Poe (29 page)

I drop Lisa off to pack (her street is jammed with enough police vehicles to ward off an army), trying to justify in my own mind the small white lie I left her with (I need to go to the bank for some cash, when in fact I’m going to run the books by Ernest), and the even larger, nowhere-near-white lie of the gun in my glove compartment (what will Elizabeth think when she discovers it’s gone? That Daniel broke in and stole it?).

When I get to the office, the bored security guard actually looks at me for a moment, and there is something almost fearful in the way he appraises me. Apparently the police aren’t the only ones thinking I might be the killer. The elevator dings, and I’ve never been so happy to step inside it.

I really don’t want to push the button for the third floor, not because I don’t feel bad for Myrna—I do—but because I’ll be in close proximity to the energy of mourning. Definitely not my favorite thing, but after all my immature cracks, I feel like I owe her. While the elevator ascends I try to think about something else, namely white-sand beaches, fresh coconuts containing fruity alcoholic beverages, and turquoise ocean waters. Lisa and I strolling down the beach, watching the sunset. She’d be wearing a bikini of course… maybe white with red polka dots. Would the company credit card work in Miami? I wonder how long we could ride on it until Mac notices the charges from Florida and cuts me off.

My reverie is interrupted by the rude chime of the elevator when it hits the third floor, and the first thing I notice as the doors open is how quiet it is. Either the phones aren’t ringing—hard to imagine, given the breaking story—or they’re being answered on a different floor. Even the grinding of the old laser printers is gone, so that for the first time I can hear the hiss of the radiator and the ticking of the fabulous fifties clock.

Bob approaches me first, wearing a black polo shirt tucked under a belt that’s cinched three notches past reason; the straining seams around the buckle look like they can’t possibly hold on much longer. He holds out a sweaty hand, which I reluctantly take, although even Bob would probably think it in poor taste to palm his standard buzzer. “Glad you could make it. Such a sad day, sad day.”

I see Nate in the corner staring at the wall and drinking something from a small paper cup, an appropriate expression of sadness arranged on his face. And then I see Myrna standing stiffly by the water cooler, surrounded by office staff I’ve never encountered, all seemingly frozen in place. Her dress is lumpy and black, adorned with that awful brooch in the shape of a turtle I last saw Maddy wear, and there are sad bits of cookie crumbs dotting her unusually red lipsticked lips. The mood is somber, and even Mac seems subdued; his normal shout is reduced to a reasonable decibel, and he clasps Myrna by the elbow, as high, apparently, as he can reach.

“Take the day,” says Mac. “We’ll hire a temp to cover.”

Myrna sniffs loudly into a tissue, and now Mac is nervously at a loss for words, as if this is the extent of his experience with female consolation. Both he and Nate notice me at the same time. Mac looks relieved to have something else to talk about. Nate glares.

“Look who’s here,” says Mac, coming over to grip
my
elbow, as if I’ve suffered a loss, too. “Great story you dialed in the other day. Made me crazy that it was so late, but worth it, kid. You’ve got the knack.”

Nate crushes the paper cup in his hands and throws it at a trash can. He misses.

“Tough on Myrna,” says Mac in an even softer tone. “They can’t have the funeral until the autopsy is done. Specialists coming in from DC. Myrna said it’d be weeks.” Then, even more quietly, Mac whispers, “And you were right; we’re doubling our ad rates. Maybe when Myrna has had a chance to, you know…”

Myrna blows her nose loudly into the tissue. It sounds like someone just strangled a goose.

“Get a little past her grief,” continues Mac, “you could do an interview. Victim’s side of things. Could be very touching.”

I can hear him mentally subtracting his net from his gross; it’s making me sick just to stand next to him. Instead of replying, I walk over to Myrna.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, and she peers at me with more than just a little distrust. I’m ashamed to say I’ve earned it. “Your sister was”—
What’s a positive word I can honestly use here?
—“
special
. One of a kind.”

Apparently that works well enough, because Myrna starts to sob again, but she also holds out a hand appreciatively and grasps my arm before dabbing at her eyes with the same tissue.

