The Book (37 page)

As confessions speckled the fire pit and they discussed their favorite stories and how they had come to meet them, Marion interlocked her fingers with Holden’s and held his hand delicately in the light of the fire. It was this that made him realize it was love. They all loved books.

Each one of them carried a deep, heavy, profound and unending love for the richness of story and the bountiful eternity of wealth it forever poured upon them. That was something the Publishing House could never take away, no matter how many commas they moved or how many paragraphs they altered. No matter how many names they changed, they could never reach inside someone and stop a story. Could never force someone to retract a revolutionary idea or force their submission. These books were born out of imaginations and experiences. Out of heartache and trials. And those things, while often swimming in a world of fiction and fantasy, were real. Passion and spirit, real.

In a time of such harsh realities, it strengthened them to take a break and remember who they were. To know that they had something within themselves no computer could access. Even if every book were destroyed on the earth, stories would remain alive, inside of them. Unread by others and unedited by greedy, emotionless eyes. Each of them was a book with novels upon novels to tell and no matter what the outcome would be for Holden, Marion, Winston and Moby, they would succeed. Mankind would never lose its imagination. They were a race of scientists and explorers, seekers of truth and players of both comedy and tragedy. They studied for lifetimes and lost themselves in an hour between the wrinkles of velvet fiction. They were lovers and fighters. Soldiers of a war that raged on from the comfort of easy chairs and from below the delicate flicker of candle light. They were bibliophiles. They were the
Bereans of Bedlam
. The
Ex Libris
. And all of them loved the very nature of story.

* * * * *

031-87725

They had been gone for only a few days, but life on the road was slow. Old men with their old joints didn’t do well in tight spaces and they had to find rest stops every hour so Winston could get out and circulate some juice to the veins. It was good that they had planned so many side trips along the way because it meant that Holden and Marion would have practice hiding themselves from the prying eyes of people who watched the news too much.

Traveling incognito was old hat to Holden now. Actually, he wore an old hat during the drive. It was tousled and of the cowboy variety, but what Holden hadn’t liked, Marion thought was cute and she constantly pointed out how
cute
he looked as a cowboy. It seemed like a waste of time to him now, choosing the right sunglasses and boots to go with, because although he was still on the ‘most wanted’ list, with a face that was latched to every media screen on the planet, no one ever expected to see him. At every rest stop, people would look him right in the eyes and not recognize him behind the beard. Holden often wondered if they did recognize, but kept their mouths shut in the interest of self-preservation.
‘Cause, let’s be honest, Uncle Sam is gonna keep tabs on those who keep tabs on others and no one wants to be a hero. Am I right, cowboy?

Marion, who now had short, sable black hair that was sliced erratically around her ears, neck and forehead, looked amazingly unlike the images that were still circulating the yellow news. Holden thought she looked great, but he still took every opportunity to remind her that the bounty on his head was much higher than hers.

It had taken them a dog’s age to get to DC, but the conversations they had along the way were surprisingly smooth. There wasn’t a need to discuss the plan because it was in the plan not to. All the work was done. Winston, through a series of grapevine phone calls, had discovered someone inside the Library of Congress who was deep and well-connected. They sent a few secure communications over email and were meeting in person once they ‘landed’ in Washington. Smooth sailing, really. They had their credentials, their blueprints, cash, fake identification and reservations at a swanky hotel. So they did what normal people, those who weren’t conspiring to overthrow the government on a Tuesday, would do during a road trip. They spent the passing minutes of passing miles just talking about their lives.

And it was fun. As Moby drove, they shared things that had nothing to do with The Book. Learned things about one another that they hadn’t known. Silly, inconsequential things, like the fact that Holden had never eaten coconut until he was in his twenties and that Marion could kill any bug in the world, regardless of its size or its fur-to-shell ratio, but if she saw a spider, of any sort, she would freeze and find herself unable to contemplate a solution for taking it from this world and bringing it into the next. They learned that Winston had had a scholarship to play college baseball and that Moby, in another life, had been a photographer for a hotshot clothing magazine, spoke French and had a brother serving proudly in the Marine Corps.

These stories seemed like an adventure into the imagination because, for them, it felt like life began when they learned the truth about The Book. And yet, the real truth was that life had been normal for them once. They had been completely different people, with quests and dreams, passionately opinionated about nonsense and devoted to callings that had little worth in comparison to The Book. But their new life came, and with a family to boot. They were family now, the four of them. Separated by blood but joined by centuries-old ink.

The roads were coming together and they could sense that the drive was nearing an end. As the rickety van rolled ever closer to the openness of Washington DC and further from the safety and seclusion of the home they’d left behind, the interior seemed to grow smaller and the air thinned and it felt as if they were driving up the slope of an endless mountain where the clouds were taking over the windows. Their lungs scratched at the air around them for whatever leftovers of oxygen someone hadn’t already stolen. And although the palpable anxiety had seemed to reach its breaking point, it wasn’t until they saw the white city along the wet, hazy horizon, with its unspoiled attitude, low to the ground like the teeth of an open and hungry mouth, that they rolled down the windows.

The breath caught in Holden’s chest as they entered the city in their scrappy van. The last time he had been anywhere near the spotless buildings that passed leisurely by their vintage, rain-saturated windows, he had been running. In the opposite direction. The most frightening bite of that sandwich was that, from the perspective of the Publishing House, nothing had changed. Right now it tasted good to be back with a plan to take them down, but it could turn stale and soggy real quick if they were seen. Just in case, Holden tipped the brim of his cowboy hat over his eyes and waited for them to reach the hotel.

Minutes later, Marion called from the back seat with the digital map in her palm. “Moby, we’re looking for Hotel Tailor. It’s supposed to be up here on Independence and New Jersey.”

