by J. D. Barker
“Ah, you must be Ms. Adams, the illustrious fiancée of the young author manning the author’s corner table at Mr. Reese’s bookstore on this wonderfully grand day!” a man’s voice boomed from her left.
Rachael turned, nearly knocking a stack of picture frames off a nearby table.
He reached out to steady her. “I’m so sorry, Miss. I had no intention of startling you. Most hear my old, creaking bones coming from a mile away!”
His smile was pleasant, welcoming. His gray hair and mustache were groomed to perfection, his black suit tailored to a snug fit. Her eyes drifted to the pocket watch hanging from a belt loop by a gold chain. The metalwork was ornately carved, intricate, beautiful. He followed her eyes and reached for the watch. With a push of a small button on the side, the top flipped open, revealing the tiny hands slipping across the dial. The working gears were exposed beneath the glass—dozens of them. She found it mesmerizing.
“It was given to me by a man named Richard Habring many, many years ago on a trip to Austria. He made each component by hand; he is a master at his craft. I helped his wife with a small favor, and he gave this to me in return. A lovely couple; I miss them dearly. I do need to get back to the old country more often.”
He snapped it shut, startling Rachael from her trance. “I…I wasn’t sure if you were open,” she stammered. “Well, the sign outside said you were, but I called out when I entered and there didn’t seem to be anyone here. It looks like you’re still getting settled in. I can come back.”
He was already shaking his head. “Nonsense. You’re only in town for a short time, and I’m honored you would consider spending some of it here.” He reached out and kissed the back of her hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Leland Gaunt. I’m the proprietor of this soon-to-be fine establishment. I’m afraid you did catch me mid-unpacking, but don’t let such a thing bother you. I’m sure I possess exactly what you need amongst this clutter.”
Rachael thought about the twelve dollars she had in her wallet, the credit card which had exceeded its limit more than a week ago. “I don’t need anything. I’m just looking around, trying to pass the time.”
Gaunt leaned in a little closer. “Ms. Adams, we all need a little something. I’ve found it doesn’t matter what you already own, or how much. There is always that elusive something out there we still want. Sometimes we don’t know we want it until we see it, but nonetheless, it’s out there, waiting to be found.”
Rachael glanced around the store at the curious mix of objects. A shovel hung on the wall next to an electric guitar. The glass case to her side contained an assortment of matchbox cars, baseball cards, dolls—even a Rubik’s cube; she hadn’t seen one of those since she was a little girl. Walking to one of the bookshelves, she glanced at the titles: A Christmas Carol, Dracula, The Original Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
“Each is a first draft, signed by the author,” Gaunt told her.
She had picked up Sherlock Holmes and opened to the first page: To my good friend, Rachael. May you find the clues you need to uncover the answers beneath. Signed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
“It’s signed to ‘Rachael,’” she read with amusement.
Gaunt smiled. “A coincidence, I’m sure, but Fate is poking his head around the corner with a mischievous smirk. Perhaps such a book is precisely what you need to lift your spirits. He was a struggling author when he penned that one, much like your husband and the others on this shelf. At one point, all authors are unknown until the day they are not.”
Rachael frowned. This man seemed to be in her head.
“I’m not a mind reader, Ms. Adams. I’ve just been around the block a number of times. I’ve known my share of struggling authors as well as the women in their lives. It can be a difficult life, particularly for those who don’t know when to give up—the ones who keep plugging away, book after book without the sales to match their prowess.”
Rachael felt a tear well up in her eye.
Gaunt produced a handkerchief and wiped it away. “There, there, Ms. Adams. That is not your Thad. I’ve read his book; he shows a lot of promise.”
“You’ve read his book?”
“Of course!” Gaunt replied. “The instant I heard he was coming to town, I was down at Mr. Reese’s little shop to buy the hardcover. I fully intend to ask your husband to sign it before he leaves today so I can add his work to my current collection.” He gestured at the shelves. “I have no doubt one day he will be as well known as these greats. Perhaps he only requires the proper inspiration.”
Rachael placed the book back on the shelf. She would like to buy him something, anything to lift his spirits. Although Thad wore a strong face, she knew he was as worried as she. “Do you have anything my fiancé might like?”
A smile again filled Gaunt’s face. “A muse for a writer? I am sure of it!”
He walked across the room, his hand rubbing his chin. “I believe I have a box here which might contain the perfect gift. Now, where did I place it? That is the real question.”
As he neared the window, he turned a sharp left and disappeared down a hallway. “I’ll be back in a jiffy!” he called out. “Don’t you go running off on me!”
Rachael considered doing just that. Regardless of what he found, she was fairly certain she didn’t have the funds to purchase it. Thad wouldn’t appreciate her spending money on something for him, not now.
Rachael turned and was about to head for the door when Gaunt returned holding a medium-size cardboard box. He struggled with the weight, setting it on the glass cabinet.
“I’m sure I’ve got just the thing in here,” he said. With a small pocket knife, he cut the tape and unfolded the flaps.
