Abruptly, he pushed away the half-finished cup in front of him, gathered up the battered leather satchel by his chair, tossed a bill onto the table, and left without a backward glance. The waitress was at his table in a moment, fearful that he’d bilked her, but to her grateful astonishment the bill bore Grant’s face, not Washington’s. She looked out of the window and watched the man cross the street and go into the bookstore.
* * *
It was probably a coincidence that the man pushed away his teacup at the exact moment that Dan Carter lapsed from light sleep into deep sleep in the apartment over the store. Exhaustion from the double shift and his experience during the second had finally overwhelmed him and he was now dead to the world. Certainly, the tinkling of the bell over the store’s door would not wake him, nor would any conversation, even if it were to become heated.
Emily Lovecraft looked up as the bell sounded and the man came in. She took his measure quickly: a nice suit, unfashionable, but comfortable; a hat, not such a rarity in the Unfolded World; a battered old-school leather satchel; a gentle, aesthetic face; a mild and faintly benevolent expression. She had him tagged as a Miskatonic U professor before he’d even taken one step inside the store. He was clearly not there for browsing, either, as he made straight for her.
She closed the book she’d been reading, put it aside, and said, “Good afternoon. How can we help you today?”
“Good afternoon.” He paused, smiling, and looked off to one side as if a thought had occurred to him. “That’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? How can you help me today? That implies that you have helped me on previous days in different ways, or that you anticipate helping me in the future.”
A professor of semantics, Lovecraft decided.
“Well, return trade is always vital for any business,” she said.
“I suppose it is. I would like to return. I like books.” He looked around. “And you have several.”
“We do.” The man amused Lovecraft, and—now that he was close enough for her to see the cut and material of his suit—she also recognized him as probably well off. She liked both of these factors. He could amuse her while buying large quantities of stock. She hoped that he was one of the old breed of dilettante intellectuals who bought books by the yard to give his library gravitas. She’d read about rich Victorian guys doing that. How cool would that be?
Then he ruined it all by placing both hands flat on the counter, looking her in the eye, smiling pleasantly, and saying, “I understand you have a copy of the Necronomicon.”
Lovecraft’s smile wavered. “The Necronomicon?” She hoped it wasn’t too obvious that she was playing for time, although she knew she couldn’t have been more blatantly short of raising a hand and asking him to wait a minute while she thought of a workable evasion.
“Well, yes.” The man seemed mildly surprised. “Fragments of the Dee edition. Surely I haven’t come to the wrong store?” He looked off to one side as if thinking, then back at her. “No. This is definitely the right place. Of that, I am sure.”
“It’s a very rare book, sir,” she said, belatedly adding, “I believe. I think the university might have one in their restricted collection.”
“They do,” said the man conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather. “An original, one of only eight, to my knowledge, but it’s in medieval Arabic, and I’m a little rusty. They also have the Olaus Wormius Latin translation, but he could be such a prig somet—”
“Eight?” interrupted Lovecraft. She had researched the Necronomicon when she found she held a copy, and that did not jibe with her findings. “Five, you mean? Miskatonic, Buenos Aires, Harvard, the British Library, and the one that used to be in the Bibliothèque nationale de France, but ended up in the Reich-Bibliothek in Berlin.”
“Oh, yes,” said the man. “Five. My mistake.” His smile stayed at its initial intensity throughout the exchange, as if this was the factory setting for his face.
It only struck her later that the man’s claim that there were eight copies of the original Necronomicon in existence might have been neither an honest mistake nor a ruse to catch her out.
Having blown any chance of carrying on the pretense of ignorance about the Necronomicon, Lovecraft tried a new tack.
“The Dee edition is one of the rarest subsequent editions, though. Maybe even rarer than originals.”
“Oh, yes. It is rarer. Undoubtedly so.”
