The Book (16 page)

They continued their wordless walk as if there were some destination in mind beyond the sprinkling of old trees. The minutes dragged on like months. Alone in the empty park, where no one could hear him if he cried for help, a disheartening hollow submerged itself in Holden’s chest. It only grew worse as they came to a stop near a statue of a man sitting on a tree trunk, holding a book that was painted in a drippy, green patina. The expression on the man’s face was withdrawn and unsure, as if he couldn’t understand why the words he was reading seemed different.

“Mister Clifford, have you ever heard of this man?” the director asked, admiring the statue.

Holden inspected the inscription and read it aloud. “Hans Christen Anderson…
I never knew ye
,” he joked, trying desperately to release the tension. “Should I know this dude?”

Again the director remained silent, as if running through the remaining conversation before speaking a word. “He was an author. Mostly fables for children. Fairy tales. Mind you, this was before The Book was published.”

Holden nodded, uncaring. “Got it. Was he from Chicago or something?”

“This statue pays tribute to his accomplishments in the art of literature and was erected in his honor. One story he wrote is of particular interest to me.
The Steadfast Tin Soldier
. Have you heard of it?”

“Nope,” Holden spouted quickly, getting a better read on the man. The director was just as good at playing dumb. A question about an author and now a question about a story. The Agents wouldn’t have brought him to the park without searching his reading history on The Book. The director knew exactly what Holden liked to read and fairy tales weren’t on the list.

“It’s a rather short story about a small tin soldier with only one leg and how he fell in love with another toy. A paper ballerina, posed in an arabesque.”

“Arab what?” he interrupted, sounding as ignorant as possible.

“It is a dance position where the ballerina is bending on one leg.” The director studied the statue with striking appreciation. “Every minute he watched her and every minute his obsession with her grew stronger, until one day a goblin approached the tin soldier and warned him not to fall in love with the paper ballerina. He told him that there would be consequences. But the tin soldier ignored the goblin and continued to admire the paper ballerina, which eventually leads to him being dropped out the windowsill, down a gutter and swallowed by a fish.”

“The end. That’s depressing.”

“Oh, no. It’s not finished. This is where the moral reveals itself. The fish was caught, brought back to the house and ripped open, his guts spilling from between torn scales, and low and behold...out pops our little toy soldier. Once returned to his home, the tin soldier is reunited with his paper love. Most critics agree that this is where the tragedy of the story turns. I disagree. A rambunctious boy under the influence of the goblin decided to throw the soldier into the fire, where he began to melt with his eyes fixed on the ballerina. As the blaze ate away at his body, a gust of wind pulled the ballerina into the inferno where they were united in its unforgiving flame. The next day, the maid discovered the remains of the soldier and was amazed to find that it had melted into the shape of a heart.”

“That’s actually kind of beautiful,” Holden admitted, testing the waters.

His response made the director stop in his tracks. His jaw locked and he began walking away toward the parking lot. “Marion Tabor.” The director said her name with such arctic liquidity that his voice traced a chill along Holden’s eardrum. “We are aware that you two know each other and I assume you have seen the news.”

Holden responded robotically. “Yeah. Shame. I loved The Library, man.”

“I would like to express my regret that I didn’t clearly explain why I brought you here this morning.” He stopped to swat aggressively at a flock of gnats that were following them, growling mid-thought. “But I strive to get a feel for people these days and avoid my natural tendency of, well, shooting from the hip. See, Miss Tabor is deeply involved with
The Free Thinkers
. I’m assuming you’ve heard of them.”

Holden hesitated in his response and prayed that his emotions weren’t giving him away. “Freaks, man. Terrorists. Whatever they’re doing…it’s messed up.”

They reached the short tunnel that connected the stone walkway in the park to the empty parking lot and it was there that the director halted to ask Holden a final question before allowing him some minimal shelter from the rain. “Mister Clifford. Is there anything…anything at all that you would like to tell me about Miss Tabor? Keep in mind that we may already know.”

