The Collectors' Society

by Heather Lyons

  Victor passes his phone over to Mary, who tucks it into one of her pockets. “Couldn’t hear a bloody thing anyway. What’s going on?”

  Finn finally tugs his shirt down, covering what appears to be a well-defined chest. Frabjous. I’m still staring, aren’t I? What in the world is the matter with me? “An attempt to open a window on the second floor, just off the fire escape.”

  I tighten my sweater around me, my hands crisscrossing beneath my chin. “Do the windows here not open?”

  It’s almost as if he’s just now realizing I’m standing outside my door, because Finn’s eyes widen for the teeniest moment as they flick from the top of my head to my bare toes. “Um, yeah, of course they do.” His voice is adorably husky, like he’d also been rattled straight out of sleep. “We have to enter a code into the system, so security measures can be set into place, though.”

  “What he means,” Victor says, “is that little invisible laser beams are shot out across open windows, and if tripped, an alarm such as this sounds. I wonder if somebody simply forgot to enter their code.”

  Yet another thing I feel ignorant about. Laser beams?

  “Wendy says it was tripped from outside,” Finn is saying. “You guys ought to go back to bed. I’ll go down and meet up with Brom, see what’s going on.”

  His slightly raised voice carries down the hallway, and it’s enough to send the remaining curious stragglers back into their flats.

  For a moment, Victor says nothing. But then he holds out a fist—and just when I think there might be posturing or fighting, Finn holds his out and knocks it against Victor’s. “Update in morning?”

  “Of course.”

  Mary yawns as she rubs at her wild hair. “G’night, then.” But she pauses before she turns back toward her door. “Oh, and Finn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Finish buttoning up your pants. Your blue boxer briefs are distracting me.” She nudges the man next to her. “See? I keep telling you boxer briefs are the way to go. Look at how yummy they can be.”

  A slight, charming blush steals across Finn’s cheeks as he turns around to do so. Victor rolls his eyes, though. “Come on, then. We can discuss an overhaul of my undergarments behind closed doors. Goodnight, Alice. Finn, we’ll talk in a few hours.”

  And now I’m blatantly staring as I watch Victor follow Mary into her flat. Well, now. Partners, indeed.

  “You should get some rest, too,” Finn is saying. “You must be tired, what with all that’s gone on today.”

  He’s the one who appears tired. “We’re to work together, correct?”

  He shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “That’s the plan.”

  “Is it a plan you support?”

  I’ve thrown him a bit off, which is nice, considering how he managed to throw me a little off over the course of a singular day. “Of course. I wouldn’t have agreed to it if I didn’t.”

  “Nobody asked whether I agreed or not.”

  And now I’ve thrown him a bit more, because his eyes widen. “Um—”

  “I’m not airing complaints. I’m merely stating facts. That said, if I’m to be your partner, I ought to go with you to investigate whatever is going on.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s late, and—”

  “I need to put something on that’s more conducive to interacting with people. Do you mind waiting for me, since I still don’t have the best lay of the land?”

  I’m pleased when he doesn’t argue further. “As long as it’s quick.” He’s smiling, though. It’s small and it’s bemused, but it’s a smile all the same.

  I push open my door. “You can wait inside.”

  “Are you sure? Because I can—”

  “You spent the better part of the afternoon and evening inside my flat. How is this any different?”

  “It’s three-thirty in the morning,” he says, but his feet cross my threshold.

  I shut the door behind him. He’s got manners. My knees register that with yet another ridiculous, inappropriate weakening. “Victor is inside of Mary’s flat at just such a time.”

  The chuckle I’m given is warm and delightful. “That’s different.”

  I flip on a lamp in the sitting room and tell him to make himself comfortable.

  Inside my closet, I flip through the foreign clothing that hangs there. Are these Sara’s? I have no idea, and didn’t think to ask earlier. I’m uncomfortable with the idea of wearing her castoffs, alongside living amongst her things and working with her partner, but I figure the clock is ticking. So I grab a pale-green dress that barely grazes my knees and throw it on, and then rummage around until I find a sensible pair of boots.