“Well, it’s hardly likely to turn up in a small bookstore in Pro—in Arkham, then.” The near slip bothered her. She thought she’d gotten the whole “it’s not Providence anymore” thing down pat. Why was the little man putting her off balance so much? She had her twelve-gauge pal under the counter if things got unfriendly in a gross material way, but things looked like they were going off in their own direction and it wasn’t one where the Mossberg might be useful.
“I would agree with you, but for the fact I was told you have a copy.” He smiled pleasantly at her, unwaveringly at her, as if he’d just inquired about buying The Little Book of Calm.
Lovecraft raised her eyebrows. “Told?”
“Yes.” The smile seemed permanently stitched onto his face. “By Alfred Hill.”
In the pause that followed, Lovecraft realized that she had stepped back from the counter. “That’s my uncle.”
“Hmmm.” It was unclear if the man was indicating that he knew that, or merely that he was showing polite interest.
“He’s dead.”
The man’s smile finally toned down to an expression of curious interest. She might have just said her uncle was a Jesuit missionary. “Dead? Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Might I ask when, if it’s not too upsetting a subject?”
“He’s been missing for over seven years. He was legally declared dead a few months ago.” She stepped back up to the counter. “When exactly did he speak to you?”
“Oh, a while back. It might have been seven years, I suppose. Tempus…” He seemed to relish the word for a moment, then abruptly added, “… fugit.”
“You put off coming here for seven years?” If Lovecraft made any effort to keep the disbelief from her voice, it was a weak one.
The smile returned. “I have been busy.”
Lovecraft had had enough of Mr. Nice Suit and his shit. “I’m sorry, but if we ever had a copy, my uncle must have sold it between him telling you about it and…” She hesitated.
“His disappearance,” supplied the man. “Yes, I suppose he must. Such a shame, but I should have struck while the iron was hot. Such a shame. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Miss Lovecraft.”
Lovecraft wasn’t about to let him suddenly name-dropping her add to the low-level freak-out she was already experiencing. If he’d known her uncle, then presumably Alfred would have mentioned the Lovecraft connection, and from that and the new name of the store it wasn’t an amazing deduction to arrive at her name. “That’s okay. Kind of wish we did still have it. I’d like to see a copy myself.” She had no idea why she felt the need to embellish the lie like that, and as soon as she said it, she realized it was true. She really did want to look at the book again. Properly this time. After all, it was only a book. She wasn’t some delicate violet from an H.P.L. story whose mind would crack like an eggshell after reading a line. She realized she had become distracted and covered by saying, “Out of curiosity, why did you want a copy, sir? It’s not exactly light reading.”
The man shrugged. He was still smiling, as if he were pleased even at not getting the book he wanted. “A gift for a colleague.”
Lovecraft raised an eyebrow. “That’s a hell of a gift.”
The smile, if anything, deepened. “She’s a hell of a colleague. Good day, Miss Lovecraft.” He headed for the door.
Lovecraft called after him, “Should I take your contact details, sir? In case we get another copy, or hear of anyone who has?”
“No.” The man paused at the open door. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure the book is in the best p
lace for it already.” He left before she could point out that his reason didn’t seem to have much to do with his decision.
Chapter 10
INSIDE THE MACHINE
Carter was distracted after he slept, focused on that evening’s planned petty larceny and something that he found difficult to separate from corporate espionage in his mind. He was certainly too distracted to notice Lovecraft’s slightly edgy demeanor and her limited, unsuccessful attempts to drag their brief conversation around to the freaky guy who had spoken to her uncle seven years before and knew all about the copy of the Necronomicon lying in the safe. So Carter left the store preoccupied, and carrying a messenger bag that contained a book, a sandwich, a Nazi screwdriver, a small camera that took good high-resolution pictures, and a mountable LED light. He said, “catch you later” at Lovecraft over his shoulder, and didn’t see her unhappy expression or hear her say “Yeah” in a “For fuck’s sake, will you please get your head out of your ass and ask me what’s wrong” voice.
