The Book of Common Dread

by Brent Monahan

  Simon stared for two minutes at the printout, then took out his keys and reentered the Rare Manuscripts chamber. He moved quietly past the engrossed Willy Spencer and on to the storage cages. Keys still in hand, he unlocked the door that opened onto the occult and supernatural works. His eyes swept along the shelf just above his head, reading the spines of Le Tarot des Bohemians, De Arte Cabalistica, Malleus Malejicarum, the Sefir Yetsirah, the Kabbalah, and Fama Fraternitatis. On the shelf below, a clutch of crack-spined works huddled together as if in dark conspiracy: the Testament of Solomon, the Sword of Moses, the Grimoire Verum, Lemegeton, Hell's Coercion, and finally the Memphis Grimoire. Simon knew they were all just so much ancient foolishness, but when his fingers touched the Memphis Grimoire a shiver ran up his arm and into the base of his skull. He drew the book gently from the shelf and locked the cage.

  As Simon walked back to his desk, he thought about sharing the same roof with Frederika Vanderveen. Reason warned him it was just a place to stay for a while, possibly the unexpected chance to learn something about her digging dirt from her father's grave. Nothing intimate could or would happen between them. The first woman for whom Simon had ever fully lowered the drawbridge of his emotional defenses had been almost as beautiful as Frederika. He had been a teaching assistant in philosophy and she a student in his "precept" section who made clear her interest in extracurricular activities. He had knowingly betrayed ethical standards by dating and bedding her on the sly before she had finished the course, but he redeemed himself by giving her the final B grade she deserved. When she ended their brief relationship at the start of the next semester, Simon assumed it was out of anger. He learned only after months of futile pursuit that lowering her panties for successive teachers was her peculiar stratagem for raising her grades. When Simon moved in with Lynn it had been a deliberate decision of head rather than heart, and now he knew it to be just as great an error in judgment. He refused to allow his heart's compass to spin back wildly toward physical magnetism. He resolved that when the next two weeks had passed, he would have nothing to regret.

  CHAPTER TWO

  December 13

  … A good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.

  -Milton, Areopagitica, sec. 6

  "You want ketchup?" the waitress asked, as she set down the plate.

  "Yes, indeed," her customer replied, flashing a smile that was inviting in spite of his slightly long incisors.

  The waitress grabbed a bottle of ketchup from the only unoccupied table in the restaurant and plunked it down in front of the neatly dressed man. "Anything else?"

  "Not right now, thank you," DeVilbiss said. He inched the plate to one side to make room for his newspaper. When he looked up again, the waitress had disappeared. DeVilbiss beamed at his food. P.J.'s Pancake House had been a find. By far the best hamburgers in Princeton, and especially the version in front of him now-medium rare, topped with melted cheese and chili. Big steak fries on the side, smothered in ketchup. A wedge of lettuce and a slice of tomato for balance. American cuisine at its simple best.

  DeVilbiss spooned a steaming heap of chili into his mouth, then turned his attention to the other diners. The cozy eatery was brightly lit, seeming to reflect the cheery mood of its customers. Many still wore ruddy glows from the December cold outside. To his left, however, one woman's face, wreathed in her own cigarette smoke, looked as pale as the haze that enveloped it. Past her left shoulder, DeVilbiss saw a man who appeared to be in his sixties, wearing an obvious hairpiece and without eyebrows. Probably in the throes of cancer therapy, DeVilbiss guessed. Other than those two, the rest of the crowd appeared healthy, especially the college kids filling the booths, pink-skinned with sparkling eyes and thick, shiny hair.

  But looks were deceiving, DeVilbiss knew. Autopsies on hundreds of Vietnam War fatalities had proven it. Even by their teenage years, the seeds of destruction had been sown. Deposits of fat had already begun to build up in their veins. Death had written its name on all of them, everyone in this restaurant and out on the streets beyond. Everyone except him.