Rachael tried to look inside, but he quickly sealed the top back up. “Now where’s the fun in that?” he chuckled. “Half the enjoyment of a place like this is discovery, but it shouldn’t be rushed. There are three items inside—all of them would make an excellent present for your fiancé, but only one is the best. To make such a difficult decision, it’s best to view each item one at a time rather than all at once. You’ll know which is the right choice when you see it.”
She didn’t know what to say to such a thing, so she only nodded.
Leland Gaunt reached inside the box with both hands and pulled out a manual typewriter. An ancient thing of black metal. The keys were worn and almost unreadable. It must have been a hundred years old. Rachael had seen pictures, but in this age of computers they were very rare.
Gaunt placed his hand on the side and slid the carriage to the left. It glided with soft clicks rising up from inside. He tapped on a few of the keys. Rachael watched the gears jump and the letters appear on the faded yellow paper threaded through the machine. “It’s a Corona 3; belonged to the late Ernest Hemingway. I suspect he used this when he wrote The Sun Also Rises, but there is no documentation to back up such a theory. He was such a promising young man, but his demons got the best of him. He never could give up the women and the drink; there is no telling where his career would have led him if he had.”
She took a step back from the table. “Oh, Mr. Gaunt, I don’t have much to spend. Something like this…I can’t imagine what it would go for, but I’m sure it’s outside my budget. I’m not sure I can get anything at all,” Rachael confessed.
Gaunt smiled. “Don’t fret about cost, young lady. We have two more items in this box—I’m sure your gift is among them.”
Reaching back inside, his hand emerged, holding a fountain pen.
“Now this, this was truly a find,” he exclaimed. “Many years ago, a number of writers gathered together on a stormy evening in Switzerland and decided to hold a competition to see who could write the best ghost story. They were all friends, you see; they spent many a night reading scary stories to one another and thought it would be a good way to practice their prose. The wife of one of the men in attendance, a poet in her own right, wished to participate. Lord Byron, her husband’s friend—”
“
The Lord Byron?” Rachael asked.
“Yes, my dear. Lord Byron gave his friend’s wife this pen so she might write her tale. Her name was Mary Shelley, and she drafted Frankenstein with it on that miserable night.” He held the pen up to the light; it glistened as if new.
Rachael smirked. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am,” Gaunt said. “I never jest about such things. Objects carry power, a life of their own. They are to be respected, cherished. I won’t allow anything in my shop to fall into the hands of someone who wouldn’t appreciate it. That’s why I keep items like this boxed up; they’re waiting for the right person, the right place to call home.”
He handed her the pen and Rachael took it in her hand. “It should be in a museum somewhere—the typewriter, too.”
“One day, perhaps, but right now that is not where they are needed.”
She returned the pen to him.
“Not speaking to you?” he asked.
“Neither seems right,” she told him. “Not for Thad, anyway.”
Gaunt nodded and reached back into the box. “Then maybe this—”
His hand emerged, holding an old book.
“It’s a journal of sorts, but an odd one indeed. Dating back to the sixteen hundreds—the witch trials, in fact. The cover is leather, but its pages are bound with metal much like today’s spiral notebooks. I wasn’t aware such a thing existed back then until I stumbled upon this one; I never found another. The leatherwork on the cover alone is extraordinary.”
Rachael ran her fingers across the cover; it was so soft. “May I?” she asked.
“Of course, my dear,” Gaunt replied, handing her the journal.
She set the book on the counter and opened to the first page with a delicate touch.
The Journal of Clayton Stone
Township of Shadow Cove, Massachusetts
1692
The writing was in perfect script, penmanship long lost on today’s generation. She turned to the next page, then the next… Rachael frowned. “It’s blank,” she pointed out.
Gaunt looked down at it. “Why, yes, it is. Apparently Mr. Stone purchased this journal with full intentions to write upon the pages, but the words never came to him. Or perhaps the ink he used was of such poor quality it faded over the years. It’s been almost half a millennia, after all…one could not be sure. Nonetheless, this journal is clearly in search of a writer to fill it cover to cover.”
“This is perfect,” Rachael told him.
Gaunt nodded. “I would agree. Such a book could easily inspire your fiancé to write an epic story. Imagine how his mind will just start whirring along when he reads that single page—I doubt he will have trouble filling in the rest.”
Reaching into her purse, Rachael pulled out her wallet. Only ten dollars remained—Thad must have helped himself to two. “This is all I’ve got,” she told him.
Gaunt looked down at the money and shook his head. “This isn’t about money, my dear. This is about your fiancé’s career, your very future. You can’t assign a dollar value to something like that. What would you be willing to give to place Thad McAlister at the top of the bestseller list? To help him become the famous author you both see in your dreams? To possess the fame, fortune, and recognition which comes with such a post?”
“I’d give my firstborn,” Rachael chuckled.
Leland Gaunt smiled back at her and rested his hand on hers.
A moment later, Rachael stepped back out into the crisp morning air and felt the sun on her skin for the first time since arriving in Maine. Gaunt had been kind enough to wrap the journal for her; she tucked the package under her arm and started down the street in the direction of the bookstore. She glanced down at the receipt before shoving it in her pocket—
Thank you for shopping at Needful Things.
