It was dark when Artie left the station, the air cold and misting. Lately when he’d been getting up in the morning, he could see frost on the railings of his back porch. How cold was it now, high thirties? Maybe tonight it would even snow; there had been a dusting of it on Mount Tam a few mornings ago. He’d called for a cab before leaving the office and waited ten minutes behind the bulletproof glass of the front lobby until it showed up.
“We’ll be closing in fifteen minutes,” the library guard warned. People were already streaming out the doors, on their way to the Muni or BART.
Artie showed his press card. “Charles Allen?”
The guard consulted a printed listing on his desk. “Main Library Administration—that’s on five. Elevators are across the rotunda on the Fulton Street side.”
Artie started across the granite floor, stopping for a moment in the middle to glance up at the skylight six floors overhead with the staircases circling beneath it. The rotunda and its skylight were the architectural center of the building; the different reading rooms and cultural centers led off the staircases on each floor. A teenager a dozen feet away, his back to him, was also staring up at the skylight; he’d probably just
signed off the Internet and was getting ready to go home and had stopped to look up at what he’d heard so much about. There wasn’t much to see now—too dark—but during the day the sunshine streaming through the massive skylight illuminated the whole interior of the building.
Supposedly it was the first step to the electronic library, though Artie would have been happier with fewer computers and more books. There was something about the feel of paper and cloth that a computer screen could never replace..
“Hi, Artie. Come on in and close the door.”
Charlie’s office was hidden behind the stacks across from the rotunda. It was just big enough for a desk, a spare chair, a coat rack, a bookcase, and the ubiquitous computer. Charlie finished what he was working on and powered down.
Artie asked the obvious: “Working late?”
“Not this time of year—most everybody’s doing their last-minute shopping. We get some young kids in the audio/visual center and some of the winos for the warmth, but that’s about it.” Allen locked his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair, yawned, then opened his eyes wide and stared at him. The stare of a too-curious man, Artie thought, with misgiving.
“Artie, what’s going on?” Allen sounded plaintive and a little angry.
Artie tried to look surprised. “You tell me.” Charlie shoved the afternoon paper across the desk. Artie picked it up, afraid for a moment that Cathy had made the headlines.
“First Larry, then Lyle and his lady. Lyle wasn’t the most likable guy on the face of the earth, but I keep getting this feeling that somebody out there is gunning for us.”
Artie read the story carefully, taking his time though he already knew the details. Charlie didn’t know about
Cathy or Chandler yet and when he found out, the shit would really hit the fan.
“I got a right to know,” Charlie said quietly. “You better believe Nathan already has Franny and me pretty upset. The kid could have killed us all. I feel like we’re characters in Ten Little Indians, where one by one the suspects are knocked off.” He pointed at the paper. “Did you know anything about this? And if you did, why the hell didn’t you tell me? I’m not exactly an innocent bystander, Artie, not after the other night.”
He was referring to Nathan again, Artie thought. He shook his head. “That’s the first I’ve read about it, Charlie. Scout’s honor.”
Charlie studied him, trying to decipher the expression on his face. “You’re lying like a rug, Artie. How long have you and I and Mitch been friends? More than twenty years now? You and he know something, and you’re not letting me in on it. We all have our secrets, but this time it looks like my family’s concerned. Not good.”
He stared at Artie a moment longer, then motioned toward the bookcase. “The diaries are in the shopping bag there—I flipped through them and pulled the ones where I saw a mention of Cathy. I didn’t read them closely. Why spoil the memories, right? Though right now they seem to be rotting pretty badly.”
“Sorry you feel that way,” Artie said quietly. “All Mitch and I are doing is trying to find out who killed Larry. I don’t know about Lyle and Anya, though it looks like a lovers’ quarrel.”
“Coincidence stretched to the breaking point,” Charlie snorted.
Something on his desk caught Artie’s eye and he changed the subject. A box with a Walkman and a set of headphones draped over the sides. He pointed at it. “They won’t let you have a radio in here?”
“Just trying it out—Christmas present for Nathan. This and a dozen tapes of his favorite bands. He loves
‘em, I hate ’em, but this way he’s the only one who’s going to hear them.”
Artie suddenly stiffened. When he got off the elevator, he hadn’t seen anybody on the floor. It had been silent, the study rooms had been empty, and the Magazines and Newspapers Center was deserted. Now he sensed there was somebody outside the door. Probably the guard making his rounds, he thought frantically, and knew immediately he was wrong.
He smiled crookedly at Charlie, hoping it really was the guard and waiting for a knock on the door. A minute of staring at a puzzled Charlie. There was no rap on the door, no further sound of somebody walking in the corridor outside.
But somebody was sure as hell out there; he could feel him.
“You know,” Charlie said in a suddenly smug voice, “Mitch wasn’t the only one who banged Cathy Deutsch. I had a piece of her, too.”
Artie suddenly felt panicked. He had left the automatic back in the hotel room, hidden under the dirty clothes he’d stuffed in a drawer. Jesus, he should have known better.
