Burning Books Page 13

  The light spilled from under Magnus’s door, dimming as he paced inside and blocked the source.

  “It’s got to be here somewhere! It has to be!”

  With a surreal sense of déjà vu, she approached slowly, hand reaching to turn the knob, then curling inward as she reconsidered and made a fist to knock. The unmistakable sounds of rummaging through boxes stayed her hand.

  “It has to be here if it’s not in her house. Where the fuck is it?”

  It sounded now as though he were upending boxes, spilling their contents onto his floor, clothes cascading over cardboard, books and other objects thumping to the floor. Molly knocked.

  Footsteps stomped across the room. The knob twisted, squeaking in protest. He flung open the door so violently that it bounced off the wall behind it and smacked him in the shoulder, rocking him on his feet. An irritated scowl scrawled across his red, sweaty face. His room looked like an explosion had flung all his possessions onto his floor. Dresser drawers hung open, their contents spilling over the sides.

  “What?”

  “I heard you in here and thought I could help you find whatever you’re looking for.” Her heart pounded frantically. Calm down, Magnus, and let me in. Let me help. Let me feel like we’re bonding, even if it’s only for a moment.

  He raked a hand through his hair, springing it into curls, looking anywhere but directly at her. The annoyance leeched out of his expression.

  “I’m fine. I’m just looking for something and thought it was in my stuff. I packed in a hurry when I moved out of my apartment.”

  “Okay. If you need help putting things away, I’ll be down in the family room, watching television.” Her hand reached toward him, fingers stretching toward a curl. “You need a haircut.”

  His gaze landed on her for the first time. Incredulity swamped his expression, followed swiftly by fury. He charged out of the room, hand reaching toward her throat. Molly backpedaled swiftly, terror triggering her flight instinct. Her back hit the wall.

  She jerked out of sleep so violently, she nearly fell off her bed. The light from the windows had softened and dimmed; the sun no longer blazed through the open drapes. Slumber had claimed her longer than the few minutes of her dream.

  And what a dream. Her mind had embellished to a frightening degree the strange hallucination she’d had the other night, adding details and texture until it felt almost like a memory. She shuddered, and then remembered Magnus’s defiant assurance after he’d checked the upstairs for intruders. I’d never hurt you, Molly.

  Minding her hangover, she sat up cautiously. The thumping in her head had ceased. Her stomach grumbled a little but behaved. A tea tray with a glass of ice water and a plate of soda crackers had been left on her night table. Annis. God bless her.

  Molly checked her messages while she nibbled on crackers. Two from Lynda about the book club—Brenda chose Grapes of Wrath. I could just throttle her! And one from Cary Welch. As you’re sure to be hung over and not feeling human until afternoon, would a late lunch/early dinner work for you? Red House Beer & Wine Shoppe in Renton at 4? Book 3 and an interesting article I found will be topics of discussion.

  It was just past noon. A shower and a Dramamine should set her right, so she texted back Sure! and dragged herself into the shower.

  Hearing the vacuum cleaner in the kitchen, she popped in to thank Annis for the tea tray and found her brother instead. She’d dressed conservatively compared to last night—her turquoise turtleneck sweater and black slacks were positively modest—but even so, Magnus’s expression screamed disapproval.

  “There’s glass, Molly,” he said. He had the upholstery attachment fixed to the end of the hose to better suck up slivers.

  “I know. Where’s Annis? I wanted to thank her for the tray she brought up.”

  “I brought it up. She didn’t come in today. She assured me last night that she wouldn’t.” He looked up with a twisted smile, his eyes tormented. “I don’t think a Black Angus gift card is going to fix things this time.”

  “You scared her.”

  “She has nothing to fear from me.”

  “I know that, Magnus, but your . . . episodes might one day inadvertently cause her harm.”

  “I’ll lose control and hurt her, you mean.”

  “You have to admit it’s possible.”

  He looked away, and just as quickly looked back, his gaze sweeping over her. “You’re meeting Cary Welch again.”

  “I have to pick up the next book, and he said he found an interesting article.”

  “He’s moving awfully fast.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “The hell it’s not. But whatever.” He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s your life.”

  Although tempted to rise to the bait, Molly managed to bite back a sarcastic response. “I shouldn’t be late. We’re going to the Red House Beer & Wine Shoppe in Renton, if that makes you feel more at ease.”

  He resisted the bait as well, simply raised a hand in farewell and said, “I’ll be at Cecily’s for a few days,” as he watched the vacuum move over the floor. Somewhere they had one of those robotic vacuums that Annis turned loose when she was too busy to drag out the Dyson, but vacuuming up the splintered remains of his tantrum was sufficient penance. She left him to it.

  It was way too early to meet Cary Welch, so she stopped at the bookstore to pick up a copy of The Grapes of Wrath. Lynda’s second text today had been to express the certainty that Brenda and Vivian had deliberately tried to pick the most depressing book they could find just to needle Molly.

  Cary had already been seated when she arrived. When Molly was shown to the table, he rose and came around to help her out her jacket, holding her chair for her. When he sat back down, he smiled across the table at her.

