The Knight of Pages

by Alexie Aaron

  “Then someone just stuck it here, too lazy to return it.”

  “Maybe. Do you ever think of yourself as an Austen character?” Clara asked.

  “No, unlike Mr. Darcy downstairs, I’m not taken for flights of fancy.”

  “He does do a marvelous smolder. I didn’t think you noticed,” Clara teased.

  “Get serious, it’s his superior attitude.”

  Clara giggled. “After we have been friends for years, I want you to tell me which Austen character I am.”

  “So we’re going to be friends for years?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t anyone ever say no to you, Clara?”

  “Johan does.”

  “Then he’s a fool,” Wendell said and walked Emma back to the Classics.

  ~

  Brenda cut through the tape on her wrist, only nicking herself twice. Blood was dripping down her hands as she cut her feet free. She ran to the bathroom and used Elma’s brilliant white, expensive, Horchow company towels to staunch the blood until she found the bandages. “Serves the bitch right!”

  Brenda kept the robe on, as all but her underwear was gone. She searched in vain for a phone. The landline was there, but the phone to it was missing. Molina didn’t appear to be in the house or the attached garage. Brenda ran outside to the nearest neighbor and pounded on the door.

  She heard the occupant come to the door, look out the peephole at her, and walk away. She leaned on the doorbell and shouted, “CHIGAGO PD!”

  There was no response. She ran across the street and, even though she could hear the television muted and the occupant come to the door, she was once again ignored. “You have to be fucking kidding me! Call the cops. Call the cops or I’ll light your house on fire!”

  Brenda couldn’t wait to see if the neighbor called the cops. She started running down the street.

  “Miss, are you in trouble?” asked an elderly white male who was walking his Doberman down the sidewalk.

  “Call the police. Tell them Officer Brenda Blunt is in need of help at…” Brenda stopped. Elma’s address evaded her memory.

  “Come to my home. Here’s my cell phone. Make the call yourself. I live at 1514 Liberman.”

  Brenda’s hands were shaking, but she made the call. When she had finished, she started crying. “No one would come to the door to help me. Is it because I’m black?”

  “No, you’re wearing Elma Kis’s robe. They probably thought it was drunk Elma running around in blackface again.”

  “You must be kidding,” Brenda said.

  “No, my wife called it a charcoal mask, but I know blackface when I see it.”

  “Ed!” his wife called from the porch. “What fool thing are you up to now?”

  “Rescuing a damsel in distress,” Ed said proudly. “Me and Dorothy found her on the street.”

  “Come in, dear,” Ed’s wife said. “Let me get you a blanket. What happened to your hands?”

  Brenda let herself be fussed over. Her faith in humanity was restored.

  Detective Jones rushed over to Elma Kis’s house. The police sedan had not been located yet. Brenda, dressed in a vibrant red pair of sweats and flipflops, stood inside, directing the forensic team.

  “Officer Blunt,” Jones said.

  “Detective, any news on Officer Molina?”

  “No, neither she nor the cruiser have been found. GPS puts your car at McCormick place. Any idea why Ms. Kis would be in the south side?”

  “No. If I were a betting woman, I would think she would be either heading to Wendell Baumbachs or to One More Time.”

  “Why?”

  “She hates secondhand bookstores with a passion. She’s fixated on Wendell, and she hates Nash Greene’s girlfriend Clara for buying secondhand books and for catching Wendell’s eye.”

  “The book?”

  “No sign of the book. I’m betting the suspect has it with her. She gave us a song and dance about someone mailing her a Nicholas Sparks book as a joke, but I looked in her office and she has a copy of all of Nicholas Sparks’s books on her shelves. She must have grabbed one of similar size when I asked about the brown-paper package.”

  Detective Jones ordered a cruiser sent to the Baumbachs, Clara Tyler’s residence, and to have cars drive by the bookshop on regular intervals. “Officer Blunt, I’m headed to the bookshop. Would you like to join me?”

  “I’m not dressed. She took my uniform and weapon. Elma Kis is dressed as a cop and is armed and dangerous.”

  “I’ll have someone meet us there with your street shoes and PD sweats. Although, you do look quite fetching,” he teased.

  “Donations from good Samaritans, but I do look like a target.”

  ~

  Molina had managed to cut her hands free on the sharp end of the shovel by the time the car stopped. She contorted her body to free her legs. She waited for Elma to open the back, but nothing happened. Molina found the inside trunk release, eased the lid open, and scanned the area before she hopped out. She was standing in McCormick Place’s parking lot C. She tried the doors of the cruiser and found it open and the keys inside. She sent out a distress call just as a southside cruiser pulled up.

  ~

  Elma Kis nodded and smiled at a few youngsters who thought it was great to ride the ell with a granny cop. She received a few high-fives from a few stoners who assumed that she’d been on the job since World War II. By the time she walked off the train, she was feeling invincible.

  Elma tucked her hat low on her head and headed towards One More Time.

  ~

  Kalaraja received a call from Joon-ki. He told him that Elma Kis was most likely being controlled by the book and may be headed their way. Kalaraja and Nash tried to usher as many patrons out of the building as they could without offending them. At one point, Nash just told everyone to GET OUT!

