She and Marc had been right. The missing titles had not been repurchased. The replacement books were bland and innocuous, and she had to search for over an hour before she found a single volume on religion of any kind other than paganism and myths; it was a slim book on comparative studies tucked into a dusty corner out of place and obviously long forgotten.
She thought of Sam’s sudden aversion to blasphemy. Of Arlene’s reaction to the children’s Halloween games.
She wandered, her eyes skimming titles until they blurred into a sameness that made her dizzy. Her stomach rumbled, and a little girl sitting cross-legged on the floor looked up and giggled. Natalie smiled down at her, mouthed I’m starving, and moved into the next aisle. Automatically, her hand dusted along the spines, feeling the weight of the words behind the raised gold, the swirls of color, the simple designs not hidden by dustcovers. Her neck developed a tightness as she scanned the upper shelves and she paused, rubbing, face down and not seeing the carpeting or the tiny pockets of dust and lint that had gathered at the green metallic bases.
She froze.
Her left hand pulled at her waistband, and she turned to see who was watching her. But the library was still frantic, Arlene still occupied with children and the incompetent girl.
Slowly, then, she knelt. On the bottom shelf was a book, shorter than its companions, and thinner, bound in nonreflecting black. On the spine near the bottom was a silver embossed shield, within which were two red dots split down the center by a silvered erratic line. She reached out a hand, yanked it back and brushed it nervously along her thigh. Again she reached out and touched the book, gingerly, waiting for some arcane expression of hatred at her discovery. Beneath her finger she felt the grit of accumulated dirt even though the book itself appeared to be new. It resisted her first attempt to draw it out. Stuck, she thought, and withdrew her hand. The voices behind her took on a curious buzzing quality that tickled her ears. Her knees complained, and she snatched at the book, yanking it out and dropping it onto the floor. The front cover faced her. Blank. Except for the center, and the red and silver.
She didn’t want to touch it again, but it would be foolish to leave it, though she didn’t know exactly why. Biting at the inside of her cheek, she lifted it as though it had bristles dripping instant poison, then grabbed at a shelf and pulled herself up. The buzzing grew louder. She shook her head and rushed back to the stairs, paying no attention to Arlene’s sharp calls for assistance.
But another woman’s voice made her grip the railing tightly before she was halfway up; and, tucking the book out of sight by her hip, she looked down and saw the clerk suddenly deferential, practically fawning over the attention of a customer in a tight fitting sable coat. At first she thought it was Cynthia, but the bearing was too stiff, the voice too deep, and a lift of her head identified her as Ambrose’s wife. She mumbled something, and Arlene nodded, jerking her thumb up and behind her. Instinctively, Natalie looked up at Adriana’s door. Mrs. Toal immediately snapped at the temporary assistant, scribbled something on a scrap of paper and shoved it into her hand. At the same moment, Christine looked up and smiled into Natalie’s stare.
Reaction was automatic; she inclined her head only enough for the acknowledgment to be seen, then forced her legs to carry her up to the gallery. She stopped at her door, turned, eased back to the railing and saw the girl return empty handed. Saw the frown on Mrs. Toal’s face and the simpering bend of Arlene’s back. Through the level of noise that rose toward her, Natalie heard one word clearly: mistake.
Bingo, she thought.
She didn’t bother to clear her desk of its clutter; rather, she arranged things purposefully, setting pen and note pad close at hand in case she should be interrupted. Then she dashed off a few words on the top page so that anyone looking down would think she was in the middle of a letter.
The book lay in the center of her lap, below the level of the desk’s top. Carefully she opened it, flipping past the end pages. There was no title or mention of copyright or publisher. On the first page, one word only: EYE.
On the second page, a single sentence: There is nothing the EYE cannot see when properly directed.
The third page: To direct the eye, open the lid; to open the lid, call the NAME; to call the NAME, PREPARE.
And the fourth: There is no time in the light of the EYE.
