The Book of Common Dread

by Brent Monahan

  Mrs. Agress laughed ruefully. "Do you have to remind me so soon?"

  Simon relaxed at the happy sound of her voice, a welcome contrast to his conversation with Katerina Callahan. "I'm sorry," he offered. "They say misery loves company. That may be why reunions were invented."

  Robin laughed again. "Maybe. How can I help you?"

  "I wonder if you may still be in touch with some of your classmates whom the committee can't find."

  "I thought we'd put together a pretty exhaustive list for the twenty-fifth," Robin remarked.

  Simon swallowed hard, then said, "Do you by any chance still have a copy of it, because we don't."

  "No, I sure don't." She was not testing his identity after all.

  "That's okay," Simon said. "Whatever you can provide will be appreciated."

  "Well, I'm not the social butterfly I once was, but I'll give it the old high school try."

  "Great." Simon opened the yearbook near the front. "Donna Anderson," he read.

  "Donna's dead. Killed in that big plane crash at O'Hare some years back, going to a book convention."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," Simon said, startled by the unexpected answer.

  "I'm surprised nobody in the school knew," Robin mused aloud.

  "Lots of turnovers and retirements in thirty years," Simon excused. "What about Dee Appleby?"

  "I don't know. Didn't even know her in school."

  "Alice Lydell?"

  "She's now Mrs. Thomas Niederjohn," the woman obliged.

  Simon pumped his clenched fists in silent triumph.

  "Let me find her number and address," Robin said. "Here they are.

  Simon scribbled down the information. It was an effort to reel off two more names at random. He thanked Robin and promised to "say hello to Alice" when he called her. Hanging up, he could see why the least outwardly beautiful girl in the Ball Court had been elected queen.

  A glass jar on Simon's dresser held his spare coins. He changed into grungy jeans and stuffed a fistful of silver into his pocket, then traded his white broadcloth shirt and P.U. tie for a checkered flannel shirt and a real Air Force bomber jacket he had inherited, working within the limits of his Ivy League wardrobe to create a machismo look. He had planned to visit DeVilbiss directly after work, risking a chance meeting with Frederika. Instead, he could have the confrontation when she was sure to be in the library.

  In front of the town post office, while shoppers rushed by carrying festive, bulging bags, Simon paused at a pay phone and called the number Robin Agress had supplied. The phone rang, but no one answered. He collected his change, then leaned against the phone box and collected his courage. He was bigger than DeVilbiss but that hardly compensated for the aura of evil surrounding the man. More frightening, Simon was convinced that he had known of this man's evil nature even before meeting him face to face. He decided he didn't care. He grabbed several lungfuls of cold air and trudged toward Park Place.

  In the daylight the duplex house, squeezed tightly between similar old buildings, belied the New York image that the street name suggested. It looked not at all like the sort of residences Frederika's former lovers inhabited. Simon wondered about the cause of such a change in her routine and was subconsciously rattled by the prospect that it might suggest she had locked into a more realistic and lasting relationship.

  Simon rapped loudly on the door. While he waited, he looked up and down the street. Other than the mailman walking his route, Park Place was deserted. The trees poked up bony branches; bushes huddled naked and dormant against the dreary dwellings. The music of an ancient Christmas carol with its lines "in the bleak midwinter/frosty winds made moan" cycled repeatedly in his head, like a skipping record.

  Simon knocked again, then moved to one of the front windows, to risk a peek inside. A tiny face stared out at him. He started back in surprise, then realized he was looking at the painted porcelain head of a French Pierrot doll.

  The door started to creak open. Simon hurried to put himself in front of it. Vincent DeVilbiss appeared, digging dried mucus from the corner of his eye. The red wrinkles on his left cheek further suggested that Simon had interrupted more than a catnap.

  DeVilbiss's eyes went wide. He lowered his hand and raised a toothy smile. "Ah! The intense fellow from the library," DeVilbiss remembered. "What might I do for you?"

  "You might invite me inside," Simon said. He instantly regretted the harshness of his tone and resolved to moderate it.