  “I ordered iced tea and told them I’d tip extra if they kept the water glasses full. You need rehydrating.”

  She grimaced. “Yes, I do. I did, for a moment, doubt your sanity when you suggested a wine shop for lunch.”

  He laughed. “It has a lovely atmosphere.”

  Anywhere Cary Welch was present had a lovely atmosphere, as evidenced by how quickly their server had come under his spell. He’d been there only a few minutes when she arrived, but the girl was already obviously smitten and barely spared a glance for Molly as she transferred iced tea and water glasses from her serving tray to the table. Even then the glance was dismissive and somewhat incredulous, as though she wondered how insignificant Molly McKinley had ended up in the company of such an intriguing man as this one.

  “Younger sister.”

  The server blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m his younger sister. You looked curious.”

  Cary choked back a laugh.

  “Oh. I . . . thanks.” Slightly confused and a lot off balance confidence-wise, she scurried off, glancing back over her shoulder almost fearfully.

  He studied her over the rim of his iced tea, making even that innocuous beverage seem sophisticated. “Hmm. So the cat has claws.”

  “Not ordinarily. I just don’t like being dismissed as not worthy.” She realized what she’d implied and blushed furiously. “Regardless of the reality of the situation.”

  A lazy finger flicked the lemon slice off the rim of the glass. “The reality of the situation is that we won’t be able to come here again for a few years unless you confess your lie.”

  “Not a chance!”

  “So you just . . . clear the way right to me?” His brow raised, and his head cocked in the direction their server had disappeared. A smile lurked at the corners of his mouth. “Really, Molly, how considerate of you.”

  “Oh, shush.” She fanned her face with her menu to cool it. “Now tell me about the third book.”

  With a knowing smile at her all-business tone, he reached twice into his ever-present leather satchel, first handing over a paper-wrapped parcel that could only be her silk shirt—again—and then laying a silk-wrapped bundle between them. Cinna
mon silk.

  “I sprang a few bucks for a silk handkerchief so you can have your blouse back.”

  Molly tucked her blouse into her tote-size purse. “How did you get it back from your father so fast?”

  “I only gave him the last three books. I kept the third one, so I could study it myself, among other reasons.” She wondered if she was one of those reasons. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Dad will confirm this with the other books, I’m sure, but I’ve found no trace of flammable chemicals. No trace of chemicals at all. Whatever is causing the books to burn, it must be supernatural. Which is why I think our next move should be visiting the shop where you found them.”

  “I already did.” She told him briefly about finding the modern bookseller in place of the rare bookshop. “It was disconcerting, to say the least. I didn’t get the impression that the sales clerk was lying to me. Didn’t get the impression that anyone was acting in an effort to trick me. It really was just a bookstore.”

  “Hmm. I think we’ll take an after-lunch field trip. The restaurant probably won’t notice if you leave your car here for a time, as long as it’s not an extended period. Where is this bookshop?”

  “Beemer Lane. Seven twenty-one Beemer Lane.”

  His brow scrunched. “Never heard of it.” In a flash, his phone was out, and he was swiping and tapping the screen. “Neither has Google. Are you sure it was Beemer Lane? There’s a Beemer Court in Lacey.”

  “It’s nowhere close to Olympia. It’s near the Greenbelt in Queen Anne.”

  He spread his fingers apart on the screen to zoom, peered at the screen, and shook his head. “Nothing. Strange. You can remember how to get to it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting.” He started to say something more, then noted her expression. Their server was returning. Her face remained carefully neutral as she took their order. Molly chose her entrée on the fly; she’d been too wrapped up in Cary to even glance at it.

  While they waited for their meal, she told him about Magnus and the Waterford crystal, and her not-quite fight with him this morning.

  “He wouldn’t even yell back. Ordinarily, it takes very little to push his buttons.”

  “Is it safe to go home? Perhaps you could stay with a friend a day or two.”

  “He’s going to a friend’s house for a few days. Maybe by the time he returns, the urge to strangle him will have passed. But I have to do something about him. If it means not reading the rest of those books, then I guess I’ll have to take that into consideration.”

  “It seems to me that Magnus is holding something deep inside that he doesn’t want let out, and for some reason, the books are affecting his control over his secret. Perhaps by reading the rest of them, that control will break, and he’ll be forced to face—and deal with—whatever that secret is.”

  She had thought as much herself. Feared it, more likely, but there was no avoiding it any longer. “Then we’d better find out what we can and get it done with before he goes completely crazy and hurts someone.”

  After their meal was served, he talked about work and his children. Taking her cue from him, Molly didn’t bring up his wife. She imagined it not as something he routinely skirted to keep at bay the inevitable pain and loss, but as a constant, hollow worry that could be endured only if it was ignored.

  She herself had no career to speak of. Her parents had died moderately wealthy, and the trustee of their estate managed their assets skillfully. Books had consumed her life since the accident, as it had many of Earth’s inhabitants. As the economy tanked, sales of books and alcohol soared: diversion at any cost to push into the background the gloomy effects of the superstorm.

  “What would you like to be when you grow up, Molly?”

