The Bookwoman's Last Fling (34 page)

But now where had he gone? I had a sinking feeling that I had seen the last of Charlie: He had a make on me, he knew I had one on him, and he had taken flight.
There's a reason why he's acting this way and I'm a dummy for not seeing it,
I thought. Never mind his guilt or innocence: there's another reason, something he can't hide forever. Maybe he thought I had seen him—that was a strong possibility. Somehow in the black shedrow I'd had a chance to see his face. I missed it but he doesn't know that so he's gone now. Where would he go and how could I find out? Back to Barbara's farm would be my first guess, but no sure thing. Where else would be anybody's guess.

Only Barbara knew for sure, so I would have to ask Barbara.

I took a deep breath. I was about to louse up Sandy's world and I knew it, but if Charlie was my cracked prism the stakes were too high to pussyfoot around with him.

The workday began. This morning Barbara arrived first. I had seen her often enough to know she was not a morning person, so I didn't attach any significance to her mood. She walked glassy-eyed along the shedrow, not speaking to any of us. She did beg a cup of java from the ginneys and she sat in her chair apart from everyone, sipping it from a Styrofoam cup.
This was the time,
I thought. I actually took a step in her direction, but then Sandy arrived and it wasn't the time at all. I had to feel my way with both of them.

I went mindlessly through my chores, mucking my stalls, leading my horses out for Sandy to saddle. Now the ramifications rose up from nowhere. What would the most likely result be of breaking it on her suddenly, without warning? Would she be angry, amused, defensive, or wary, and what would she do about it? I didn't know her well enough, I had no idea what her personal relationship was with Charlie so I couldn't say, but I didn't think she'd be amused. Whatever I did, I had to figure the result was going to be permanent. I might well lose my access to the racetrack, so I had to make this shot count. But win or lose, I had to make a move.

I made it that morning.

 

“Hey, Barbara.”

She blinked as if she'd never seen me before that moment. She squinted at me in the sunlight, and in that first few seconds I couldn't tell what her reaction would be. I had followed her and caught her at her apartment, in a swanky-looking building not far from the track, but far enough, unless Sandy also put in an appearance.

“Cliff,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I was wondering if we could talk for a few minutes.”

Now she was wary, understandably so. The smile faded and she said, “Look, if it's a job-related thing, you really ought to go through Sandy.”

“It's not. It's personal.”

I saw in her eyes the jumble of questions. What the hell could we have to talk about? What kind of personal discussion could even a lucky stablehand have with her? How did I know where she lived? My status with her was suddenly shaky.

“I don't think so,” she said and the air got frigid. “Talk to Sandy.”

“I can't. He doesn't know about this.”

“And I do?” She looked at me closer now—took a step my way and said, “I don't like the sound of this.”

Wait till I spring it on you,
I thought:
see how you like it then.
In that moment I looked for inspiration and there was none: I was flying by the seat of my pants. I said, “It's about Charlie and his books,” and she almost smiled again. “All right, come inside,” she said, and we stepped into her world, her home away from home.

It was a very nice world, an elegant apartment with a big-screen TV and what looked to be an expensive sound system, a bow window that looked over a garden, and a well-stocked liquor cabinet. She gestured to a chair and I sat while she put on a kettle of water. “You want some tea?” she said, and I couldn't think of anything I wanted less than that barf-inducing substitute for coffee but I said, “Love some,” and I prepared to gag it down. We waited while she put the stuff out to steep. “This is really a special tea, hard to get over here,” she said. “I hope you'll like it.” I lied like sixty and said I was sure I would, and in fact the tea surprised me by being drinkable and almost good. We settled in our chairs and she said, “Okay, what's it all about?”

Before I could tell her, she said, “I'm sure you know Sandy will be very unhappy if he hears about this.”

Not as unhappy as he's going to be later,
I thought. “I should've seen him first.”

“You probably should've. But I won't tell him, if you've got a good reason for coming around behind his back.”

“I'm a book dealer in my other life,” I said.

“How interesting. And now a light begins to dawn. So where do you have your other life and what are you doing here?”

“I got burned out. Hey, that happens even in something as fascinating as the book world.”

“Oh, I can understand that.”

“When I was a kid I loved horses. Read the
Black Stallion
books, got hooked.”

“I did too,” she said. “I was never the same after that.”

“That's how I got on the racetrack.”

“And then you heard about Charlie.”

I nodded. “All I wanted to do after that was talk to Charlie about his books.”

“I'm sure he'd love to show 'em to you. But I don't think they're for sale.”

“I just wanted to see them, and I didn't know if Charlie was coming back.”

“And you couldn't stand the thought of all those books just lying out there.”

“No,” I said.

“Well, I don't think he's coming back. Not for a while, anyway.”

“I heard he has several houses full of books.”

