible.

  "The Bible?" Will said with a fair bit of surprise. "I've got to tell you, Donny, I'm not much of a Bible reader. You read the Bible?"

  Donny looked down at his boots and shook his head. "I don't read it."

  "But you think I should?"

  "You should read it."

  "Any other books I ought to be reading?"

  "Yes. One other book."

  He scooted off again, Will following, lugging the eight-pound Bible under his arm, pushed up against his holstered gun. His mother, a meek Baptist who endured his son of a bitch father for thirty-seven years, read the Bible incessantly, and just then he cloyingly remembered an image of her at the kitchen table, reading her Bible, holding onto it for dear life, her lower lip trembling, while his old man, drunk in the living room, cursed her out at the top of his lungs. And she plumbed the Bible for personal forgiveness when she too turned to the bottle for release. He wouldn't be reading the Bible anytime soon.