Arriving Soon
J.D. Barker’s novel, The Fourth Monkey.
Read on for an excerpt.
CHAPTER ONE
Porter
Day 1, 6:14 a.m.
There it was again, that incessant ping.
I turned the ringer off. Why am I hearing text notifications? Why am I hearing anything?
Apple’s gone to shit without Steve Jobs.
Sam Porter rolled to his right, his hand blindly groping for the phone on the nightstand.
His alarm clock crashed to the floor with a thunk unique to cheap electronics from China.
“Fuck me.”
When his fingers found the phone, he wrestled the device from the charging cable and brought it to his face, squinting at the small, bright screen.
CALL ME—911.
A text from Nash.
Porter looked over at his wife’s side of the bed, empty except for a note—
Went to get milk, be back soon.
xoxo,
Heather
He grunted and again glanced at his phone.
6:15 a.m.
So much for a quiet morning.
Porter sat up and dialed his partner. He answered on the second ring.
“Sam?”
“Hey, Nash.”
The other man fell silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, Porter. I debated whether or not to contact you. Must have dialed your number a dozen times and couldn’t bring myself to actually place the call. I finally decided it would be best just to text you. Give you a chance to ignore me, you know?”
“It’s fine, Nash. What have you got?”
Another pause. “You’ll want to see for yourself.”
“See what?”
“There’s been an accident.”
Porter rubbed his temple. “An accident? We’re Homicide. Why would we respond to an accident?”
“You’ve gotta trust me on this. You’ll want to see it,” Nash told him again. There was an edge to his voice.
Porter sighed. “Where?”
“Near Hyde Park, off Fifty-Fifth. I just texted you the address.”
His phone pinged loudly in his ear, and he jerked it away from his head.
Fucking iPhone.
He looked down at the screen, noted the address, and went back to the call.
“I can be there in about thirty minutes. Will that work?”
“Yeah,” Nash replied. “We’re not going anywhere soon.”
Porter disconnected the call and eased his legs off the side of the bed, listening to the various pops and creaks his tired fifty-two-year-old body made in protest.
The sun had begun its ascent, and light peeked in from between the closed blinds of the bedroom window. Funny how quiet and gloomy the apartment felt without Heather around.
Went to get milk.
From the hardwood floor his alarm clock blinked up at him with a cracked face displaying characters no longer resembling numbers.
Today was going to be one of those days.
There had been a lot of those days lately.
Porter emerged from the apartment ten minutes later dressed in his Sunday best—a rumpled navy suit he’d bought off the rack at Men’s Wearhouse nearly a decade earlier—and made his way down the four flights of stairs to the cramped lobby of his building. He stopped at the mailboxes, pulled out his cell phone, and punched in his wife’s phone number.
You’ve reached the phone of Heather Porter. Since this is voice mail, I most likely saw your name on caller ID and decided I did not wish to speak to you. If you’re willing to pay tribute in the form of chocolate cake or other assorted offerings of dietary delight, text me the details and I’ll reconsider your position in my social roster and possibly get back to you later. If you’re a salesperson trying to get me to switch carriers, you might as well hang up now. AT&T owns me for at least another year. All others, please leave a message. Keep in mind my loving husband is a cop with anger issues, and he carries a large gun.
Porter smiled. Her voice always made him smile. “Hey, Button. It’s just me. Nash called. There’s something going on near Hyde Park; I’m meeting him down there. I’ll give you a
call later when I know what time I’ll be home.” He added, “Oh, and I think there’s something wrong with our alarm clock.”
He dropped the phone into his pocket and pushed through the door, the brisk Chicago air reminding him that fall was preparing to step aside for winter.
CHAPTER TWO
Porter
Day 1, 6:45 a.m.
Porter took Lake Park Avenue and made good time, arriving at about a quarter to seven. Chicago Metro had Woodlawn at Fifty-Fifth completely barricaded. He could make out the lights from blocks away—at least a dozen units, an ambulance, two fire trucks. Twenty officers, possibly more. Press too.
He slowed his late-model Dodge Charger as he approached the chaos, and held his badge out the window. A young officer, no more than a kid, ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape and ran over. “Detective Porter? Nash told me to wait for you. Park anywhere—we’ve cordoned off the entire block.”
Porter nodded, then pulled up beside one of the fire trucks and climbed out. “Where’s Nash?”
The kid handed him a cup of coffee. “Over there, near the ambulance.”
He spotted Nash’s large frame speaking to Tom Eisley from the medical examiner’s office. At nearly six foot three, he towered over the much smaller man. He looked like he’d put on a few pounds in the weeks since Porter had seen him, the telltale cop’s belly hanging prominently over his belt.
Nash waved him over.
Eisley greeted Porter with a slight nod and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “How are you holding up, Sam?” He held a clipboard loaded with at least a ream of paper. In today’s world of tablets and smartphones, the man always seemed to have a clipboard on hand; his fingers flipped nervously through the pages.