  "Certainly." DeVilbiss stepped aside cordially. He wore a stylish silk dressing gown over pajama bottoms. His feet were bare, as was the part of his chest the gown failed to cover. His clothes reminded Simon that the man was a creature of the night-like a panther. He was doubly glad he had arrived at midday, catching DeVilbiss in his sleep, so the man would be less alert and less inclined toward violence.

  Simon made a turn into the living room. He found himself staring at the clown doll in profile. It sat on the stuffed upper curve of the old couch, looking out the window as if on sentry duty. Simon pivoted to address the channeler.

  "Do you intend to stay long in Princeton?"

  DeVilbiss grinned. "I take it you're not from the Welcome Wagon."

  "You're right. My name's Simon Penn. I'm a friend of Frederika Vanderveen."

  Instead of the expected defensiveness, DeVilbiss's grin grew even wider, showing rows of even, white teeth and a pair of incisors too big for his mouth.

  "Simon Penn. No wonder you were in the Microforms Room; you work in the library with Frederika!" DeVilbiss exclaimed, brightly. "She speaks well of you."

  "She speaks nothing of you," Simon countered. "She thinks you're her big secret, but she's wrong. The people close to her know she's going through a bad time, even though she won't talk about it. She's looking for answers from the dead, answers she can't get."

  "Perhaps she can," DeVilbiss suggested.

  "Don't try your bullshit on me," Simon said. "Frederika's obviously allowed herself to fall for your mumbo jumbo, and we want it to stop."

  Laugh lines appeared in the corner of DeVilbiss's seductive eyes. He seemed amused that someone thought he could be threatened.

  "Or what?" he asked, lowering himself to the arm of the couch.

  "You think because you move often your past can't be traced?" Simon bluffed. "We already know you're dangerous."

  DeVilbiss raised his eyebrows. "Is this a royal We, or perhaps a concerned coterie of librarians?"

  Simon ignored the barb. "I mean the people who care about Frederika… some of them influential people."

  DeVilbiss covered a yawn with his hand. "Do tell. You have no faith in my skills, so you want me gone. You realize that deprives me of my livelihood? How do you propose to compensate my moving costs?"

  Simon knew DeVilbiss might be toying with him, but it was also likely that he had pressed the right button suggesting "they" knew his dangerous history.

  "We'll give you five hundred," Simon offered.

  DeVilbiss's attitude of amusement continued. He stared out the window and gave a little snort of derision. "That wouldn't get me out of your godforsaken state. The press might pay that much for a story of prejudice, persecution, and bribery, committed on a poor newcomer by those of… influence."

  "One thousand. Take it and run." Lynn had charged Simon only $250 a month for the privilege of staying in her townhouse. Ever since Simon had come to Princeton, he had lived simply. He had almost ten thousand squirreled away in liquid accounts. He hoped the man was greedy and a small-time con artist, not gutsy enough to force Simon to set a monetary ceiling on how much Simon cared about Frederika.

  "A thousand dollars," DeVilbiss remarked, standing. "She is a pearl of great price."

  "Well?"

  "I'll have to think about it."

  "Think quickly," Simon added. "The offer's good until Christmas Eve. It's also invalid if you have another session with her."

  "Session, eh?" DeVilbiss held out his right hand. "A gentleman's pledge
to give your offer serious consideration."

  Simon knew an unfailing trick to subdue morons who enjoyed showing off their strength through viselike handshakes. He took DeVilbiss's hand high in his grip and tightened around the knuckles that connected DeVilbiss's fingers to his palm. He knew he had done it correctly, and yet the man was able to return his pressure with a force that made Simon want to cry out with pain. Their eyes locked, as they had in the library, and, despite the carpal war they waged, they both maintained an easy smile. After a long moment, DeVilbiss let go.

  "You obviously took the day off from the library," he observed. "Will you be there the rest of the week if I decide to contact you?"

  "I don't know. I'll call you. It's not that long a time," Simon replied. "Tell me: What exactly does Frederika want from her father?"

  "Sorry. That would betray my professional trust."