Those final words resonated from the moss laden stone of the tunnel’s vaulted ceiling and it made Holden, with his hands firmly in his pockets, grip the meat of his thighs. “Sorry, bro. Wish I could help you out.”

Still keeping his gaze fixed on the path in front of him, the director nodded before breaking out with an overwhelmingly bright smile. “Well, we are simply conducting a few interviews with those closest to her and we got your name from her diary. Seems you made more than a few appearances to catch the attention of our team.”

“Hey, we can’t help it if the ladies like us. Am I right?”

Once more, Martin Trust was absent of all reaction. They entered the tunnel. “This group,
The Free Thinkers
, they are a danger to society. All they care about is the destruction of what we hold most dear.” The director stepped from the shelter of the tunnel and stopped to look at a tree in the unwavering awareness of the rain. He soaked up every line and crinkle, admiring the ants that crawled along its sweating skin before moving on toward the parking lot.

When they reached the two idling automobiles that remained as black as the night is dark, he asked one final question before lowering his umbrella. “The moral. Do you know what it is?”

“From the tin soldier story? Uhm…I don’t know. It seemed like a
love will overcome
kinda thing.”

The director stepped toward the nearest town car and opened the rear door patiently. “I find it interesting, Mister Clifford, how you interpret such a tragedy. Because I've always seen it as more of a cautionary tale.” Finally they locked eyes, his piercing green shade overpowering the muddiness of Holden’s dull brown. “Listen to someone who knows more than you do and stop falling in love with paper.”

His words lingered in the falling rain like the burnished circle of white on a retina when someone is stupid enough to look directly at the sun. Holden couldn’t concentrate on anything longer than a millisecond; he was so overwhelmed by what he was experiencing. The director’s words seemed to follow his every thought. They wouldn’t leave him. The skin on Holden’s neck tightened in the fright of them as the man retracted his umbrella and stepped lightly into the warmth of the car.

The door closed and Holden was left to stand in the parking lot without a ride home, shaking in his work boots. Despite the strength and courage he normally wielded in situations like this, Holden wanted to make a joke; to keep things lighthearted and relaxed, because his entire being was cuffed in fright.

The cars pulled ever so slowly from their spaces and drove away. He stood in the park, another statue, knowing that every move he made from then on would leave a trace in the grass behind. Life, it seemed, was about to get much more difficult and he just couldn’t rationalize why they had let him go.

* * * * *

015-38490

Jiggety Jig
.

The cab driver dropped Holden at the door of the squat, square building of General Fire Protection. He stepped out, comfortable again in the rain. Everyone was gone on their assignments for the day, but Numbskull was waiting for him. The enormous man with the tinny, effervescent voice, stood by the receptionist’s desk, unable to resist asking the questions that had been racing through his numb skull since the men had come to question his fitters.

“
Free Thinkers
, huh? Man! Can’t believe that girl was a terrorist. She ever give you an idea that she was a terrorist, man? I tell ya, we’ve got more terrorists in this world than Carter’s got pills.”

Whatever that means
, Holden thought as he walked past. He stopped at a box of green shop towels, pulled a few from the slot and dried himself off as best he could.

“So, talk ya’ sad sack. What did they do?”

“Just took me for a walk.”

“Walk, my rear end,” Numbskull’s womanly voice shrieked at the comment that only he found hilarious. “I bet they told you not to tell anyone. Whatever. I get it, man. Just back to work, right?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s kinda weird that all this would happen today, because the job I’m sending you to has a similar flare.” Holden could tell in a glance, through the fluttering of thin, green fabric, that Numbskull wasn’t about to elaborate. He dropped the shop towels in the recycling bin. “I need you to meet Jensen on Rush. Cakewalk, really. Just change out a standpipe.”

“Yeah, alright.”

“Call me when it’s done, ya
Free Thinkin’
ape.”

Numbskull could tell that he wasn’t in the mood to talk, but in reality Holden was trying to calm his nerves.