Charlie had asked him to drop in at the library after hours, when he knew it would be deserted, and he had cheerfully obliged. you’re a fool, monkey … .
For a moment life was a series of freeze-frames. Charlie Allen, looking both smug and surprised at what he’d just said. The box with the Walkman and the tapes open on the desk, a long pair of newspaper shears at the top of the desk pad. The look on Charlie’s face slowly shifting from one of surprise to one of watchful hostility. Then the little things: the telephone out of its cradle, the small green light signifying “On” for the phone recording system.
Setup, Artie thought chaotically. Whatever happened
in that office would be recorded for Schuler to find later.
“You never struck me as a cocksman, Charlie,” Artie said in a thin voice.
Charlie was a pudgy man but now there was a subtle change. He suddenly didn’t strike Artie as weak or slow on his feet. Charlie was like a glove that something had put on and was now flexing its fingers.
“Those who do don’t talk about it, Banks. I don’t think Mitch ever got as far as he said he did.”
“But you did?”
Charlie smirked.
“Why not, she was easy. So were Jenny and Mary.” There was something behind his eyes that Artie couldn’t read. “So was Susan.”
Artie almost leaped over the desk at Allen, then realized that it wasn’t Charlie speaking to him at all.
the voice on tape is all that counts, monkey … .
“You’re a liar,” Artie croaked.
Charlie shook his head in mock anger.
“It’s okay for you and Mitch to talk about Cathy, right? But you ought to take a good look at Susan. She had a two-year-old kid, the boy needed a father, you were the closest thing to a virgin in the Club, and you even had something of a future. You were shy, she was physical, and a taste of flesh went a long way with you, didn’t it? She’s probably been a good wife and loyal, so you’ve had no complaints.” He looked at Artie quizzically. “Or has she been? Loyal, I mean. She never struck me as very demonstrative, not the kind to run her fingernails down your back and spend half an hour telling you how great you were and how much she loves you. She ever done that, Artie?” He paused for a fraction of a second. “You don’t have to answer—I never thought so anyway.”
Artie felt himself go white.
“Has Franny ever done that for you, Allen? She
bowed out of the competition early, probably realized she was a loser all around.”
He was almost shocked when he saw Charlie’s fingers curl around the handle of the shears. Newspaper shears were long and pointed, and the grip would be great for either an underhand or an overhand thrust.
“Stop it, Charlie—he’s trying to get to both of us!” For a moment the real Charlie flickered in Allen’s eyes, frightened and confused. Then Artie found himself saying, “Cathy Deutsch wasn’t the only punchboard. You sure Nathan’s all yours, Charlie?”
First one, then the other. They were being played against each other. The argument was childish, but it wouldn’t sound like that on the tape when Schuler discovered blood all over the desk and the walls, and a body on the floor, maybe two.
Raucous laughter inside his head …
too late, monkey …
He thought for a moment of going after Charlie, but Charlie beat him to it. He gripped the shears in his right hand and launched himself over the desk, rolling to his feet on the other side. Charlie shouldn’t be able to do that, not even on a good day, and then Artie remembered the old man skating in Union Square.
The shears slashed through his coat and Artie felt a stinging sensation in his shoulder. A scratch, but probably a bloody one. He rolled backward in his chair and twisted so he was sitting on the floor, then caught Charlie in the stomach with a foot and the pudgy man went down. Artie rolled away and was on his feet, yanking at the doorknob.
He got as far as the corridor outside when Charlie was clawing at his back, and he went down again. Repeated jabs with the shears, catching mostly overcoat. Artie caught his wrist and tried to bend it back. Charlie was too pudgy, too out of shape—it should have been easy to take the shears away. It wasn’t.
Charlie’s other fist came up and caught him in the
throat. Artie rolled backward into an aisle in the stacks, shelves of books looming up on both sides. Charlie came after him, his face red with anger, using the shears like a broadsword to carve the space in front of him.
Artie reached out and swept books off the shelves onto the floor. Charlie danced out of the way, then slipped on one that had fallen open and went down in a flurry of torn paper. Artie turned and ran for the rotunda stairs.
He had started down when once again he was hit from behind, then was being forced over the railing. He grabbed the steel-pipe railing with both hands, caught a glimpse of the floor five stories below, then started to hoist himself back onto the stairs. When he looked up he was staring full into the face of Charlie Allen.
A very normal Charlie Allen who looked terrified and bewildered. He threw away the bloody shears and helped Artie over the railing.
“Christ, Artie, what’s happening! What the hell are we doing?”
“Killing each other,” Artie mumbled. His ribs ached and his shoulder felt sticky and wet. He sat on the steps, sagging back against the railing.
Charlie’s face suddenly went blank and Artie tensed. “Wait!” Charlie. turned and ran off.
If he had the brains God gave a goose, Artie thought, he’d get the hell out of there. Now.
Something was fingering the back of his mind again and the shelves of books just beyond seemed to ripple like the reflection of trees in a windswept pond. How easy it would be to hide in the stacks and catch Charlie when he returned. It would be Charlie Allen they’d find splattered over the floor below.