After he’d gone, she sighed and sat heavily on the stool behind the counter. She swore at herself inwardly for not just saying what was on her mind, but she did it unenthusiastically. She knew full well she’d been reluctant to bring the subject up because it seemed a little thin when she tried to find words to express how the strange little conversation had gone. Yeah, so this guy came into the bookstore, and … he wanted to buy a book! She could see Carter’s expression in her mind’s eye; the brow was down and the eyes were pretty quizzical. He’d come out with And? And she would just have a lot of nothing to explain how she felt. He said he knew my uncle Alfred? He knew how many copies of Kitab al-Azif are in existence! But he got it wrong! In a way I found kind of threatening for reasons I can’t say!
She could see that expression on Carter’s face all too well.
And?
Lovecraft turned on the stool to look at the safe. She looked at it for a long time.
* * *
Carter started his shift very aware of how much of a fraud he was. He felt like an actor in an extemporized scene at a theater school. When he said, “Good evening, Sergeant,” to Graves, the older man flicked his eyes up at him from his computer for a moment too long, as if he felt something was off. But then he just nodded.
“Settling in, Constable?”
“I think so.” He looked at the lights in the security station, considering, and added, “There’s not a whole lot to this gig, really, is there?”
Graves smiled as he returned his attention to the computer. “Nope. We’re just warm bodies providing a presence. Sorry you took the job?”
Carter shook his head. “I need the money.” It was true, but it still felt like a line coming out of his mouth. “See you around, Sarge.” And he left the security building to head for the high-energy physics building to commit what he was pretty sure was probably some sort of crime.
The toughest part was carrying on as normal for the first part of his shift. He’d decided to do the job on the two o’clock patrol, because that was the deadest time of the night in his experience. Three was good, too, though. Maybe he should put it off until three. Maybe four. Carter knew he was procrastinating, but he liked the feeling of putting off the inevitable. It was a degree of control over his destiny that he treasured and that control felt rare these days. He carried out the initial patrol and the three following pretty much on the hour, and not exactly on the hour because that was his choice and within his control. Then it got to two in the morning, and he knew he didn’t have to do it right then if he didn’t want to. So, nursing theories about the illusion of self-determination, he went off to do it anyway.
He’d neutered the screwdriver’s vicious point by finding a cork in the apartment kitchen over the bookstore and pushing it over the tip. Now he could carry the thing in his jacket without it working through the cloth and shivving him in the spleen, which was a bonus. The money for the job was good, but not that good. He transferred the camera and the LED light from the messenger bag to his pockets, took a deep breath, and set off on his normal patrol route.
The patrol quickly took on the same air of theater of his earlier conversation with Graves. Here he was, pretending to be a security guard by going through the basement offices, flashing a torch around. Here he was, working his way up the building. Here he was, walking onto the lab floor as if everything was entirely normal.
This performance was unnecessary. He had been blipping the lab’s security camera off and on intermittently all evening by just pulling its USB plug gently from the feed socket in the cabinet in the security station, then plugging it in and out a couple of times. It wasn’t exactly a USB, he noticed, but close enough. In the Unfolded World it was called an SDS, which meant something in German, because—of course—the standard protocol had originated in the Reich. The logo was different, too: a spiral where the line turned at a right angle to the circular path and finished in a simple arrowhead, making the thing look like a fancy question mark. All evening, he had created the illusion of a sketchy feed and, five minutes before 2:00 a.m., he had finally pulled the plug and left it out. He’d stood by the cabinet for a moment, hoping he hadn’t fucked up, and while he did, he found himself looking at the logo and deciding he didn’t like it. He’d never been very attached to the USB logo, either, but there was something kind of pagan about the SDS spiral, like it had been copied from a cave painting or a carved stone at a Paleolithic site or something. He’d let go of the feed cable as if he’d found himself absentmindedly holding a snake, and closed the cabinet door.
Now here he was unobserved, yet he still couldn’t help but go through the motions of being a disinterested security guy. Yep, looks secure in here. Heh, cleaner missed that wastepaper basket. Gee, look at all that science shit on the whiteboard. These eggheads, huh?