She said, “Hmm”; then, after a long pause, “I have the feeling I should fire the whole bunch of you. Don't you know it's not polite to talk about your employer?”

“Hey, don't let me get the others in trouble. This is all my doing.”

“I'll bet it is.”

We looked at each other and in that moment she was an enigma, impossible to read. “I guess I can't help myself,” I said. “I'm a bibliophile, just like Charlie.”

“Oh God, not another one. What is it with these ratty goddam books that turns respectable men into…what would you say? How would you describe yourselves?”

“I don't know how to. I probably shouldn't have bothered you.”

Then the smile was back. “Actually, I think Charlie would rather enjoy talking to you. He comes racing with me but his heart's never been in it. He's never really happy unless he's mucking around in a new stash of old books.”

I nodded.

“This makes perfect sense to you, does it?”

“Yeah,” I said simply, in a very small voice.

“You're not a book
dealer
at all, are you? You're like Charlie: You buy them but never sell them.”

I shrugged pathetically and played that role. Now she'd either kick me out or open up.

She smiled and said, “Want some more tea?” and I took heart from that.

“Yeah, it's great.”

She poured; I sipped. She said, “I've been trying to understand that man for years, and now look, you're another one. You come to me like this, knowing your job may be on the line, and all for a peek at my husband's books.”

“What can I say?”

“You can start by admitting that you people are freaking nutso.”

I gave her my best self-deprecating look.

“I wish I could understand why you do it: What there is about a bunch of silly books that makes your nuts bark?”

I laughed: It was a funny, unexpected line. “I don't know,” I said, “but I'd sure love to talk to Charlie.”

“I'll bet you would but he's out of touch now. Maybe when he comes back he'll see you. Do you think that'll do any good?”

“I don't know. What are you trying to do?”

“Put some sanity into the man, for God's sake. But what good will you do, you're as crazy over these books as he is.” She breathed deeply, a sigh of vast frustration. “Well, you're here now, you're the first one of these book freaks I've ever known other than Charlie. Are there many like you around?”

I shook my head.

“Damn, I hope not. Where does this come from? What causes it?”

“I don't know.”

“I was hoping you could make me understand it, because in more than fifteen years with him I still don't get it. He's driving me crazy, you know. If we ever do split up, it'll be over these damned books. So you tell me, Cliff, what makes you guys tick? Just make me understand that and I promise I will make it well worth your time.”

I finished off the tea.

“You can't, can you?” she said. “You're as crazy as he is.”

She stirred on the couch. “I think you're gonna have to find work elsewhere.”

I nodded, sadly I hoped.

“I liked you, Cliff, I really did. But now it would be a major-league distraction to have you around my shedrow.”

“Maybe I could just work for Charlie,” I said. “Just part time, here and there, you know, when he needs the help.”

“Jesus, listen to yourself. I can't believe I thought you were so normal, and here you are spouting the same crazy stuff I've heard for years.” She shook her head. “Nutso.”

“I could help him.”

“Or screw him up even more than he is now.”

“I wouldn't charge him anything.”

“You wouldn't charge him—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, listen to you!” She rubbed her temples, tired of it all. “How could you help, by moving his books around? By telling him how great he is? How do you think that would help him? You'd just feed into everything that's wrong with him.”

“When will he be back?”

She made a sad laughing sound, as if the world had suddenly become too much for her.

“Barbara? When can I see him?”

“Who the hell knows? He's gone away on one of his so-called book-buying trips. He said he was going to Seattle, but he doesn't even tell the truth about that now. I found out anyway, I saw his airline tickets. I dug through his underwear for the damn things, I rooted around through his dresser to find out, and that's what he's got me doing now, that's what he's turning me into.”

She said “Seattle” again, with deep anger.

“Seattle, my ass,” she said. “He's not going to any damned Seattle, he's going to Idaho.”

My flight from Salt Lake was two hours late and I got into Idaho Falls in the very early hours of the morning. I had a rental waiting at the airport: I shifted my bag into the trunk and checked to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be: my heart, my gut, my gun. Then I headed out on the road to the farm. I had declared the gun and sent it through with my luggage. Still there was red tape; still there were questions. Then there had been the long night in the air and now I was tired: not exactly the ideal circumstances to face a killer, but you do with what you're dealt in this business and I imagined I'd be wide awake when the moment came. I wasn't sure yet what moment was coming or when: All I really knew was that Charlie was on his way and so was I.

I pictured them all sitting up in the dark: Louie cradling the shotgun, Billy with his .22, Bob somewhere nearby, and the ladies—Lillian, Sharon, Rosemary, Erin, and Martha—sitting together in the black corner of the room. On the face of it they had him seriously outnumbered, but he'd be running on high octane, he'd be frantic, he had killed and they had not, and they'd be nervous. I had to be careful not to get myself shot by friendly fire on my approach in the dark.