Gibberish, she thought, disdainful and disappointed. Gibberish in a private printing on a private press. She read on, turning the pages rapidly, seldom finding more than a dozen words on a page, the contents of which were neither difficult nor profound — a patchwork thesis, apparently, of a philosophy not referred to by name, not given a title, possessing no tenets other than the vague references to something called the Eye. At first, she was reminded of personal dynamics clinics which assured success through inner improvement and the encouragement of overwhelming confidence. But reflection had her decide that this had been written by someone who needed a justification for wealth unworked for, an insecure individual who was searching for a label on which he could paste a reason for affluence that otherwise might vanish like a fog before the wind.
Self-indulgence, she thought, and was about to toss the book onto her desk when she turned over a page-large sketch of the cover’s design. This time, however, the two dots and wavy line were done in broad strokes within a broken-line outline of a head. It was definitely feline, though the ears were less pointed and stretched back toward its neck. The cheekbones were higher, the mouth more human than animal. She stared, letting her imagination color it in, fill it out, and what she saw was the menace of her nightmares.
Impossible, she thought, but the reaction was weak. A demon? But no mention anywhere of Satan, Pluto, anyone of the familiar underworld denizens, no talk of covens, caldrons, sacrifices to the rising sun.
She leaned back in her chair, felt it give and present her with a view of the ceiling and its acoustical ripples and rills. When she had problems to sort out, she would wipe her mind clear of extraneous thought by mentally connecting what lines she saw, forming pictures in the ceiling much like children form images out of clouds. This time, however, all she found was the face of the cat.
“All right, then,” she whispered. “Read on, and find the spell to conjure that thing.”
But when she again located the sketch and turned the next page, it was blank. As were all the others, nearly fifty of them.
“Now this is dumb,” she said. “This is incredible.”
Anger made her hands tremble. She returned to the beginning and reread, trying to find depth behind the words, the symbolism in the phrases.
And by two o’clock she had given up. She slammed the book into a drawer, reached for the phone and called the Herald office. Marc, however, had left at noon to have lunch at the Inn with Dederson. No, the woman who answered said, she didn’t know when they’d be back but yes, Dederson had seemed excited and Marc was in better humor than he’d been in weeks.
“At last!” Natalie said to the empty room. Now if he would only appear to wave a magic wand that would solve her problems as well.
She blinked.
A noise, rising, striking a hysterical pitch and subsiding almost instantly. The sound separated itself as she stepped around her desk, and she realized she was listening to, had been hearing but paying no attention to an argument in Adriana’s office. She pressed her ear against the wall, but the words remained indistinct. She glanced at her door; hesitation was minimal and she moved swiftly to the gallery. The library was still crowded and a quick check over the railing assured her Arlene and the girl were still ensconced behind the counter. Then she moved back and stood by the paneled door, nearly stumbling back when she realized it was not closed all the way, and the voices were clear above the noise from below.
“I don’t care what you think! I don’t care! Not anymore. It’s too much and I — ”
“Jesus Christ, put down that glass!”
“And don’t talk like that in this ro
om. If you’re going to use language like that, you can get out now.”
“You are insane, you know that? You are really, absolutely insane. You sound like that disgusting cop, for crying out loud. And who do you think you are, giving me orders?”
“Please, Christine, don’t talk like that. I ... I’m just confused. The girl — ”
“Forget the girl. She’s dead. Period. No loss. I have more important things to worry about just now. Like where you put that book!”
“Christine, you must be deaf. You must be. I’ve said a million times I do not know where the hell that book is, and if you don’t stop asking me, I’m going to scream your god damned ears off.”
“You do not know. Just like that, is that right? You do not know. Well, listen, my dear, you had better know. And you had better know by tonight. Ambrose is going to be awfully annoyed.”
“Christine, you can’t tell him!”
“It’s always interesting when Ambrose gets annoyed. Of course, sometimes he only talks a lot. On the other hand ... “
“Oh, my God, please! I don’t know. It was there, and now it’s gone.”