  A question she’d always despised. The teasing quirk of his lips said he knew it annoyed her, and he’d asked anyway. So he wasn’t worried the query would put her off him. Either he was immoderately confident or supremely uncaring about her interest.

  “I’m sure I had goals and ambition at some point in time. When I was in my early twenties, I thought I might want to teach. Since the car accident, though, I’ve felt no urge to do anything, not even go through my parents’ belongings.”

  She’d taken a chance with the macaroni and cheese, five different cheeses with crabmeat thrown in, and while it was heavenly, she couldn’t force herself to take a bite. Not while his eyes pierced her, scrutinizing every dark corner of her soul, analyzing and categorizing and summarizing her into a neat—and most likely accurate—psychological profile.

  “I buy books,” she blurted. “New novels, classic novels, rare novels. Rare books of poetry and essay collections and short stories. Books upon books upon more books.” Beaming a glare at her purse, where she’d stashed the third volume before their meal arrived, she grabbed up her iced tea and gulped it down, much like she had swigged the wine last night but thankfully with fewer side effects.

  “Books are good.”

  Her glare turned on him. “They’re not good, Cary, not when they’re an . . . oh, I don’t know. An obsession? It’s more than boredom. I get an almost desperate urge to go find a book. New, old, rare, common, fiction, nonfiction—it doesn’t matter. I go buy a book or four or nine, and the urge passes for a while. Then suddenly it’s back, and I do it all again. The cycle continues, ad infinitum.”

  Cary laid down his fork and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “And since you found the books—the magic books,” he clarified. “How strong is the urge to buy more?”

  “I haven’t had the urge at all. But that’s not unusual. Sometimes I’ll go a couple months and be just fine.”

  He picked up his fork again, but his appetite seemed to have fled as well. He laid it down almost immediately and signaled their server.

  “I’m too excited to eat. Let’s have her box up our meals and get out of here. We can talk in the car.”

  He paid the check despite her attempt to have it split and ushered her out to the car, barely willing to pause long enough to allow her to use the restroom. Once in the car, he started the engine to ward off the chill and half turned in his seat.

  “I’d be very interested in something, Molly, if you’re willing to put in a little work.”

  It didn’t sound like a pick-up line, although granted, she’d never dated a scholar. An image of her closet, full of clothes designed to be tantalizing to the male libido, flashed in her mind, and she amended her thought: she didn’t know if she’d ever dated a scholar.

  “I guess it depends on what you have in mind.”

  “Can you go over your bank records and any receipts you might still have where you paid cash, and put together a chart of your book purchases since the car accident?”

  “If you tell me why.”

  “I think you were being spurred to find these books.” Her mouth fell open. “We already know, from your name being printed on the endpaper, that you’re the intended target of the magic or whatever it is. Maybe part of the magic was to keep you searching until you found them.”

  “But what if took me years to find them?”

  “Perhaps that was the plan. Maybe something needed to happen before you were able to locate the books.”

  “I didn’t find them, anyway. Magnus did.”

  “Indeed.” This only amped up his excitement to a higher level. “Exactly how did he find them? What led you to that shop in the first place?”

  Since they didn’t appear to be leaving anytime soon, Molly set her purse on the floorboards at her feet and turned sideways, facing him. “We were going through the rare books in our library at home, cataloging them for our financial profile. Magnus found a first-edition copy of To Kill a Mockingbird.”

  “You didn’t know you had it? Didn’t you buy it?”

  “I’m explaining this badly. My parents had an extensive collection, but they were carefree about it. They’d buy a book, pop it on the shelf, chat about it with their collector friends over dinner, and then com
pletely forget about it. Their will stipulated only that everything be left to Magnus and me jointly, and we could figure out how—and if—to divide it all. They calculated the value when the economy was better, five years before their deaths. During that five years, they added to the collection but never updated the will.”

  “I’m sure there have been some legal ramifications, considering inheritance tax.”

  “Exactly. So we’re cataloging the collection to have it appraised. Anyway, just inside the cover on the free endpaper, we found a bookplate. It looked pretty old. It said Property of Gerard’s Rare Books, 721 Beemer Lane, Queen Anne, Seattle, Washington. Washington was abbreviated the old way—Wash. instead of just WA.”

  “Two-letter state abbreviations began to be used in 1963. It sounds like you have a pretty valuable book.”

  “Very valuable. First edition, first printing, immaculate dust cover.”

  “It seems strange they would just shove it onto a shelf and forget about it.”

  “Not so strange, considering they did that with every book they collected. What is strange is that they never visited Gerard’s Rare Books. Or if they did, they took neither Magnus nor me. They almost always took us, or at least mentioned a shop they visited if they didn’t. We’d never heard of this shop, never visited it, and I don’t think they did, either. Why would they ignore that bookplate?”

  “Lack of interest? Some collectors have shops they trust and won’t frequent anywhere else.”

  Molly shook her head. “You don’t understand. They scoured the countryside for new shops. They were always traveling, looking for the next rare find. They’d have been at that shop the very second they could manage it, and they’d have dragged us along. Finding a new, rare bookseller is to my family like finding an awesome new restaurant is to other families.”