I had called the cops in Idaho. They had sent a pair of uniforms out to the farm and had warned Sharon that Charlie might be on his way. They were there for two hours but they couldn't do much more until he actually showed up. There were no outstanding warrants against this man; so far it was all fear of the unknown. Even if he did come to the farm he'd have to break some law before they could detain him. Their advice was to get out until they could all figure which way the wind was blowing.

“They don't understand why I can't go,” Sharon said. “I've got horses to take care of. I can't just walk off and leave 'em here.”

I talked to her twice en route—first from the L.A. airport and again from Salt Lake.

“I'm not leaving,” she said again.

She said it had gone around the room like that.

“I'm not leavin' either,” Louie said.

“I'm not going,” Billy said.

“Well, I ain't goin' if you ain't,” Rosemary said.

And so it went. Even Bob and Martha had decided to ride it out, whatever happened. At some point Erin had told them all that they had more than the horses to worry about. Charlie was a book freak. If he got desperate enough and angry enough he might torch the houses to get at the books. If he believed he was lost, they had to be prepared for anything.

They didn't want to take that seriously but I thought it was a real possibility. I knew a bit about bibliomania, and in the most extreme cases a biblioperp is like unhinged freaks everywhere: irrational, driven, superfocused on his goal, whatever that is.

We arranged a signal so they'd know it was me coming up on them: I'd hold my headlights steady on the front window and quickly flash my brights three times.

All was calm in Idaho. The world seemed peaceful on the brink of the new day, and that was all I knew for sure as I drove out to the farm.

The voice on the radio said today was December 10: only two weeks left till Christmas. The date rang a bell that had nothing to do with shopping or St. Nick, but I couldn't remember in my tired state what it was. This will all be history in a little while, I told myself: and yet I couldn't shake the feeling that I had taken a wrong turn somewhere. What a depressing thought: that I had leaped blindly into the friendly skies and the killer was still somewhere in California.

Or somewhere else.

The morning was black and clear with a bit of snow on the ground. Traffic was sparse.

I got to the farm at four forty-five.

 

I stopped at the fork in the road. Nothing doing back at the main house.

I pushed on to Sharon's. It was just as dark there but I expected that. I flashed my lights and all was well. The door opened and Louie stood framed there with his shotgun.

I parked out of sight behind the house and went inside.

Hugs and handshakes all around. Louie watched the road; Billy watched the back; and the rest of us sat at a roaring fireplace while the sun came up and pushed our demons away.

Now came the moments of self-doubt. “What if he doesn't come?” Sharon said.

“Then I'll have to find out where he is.”

“What if it turns out he's still in California?”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Would you go out there again?”

“If I have to. We'll see.”

“I'm going outside,” she said. “I've got chores.”

“Give it another half hour. Let it get good and light, then I'll send Louie out with you.”

The cops called. Just checking in, they said.

Sharon and Louie went out and did the chores. I couldn't go, couldn't take a chance he might see me before I saw him, but I sat at the window watching, just beyond the curtain, my gun on the cushion beside me. Erin and Rosemary got our breakfast casseroles ready. The timing was perfect: The food came out of the oven just as we got washed up and ready to eat it.

The day dragged. The cops called at ten and again at two. I talked to them at two.

“They don't think he's coming,” Sharon said.

“Doesn't sound like it from the tone of the one guy. But they're good cops, they don't want to take any chances.”

I talked to Bob. He was still taking a doubtful approach, but I could see the tension in his face. “Something's gonna happen, isn't it?” he said, and I told him yeah, maybe. “I think so,” I said. I talked to Martha and told her again that she had done fine back at the racetrack. She shook her head and said, “I let him off the hook.” She didn't believe me when I told her Bax hadn't done it. “Somehow he's pulled the wool over your eyes,” she said. “He's good at that, he's like a magician.” I talked to Louie and told him I was glad he was there, and I said the same to Billy later. “Just be careful with that gun, Billy,” I said, and immediately regretted the preachy tone.

At some point Erin and I found time to talk. She sat beside me in the window well and said, “Why don't you get some sleep? I'll watch.”

“I was dead tired a few hours ago. Now I'm wide awake.”

“Just close your eyes. Lean on my shoulder. Sleep will come.”

I did and sleep did come, but only for twenty minutes. I awoke with a jerk at three-thirty.

“It's okay,” Erin said, putting a hand on my arm, but I was suddenly nervous in the pale afternoon.

“I can't believe we're doing this again,” she said. “Not after the last time.”

I had nothing to say to that. After a while she said, “You know sooner or later your luck will run out.”

“Is that what you think it is, luck?”

“Oh, don't get your maleness all upset, I know how good you are. But do you think you're always going to be stronger, faster, smarter than the other guy?”

“I always have been.”

