by Alexie Aaron
“My late husband had a knack of finding the damn things. It’s the ones made of human skin that still give me nightmares. But he insisted they brought a pretty price, and he was right. We bought this house with the proceeds of selling the Blood Ruby Texts.”
“Tell me about the black book,” Kalaraja said, accepting a cup of tea. He waved away the sugar and milk.
“What black book?”
“The one that is emptying your son’s book club at an amazing rate.”
“There are several that it could be,” she admitted. “I think this one falls into the life-snatching category.”
“Why do you feel it’s a life-snatcher?” Kalaraja asked.
“Because there is no trace of the time the book is with the victims in their memories. It snatches it away as that part of the victim’s life is written into the book.”
“How have you come to this conclusion?” he probed.
“They haven’t found Monica Voorhees yet. When they do, she will be void of her memory, just like Kabir Patel, Marc, and Marianne Irving.”
“How do you know about Kabir, Marc, and Marianne?” Kalaraja asked.
“After the detective first called, I interrogated Wendell when he got home. He sees a lot. He may not know what he sees, but he saw how protective Marianne was with the black leather book and how Kabir and Marc had already changed. I looked at the roll book Wendell keeps on the book club, and I saw Monica’s absence. I started to remember something that happened at the high school I taught at. I had retired but still was friendly with many of the teachers. There was a rash of absences, and as the teachers pieced it together, they started to theorize about the possibility that a slam book was involved.”
“What’s a slam book?” Kalaraja asked.
Catherine explained. “It’s usually a spiral-bound notebook where students write nasty but believable things down about other kids. It’s passed around and is extremely hurtful to the targets of the slams. Sometimes it’s teachers who are victims of the slams. Most times, the bottom feeders write about the weak and vulnerable. It’s evil. But instead of finding a student-produced slam book, one of the teachers caught a glimpse of a black leather-bound book.”
“And you put one and one together…”
“Not at first. I needed a little more information. Fortunately for me, unfortunately for Wendell, he was asked to come into the police station. To… forgive my air quotes, but it just seems so fitting… help them with their inquiries. Something horrible happened to Kabir Patel, Marc Davis, and possibly Marianne Irving. They are all members of Page Turners. The detective has already concluded that a black leather-bound book is involved. He thinks it’s valuable and a collector is torturing anyone that has had it in their possession, but my gut says it’s the book itself.”
“If we knew what happened to them, it would help.”
“One hasn’t left his apartment except to go to the police station. The other two are in the hospital. One for self-harming, the other - I’m not sure why?”
“How do you know this?”
“You’d be surprised what people will say when an aging grandmother or aunt calls.”
“Why go to all this trouble?”
“I thought Wendell was involved. Remember, he carries some of his father’s genes.”
“Catherine, you nurtured Wendell. I don’t think he would torture a living creature.”
“I hope so. He doesn’t know what happened to his father. So far I’ve kept it from him, but I’m in my decline.”
“You don’t think he should know that Horace is still very much alive?”
“No,” she said firmly. “Back to our little black book. I have something you in particular should see. I don’t know if it’s the same book, but if it is, I hope we’re not too late to stop it.”
Catherine got up and walked into the living room. She pulled a long chain from around her neck. At the end were several keys. She chose one and opened the file drawer of an amber-colored secretary. She pulled out a file, walked back in the kitchen, and set it down before she took a seat and finished her tea.
“I went to a few of the missing students’ homes to see if I could be of some help. A few of the parents I’d had as students when I was teaching. At first, they were reluctant to confide in me. But when I told them that I believed their child may have been influenced to participate in whatever they were presently in trouble for, they opened up. The children had gotten into more than normal teenage high jinks. And when asked about why, they claimed to have no memory of doing anything. One child lost a week of memory.”
“I see.”
“One child lost his life,” Catherine said and opened the folder. She selected one of the three copies she had of a newspaper article. It was a half-page spread, including a picture of the memorial left by the friends of the dead student.
Kalaraja took one look at the picture and broke a sweat. He read the article and tapped the paper. “Can I borrow this?”
“Keep it. As you can see, I have two more copies.”
“Thank you. I don’t know how…”
“Kalaraja, you were there for me when I needed you most. It is something I’ll never be able to repay. I’ll keep you abreast of any more information I can find. I wish I knew who originated the book. It would help us to know how to destroy it.”
“First we have to find it.”
“I’ll leave that up to you.”
~
Clara turned over in her sleep. She was deep into a dream where she was trying to make a biscuit but failing. She would no sooner get it cut and lift it to put on a baking sheet when it would crumble away.
She didn’t hear the window open in the living room, nor the intruder knock over the stack of cookbooks she kept on the sill. Trying to sleep during the early evening hours on the weekend in Chicago was only achievable by wearing earplugs.
Most animals know when they are being stared at, but Clara was so deep into REM that her only concern was moving her face away from the wet drool that pooled on her pillow. She rolled over and slept through the cool hand of the intruder plucking one of her earplugs out.