Suddenly he sensed confusion and anger, and his mind was free. He heard steps and turned to see Charlie running toward him, clutching the bag of diaries,
the Walkman headphones covering his ears. He looked scared to death.
“What the hell’s going on, Artie? It was me and it wasn’t me … .”
Artie pointed at the headset.
“Why the phones?”
“So I can’t hear myself think—and nothing else can, either. Metallica, Nathan’s favorite. I can’t stand them.” He pushed the bag into Artie’s hands. “Get the hell out of here. I got hold of the guard and he’ll call the cops. I’ll tell them some story about an intruder.”
Artie grabbed him by the arm. “Let’s both get out of here.”
Charlie shook his head. “It can’t follow both of us if we separate. My guess is it’ll follow you—sorry, Artie, it’s probably after the diaries. I’ll be okay, just get out of here.”
Artie clutched the bag and ran down the steps. Just before he reached the doors he staggered and almost fell, his mind caught for the moment like a baseball in a glove.
you’ll come to me, monkey … .
There was nobody back at the hotel and Artie waited half an hour, patching up his shoulder with supplies he’d bought from a nearby drugstore. The shears hadn’t gone very deep but the cut was bloody and hurt like hell. He cleaned it with alcohol and put heavy gauze and tape over it, then rinsed his bloody shirt in cold water and hung it over a towel rack in the john, turning on the ceiling heat lamp to help dry it. He watched the news on TV for a while, got bored, and ordered a ham sandwich and a chef’s salad from room service—Mitch could order something for himself later.
He didn’t want to start plowing through Charlie’s diaries until Mitch showed. Best thing to do would be to skim one and turn it over to Mitch when he finished.
Maybe Levin would catch something he hadn’t.
By eight o’clock, Mitch still hadn’t showed up. Artie called Mitch’s office, but there was only a recorded message telling the caller to leave his or her name and number and Dr. Mitchell Levin would get back to them. It was the same at home. No Mitch. He called his own house; no messages on his answering machine. And no messages from Levin at KXAM.
Mitch should at least have called him if something had come up, Artie thought, and that was funny because he’d blamed Mark for not doing it either. But something could have happened to him; Mitch was as much a target as he was.
Or was he?
He trusted Mitch because … he trusted Mitch. They were good friends who went back forever, but then so had he and Mary. So had he and everybody else in the Club.
He finished half the salad but had no appetite for the sandwich. Eight-thirty—where the hell was Mitch?
It gradually occurred to him that Mitch wasn’t coming back and he remembered the phone call that morning. He’d had no idea what it was about except that it had concerned him.
And Levin had hardly been friendly afterward: “See you at the hotel tonight?” “Yeah, sure.” But Mitch had said it offhand; he hadn’t meant it.
By nine o’clock Artie had made up his mind, wondering if he wasn’t already too late. Only one person knew where he was, but that might be one person too many. He put on his still-damp-shirt and managed to slip into his coat, his shoulder protesting vigorously. He pocketed the automatic, picked up the bag of diaries, and took the elevator down to the lobby. He nodded at the desk clerk but didn’t bother checking out. As far as anybody was concerned, that was where he was going to spend the night.
It was misting again but it was late enough so there
was no difficulty getting a cab. In case the doorman might overhear, he told the driver to take him to the Washington Square Bar and Grill. Once there, he got out, waited until the cab had disappeared from view, then caught another to Lombard Street.
There were dozens of cheap motels lining Lombard and he picked one at random. Checking in sans luggage was no problem; as long as your credit card cleared, you were golden.
The room was serviceable, the bed sheets on the gray side but clean, the towels worn but ditto. He took off his coat, set the gun on the other pillow, and lay down to watch the top of the late news. There was no story about the fight in the library, which was interesting. If somewhere Mitch were watching, he’d have no reason to believe that for ten minutes he and Charlie Allen had been intent on killing each other.
Unless, of course, Levin had been the prime mover all along, the Hound who had murdered Larry Shea a week ago and apparently had declared war against almost everybody in the Club.
Except …
He really didn’t believe that. Nor did he believe the Hound had finally caught up with Mitch. No, Mitch had abandoned him and the only reason Artie could think of was that it had something to do with him.
For a moment he felt like he was back in the library, dangling from a railing in the rotunda, five stories above the floor. The only one he was sure of now was Charlie Allen. He’d seen what had happened to Charlie, just like he’d seen what had happened to the old man ice-skating in the square. Both had been subject to … control.
He wondered if Charlie had managed to get away, then guessed that he had. There was no way that the guard and a platoon of cops could have been manipulated all at the same time.
Artie closed his eyes and tried to will himself back
to the cave beside a meandering stream so many thousands of years ago, and when that failed tried to visualize himself at the breakfast table with Susan and Mark, wishing Susan well on her visit to her folks and bitching about almost everything Mark did that he thought was strange or uncalled for.
It had been so easy to forget that he was a teenager once. If he ever got the chance …
But he wouldn’t.
Susan was gone, and so was Mark.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for a long moment, blanking his mind of everything, then spread the diaries out on the bed table and switched on the light.
He had a lot of reading to do.