  DeVilbiss returned to his burger with gusto, savoring the rich marbling of fat that made it so tasty, wolfing down the deep-fat-fried potatoes. There was no danger to him here. As he ate, he leafed through the pages of the Princeton Packet, scanning the columns. At last he found the advertisement he had placed. Below his name and lettered pseudocredentials was the announcement of his recent establishment in Princeton and his services. Astrologer, herbal health counselor, and channeler with the departed. It was more than a front; even the Undead needed the means to stay alive. These were also services that people most often sought after dark. Most important, as ridiculous as they were, they gave him an excuse for being here.

  DeVilbiss divided his attention between his food and the teenage couple at the table squeezed beside him. They were earnestly engaged in the subtle business of verbal courtship, neither too skilled nor too inept at it. Precisely right, he judged, for persons their age. DeVilbiss swallowed his last fry and glanced at his wristwatch. Time to be going. Firestone Library closed in forty minutes. He did not want to get there just before closing. Too much chance of someone wondering why they hadn't seen him leave.

  DeVilbiss paid his check and stepped into the night air. It was, a radio weatherman had informed, an unusually cold December for New Jersey. DeVilbiss had smiled at the news. The weatherman had obviously not been around in the late 1880s, when the snow in December had drifted to the tops of telegraph lines, or even in the 1920s, when the Hudson River had frozen solid from bank to bank.

  He had. He'd seen more than five hundred winters, from a hundred different locales throughout Europe and North America.

  Entering the library, DeVilbiss moved without hesitation to the Microforms Reading Room. Together with the Reference Room and the Exhibitions Hall, it was one of the three areas that could be used without entering the main part of the library. And the only way into the main area was strictly regulated by both a narrow turnstile linked to a counter and a guard who scrutinized all access cards. A dozen feet away, another guard checked all outgoing bags and briefcases and made sure that an exit turnstile ticked off each departure. DeVilbiss was not about to have the two turnstiles disagree in their counts at closing time. He noted that the Microforms librarian was well occupied in answering a student's question. He glided past, unnoticed, selected a roll of microfilm, and moved to a reading machine in the farthest corner of the room. He was well versed in using such a room; it had become one of the requirements for his existence. At ten minutes before closing, he rewound the film and took it back into the long line of shelves that held the complete records of the world's most important newspapers. At the back of the shelves, in a dark corner, sat a reading machine with an OUT OF ORDER sign taped to its lens housing. DeVilbiss drew a reshelving cart in front of the machine and crammed himself under the little table that supported it. He listened to the public address announcement about the library's closing, made no movement as the librarian walked down the rows flicking off the lights, and remained statuelike as the room became engulfed in darkness.

  DeVilbiss trained his acute hearing on the sounds of the library, sensing sounds from far down corridors and around corners as the last of the staff exited the building. His pupils swelled until the amber color of his irises all but disappeared. The feeble beams of a single outdoor lamplight filtering through the windows made the room as bright as midday to him. He focused Zenlike concentration on his watch's second hand as it swept ten times around the face. Then he rose from his cramped concealment and walked with silent assurance toward the entry hall.

  After purchasing his access pass that morning, DeVilbiss had planted himself in front of the seven-level floor plan in the card catalog section, sweeping his eyes back and forth until he had it roughly memorized. Next, he had made an unhurried circumambulation of the building, verifying doors and exits. As he did, he noted wi
th dismay that the library had extensive door and fire alarms and fire dousing systems.

  From the entry area DeVilbiss exited right, heading through the Exhibitions Hall. The floor plan had shown him that the Rare Manuscripts Preparation section was only one door secluded in that direction as opposed to two doors distant through the center of the library. These were the only two means of access; the repository of the library's most precious documents sat as insulated as any ancient fortress's inner keep.

  Every few seconds DeVilbiss paused and listened. Satisfied, he moved on until he reached the unmarked double doors. His fingers pressed against them, feeling for the telltale pulsing of electricity. He sensed nothing. He withdrew a set of picks from his coat pocket and knelt before the lock. He was surprised to see that the apparatus was somewhat old-fashioned. He rummaged among his pockets for less-used tools. The noises he made masked the crepe-soled footfalls of the approaching guard until escape was impossible. He barely had time to stuff the lock-picking tools back into his pockets, stand and present a confused face.