  I twist my hair up into a bun and head back out to find Finn sitting on the edge of the couch. “Shall we?”

  Minutes later, we’re on the second floor and inside an office just off the kitchen for the Institute’s restaurant. Wendy, Brom, Dawkins, and a few men and women I’ve yet to formally meet are already inside, talking and peering at a large window. Lights flash beyond the pane.

  “Tardy twice in the same day?” Wendy mutters to Finn. She’s got pens sticking out of the green hair piled high on her head as she clicks away on the metal box from earlier in the day. “Who are you and what have you done with the Finn I know? For a moment, I worried you slept through the noise.”

  Before he can answer, I say stiffly, “It was my fault. I asked him to wait for me.”

  Wendy looks up in surprise, but my presence doesn’t faze Brom one iota. He acknowledges me with a nod of the head before returning to a conversation with another man.

  “You texted me,” Finn’s saying to Wendy. “And I texted in return. So, obviously I did not sleep through the alarm.”

  She grunts, her focus returning on the box in front of her. There are words on it, much like the phones they’re carrying. Finn leans into me and says quietly, “It’s called a computer. Specifically, a laptop.”

  “Was I so obvious?”

  He shrugs, smiling that charming small smile of his again, and I remind myself there are more important things to focus upon than smiles and delicious-smelling men. “Maybe just a little.”

  I take my eyes off of him and angle them toward a flashing light. “Perhaps I need paper, so I can keep track of all of this.”

  One of the women, dressed in a man’s suit, presses a finger against her ear. “There are scratches alongside the window frame, sir.”

  Van Brunt frowns as he strokes his neat beard. “Have photos sent directly to my phone.”

  “Dammit!” A fist smashes down against the wooden desk Wendy’s sitting at. “Camera 2-04 was disabled!”

  Van Brunt’s eyebrows lift high. “And pray, how did one of your cameras become disabled, Ms. Darling?”

  She briefly looks up from her computer, rage flashing in her eyes. “I’m working on it.”

  Van Brunt turns to Finn. “One might say that’s more bold than coincidence. What have you found out?”

  “Franklin Blake reported that the man and woman seen lurking around the Institute last week were, in fact, present earlier today.” Dawkins comes over and hands Finn a folder while my new partner is speaking. “They were tracked seven blocks away before they entered a shop. They stayed there for approximately two-and-a-half hours before they exited into a taxi. From there, they were tracked to a warehouse in Queens.”

  Van Brunt rocks on the heels of his immaculately polished shoes, his arms behind his back. “What is the nature of the warehouse?”

  Finn flips through the folder before extracting several sheets of paper. I’m surprised when he passes them to me rather than Van Brunt. “Officially, restaurant supplies, although it’s been raided by the police twice in the last five years for drug distribution.”

  “And the shop they went to?”

  “Ex Libris. It’s a secondhand bookstore owned by a F.K. Jenkins.”

  I glance down at the papers I’ve been handed. On top, there is a pair of col
ored photographs featuring a man with slicked-back blonde hair, a closely cropped beard, and large black-rimmed rings forming holes in his earlobes. The woman is almost sickishly pale and reed thin. Wild dark hair dipped snow white at the ends curl down toward her waist. Another sheet logs dates, times, and locations, and several others that feature noted physical details on the duo.

  Van Brunt moves closer to the window. “Have you spoken with Jenkins?”

  “I went to the Ex Libris bookstore at approximately 9:47 this evening to do so.” Another colored photograph is extracted and passed over to me. “Police records show Jenkins is sixty-two, was born in a small town in Nebraska, and has been arrested four times. Twice for disorderly conduct, once for petty theft at the age of eighteen, and once for failing to pay for parking tickets.”

  The corners of Van Brunt’s mouth tick upward. “How many tickets?”

  “Twenty-four. The arrest was two years ago, and he was released within an hour. He no longer has a car nor a driver’s license.”