Holden tilted his hat and peeked out the window to see the hotel. The structure had been comprised of an enormous collection of separately built boxes and geometric shapes that pierced one another with erratic intention. The glass windows that looked down on the van with disgust, popped from the ridges of the building at the most irregular, unexplainable intervals.

“Don’t you think this is a bit flashy for us?” Holden mused, recalling how important it had been for him to look inconsequential to the world only weeks earlier.

“No, this is perfect,” Winston cheered, nodding. “No one would expect that we would be paying eight thousand dollars a night.”

Marion wanted to cry out, but she lost her voice. It took an extra moment to react. “What? That’s crazy! Do you know how much we could do with that money back at the house?”

“Yes, and we’re using it tonight. We are making this happen. And if this is happening tomorrow, it is very crucial that we sleep free and protected this evening. Even if that means we have to spend eight thousand per person.”

“Now, now…” Marion declared, suddenly forced to play the character they had decided would work best. “It’s my job to look after you and I’m planning to have a good night’s sleep. So you grab onto those handlebars and keep chuggin’, pilgrim. Lift, one two. Lift, one two. Remember? It’s a little dance, all the way to the room.” Marion leaned toward the valet and nudged him with her elbow. “Otherwise, I’ll be hearing it all night.
My legs. My legs. Why’d you let me walk?
”

The valet giggled, “Can’t have that.”

“No, we cannot. You guys coming or what? This guy’ll park our car for us, ya’ know.”

“Yeah, I’m coming.” The broad, sliding door on the opposite side of the van shot open with an ungreased twang and Holden hopped out wearing his slouched cowboy hat and dark sunglasses. According to Winston, and according to his checking account, Holden’s hat and boots were extremely expensive. But, apparently, it was worth the price to achieve the perfect balance of curiosity and disinterest needed to keep the vultures off their backs.

Moby stepped from the driver’s seat, flicked the keys to the valet and ambled back to the hatch where he tugged out a few bags almost as large as him and tossed them easily onto the nearby cart. A bellman noticed and skipped forward with a chirpy little grin.

“I’ll handle this, kid,” Moby warned. A few of the suitcases were empty and he didn’t need the whispering of a punky bellman to ruin everything.

“Actually, sir, it’s hotel policy that guests not take the…”

“Kid. You hear me now?” Moby snapped two of his fingers out and the boy could see a hundred mixed into the fold of the deliciously green bills.

“Certainly, sir. Right this way.” He motioned for them to follow and the unlikely quartet of law-breaking, anarchist book lovers entered the hotel lobby and looked for a place to sit.

They had previously agreed that Moby would keep an eye on the bags, Winston would check them in (because of cameras) and Holden and Marion would keep a low profile somewhere near a coffee machine. As soon as Winston finished paying for their thirty-two thousand dollar (plus twelve percent tax) hotel room, they were ushered through the hallways by the bellman and left to rise to the top floor alone aboard the crystalline elevators.

The ride wasn’t very long. It was illegal to construct tall buildings in Washington DC and naughty to even throw shadows on the more important ones. From their viewpoint, through their glass windows that swapped from opaque to clear with a twist of a knob on the wall, they were able to look out upon the white city and see the object of their focus beyond the bustle. Moby, Winston and Marion stared at the Library of Congress and envisioned the many steps each of them would have to take before they’d be on their way home, a success. Holden stared instead at a building to the left of the hotel. It was very average looking. Simple, square structure with stone and glass and steel and stone and glass. And steel. It had a nearly nonexistent entrance and didn’t grab much attention from the sidewalk. There was no signage on the building or any feature that was worth noting other than a feathery metal sculpture that could be seen through the lobby windows and an exquisite emergency exit door.

“Is that it, Holden?” Marion asked, as she noticed him staring away at the building. “The Publishing House?”

“First three floors, at least. Simple, isn’t it?”

“I would have never known,” Winston muttered as he followed their eyes toward the building. “My mother worked there for thirty-seven years. I knew the name of the airport, the street she worked on and the floor, but I never saw an image of the building. I suppose they kept that secret for a reason.”

“That’s why I sketched out the plans,” Holden finished, stepping back from the window. His eyes were done seeing things that only pissed him off. “Who knows, maybe we’ll need to access that building one day. Now, at least, you’ll know which one it is.”

“Doesn’t matter though.” Marion added, “As long as
you
know which one it is we could always come back.”

Holden looked back at her and smiled, reluctantly. “Right. Totally.” Holden knew she was fishing. Marion seemed to believe, just as much as he did, that this trip was of the one-way type and she wanted to know why Holden thought the same. He turned toward the room and left her a warm smile instead.

Without talking it through, they unpacked the small amount they had brought with them and walked the open suitcases to the closet as a group. They had brought them along for the ride, hoping that the woman from the Library of Congress would be bringing them some books that evening. There was no guarantee of this, of course, but Winston’s contact said the woman was more than eager to save anything she could.

They tried to relax and use the volumetric expanse of their suite to spread out, maybe put their legs up a bit, but the sudden shift from days of focused driving to minutes of waiting around was insufferable. Winston forced them to order something off the room service menu but even
his
stomach, the one that was usually pleased with anything, wasn’t agreeing with him. Marion ordered a fruit plate and most of them abandoned the extravagant meals that came up to the room on fine, shiny china for a handful of red grapes and a bite of imported Havarti.

Time passed slowly in that room and they decided it was best to leave the television off and listen to the rain that seemed to follow them to the capital. It was better to avoid hearing any news about Holden, or seeing his face at the bottom of the screen and being reminded of the obstacles ahead and the odds that were stacked higher than the clouds against them.