Dead To Me

by Anton Strout

  I rushed forward to Connor’s aide. He was completely buried under the still squirming piece of furniture.

  “Are you all right?” I shouted into the mass of books and limbs.

  “Of course I’m not all right,” Connor wheezed out testily from somewhere underneath the bookcase. “I’m stuck under an enchantedly pissed-off bookcase! Does that sound all right to you?”

  “Right,” I said apologetically. I tentatively grabbed hold of one end of the bookcase and lifted it up the few inches that I could. “Sorry.”

  The damn thing weighed a ton and was still thrashing around. Connor quickly slid himself out from underneath it and helped me lower it back to the ground.

  “It’s okay, kid. It’s my fault,” Connor said, catching his breath and checking to make sure his ribs were intact. “I wasn’t thinking. I tried to warn you. I should have done it sooner.”

  “What the hell is it?” I asked as I nudged it with my foot. It gave a sudden helpless thrash and I raised my bat again.

  “The Department’s still not quite sure,” said Connor. He brushed himself off. “All I know is that we’re supposed to be extremely polite when asking for books from it. Since you didn’t know that, it attacked…”

  “Because I didn’t ask nicely?!” I said. “How did…How did you…?”

  “How did I stop it?” Connor stooped and picked up one of the books he had shelved on it. He flipped through it. “Anytime I come in here, I carry a ready supply of really dangerous material. Dangerous to these shelves anyway. Self-published poetry anthologies, vanity press publications, local writing contest winners. Some chick lit for good measure. Really God-awful stuff. The bookshelves can’t stomach them.”

  It had stopped moving by this point, and I leaned closer. “Is it…dead?”

  “Oh, heavens, no,” Connor said lightly as he gathered up his books. “We can’t put a dent in something like this, not really. We’ve tried before. Or the D.E.A. has. Long before my time. Best we can do is render it harmless for a little while. I imagine what it’ll experience is akin to a hangover more than anything.”

  I looked around.

  “The place is a mess!” I said. “Should we go tell Cyrus?”

  “And run the risk of him charging us for damages?” Connor said. “I don’t think so. Besides, it’ll get up in a little while and make its way back into place, books and all. Cyrus will be none the wiser.”

  Connor flipped over one of the books, scooped it up, and handed it to me. “Here you go.”

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s the book I sent you to look for,” Connor snapped. “Remember, kid? Geesh, maybe I should have let it crush you.”

  “That’s not very nice,” I said, kicking the bookcase once before stepping past it.

  “It’s better than being crushed to death,” Connor said dismissively.

  I opened the Directory of the Dearly Departed and flipped to the back, following Connor toward the door as I read. Beautifully cross-indexed, the directory provided a wealth of options that concerned hunting down sketchy information on the recently deceased. I could search by last name (I had no idea what Irene’s was), religious affiliation (no crosses or other indicative jewelry so a blank there as well), location of death (I assumed Manhattan but nothing more specific), known demonic forces responsible for possible demises (I ignored this as there were mostly corporations and politicians listed), and lastly the means of demise.

  Without hesitation, I flipped to a section entitled “Death by Bookcase” to see what other unfortunates had met my (almost) fate. There was page after page of entries; the most recent listing read “Simon Canderous” and gave my address in SoHo below it. Before I could even call out to Connor, the words faded from the page. Now I knew how Ebenezer felt in that graveyard with the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

  Thanks to Inspectre Quimbley’s questioning earlier, we had a possible lead from Irene—a flash of yellow. Not much to go on, but this being Manhattan, I immediately flipped to “Death by Taxi.” It looked like half the book was dedicated to such instances and the most recent page was filling up with new names and addresses at the speed of a stock ticker. I flipped through eleven pages of listings just from this morning until I came across the first listing for an Irene—a Manhattan address on the Upper West Side. As I wrote it down, I noticed her full name.

  Irene Blatt.

  Her name left a little to be desired. She had been so striking when I met her, so full of life and class, that I was sure that her name would be something exotic. I felt both relief and disappointment as I stared at the page.

  Irene Blatt.

  I rolled it around my mind, seeing if it would fall into place, and realized that it wouldn’t. I double-checked the listing. There was a brief description of her, right down to the clothes she wore and the deep blue eyes of hers that I had fallen into. There was no doubt that this Central Park West resident was indeed our Irene.

  “Irene…Blatt,” I said out loud.

  Connor turned and looked up from his book.

  “I’m sorry, did you just burp? Blatt?” Connor said, his face curling up with distaste. “You must be joking.”

  “Does Irene Blatt seem like something I’d joke about?” I asked.

  “Actually,” Connor said with a chuckle, “joking would seem like the only way to bring up the word ‘Blatt.’” He snapped The Dread Tome shut and slipped it back onto one of the inanimate shelves. “Is the address listed?”