  I stare down at the photo. F.K. Jenkins is an immensely rotund man with a sour face. Even at the angle he was captured within, his head turned off to the side, there is little doubt that he possesses eyes both sharp and calculating.

  Van Brunt runs a finger along the edge of the window. A face appears beyond the glass and illuminated by a beam of light, mouthing: photos sent. Van Brunt nods and turns back toward Finn. “Anything else of note?”

  “The shop is four-story and cluttered. Stacks of books fill nearly every available surface. It’s obvious there isn’t much turnover, and many of the items for sale are in poor condition and priced accordingly. When I went to the second floor, which is also filled with books, there was a locked door marked no admittance; downstairs there was an out-of-order bathroom, a small office behind the sales desk, a door leading to the alley behind the building, and another locked door. From what I can tell, Jenkins resides on the third floor. I’m unclear about the purpose of the fourth floor, though. Building schematics have it officially listed as an attic.”

  “Any books of note?”

  Wendy’s fingers still over her computer as her head snaps up. Everyone else in the room goes silent as they turn to face Finn and Brom.

  Finn says, “All were present.”

  I shift through the paperwork Finn has handed to me find a listing of book titles. At the top of the list is The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha, the book whose Timeline was deleted recently. Other titles that quickly catch my eye are: The Three Musketeers, Hamlet, and Anna Karenina.

  “Are you saying you think this F.K. Jenkins is the culprit?” one of the men nearby is asking.

  “All theories are subject to verification, Mr. Fleming.” Van Brunt crosses his arms. “Finn, I want the identities of the other two as soon as possible.”

  “Aha!” Wendy thrusts a fist into the air; the multitude of bracelets lining her arm clatter. “They think they were so clever, disabling 2-04, did they? Too bad that Camera 3-06 and the one from the street light across the way were in fine working condition. I’ve got a visual on the perpetrators.” She grins. “As an added bonus, I’ve got a little something-something to show you from earlier today, too, thanks to that asshat in the next building’s shoddy security system.” A hand is lifted up so she can blow on her nails whilst swinging them back and forth. “I guess we have a purpose for his rabid conspiracy theory paranoia after all.”

  Everyone closes in on Wendy and her computer, but it isn’t until Finn places a warm hand against the small of my back that I join in the small semi-circle. The touch is brief, and I’m dismayed that the skin beneath my dress tingles long after his hand moves away.

  It makes me nauseous to think that such a feat is even a possibility.

  Upon her computer, a grainy black-and-white moving photograph (video, Finn quietly lets me know) flips back and forth between views. There is a man dressed in dark colors, his head covered by a distinctive hat that has a long bill in the front that leaves his features in shadows. He’s got a belt of sorts around his waist, filled with what appears to be tools. One is extracted; it’s a small box he slides up to the side of the window. Buttons are punched as he squats down on his haunches.

  “That little bugger,” Wendy marvels viciously. “He thinks he can hack my system.”

  Suddenly, the man leaps to his feet, startled. The box is shoved into the belt and he flips over the railing with a competence I haven’t seen in months.

  Wendy taps at the letters on her computer. “Here’s the earlier attempt.”

  This time, there are two people in the video—both in dark garb and similar in height. The faces are obscured due to the distance of the camera angle. A small rectangle is extracted and pressed against something I cannot see. Within seconds, the people startle and flee the scene.

  If the people gathered round wanted pictorial proof they’d caught F.K. Jenkins in the midst of treachery, they’ve come away sorely disappointed. None of the figures presented remotely mirror what the photograph in my hands shows.

  A snort escapes Wendy. “What a bunch of fucking imbeciles.”

  “I want security beefed up,” is Van Brunt’s immediate response.

  Her face flushes red with indigence. “Did you not just watch what I did? There’s no way those freaks are getting through my system.”

  “Pride cometh before the fall, Ms. Darling. And no system is infallible. No harm can come from attempting to better our defenses. I’ll expect an update at our afternoon briefing later today.”

  She sighs, but grudgingly offers a salute.