Obviously this is all more than Nate can take, because, looking furious, he digs his hands into his jacket pockets and storms out to the stairway without uttering a word.

“A sensitive kid, my Nate,” says Mac wistfully.

Sensitive, my ass.

After I stay on the third floor for what seems to be an appropriate amount of time, I start to quietly make my way for the elevator—God knows I don’t want to take the chance of running into Nate on the stairs.

If I thought the third floor was quiet, then the basement is like a tomb. No one is sitting at the gray metal desk, and I have a brief panicky moment where I think maybe Ernest finally went and died, which would make me the winner of the office pool, but a holder of indecipherable texts. Then I hear soft shuffling footsteps in the utility closet. A waft of smoke drifts out. He’s, like, ninety-five, and he’s a
smoker
?

“Ernest?”

Ernest pokes his head out of the closet and sheepishly waves away at the small cloud that follows him. “Bad habit. Going to kill me one of these days.”

“
You
are going to outlive us all.”

“One can only hope,” he says dryly. He drops the cigarette on the floor and rubs it out with his heel. “Now,” he says with a raspy voice, “out with it. What do you want? You look like a student who deserves a
C
but wants me to change his grade to an
A
.”

I do a cursory check behind me—looks like we’re alone, so I decide to start with what should be the easiest to translate, the inscription in my father’s pocket watch. I take it out and gently pull off the back to reveal the inscription. “Can you tell me what this means?”

My heart starts to pound. Is this just another pointless clue that will lead to another that will lead to another, like some kind of karmic Möbius strip? Or will it actually reveal something of consequence about my father?

Ernest gives me a hard look. “I take it you didn’t study the classics?”

I shake my head.

“I swear, the state of education today,” he mutters, taking the watch and examining it closely. “You need to get this fixed. You notice it’s going backwards?”

“I had noticed that, thanks.”

Then he doesn’t say anything; he just stares quietly, not even blinking, and I start to think maybe he’s one of those old people who fall asleep standing up with their eyes open.

“Umm, and the inscription says?”

“This would have taken one of
my
students about six seconds. ‘Glance into the world just as though time were gone, and everything crooked will become straight to you.’ Nietzsche.”

“But what does it
mean?”

“Hell if I know,” he says brusquely. “I taught languages, not philosophy.”

Great—this is just
great
. I hold back with difficulty the impulse to take the watch and throw it against the wall—a measure that would at least provide me a small amount of gratification.

Ernest moves on to what must be his new crossword puzzle and pulls a chewed pencil from behind his ear. “Nine-letter word, convert to vapor,” he mutters.

“Sublimate,” I say. I wonder if there’s any point in even showing him the books.

He looks at the word going down. “You’re right,” he says, as if this is a big surprise. Then he sighs. “Okay, what else do you have? There’s something in the bag, right, that you want to show me?”

Feeling particularly hopeless, I pull out my book and the battered pages wrapped in dusty velvet, which maybe someone tried to burn because trying to decipher them was a
freaking waste of time
.

Ernest weighs the leather book in his hands, turns it over, and runs a finger down what’s left of the spine. “Hand sewn, I can tell you that,” he says. With a little more interest he carefully opens it to the first gilded page, measuring the thickness of it between his thumb and forefinger. “Nice paper. The Russian print looks like moveable type, but the Greek is much, much older…” Then, most surprising of all, he lifts the book and takes a deep, almost perverted whiff. I wonder if maybe Ernest has some kind of book fetish.

“You’re smelling my book.”

“Nothing like the smell of an antiquarian book, son. Nothing like it. With this binding, I’m going to take a stab in the dark and say that they’re the same book, just different translations from different time periods. The Russian pages are early twentieth century, but the Greek, hard to say. The paper almost feels like papyrus. Of course, that would be completely blasphemous to cut and bind such a rare document with a newer text. Possible though. And the title, of course, is very interesting.”

“The title, perfect. What’s the title?”

Ernest puts his head on one elbow and glances at my ring. “You realize that the watermark is the same symbol on your ring?”

“Yes, I’d
noticed
.”

“No need to take a sarcastic tone. Now why do you have a ring with this particular symbol?”