He strolled around the laboratory, fighting the urge to put his thumbs in his belt and walk like a deputy in a program-filling thirties western. He had every right to be there. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was unusual. It was part of his usual routine to take a knee by the detector, produce a screwdriver from his jacket, pull a cork off its head, and use it to start extracting screws from a maintenance cover on the machine’s casing. Nothing to see here. Just as well the camera isn’t working right now. Be a waste of memory to record something this mundane.
He worked carefully. A scratch on the anodized metal surface would be obvious to anyone taking a second to look, and the dumb-ass screwdriver was just aching to scratch something if he didn’t keep it under close control. So he worked steadily, and used his off hand to keep the screwdriver’s barrel in place. The screws moved easily—the depth of the head gave perfect purchase and the handle provided plenty of mechanical advantage. The plate was irregular in shape, and every corner had a screw, five altogether. Carter dropped them into a plastic bottle cap he’d brought along to hold them.
He considered just loosening one of the lower screws so it would hold the cover while he slid it out of the way, but it turned out there was a recessed lip around the opening that took the screws, and he worried that the cover might scratch the detector casing, so he removed all five before gently easing off the cover.
He couldn’t see much inside the detector even as low as he was and had to go on hands and knees to look inside. There was a little light in there—a dull green glow from an LED somewhere—that he guessed was to show the unit was on standby or it had a backup battery for its firmware or something. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t enough to see anything except the outlines of the circuit boards, what might be the power unit, something else that might also be the power unit, and a braid of cables running up the machine’s rear wall.
Carter fumbled in his pocket and found the miniature LED work light. The base had a simple clamp, but its flat side was a magnet and this he attached to the detector casing by the opening. He angled the head to face through the gap and toggled the light on.
By the harsh white light of the ring of LEDs in the gadget’s he
ad, he could see the circuit boards in strong detail, the cables, the fan mountings. The second dark shape he had guessed might be a power transformer was exactly that. The first shape he’d thought might be, however, he could now see was actually maybe three kilos of quarrying explosives attached to a trigger mounted on one of the boards.
“Ah,” said Carter. “Ah, shit.”
He sat back on his haunches and looked at the bomb. Maybe he should be running, he thought, but surprise and a sense of dislocation prevented his fight or flight reflex from doing anything but putting him on his haunches with a thoughtful expression.
He’d seen bombs before, back when he was a cop. Never an armed one in the flesh, thank fuck, but plenty of pictures and neutralized devices and dummies brought in by the bomb squad so the beat cops and detectives knew what not to give a kick to. This one didn’t look very sophisticated at all. He guessed it was wired to the power bus so it would detonate when the detector was turned on. It looked too simple to have a backup timer or any antitamper measures. Of course, maybe he wasn’t seeing the whole thing, and maybe he was presuming a lot based on very limited experience.
He weighed his options. He could try to defuse it, and possibly get blown to shit. He could just put the cover back, pretend he hadn’t seen it, and let one or more of the scientists get blown to shit instead. He could call his client, spend the next twenty minutes listening to what a panicking German scientist sounds like, and finally arrive at the same conclusion he would have reached by himself, but with less time to do it. He could report it, and then have to explain why he had been poking around inside somebody else’s very delicate scientific apparatus at two in the morning. He could call in a bomb alert and let the professionals deal with it. He’d have to wipe everything down, but that wasn’t such a big deal. Yep, that was the plan. Get some cleaning product from the janitor’s closet to dissolve grease, wet a tissue with it, wipe down anything around there he might have left fingerprints or DNA on. Wake up Lovecraft, put up with two minutes of being fluently sworn at, ask her to go out, find a phone booth nowhere near her apartment, and call it in while trying to sound like a terrorist with a pathological hatred of high-energy physics. Or Nazis. Yeah, a pathological hatred for Nazis sounded more likely.
After the End of the World (Carter & Lovecraft) Page 10