  "I don't think she's told you anything. Probably because you haven't given anything to her."

  DeVilbiss cracked his evil leer. "You'd be surprised at what I've given her, and vice versa," he said. "Then again, maybe you wouldn't. There's the door, Mr. Penn."

  Simon left the house without looking back. The door slammed shut as he descended the rickety porch steps. He found himself staring at the same beat-up Ford Escort he had seen the night he came to spy on Frederika. He wondered if it belonged to DeVilbiss. Then he noted the Rent-A-Wreck sticker on its bumper. Perhaps the man had only intended a short stay in Princeton, without outside prodding. Each time Simon had seen the man, he was dressed expensively. He carried himself with a self-assurance that made it hard to believe he would drive such a car, or make a living in such a disreputable fashion.

  Walking slowly down the street, reviewing their conversation, Simon realized he could trust neither the man's promises nor his pretenses. The image of the eyes, wicked smile, and raven hair with silver tufts had existed in his memory far longer than DeVilbiss's stay in Princeton. And the clown doll had something to do with it as well. Something. Such an unusual pair, and yet Simon could not dredge the source of his disquiet out into the light. It was bad enough being betrayed by a stranger; it was hell to be betrayed by one's own mind.

  ***

  Simon moved restlessly through the shelves of the Princeton Public Library. Ordinarily, he couldn't walk two feet along library stacks without stopping to examine some intriguing title. Now nothing interested him. He was merely keeping warm and biding time until five-fifteen, when he would make his next quarter-hourly phone call attempt.

  Simon found himself in the travel section, staring at books on the British Isles. He thought about the trace of upper-class British accent in Vincent DeVilbiss's voice. Simon had been out of the country once, but to Japan; he certainly hadn't met the man abroad. He wracked his brain for a television image of the handsome face even while he doubted he had ever seen it before this week.

  "Can I help you find something?" a librarian asked him.

  "No, thanks," Simon replied. "I'm afraid what I need isn't in your library."

  "Then you might try the Princeton University library, up the street," the woman suggested. "It's huge."

  Simon thanked the librarian and walked toward the pay phone. He of all people knew what Firestone Library held, but for all the knowledge reposited there it could not shed any light on the mystery of Frederika Vanderveen.

  He dialed the Philadelphia number for the dozenth time. At last the connection was made. More important, a woman answered.

  "Mrs. Alice Niederjohn?" Simon asked.

  "Yes?" From the soprano timbre of her voice, Simon found it hard to believe she could be in her late forties.

  "My name is Simon Penn. I'm calling on behalf of someone who desperately needs your help."

  "We don't give to charities over the…"

  "This is the kind of charity that begins at home," Simon said, cutting her off. "I'm a friend of your daughter, Frederika."

  There was a stone-hard silence on the other end. Simon heard a male voice asking "Who is it?" in the background. Then came the muffled voice of Alice telling the man it was "someone asking for money."

  "I'm sorry, I can't help you," Alice said, firmly. He heard the tension in her voice.

  "And I'm sorry to tell you that you have no choice," he countered. "I have no personal desire to dredge up your past, but your daughter may suffer a mental breakdown unless she gets some answers. Answers I think only you can provide. If you won't talk with me now, I'm coming to your house and camping on your doorstep."

  "Please, don't! My family knows nothing about this," Alice said, dropping her voice to a half-whisper.

  "Meet me somewhere," Simon suggested. "Anytime tomorrow."

  "That's impossible."

  "Then Saturday. No later."

  "All right. Where?"

  "Philadelphia. I have no car, but I can take the train from Princeton Junction."

  "There's a French bakery on the corner of Chestnut and Eighteenth. I can't make it any earlier than four o'clock."

  "All right, four o'clock. Please… don't disappoint me," Simon said. "I'm as protective about Frederika as you are about your present family." He marched the words out like mourners in a funeral procession, making his veiled threat unmistakable.

  Alice hung up without reply.

  On the way to the exit, Simon crossed paths with the librarian.

  "Did you find something after all?" she asked, helpfully.

  "Yes, I did," he replied. "I did indeed."