It was as if the director knew, like he knew that Holden had found an enormous library and had just spent the night reading a book that technically didn’t exist.
And Shane still had it
, Holden recalled.
Fahrenheit 451
. What was he going to do about that? And what would Shane do if he looked in the bag? They were probably monitoring Holden’s phone, so he couldn’t rightly call Shane to arrange a pickup. He would have to just wait until they stumbled into one another. He wasn’t good with waiting.

From the stoplight on Rush, Holden could spot the building. It was a newer one. A flashy, glass edifice that touched the clouds with the trademark of some new, indolent architect. General Fire had finished the job six months back and changing out the standpipes didn’t make a whole lot of sense. But he did what he had to do. Jensen, the guy barking on the other end of the walkie-talkie as Holden parked the van and entered the rear of the building, worked as a liaison between the fire department and the pipe fitters. They met at the shaft of the main elevator bay where the man was shutting down the water supply to the building. Jensen was wafer thin and his little bug eyes popped from the drawn skin of his skull like a rotting cadaver. Holden was glad General didn’t use the man very often because he had a face that lodged itself in your brain and waited until you slept to eek out and frighten you. Funny thing was, Jensen had the disposition of an ice cream vendor and he was ever the ruin of first impressions.

“Holden, right?” Jensen confirmed, with a charming smile. He wiped his hand and extended it through the open elevator doors. Holden shook it firmly, wondering if he may accidentally break a few tiny bones in the man’s delicate wrist.

“The standpipe is outside. I’ll keep going here. I’ve already loosened the bolts for you. Change it out, holler back and I’ll turn the water on. Easy peasy.” Holden nodded as the man upheld his joyful character by bobbing his fearsome noggin as he spoke. “This is one of those political jobs. We’ve gotta finish, lickety split.”

Holden had no idea what the cherry-topped creep meant, but shrugged his shoulders and got to work. Finding his way back outside, he scanned the sparkling exterior until he noticed what Numbskull had meant by
a similar flare
. Branded into the side of the flawless building, partially obscured by the bright, silver standpipe, was the emblem of
The Free Thinkers
. The area had been partitioned from the rest of the sidewalk with police tape and an officer was standing nearby, keeping a surprisingly sharp watch on the scene. Apparently the fabled terrorist faction wanted to leave their mark on new architecture as well. Holden bent down, threw his weight below the plastic tape and lined himself up with the standpipe. The end of an arrow with its ornately drawn feathers flashed across the words: General Fire. Whatever machine they used to brand the buildings, it seemed to carve its molten design into the surface.

The standpipe was heavy and expensive, so Holden took his time removing it. He set the piece on the ground and was ready to pull the new one from its plastic container and thin, cellophane blanket, but he couldn’t help staring at the emblem emblazoned on the building.

Whoever controlled The Book had decided to link Marion with this anarchist movement. And according to the director’s demeanor during their walk, it wasn’t a fictitious group. Holden studied the emblem. There was some thought in his mind that he followed, but couldn’t quite catch, like chasing a feather in the wind. Then it came to him. This was the answer. The way they could fight back. This group probably knew about The Book. Hell, maybe that’s what they were all about. This had to be an answer, if not
the
answer.

As Holden replaced the ruined standpipe he felt a sense of purpose, once again. He may not need to live in fear the rest of his life. The answer he was searching for had come to find him. The new standpipe and its shiny bronze surface gleamed like the broken tusks of some golden idol and he kneeled before its supernal brilliance. He gazed up at the ornamental words
Think Again
and felt a swell of relief. They weren’t alone. There was something they could do.

Winston Pratt seemed to think no one else had been gathering to stop The Book. That no one else was trying to find a solution to the subtle mind control that was being updated daily.
The Free Thinkers
must have known about the editing process. Their name was a declaration of that very fact. Even their crest reassured him. The axis created between the revolver and the arrow had to symbolize the connection between the story of Raphael Petitto and the assassination attempt of Dennis Wayne Conrad. They knew about The Book. Why else would Marion and The Library be associated with such a group? Although they were branding buildings and destroying monuments to architectural history, at the heart of
The Free Thinkers
must have been a passion to overthrow the Publishing House.