“Tonight, my dear. She is going to be there, you know. And this time there isn’t going to be an end until there is an end.”
A silence. The clattering ticking of glass against glass.
“You know, I’m beginning to think perhaps you don’t belong with us, Adriana.”
“Christine, don’t say that. Not ever. Never say that. I’ve done a lot, you know, and you can’t talk to me that way.”
“Very well, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t sound it.”
“I am not accustomed to begging, Adriana.”
“I’ll find the book, believe me. That girl you sent me probably moved it.”
“She’s doing just fine. Don’t blame your mistakes on her.”
“Fine, ha! Are they all like that out there now?”
A rustling, then, a shifting of cloth against leather.
“Some. It affects them in the beginning like that. But they do get over it.”
“Well, I hope so. There have been complaints.”
“It will pass, Adriana. It will pass.”
Another rustling.
“I will drop in later to see — ”
‘‘I’ll find it, I’ll find it! Now will you please get off my back?”
Natalie scurried into her office and eased the door closed, her hand tight on the knob until she could engage the catch soundlessly. And despite the sunlight and closed windows, the room seemed cold, the trees outside brittle and ready to shatter at the first breath of wind. She backed away until the desk prodded her legs and turned her around. A palm touched the desk’s top as though she expected it to be stove hot.
It was all true.
All the speculations and half-formed theories about conspiracy and control, all of it true and the key was the book she had hidden in her drawer.
The book, and the ring.
She was twice a target now.
She giggled, sucked in her lips to stifle the sound.
Twice a target: the book, because it has some value as a guide to Toal’s power; the ring ... she shook her head, plucked at her blouse.
And uttered a startled scream when the telephone rang.
* * *
Chapter 12
“Idiot!” She whispered, and clenched a fist to calm herself. A glance at the door to see that it was still closed, and she lifted the receiver, pressed it against her stomach. A deep breath and a hand across her forehead.
“Nat? This is Sam.”
She pinched herself to keep from bursting into tears, cursing the weakness that shoved her continuously from decision to indecision. Then she pushed her hip hard against the desk.
“Sam, what can I do for you?” Just the right amount of pleasure at hearing his voice, yet sufficient professional overlay to indicate she was otherwise occupied and didn’t have all day to gossip.
“Nat, I’ve been thinking about Ben.”
His voice was strained, an oddly heartening sound.
“What’s the matter, Sam?” Sympathy, now; and it was bitter on her tongue.
“I was doing some checking of the things you gave me.” He chuckled indulgently. “Elaine didn’t much care for those trophies and things in the house. They sort of made my own contributions to fame kind of puny.”
Get to the point, she thought. “Well, I doubt that, Sam. More likely, she was just jealous.”
“That I can definitely say she was, Nat.”
“Well, what’s the problem? Don’t you want them anymore or something?”
“Good grief, no, nothing like that. I was just wondering, though, if ... well, this is going to come out all wrong, see, so I don’t want you to get mad, okay?”
“Get mad? What for? He was your brother as well as my husband, Sam.”
“Fine. Good. I’m glad you see it that way, Nattie. Maybe I should just say it out straight and you can take it, hopefully, the way I mean it, okay?”
“Okay. Whatever you say.” The game was wearing thin, and with a glance at the wall, she suspected what his next question would be.
“Well, I was wondering, Nat, if you ever ... well, of course, you clean the house and all, but in doing things like that, I wondered if you ever came across anything of Ben’s that you didn’t want.” A pause not long enough for her to interrupt. “I mean, I don’t know if you would ever throw anything out, Nat — ”
“Not without talking with you or Elaine first, Sam.”
“— but maybe you found something that you just stashed away and forgot. I was kind of thinking of him the other day, you know, and I’d hate to see anything of his lost. You know what I mean.”