  Soft chatter resumes in the room as Van Brunt heads back over to the window. I ask Finn, “How many people know about the Society?”

  “Thousands,” he admits, “but most of those numbers are liaisons—or contacts—within Timelines. Here in New York, though? Pretty much only the people in this building.”

  “You are a secret society, then.”

  One corner of his mouth lifts up. “We’re a secret society, yes.”

  “Why hide the truth?”

  “Not everyone is like you. Not everyone can easily accept that there are worlds outside of their own, or different peoples, or even magic.”

  “Who says I’ve easily accepted this all?”

  He accepts the papers back and stuff them into the folder. “You did, for the most part.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “I most certainly do not remember us having such a conversation.”

  “Ah,” he says, “but we did. Upstairs, in the hallway. When you insisted on coming with me.”

  For a moment, I wonder if my memory is muddled once more, like it was for so many weeks at the Pleasance, and I’m left uneasy. “I’m positive I did not say such a thing.”

  “Your actions told me,” he says as we head toward the elevator, and I’m right back in Wonderland, sitting beneath a red-and-white mushroom.

  “You’re sloppy, you’re loud, and you talk too much.”

  Sometimes, I wondered why I willingly came back time and time again for such abuse.

  The Caterpillar dragged his hookah over to the pillows we were lounging on. The sun was hot that day, the air heavy and acrid with each smoke ring he blew. I was never offered a puff on these visits—not that I ever would have taken one, but sometimes I wondered what it would take for just such a gesture.

  “What’s wrong with talking?”

  His beady eyes narrowed as he grunted. I had to wait nearly a full minute before he answered. “It’s hard to hear others when your own words overwhelm your thoughts.”

  “How am I to get answers to my questions, if I do not ask?”

  A perfect smoke-shaped jabberwocky floated away from us, its jaws snapping. “The most truthful answers are found through observation. Words allow lies.” One of his little silk slippers dangled from a foot as he huffed in irritation. “For example, I can say that I am the White King.”

  I’d laughed. “Don’t be silly. You don’t look a thing li
ke him. For one, you’re a caterpillar. Secondly, you’re much older than he is. And thirdly—”

  More forcefully, “I am the White King, Alice.”

  I was annoyed, but more so weary of the constant riddles. “Of course you aren’t.”

  He blew a perfect representation of the White King’s face. “I’ve said I am, so I must be.”

  “Fine. Two can play this game. I’m the Caterpillar,” I announced.

  “You are a child,” was his retort, “who will never achieve her goals if she doesn’t grow up.”

  “I’m eighteen!”

  He merely puffed away on his hookah.

  “Even in Wonderland, those who are eighteen are adults.”

  He continued to smoke in silence; his beady eyes, once narrowed, glazed over before eventually closing.

  “I don’t have to listen to you, you know.”

  He blew a smoke Alice in a little dress, running in circles.

  But I continued to sit with him for the rest of the afternoon, even though no more words were said by either of us. I was continuously a failure in his eyes, the worst of his pupils who just couldn’t seem to learn her lessons.

  “SO, YOU’RE THE FAMOUS Alice from Wonderland.”

  The only word that could aptly describe the woman sitting in the chair across from me is sumptuous. Long, dark hair, pale-blue eyes rimmed with black fringe, and perfectly molded lips are only a few of the features that have me feeling as if I’m the plainest, homeliest girl to ever be born.

  “I am Alice,” I say carefully.

  She smiles and leans back in the rich leather chair, crossing her legs as she takes me in. “You’re a bit different than expected.” Her accent is soft and one I can’t immediately place. Indian, perhaps?

  “So I keep hearing.”

  “I’m the Librarian.” No name is offered—only a title. It’s a small yet familiar comfort, even though the feel of her eyes upon me is distinctly uncomfortable.

  We’re sitting in a large office at the west end of the library, sharing breakfast. I’ve got my tea, she’s got strong coffee, and together we’ve picked at plates of fruit and toast in tangible silence for the better part of three minutes.