  ***

  Vincent's eyes swept back to the top of the paragraph and tried again to understand it. He sighed in frustration. This was the third time he had assayed James Joyce's Ulysses, and it wasn't getting any easier. He had heard some years back of the author's declaration that the novel must be read several times. Joyce considered his narrative a gestalt, and demanded that the reader have all parts of the work simultaneously in his mind in order to understand fully any single passage. During his second assault on the work Vincent had used a heavily annotated copy, but the esoteric references had not stuck with him. He was determined to get his mind around Ulysses, however, since so many of the world's acknowledged authorities had declared it a work of genius and de rigeur for any learned man's reading. This last was vital to Vincent; his pride allowed nothing less than that he be among the most cultured and urbane men of the Western world. Vincent favored the old Arab saying, "He who travels lightest travels fastest." Yet he always carried at least two of the "Hundred Great Books" with him. He always made sure that the clothing and jewelry he wore had been displayed in an internationally known magazine or respected newspaper's fashion supplement.

  Vincent closed the book and glanced to the other Great Book at his elbow. It was Marcel Proust's A la recherche du temps perdu, the most vexing read he had ever attempted. He was about ready to dismiss it as snob literature, celebrated purely because of the sophisticated unintelligibility of its language. Where was its story? He anticipated the day when his own published remembrance of things lost would push this pretender out of the top hundred. For the time being, Proust was secure. To "come out of the coffin," Vincent would have to wait until synthetic blood was commonplace and inexpensive and he no longer needed to open carotid arteries. He would also wait until several generations after his last victims' vindictive offspring were dead and his capital crimes had been committed in a past so remote no country would demand his life. And he could wait; his secret diaries would insure against any memory lapses.

  Vincent set the book down and glanced at his wristwatch. The delivery should have arrived by now. Little Nick was cutting it very close this time, perhaps "yanking his chain," as an American would put it, for not having destroyed the scrolls. If that was Nick's plan, it was working. The pounds of imitation elixir in the trunk of the rented car reminded him of the phrase from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner: "Water, water, everywhere, / Nor any drop to drink." Not for years would he risk letting his synthesized duplication pass his lips, even if he fo
und himself without any real elixir. Let others risk their lives for him. Mrs. Raymond would waddle in for her revelatory seance in another three hours; that would take his mind off the magic powder. Then he'd walk to P.J.'s Pancake House and calm his nerves with a chili cheeseburger and the caffeine jolt of a Coke Classic.

  The windows rattled with the rumblings of a heavy vehicle. Vincent got up and opened the curtains. Outside the house sat a UPS truck. He moved quickly to the front door.

  A young woman stepped down from the truck, carrying a parcel of familiar size. She was small and pixieish and looked like a brownie in her chocolate-colored uniform. She smiled as she ascended the stairs. Behind her, the truck's blinker solenoids clicked on and off noisily.

  " 'Evening," she said.

  "Good evening," Vincent returned.

  "DeVilbiss?"

  "The same. Isn't this rather late to be making deliveries?"

  "Not before the holidays," the driver replied. "I can't wait for December twenty-fifth! We haven't met before, have we?"

  "No."

  The young lady pushed her pad and pen forward, indicating the line for Vincent's signature. "Gift?" she asked.

  "What? Gift? Yes." Vincent took the package. "I wonder where that word came from. Did you know that in German 'gift' means poison?"

  "No, I didn't," the woman admitted, still holding her affable smile. She pointed to the package. "That isn't perfume, is it?"

  Vincent hefted the square parcel, wrapped in brown kraft paper, with no return address on it. "No. Why do you think that?"

  "Oh, I thought it'd be funny if it was. There's a perfume called 'Poison,' y'know."

  "No, I didn't." Vincent dug into his pocket, came out with a five-dollar bill and handed it to the woman.

  "You don't have to do that."

  He stuck it under the clip on her board. "I know. Happy holidays."

  "Thanks!" she said, then strode down the stairs toward the truck. Before she mounted, she turned and said, "I hope it's a good gift."