I swallow hard. “I don’t
know
. One of the reasons I was hoping you could translate the book… now you said the title—”

“Is very odd,” he says, pushing his glasses back with his forefinger.

I try to restrain the part of me that wants to leap over the counter and wrap my hands around his ninety-five-year-old neck, and I take a deep breath instead. “And the title is—what?”

“
The Secret Grimoire of Grigori Rasputin: The Book of Seraphs
.” Ernest carefully flips through the next few pages.

“So it’s about Rasputin?”

“Mmm, no. It’s attributed as being written
by
Rasputin. Very odd, because as far as I know Rasputin never published anything. But all this looks very hand done.” He glances at me over his glasses. “Which would mean it’s the only copy. Or one of only a few. And if
that
is true, then this is a very,
very
expensive book. Where did you say you got it?”

“I didn’t,” I say brusquely. “But why is it in Greek
and
Russian?”

“Well, whoever translated it from Greek obviously wanted to keep the original text. Always good to keep the source material in case there are errors in the translation. But I am very curious as to how you obtained—”

I push the velvet-wrapped pages toward him. “This might be another copy actually. But the pictures are different.”

Ernest raises an eyebrow and casts a glance over his shoulder, like we’re in the middle of some kind of illicit drug deal, but he can’t resist and unwraps the velvet. As soon as he sees the charred first page, he sucks in his breath.

“Oh my,” he whispers.

“Is it the same book?”

“No, no… I wish I had some tweezers to lift the pages. These are in very bad shape indeed. But so… compelling.”

My heart starts to race. “So then what’s the title of this one?”

“Fascinating” is all he says.

“Ernest?”

“Oh. Yes. The title of this one is
The Secret Grimoire of Grigori Rasputin: The Book of Fiends
.”

“What’s a grimoire?”

“Well, to
really
say what
these
are”—he gently lifts a page and turns it over, completely absorbed—“I’d need some time to fully study them. Weeks maybe. There’s so much here…”

I lean in closer. “Ernest, I really don’t think I have weeks. If you can’t—”

Quickly he clutches my arm. “No, I didn’t say I couldn’t, just… well…”

“Well, what?”

But already Ernest is feverishly talking to himself, as if I’m not there at all. “It’s not like I’m exactly overwhelmed in The Stacks,” he mutters.

“Ernest!”

He jumps, completely startled, and almost drops the pages.

“Ernest,” I try in a quieter tone. “
What
is a grimoire?”

“A grimoire is a book of spells.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Why on earth would I be kidding? Wouldn’t be such a far stretch to think that Rasputin was intrigued by the occult, given his reputation. It was quite the rage all through the late eighteenth to early twentieth century, back when the division between science and mysticism was not so clearly defined. Technically, the translation is ‘experiment,’ but not the kind of experiments you’re familiar with. Science has its genesis in alchemy, you know. All those attempts to turn lead into gold or create an elixir for immortality led to modern chemistry. Even Newton dabbled in—”

“So you’re saying I have a book of spells,” I say, interrupting. “Perfect. Just what I always wanted.” My heart sinks as my mind conjures up images of green-skinned witches with pointy hats and a peculiar hatred of girls from Kansas with small terriers. Or worse yet, the Wiccan sort who attend Renaissance festivals and wear blousy peasant shirts.

Ernest reads my tone. “They aren’t those kind of spells.”

“Nothing about eyes of newts or toes of frogs?”

“Macbeth,” he says, obviously impressed. “Your education wasn’t a complete disgrace. No, these are much more interesting than anything even Shakespeare could imagine. Basically, you have one book for conjuring and releasing seraphs, or angels as they’re more familiarly called, and then another for conjuring and releasing fiends, or demons. Should make for a fun Halloween party one of these days.”

“Halloween—not exactly my favorite holiday.”

“Oh right, of course. Apologies. I forgot about your near-death experience,” he says cheerfully. “I’d say the
real
value of these—besides the price you could probably get at auction—would be the notoriety from discovering books penned by Rasputin himself. I’m sure it would create quite a literary stir in the world of scholarship, and for the translator, well, it’d be quite the feather in the cap, so to speak…”