  Joon-ki reported: Elma was spotted walking down the street. The police are five minutes away.

  Clara, who was filling a basket from a list of books Nash needed from the third floor, didn’t know about the situation until Wendell rushed through the door.

  “Elma’s coming. She’s armed.”

  “How?”

  “Evidently, she drugged two visiting police officers. She stripped one and took their weapons.”

  Clara took a deep breath and walked over and picked up her baseball bat. “I wonder if the Crown Publishers volume of Superman from the Thirties to the Seventies Nash has in aisle three is bulletproof?”

  “Why?”

  “Because this bat isn’t.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to stop Elma.”

  “I’m to keep you here,” Wendell said, blocking the door to the stairwell.

  “No offense to our budding friendship, but you move or I’ll move you,” Clara growled, raising her bat.

  Wendell moved. He stepped aside but followed her down the stairs.

  “What are you doing, Wendell? She’s coming here for you. Whether it’s for her dark desires or your father’s, you’re going to end up dead.”

  “You can’t fight Elma and the book alone,” Wendell warned as they walked out onto the second floor.

  The books were moving.

  “Don’t worry, Wendell. I have backup.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Nash decided there wasn’t enough time to pull the gate closed. He locked the door and directed Kalaraja towards the office before he shut off the lights.

  Clara moved up and down the aisles. Books presented themselves. She flipped them open, illuminated them with her cell phone, and let the magic take over her.

  “You’re reading?” Wendell asked.

  Clara handed Wendell a book clearly meant for him. He didn’t have to read it; he knew the plot of the book by heart. He looked at Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 and said, “I guess you’re telling me that we have to burn the book.”

  “We may hav
e to burn all the books if it gets in the shop,” Clara said. “The books are telling us that because of you, and people like you, the books will live on.”

  “How did you get so smart?”

  “From reading books,” Clara said. She stopped and put her finger to her lips. “Listen for book movement. They’re making a plan. Pick up any book that presents itself.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  “While the books are in this special place, they come to life. Didn’t you ever wonder if you chose a book or if the book you were reading chose you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here, they choose you. They help you and sometimes push you in the right direction.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “But your father creating a life-snatching book isn’t?” Clara hissed.

  “I’m not sure I believe that either,” Wendell admitted.

  Clara turned Wendell around and targeted her cell phone light behind them. Wendell looked back and saw the books moving on the shelves. Some seemed to be climbing the stacks.

  “Seeing is believing,” Clara said. “When I first started coming here, I thought the place had a ghost that was choosing books for me, but I now see it as enchanted.”

  “How do they choose?”

  “They read your emotions. For example, how does Wendell feel about me?”

  The book in Wendell’s hand, Fahrenheit 451, opened. The pages fanned and stopped. He looked down and read: “Why is it,” he said, one time, at the subway entrance. “I feel I’ve known you so many years?” “Because I like you,” she said, “and I don’t want anything from you.”

  “Don’t fight it, Wendell. Even the books know we’re to be best friends.”

  “If we survive this.”

  “Because we survive this,” Clara said, tucking a large red book down the back of her pants.

  Nash heard the creaking of Clara’s and Wendell’s footsteps above him. He didn’t really expect Clara to listen to Wendell and stay on the third floor. He was surprised that Wendell was staying with her. He realized that he misread the valor of the man.

  Kalaraja’s phone lit up, and he looked down at the text. “Elma is standing at the door.”

  The crash of glass breaking held more than alarm. The violence of the act foretold the evil intent of the woman.

  Nash saw Kalaraja open the back service door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going up.”

  “Good luck, Spider-Man.”

  “Good luck, Knight of Pages.”

  Elma used the baton Officer Blunt carried on her uniform to break the glass on the door. When she reached around, she found the keyed lock was without the key, so she cleared more glass to allow her to walk into the dark store.

  “It says you’re supposed to be open,” Elma Kis said. “I’d like to speak with the proprietor please.”

  Elma pulled out the flashlight and zeroed in on a set of switches. She flipped one after the other until the first floor of the shop was illuminated.

  Nash could have flipped them back off, but to do so would tell Elma there was someone in the shop.

  Elma strode over to the counter, banged the black leather book on it, slammed her hand down on the bell, and called out, “Proprietor, I wish to make a return!”

  The ding echoed off the walls but was eventually absorbed into the pulp of the paperbacks.

  Clara swallowed hard, knowing that the book was in the store. She didn’t move, nor could she as Wendell barred her way. Clara decided she would wait and see what played out. If she was to build a long-lasting friendship with Wendell, she was going to have to let him be the alpha sometimes.

  They both heard a sliding sound in a far aisle. The chill of the night air swirling around their legs let them know someone or something had entered the building from the second-floor window.

  Nash walked out of the workroom.

  “Hello, Officer,” Nash said, playing along, “can I help you?”

  “You can pick up that book for one,” Elma said, drawing the gun.

  “Do you have your receipt?”