  I nodded. A heavy, clattering thump came from far back in the Stacks and I jumped at the sound. I caught the slightest twitch from Connor as well.

  “Someone’s waking up,” I said.

  “Yep,” Connor said. He took the book from my hands and reshelved it as well. “Let’s not stick around here for Round Two, shall we?”

  Another volley of noise came from behind us, and I looked up the aisle toward the gate. There was a lot of space for us to cover and a whole lot of side aisles for something to charge us. “Do you think it’s safe to leave?”

  “I suppose,” answered Connor, sounding quite unsure. “But just in case, you might want to get your bat out again.”

  9

  I desperately wanted to head straight to Irene’s address, but Connor wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Look, kid,” he said. “I don’t know what to expect when we get to her place, but I’m pretty sure we’re gonna need your psychometry in top form. I don’t want you walking in there unprepared or unable to deal with any surprises we might encounter. I don’t want you flopping around on the floor like a fish out of water from low blood sugar because you couldn’t control your powers. All right?”

  I nodded. Even though I hated him for his clear headedness, Connor was right.

  We cabbed it from Tome, Sweet Tome down to the Twenties and over to Sixth Avenue before Connor got out and led us into a donut shop.

  “Sugar yourself up, kid. We’ve got some tests to run.”

  If I was going to expend my powers during some field training, I was going to need as much sugar as I could take, and after scarfing down three Boston kremes in a row, I felt bouncy. Connor had never been around someone who went hypoglycemic from using their powers, but he seemed to be getting a kick out of watching me all sugared up.

  “You gonna be all right, kid?” he asked. “Do you need a special helmet or something so you don’t hurt yourself?”

  I shook my head. We continued across the street, paid the two-dollar admission, and entered the ramshackle warehouse that played host to the Annex Antiques Fair. It was exceptionally warm outside for fall, but inside the market they were thankfully churning the air conditioning. It was a smart thing to do, really. Without controlling the climate inside, a lot of the antiques—especially the older furniture—would be at risk. I typically shied away from furniture when I wasn’t buying for myself. I liked to snag the more portable discoveries when I was trolling for antique finds.

  Bare bulb fluorescents hung high overhe
ad, their unflattering light washing everything a little too brightly. The floor of the open warehouse space divided into row after row of sheetrock stalls that each vendor had stuffed full of their wares.

  “It’s like that warehouse at the end of Raiders,” I said as I looked down one of the never-ending aisles. “Think they have the Ark of the Covenant here?”

  Connor ignored me, but I didn’t care. I was too busy taking it all in. This was the air that filled my lungs. Like the night market, this was its own type of holy ground—an enchanted place that whirled and swirled with rich fabrics and the light of a thousand lands reflected in almost every stall. It was living, always shifting, and sometimes dangerous. The world of secondhand goods was a dog-eat-dog world, gypsies and nomads fighting for every last sale.

  I stopped to check the wares at one booth and noticed a young Asian woman approaching Connor. He had taken off his coat and was walking the aisles in tourist mode, and her “sucker radar” had picked up on his naiveté immediately. She swooped in, coming to rest on his arm like a falcon.

  “Right this way,” she said with a flourish of Mandarin in her voice. It rang out like the soft tinkling of wind chimes. Connor smiled and turned to follow her as she kept talking. “I show you something nice. Something you give your girlfriend. She like earrings? We got many beautiful earrings here for her.”

  I hurried over, waving at the woman. I grabbed her hands from Connor’s arm politely but firmly, and said, “No, thank you. He’s not interested.”

  “Ohhh,” she said, with a knowing wink and a coy smile. “I see how it is. We have something nice he buy for you then!”

  “What?” I said and then it dawned on me—she thought we were a couple. I had to give her credit as a salesperson, though. Without any judgment call or even skipping a beat, she continued her sales pitch unfazed.

  “No, it’s not like that,” I said.

  She nodded and winked again.

  “Connor,” I pleaded. “Tell her.”

  Connor turned to me and put his hands on his hips “Honestly! No need to be such a bitch about things, Simon. I swear! It’s like you’re embarrassed to be seen in public with me!”

  He stormed off down the aisle like a faux drama queen before I could get a word in. I chased after him, thankfully ending my conversation with the woman. Connor had ended up in a quiet section full of Indian fabrics, throws, and pillows in rich shades of purple, orange, and deep red. Thank God no one was paying attention to us. When I caught up with him, tears of laughter were running down his face. I just stared at Connor and shook my head.

  “What’s wrong?” he said when he saw I wasn’t laughing.

  “Can you please not make a scene?” I said, angry. “Do I have to remind you that I’m recognizable in these circles? I’ve worked very hard to be taken seriously here.”

  “Sorry,” Connor offered, sobering. “Fine. Let’s get started. Just grab anything. I need to see how you compare to some of the other psychometry experts in Other Division.”