“Clara, you’re late for the bus!”
Clara launched herself out of the bed. “Craig! It’s still dark!” she whined at her brother. But it wasn’t her brother. She wasn’t a junior high schooler. Her body had more weight to it, and she had boobs! She didn’t have boobs in junior high school when Craig was still at home. She froze. There was someone in the room with her. She rolled off the bed, reached under it, and came up with a baseball bat.
“Get out of my room!” she shouted and raised the bat, making sure she had adequate swinging room.
“Clara, you don’t know me but…” the buttery, familiar voice began.
Clara’s eyes adjusted to the light that eased through the crack in her curtains from the streetlight in the back alley. The hooded figure’s pale skin almost glowed in this light.
“You’re Nash’s landlord. Oh my god, is he alright?”
“I hope so, but I need your help. Pack up a few days’ worth of clothes and toiletries. The quicker the better. I’ll call for a cab.”
“How did you get in here?”
“You didn’t answer your buzzer.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“The living room window. You can reach it from the fire escape.”
“I knew it! But it was locked. I always lock it.”
“Maybe I jimmied it.”
“Vampire,” Clara said, dragging a large duffle down from the shelf in her closet.
“I’m not a vampire,” Kalaraja said.
“Okay, Spider-Man then.”
Kalaraja didn’t respond. He knew he was a bit old to be mistaken for Spider-Man, but he’d take it over vampire any day.
~
Nash closed the shop before he headed up to the third floor to sort through the boxes and set aside some books for Cam to bring do
wn in the morning. That accomplished, he walked into the apartment and sat on the couch. He smelled a faint aroma of baked goods that reminded him of Clara. He sat back and closed his eyes a moment and thanked whoever was tuned into his prayers these days for Clara.
Nash opened his eyes and saw a tableau before him. There was a tall brunette woman standing, caressing her very pregnant belly. She was wearing a long caftan and swaying to a song by Randy Vanwarmer, “Just When I Needed You Most.” He listened to the young singer-songwriter’s voice echo through the apartment, ‘Cause… you left me, just when I needed you most.
He knew who this was, her face was his face. His grandparents told him when the nurse brought him to them, Nash looked just like his mother did when she was born. “How can this be?” he asked.
The vision faded, and in its stead stood Clara. “She loved you.”
“Did you see that?”
“Yes.”
“How are you here?”
“I let her in,” Kalaraja said from the staircase.
Nash got to his feet and felt the air tingle in front of him. “Did you do this, Kalaraja?”
“Do what?” he asked, a bit winded.
“He didn’t see,” Clara said. “I ran up the stairs. He stopped for a few books.”
Nash swallowed hard. “I’m not at my best.” He wavered.
Clara rushed over and led him back to the couch. She felt his forehead before she left him and walked over to the sink. “Is this water drinkable?” she asked Kalaraja.
“Yes, do you think I’d own a place with bad water?”
“I didn’t know vampires cared about water,” Clara quipped. She picked up a stack of red solo cups beside the sink, tossed the first dusty one, and then filled another with water. She returned and sat on the arm of the couch, insisting Nash drink a little.
“I’m not a vampire. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gotten into your apartment. Vampires have to be asked in.”
Nash looked up. “You were in her apartment?”
“She wasn’t answering her buzzer. I saw the fire-escape stairs and decided to go up and knock on her window.”
“I knew the windows could be reached. My landlord said no, but I am now vindicated.”
“About you being in her apartment…”
“I slid in and found her fast asleep. Who goes to bed this early?”
“Someone who has to get up at four in the morning,” Clara answered.
“Why are you so calm?” Nash asked. “He broke into your apartment.”
“Vampires have a way of calming a person,” Clara said, looking at a hangnail.
“Clara,” Kalaraja warned.
“Okay, Spider-Man then. There I was, sleeping. Drooling - I know it may be a deal breaker, but I assure you once the air conditioning goes on, my seasonal allergies go bye-bye, and then I don’t drool.”
Nash stared at Clara.
“Moving on. I hear, ‘Clara, you’re late for the bus!’ He sounded just like Craig. I launch myself out of bed, totally confused by my thirty-five-year-old body. He’s standing there in the corner with his red eyes glowing…”
“You should be a writer,” Kalaraja commented.
“Well, they weren’t red, but I recognized the hoodie. I asked if you were alright. He asked me to get dressed, pack a bag for a few days, and come here as fast as I could.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“Something about you being in trouble, we needed to stick together, and the safest place was the bookshop. It was enough for me.”
Nash looked over at Kalaraja.
“What she said.”
“Time for you to expand on the explanation.”
“Here, let me uncover you a chair,” Clara said, walking to a large mound and peeking under the canvas cover. “Turn around. I’m going to do my best, but the cover is dusty,” she warned.
Clara pulled up a corner, then grabbed the three others, and eased the canvas off the chair. She set it down by the boxes, walked over, and washed her hands. “Kalaraja, would you like a glass of water?”
“Please, and refill Nash’s.”