  “I’m not looking to get my money back. I’m using my authority as a Chicago police officer to demand you pick up that book.”

  I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Nash said. “It’s not mine. It didn’t come from this shop. I think you should make the trip to Pennsylvania and return the book yourself to Horace. Not that he’s going to let you live.”

  Elma took the safety off and aimed the gun at Nash’s chest. “Pick up the book,” she ordered.

  “Elma, why are you here?” Nash asked, leaning against one of the wooden support pillars.

  “I’m not quite sure, beyond delivering the book and making you pick it up.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  Elma didn’t know. She only knew she had this overwhelming compulsion to deliver the book to Nash Greene and make sure he touched it with his bare skin.

  “I understand this book encourages you to dig into the darkest reaches of your mind and act out your most depraved desires,” Nash said, hoping to draw Elma into a conversation so he could distract her from harming Clara. Hopefully, the police would be there soon to take charge of Elma.

  “No. It says I can do what I want with impunity,” Elma said.

  “Actually, there are consequences. Why not put down your gun, and we’ll get you some help,” Nash offered. “You remember Marc Davis, don’t you?”

  “Marc is a club member. He buys new books and, sometimes, touches on interesting points in the books we are discussing.” Elma said. “He’s nowhere as good as I am at understanding what the author has written. I do think he has a bit of a crush on me. All the men at Page Turners do.”

  “The book encouraged him to pull out all of his teeth and rip out half his tongue before he sewed his mouth shut.”

  Elma seemed to waver, one hand clutching her stomach, but the pull of the book was too strong. “My deepest darkest desire is to rid the world of these secondhand bookstores. But first, I’m going to kill your Secondhand Susie.”

  “His Secondhand Susie?” Wendell questioned, standing at the top of the stairs with one arm around Clara’s waist. Clara caressed the side of his face. Wendell pulled her closer and asked, “Don’t you mean mine?”

  Elma was enraged. She picked up the book and flung it at Nash.

  The sound of metal sliced through the air. Nash threw himself on the ground as Joon-ki’s knife caught the book’s midsection and pinned it to the pillar. Joon-ki, who stood in the broken glass of the door, looked down the street and saw flashing lights. He stepped back and melted into the darkness.

  Elma didn’t stop to see what she assumed was a direct hit on Nash. She charged up the stairs with her weapon ready to fire. Wendell and Clara had disappeared into the stacks.

  “Now, Marc,” Marianne instructed. “Reach inside your mind and tear a page out of the black book. Start at the top and rip.”

  Nash watched as a page fell from the book. It wafted in the draft coming from the door. It landed in the bin of Penguin Classics. The bin tremored slightly as the page burrowed into the mound of not-so-gently used paperbacks.

  Elma stalked the second floor looking for Wendell and Clara. The first few aisles looked the same. The shelves started near the floor and reached to the ceiling. The books were aligned neatly on either side.

  “I have to admit, the proprietor keeps things neat and tidy,” Elma said. “Although, the man can’t alphabetize.”

  “Do you always follow your compliments with a barb?” Clara said behind her.

  Elma spun around and fired.

  There was no one there. The bullet traveled down the aisle and embedded itself in War and Peace.

  “Careful, I wouldn’t rile the Russians,” Wendell hissed beside her.

  Elma turned and jammed her gun in between the books and fired again. The bullet spun by, narrowl
y missing Wendell, who was pulled back sharply by Kalaraja.

  “Now you’ve done it,” Clara said. “You’ve scorched the Bulgakovs. There will be hell to pay.”

  “He’s just a third-rate novelty writer,” Elma dismissed.

  “He is not!” Clara proclaimed.

  Elma shot in the direction Clara’s voice came from, missing her by a good margin.

  “There is no greater misfortune in the world than the loss of reason,” Wendell quoted Bulgakov, standing at the end of the aisle.

  Elma couldn’t see his face; the heavy Russian literature absorbed the light and most of the air.

  “Once upon a time there was a lady. She had no children, and no happiness either. And at first she cried for a long time, but then she became wicked,” Clara quoted, her voice dripping with a horrendous Russian accent.

  “I see we’re still on The Master and Margarita,” Wendell said, walking away as if following Clara.

  “She’s put you under a spell,” Elma warned.

  “Well, as everyone knows, once witchcraft gets started, there’s no stopping it,” Clara said, still quoting Bulgakov’s masterpiece.

  Wendell managed a dirty little laugh.

  Elma charged after them. She caught sight of the duo and fired. The bullet pinged off Clara’s lower back. Clara reached back and handed the book to Wendell.

  Wendell read, “Superman from the Thirties to the Seventies.”

  “Man of steel,” Clara said and drew Wendell down the aisle.

  Nash approached the bin of Penguin Classics with trepidation. He looked down and didn’t see the missing page of the book; although, the more he stared, the more he thought he saw a very black eye regarding him.

  “Chicago PD!” Officer Blunt called out. She carefully moved through the glass, still in her donated clothes and sandals. Her clothes hadn’t arrived. Jones had given her his backup service revolver to use. She had it trained on Nash.