  The guard turned the corner and stopped dead. His hand rose automatically; his finger flicked on the flashlight in mid-movement so that the beam swept across DeVilbiss's chest and onto his face. DeVilbiss offered a sheepish grin.

  "My God, I'm glad you happened along!" he exhaled, moving forward slowly, palms open and up. "I thought I'd be locked in the dark all night."

  The guard's tense face relaxed a fraction at the amiable English accent. He kept the flashlight on DeVilbiss's face, however. "Didn't you hear the announcement?" he asked, peevishly.

  "As a matter of fact, I didn't," DeVilbiss said, stopping about ten feet from the guard. "Absent-minded professor, what? Over here on sabbatical from Oxford. Political science department?"

  The guard nodded noncommittally. His eyebrows were still knit.

  "If you could show me the quickest way out, I'd be ever so grateful," DeVilbiss continued. His eyes fixed momentarily on the thick ring of keys hanging from the guard's belt.

  "Do you have some identification, professor?" the guard asked, backing carefully toward a small table set against the wall.

  "Why yes, of course," DeVilbiss gushed. "In my inside jacket pocket. All right if I fish in?"

  The guard nodded.

  DeVilbiss moved toward the desk as he withdrew his billfold. He flipped it open and set it gingerly on the desk. "My library access card's the very top one."

  The guard moved forward, keeping the light in DeVilbiss's face.

  "I say, this is rather rude treatment," DeVilbiss complained, shielding his eyes from the glare, "especially after I almost had an accident coming down that stairwell over there." He gestured broadly with his left arm. As he did he took a small step forward. "I trust you know there's an iron bar standing out from the wall, about this long." His right hand went up as a distance measurer. The guard glanced away from the billfold, which he had just picked up, to follow the sweep of DeVilbiss's hand. "A person could-"

  With an unhuman quickness, DeVilbiss thrust himself forward, grabbed the guard by both ears and gave his head a vicious left-hand twist. The neck snapped noisily. The guard's eyes and mouth flew open, but no sound came forth. The flashlight dropped from his grasp. DeVilbiss caught it deftly in midair with his left hand and taloned into the guard's jacket with his right, preventing the dead weight from hitting the floor.

  "-break his neck," DeVilbiss finished. He lowered the heavyset man easily to the floor and reclaimed his fallen billfold. His head swung slowly from one side to the other, his eyes darting in thought. He squeezed them shut for a moment, remembering. There were fire alarm boxes in every room, but one set into the wall two rooms away was particularly useful for his purpose. He hefted the guard over his shoulder and strode to the place. After he dumped the body on the floor he entered the nearest stairwell, which was in the process of being painted. He was relieved to see that the tall stepladder he had observed in the morning had not been moved. He carried it back to the place where the guard lay. He lifted his black turtleneck sweater and unwound twenty feet of rope he wore around his middle. Such ropes had provided escapes for him a score of times in the past. He needed it now for another purpose. After listening to the library and assuring himself that no more guards moved nearby, he scaled the ladder and tossed the rope over a sprinkler pipe that ran just below the line of the ceiling. He climbed down and tied a noose, which he slipped around the corpse's broken neck. Then he hauled the body upward, until its shoes dangled three feet off the carpet. He tied off the rope and tilted the ladder at a wild angle against the wall, as if the guard had kicked it away. He stepped back to survey his handiwork, then took the guard's right leg and swung it lightly toward the wall. He satisfied himself that if the "suicide" had been alive and struggling with a last-minute change of heart, the toe of his shoe could reasonably have punched in the fire alarm glass. He exited the room wearing a smile of self-satisfaction.

  Holding the guard's ring of keys, DeVilbiss walked back to the doors that concealed the Rare Manuscripts Preparation section. A subring held a single key which had seen much use. DeVilbiss selected it and fitted it easily into the lock. He turned the key and pulled the door fully back. Just beyond lay a gate formed of bars and heavy steel mesh. Before he could examine this new obstacle, DeVilbiss noticed a triangle midway up the small space of wall between the door and gate. The triangle was formed of three small plastic buttons, one green, one yellow, one red. The red button abruptly winked on and then began to flash.