“Will do.” Clara took care of her chore and sat down next to Nash on the couch.
“Clara, forgive me if you get lost, but Nash will fill in anything you don’t understand later.”
She nodded.
“I went to see Catherine Baumbach. She and I have crossed paths before at various gatherings, and I knew she had a vast knowledge of books. Wendell’s father and she went on, what they called, book safaris all over the world. He tracked down some very valuable tomes in his lifetime. Fast forward, I’m standing on her porch.” Kalaraja proceeded to fill them in on all he learned from Catherine.
Clara gasped. “So, instead of students being absent because of being targeted by mean girls, they had no memory?”
“How would Catherine know it was this black book?” Nash asked.
“There’s a picture of it. She gave this to me. It’s from a memorial left for a teenager who died.”
Kalaraja pulled a folded piece of newsprint out of his pocket and handed it to Nash. Nash started to unfold it. Clara saw a grainy photo of a mound of teddy bears, flowers, and candles in a park. Nash’s hands started shaking, but he opened it fully.
“This is why I came for Clara, and why we’re here with you now.”
There, at the bottom of the pile, was a black leather book. The caption of the picture read. “Students’ outpouring of love for fellow classmate, Ron Santiago, who died of an overdose.”
Nash groaned and put his head in his hands.
Clara looked at Kalaraja. “Is he the boy…”
“Who gave Nash his heart. The book is gaining power and will be coming for the rest of Ron Santiago.”
Chapter Eleven
“I’m sorry but why?” Clara asked, putting a protective arm around Nash. “What did Ron Santiago do to deserve this?”
“You have experienced what a good book can do.”
“Sure, take me away from my troubles, lift my mood, make me laugh and sometimes cry but…”
“Bad books can frustrate, anger, and put you in a hell of a bad funk,” Kalaraja said. “But evil books…”
“Can take hold of you. Make you do things you would never contemplate doing in the light of day,” Nash said, coming around. He took Clara’s arm from around him and hung on to her hand instead.
“Clara, you probably have noticed that this shop is…” Kalaraja started.
“Either enchanted, haunted, or both,” she said, thinking about the vision of Nash’s mother.
“Long story short, this building has always had something special about it. Long before the towering buildings put it into a premature dusk, it had something magic about it. The tailor who owned it before I bought it had made me a suit of clothes. Every time I wore the suit, I felt wonderful. I would see colors that most people can’t see. Birdsong ceased to be irritating, and I felt a rejuvenation. I’ve been fortunate in my life to have the leisure to study, let’s say, the unusual things about this planet. With every good thing, there tends to be an evil thing that balances it. This place is a good place. When the tailor died, I bought it from his heirs. I didn’t want it destroyed and built over. We’ve lost too many good places to progress.”
“I’m glad you rescued it,” Clara said.
“I next needed to find the right caretaker. It needed to be someone who would accept, understand, and protect what is special about the place. And he needed to find out himself. I planned to be around to give him or her guidance, but it was important for the shop to choose the caretaker.”
“Along comes Nash…” Clara led.
“He was a defeated man when he stepped in the door.”
“Rita had just informed me of her affair,” Nash said. “I had gone to the library and picked up some books to find some kind of solace in when I walked by the shop and saw Building Available to Lease. I knew be
fore Kalaraja opened the door to my insistent knocking what I was going to do with the large check Rita had stuffed in my pocket before she left me. I was going to become a secondhand bookdealer and, perhaps, run a shop too.”
“He was a grumpy bastard when I let him in, but as soon as he reached the second floor, he changed. I don’t know if it was the enchantment or that he finally found his calling. I listened to his plans, that I knew he hadn’t properly thought through. He set his library books down, and I saw one of them move. It dropped off the stack and opened. I picked up the book and read the page. On it was this: ‘A hunted man sometimes wearies of distrust and longs for friendship.’”
“Lord of the Rings,” Nash identified. “Was I the hunted man or you?” he asked Kalaraja.
“I think both of us. In your case, your disappointment in Rita bred in you a distrust for all women. In mine, the jeers of my peers over my skin condition made me hate mankind. The book thought that maybe, together, we could heal.”
“He let me the place on the condition I sign a ten-year lease and maintain a health insurance policy.”
“A big commitment,” Clara said to Nash and looked over at Kalaraja and wondered if he had sensed Nash’s condition.
“I had pretty much set up the place when my heart failed me. Normally, the receiver of the donated heart isn’t given the identity of the giver,” Nash said.
“I just thought it was important for Nash to know it came from a young man with dreams,” Kalaraja said.
“How did Ron Santiago die?” Clara asked.
“It was thought to be an accidental overdose caused by huffing a toxic substance,” Kalaraja filled in. “According to his peers and parents, Ron wasn’t the type to experiment this way. He was looking forward to going to college.”
“Okay, if I understand this evil book correctly, then it somehow influenced Ron to huff and he died.”
“He was brain dead, but his heart survived,” Nash said. “They gave his heart to me.”
“Why is Nash in danger, again?” Clara asked, confused.