“Sam, you’re worrying about nothing. I do clean the house once in a while, you know,” and she laughed to prove she hadn’t taken his prying as intrusion. “And I haven’t found anything more. It was all cleaned out after the funeral. All of it.”
“Well ... I don’t know ... “
“Sam! Do you mean to tell me you think I’m holding something out on you?” Another laugh, while her right hand picked up a pencil and jabbed its point fiercely into the desk. It snapped on the third try, but she continued to punch with it.
“Don’t be silly, Nattie, but ... remember when you came to my office a while back? I showed you a ring I said I’d admired on Ben? Well, I might have given you the impression that it was his ring that I had.”
“You didn’t, Sam. You said you had it made, remember?”
“Great! I’m glad you do remember. What happened was, I got to thinking maybe you knew where his ring was. I was talking to Elaine the other night, see, saying that it was really stupid of me to go and have this thing made and pay all that money when I could have … well, could have been wearing Ben’s. It would mean a lot more, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” she said. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Natalie, are you all right?”
She looked down at the hand gripping the pencil and shook her head; then she cautioned herself with a slight but painful jab at her leg. ‘‘I’m fine, Sam. It’s just been a hard day. Everyone’s rather tight around here. Miriam Burke and all. And there’s a ton of kids in for free candy, and folks are gobbling the books like they were calories. It’s been a strain is all. You don’t sound so good yourself, in fact. I would have thought you’d be flying “high because you captured that murderer.
“Oh. Well, of course I’m happy and everything, but it’s never fun killing a man. Even if he was crazy.”
“Was he?” She knew her voice sounded hard, but it was all she could do to keep from screaming out her hatred. “Was he really crazy?”
“As a bat.”
“Sam, I’ve been wanting to ask you — ”
“No, Nattie, I don’t think so, if I guess your question. He was just a drifter. It would have to be some coincidence for him to have been here that long ago. I th
ink maybe he just heard about it somehow, and being crazy, well, he ... you know.” “Yes. I guess I do.”
“Well, fine, Nat, and I’m glad you’re okay. And you’re sure you don’t have the ring.”
“Never found it, Sam.”
“He wasn’t — ”
Sam, she thought, what do you want from me?
“No, he wasn’t buried with it. Only the wedding ring.”
“Oh. Well. It was just a thought.”
“And I appreciate the thought behind the thought. I know you loved him a lot.” And you didn’t have to say that, you idiot, she told herself. Knock it off before you get caught with your symbols down.
“Okay, Nat. And look,” he said as she was taking the receiver from her ear. “Nat, you still there?”
“Yes, Sam. And don’t worry. If I should come across it, I’ll bring it right over. I wouldn’t know what to do with it, anyway.”
“Okay, kid. Thanks a lot. And hey, I’m sorry to bother you like this. I guess it still kind of hurts to talk about it.”
“No,” she said. “Not anymore. Not for a while.”
She listened, heard nothing until the line broke and the dial tone shrilled.
So, she thought, Marc was more right than he knew when he said the battle had been joined. And the opposition was working itself into a mild, dangerous panic. A missing book, a missing ring; the former was still her secret, but the latter she was positive they knew about, if only because they hadn’t been able to kill her yet. If only she could decipher what more there was to that miserable piece of jewelry.
“You’re just going to have to be patient,” she whispered to the silent telephone.
Patience, however, was beyond her. She called the Herald again, but Marc was still out. Then makework occupied her for the next hour, finally drove her to grab her heavy sweater and leave the office. At the gallery’s top step she paused, then retraced her steps to Adriana’s room, knocked and went in.
Mrs. Hall was seated behind her desk, staring out the window. Natalie stood silently for a moment, then coughed discreetly into a closed fist. The Director didn’t move, and Natalie frowned. A quick check of the office revealed nothing in the way of violence that might have erupted after her argument with Christine, nothing at all except an empty decanter.
The Hour of the Oxrun Dead (Necon Classic Horror) Page 17