  DeVilbiss's head snapped back in surprise. The damned library already had daytime guards, turnstiles, security patrols, locked doors, and steel gates. Why did it also need an interior entry alarm system? Could anyone be that paranoid over books-even rare ones? Caught unprepared, DeVilbiss cast his eyes frantically around the entryway for a means to disarm the alarm. The button stopped winking and glowed a hot, threatening red. A moment later, a bell's persistent clang ripped through the deep silence. DeVilbiss conceded that the shut off switch was in another location. He refocused on the greater problem before him. His sensitive eyes peered through the bars and wire at the rows of ancient books, stored behind yet more steel mesh.

  DeVilbiss heard sounds of entry, echoing from the main hall. Growling in frustration, he shoved the wooden doors inward and assured himself that they locked automatically. He sprinted through the rooms, returned to the corpse, and reattached the ring of keys. His fist punched into the fire alarm, shattering the glass and sending up more strident clanging that merged with the din of the alarm behind the Rare Manuscripts area's doors.

  The library extended three stories below ground level and three above. The top towers rose into a rough cruciform shape above the main structure, like the central keep of a castle. Staying barely ahead of the rapid footfalls, DeVilbiss entered the nearest stairwell and climbed. Memory told him that it ascended all the way to the highest part of the structure, where the elevator machine room and the hot-air draw fans were housed. The clanging of the alarms was just as loud near the top, reverberating through the long shaft. DeVilbiss reached the top level and moved toward the door. He found it also wired to detect entry and exit. He could leave no evidence that anyone had left the building after the alarms were tripped-not with the scrolls still secure.

  DeVilbiss looked up. Twelve feet directly above lay a trapdoor, secured with a simple draw bolt. On the wall just below it were two grab irons. Farther down, the wall was smooth. A ladder was evidently carried up when access was needed, no doubt a precaution against free-spirited students. DeVilbiss climbed onto the rail at the top of the stairs. He stretched up his hands, coiled his legs and jumped. His catch was sure and two-handed. He pulled himself up to the top iron, hung by one hand and undid the bolt. Monkeylike, he kicked the trapdoor open, then swung up and out into the night. He lowered the trapdoor and dug into one of his many coat pockets. His hand came out holding an alnico magnet, wrapped with several feet of twine. He put his ear to the trapdoor and
ran the magnet along its surface until he heard the bolt slide into place. He re-pocketed the magnet and duck-walked to the edge of the tower.

  Official vehicles idled close by on two sides of the library. Their bubble-gum lights whirled brightly but their sirens were mute. The alarms, so strident within the library, could barely be heard. Just across the roofs and over a small stretch of lawn lay Nassau Street, Princeton's main thoroughfare. Street traffic and a throng of moviegoers leaving the Garden Theatre flowed along quietly, unaware of the turmoil on campus. It was as if the university did whatever it could to shelter its problems from the outside world. What amazed DeVilbiss most was the absence of fire engines. He wondered if the library's fire system was sufficiently sophisticated not to alert the firehouse unless the sprinkler mechanisms were opened.

  Several Gothic stone spires decorated the tower's parapets. Any one of them would have provided a perfect belaying point for his rope, if he had still had it. DeVilbiss estimated the drop to the lower roof to be about thirty feet. He moved to the darkest side of the tower, scanned the campus below, then vaulted confidently over the parapet. He repeated his feat from roof to roof until he landed on the ground behind a clump of holly bushes. He straightened up and brushed himself off.

  "Hey, you! Come out of there!"

  DeVilbiss turned. A campus policeman stood ten feet from him, with the thong of a wooden nightstick wrapped around his right hand. DeVilbiss obeyed his command.

  "What were you doing in there?" the policeman demanded.

  "I was looking for my dog," DeVilbiss replied, this time without the amiable persona he had affected for the library guard. "Have you seen a black and white mutt, about this big?" DeVilbiss advanced, holding both hands up.

  "No. I-"

  "Damned cur!" DeVilbiss spat. "I just tripped over a root or something in there. Nearly tore my pants."