“How many times did you get shot?” She sighed, knowing the answer. “Your back looks like a piece of the moon.”

“I promise I won't get shot again. Not more than once or twice, anyway.”

“All it takes is one. One who's better, luckier, or more devious. What's that old cowboy saying? Never was a horse that couldn't be rode, never was a man who couldn't be throwed.”

“So what do you want me to do, walk out and leave them all here?”

“No, of course not. I'm just talking to hear my own voice, but that doesn't help, does it?”

“It does if you're trying to be annoying.”

Eventually she got to her point. “I said I'd never do this; now here I am. Second-guessing you. Acting like a schoolgirl.”

“That'll happen when you almost die trying.”

Again I was impatient with her. What's your point, I wanted to say, but then she told me. “I don't want to do this anymore, Cliff. I want us to be normal.”

“I've never been normal.”

“I know you think you're playing that for laughs but it's not funny.”

“What's funny is that you'd think I think that.”

I wanted to say, What are the odds? What are the chances that we'd ever get another case like this? But what were the odds of a second one? If you play the odds often enough, you lose. It would be hard for her to believe at this moment, but not all or even a few bibliomaniacs become psychopaths. “So what do you want to do, bag it?” I said. “Call it a day, you and me?”

“Oh no. Oh God, no! It hurts me that you would even say that.”

Then she said, after a long pause, “Is that what you want?”

“I want to be a cop again.”

There it was, the one thing she couldn't tolerate.

“I love the book trade. But I still want to be a cop.”

There it was, out in the open at last.

 

The phone rang. Sharon answered in the kitchen.

“It's your friend Carroll Shaw from the Blakely Library,” she said. “I forgot I've got an appointment with him. Made it weeks ago.”

Suddenly the date crystallized and I remembered. “What'd you tell him?”

“This is not a good time. But he came all this way, what could I do?”

“When's he coming out?”

“He's downtown now. I told him to come on. Sooner the better, right?”

I rubbed my aching head. “You know this could take days. I'd love to meet him after all these years, it would be great to compare notes over your books, but this could take a long time. Damn, he should've called to confirm.”

“I'll let him have a quick look and then tell him he'll have to come back. I'll fly him back at my expense.”

“A quick look could take three days. He's a bibliographer, Sharon; he'll want to take extensive notes and shoot pictures. But give him a very quick look, for now. That's more than fair under the circumstances. We don't want him in the way when Charlie gets here.”

I was fidgety as I waited for Carroll to arrive. I thought I had handled this case badly from the start. As a backstretch schmuck I had been much too tentative. Erin was right: I was suffocating under other people's rules and procedures. I had been too afraid of violating some kind of racetrack rule and getting kicked out, so I hadn't asked the right questions soon enough. I'd certainly have tumbled to Charlie much quicker, and once you have a guy in your sights you can always pry out the truth. Well, I knew the truth now, didn't I? Now to prove it, get us all out of here alive, and wing it with Erin back to Denver.

But things are never that simple.

 

Carroll arrived just before dusk. I saw him pull into the yard, his rental sporting a custom library plate, BLAKELY4, under his windshield. He was wearing a snazzy gray suit and a snap-brim gray hat. I was surprised at his dandylike appearance: Somehow I had always pictured him as a kind of roughneck like myself. Maybe that's why it had always been so easy to deal with him by phone: We talked the same language without the expensive shell of the Blakely Library separating us. Now he was here and he walked quickly to the door, disappearing under the overhang. A few seconds later I heard him knock.

Sharon opened the door. I tucked my gun under the window cushions and started down to the front to finally meet him. I heard him come into the hall, his voice a room away. Then I saw him from a distance and I stopped in my tracks. There was something disturbingly familiar about him, and a fleeting impossible thought ran through my head. I stood still, looking through that hall into the front room.

“It's good to meet you at last,” he said.

I knew that voice so well. So what was wrong with him?

Then he took off his hat and I could see his face.

Charlie's face.

I heard Erin come in. “Hi, Mr. Shaw,” she said.

“Erin, what a pleasant surprise. I didn't know you'd be here.”

It was Charlie, talking clearly now in Carroll Shaw's voice. Charlie, stripped of his weirdness, stripped all the way down to the weirdest part of him. Charlie the killer.

“I'm afraid I have some disappointing news for you,” Sharon was saying. “Something else has just come up. I would normally never do this, but in this case it can't be helped.”

“That is disappointing. I hope whatever it is, it's not serious.”

“I'd call this fairly serious.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“I doubt it, but thanks for asking.”

“This is totally my fault,” Charlie said. “I really should have called earlier. Do I at least get a little peek, or do you not have even that much time?”

Carroll, the soul of etiquette. Charlie, the considerate killer.

“I can give you a look,” Sharon said. “How much can you do in one early evening?”