  “What other psychometry experts?” I said. “With the Mayor’s budget cuts, there’s only Mrs. Teasley and myself as the select few in the Department who exhibit any signs of psychic awareness. And truth be told, the jury’s still out on Mrs. T.”

  But I was willing to play this game. I moved through the piles of decorative fabrics, watching them shimmer with dancing lights from the hundreds of tiny mirrors sewn into their patterns. I kept going until I came to a table piled high with books. Hardcovers, dog-eared yellowing paperbacks, and two full stacks of comics. I slipped my gloves off and passed my hand over the books one by one, looking for anything that might stir my power.

  “In the past,” I explained, “my visions have been somewhat sporadic when they come, but when they do…it’s like I’m seeing a slice of the former owner’s life. Some are clearer than others. Sometimes they don’t come through at all.”

  “What’s your best guess as to why it’s so hit or miss?” Connor asked, flipping through one of the old paperbacks.

  I paused my hand over a beat-up copy of House of the Seven Gables. Usually holding an old edition of a Hawthorne was good for something, but this time I didn’t feel the slightest twinge of my power. I continued rummaging.

  I shrugged at Connor. “I imagine that it all depends on the object and how long the owner has been out of contact with it, as well as whatever emotional significance the piece has.”

  I picked through more of the books, but it was hard to concentrate with Connor watching me.

  “Anything?” he said with finality in his voice.

  I shook my head. “None of this stuff is charged with anything I can read.”

  “Well, kid,” he started, leaning against one of the support beams between the booths, “that’s part of the problem.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. My hands were dusty from touching all the books and I wiped them against my coat.

  “If you want to help Irene and be part of this investigation, you need to think of what you do as something scientific, and in order for something to be labeled science, it’s got to be repeatable. Some of the people who teach psi-science theorize that you should be able to pick up anything and get a reading off of it. Every object is supposed to have its own vibrations that reflect its entire history. So it follows that every object should resonate with that at all times.”

  I had never really treated my abilities as something scientific. They were simply an unexplainable phenomenon.

  “If that’s true,” I asked, picking up another book, “then why aren’t I getting a reading from this?”

  “I don’t know,” Connor said. “Lazy? Unfocused, maybe? Let’s try something—”

  “Fine. What do you sugg—” I started, but didn’t have a chance to finish my sentence.

  Connor slapped me hard across the cheek with the back of his hand. I dropped the book I was holding. “What the fu—”

  Connor picked the book up and shoved it back into my hands, and just like that, I psychometrically slipped into the life of someone else. I was the book’s previous owner—a man—and I instantly knew the book was an illustrated copy of the Kama Sutra. A ton of the facts of this man’s life flooded into my head. He taught philosophy at a small New England college, and at the moment of the vision, he was sitting naked in his study at home. He was fit for a man in his midforties, with blond curly hair that was graying at the temples. Another eager-to-earn-an-A female student was just leaving his house. The Kama Sutra lay open before him on his desk. Without even bothering to dress, he started taking copious notes over his latest sexual conquest in the margins, detailing which techniques and positions he had experimented with tonight. The names of other students filled the rest of the margin, each with one, two, or three stars next to their names. Of particular note was the unforgettable Katie B., the only recipient to receive four stars and an exclamation point. The things she had done kneeling on his office desk, and all while a class was going on in the next room!

  I jolted out of the vision with the fleeting memories of the randy professor’s sexual encounters locked into my mind. My body’s sugar dropped but the donuts I had scarfed helped make the aftereffects minimal. I swayed slightly as I attempted to shake off the disorientation. Connor grabbed my arm to steady me.

  “Well?” Connor asked. “What did you see? Anything?”

  “You don’t want to know,” I said. “Trust me.” I felt my face flush from embarrassment. The stinging sensation in my cheek rose again and I rubbed it. “What the hell was with the slapping?”

  Connor took the book from me and flipped through it. “That was part of the experiment, kid. Sometimes people have powers that activate under extreme circumstances. Anger, pain…you name it.”

  “Great! So I’m the psychic equivalent of the Incredible Hulk.” I snatched the book back from him.

  Connor laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. It doesn’t mean that you’re going to become a raging psychometrist with no sel
f-control. What it does show, though, is that you are able to use your powers on previously unreadable objects given the right emotional stimulus.” He tapped one of the book stacks with his forefinger. “Try again, except I want you to do three or four as fast as you can.”

  I scooped up a tiny leather-bound copy of Pride and Prejudice. I flipped it open and was surprised to find delicate oilskin pages within, but the excitement of the moment flipped my mind’s eye into yet another vision. It was always odd to be female, but that’s who I was. Short reddish hair, “copper wire” her mother had called it years earlier, and tiny oval frames adorned her face. She was a writer, pigeonholed as a fantasist, but her true loves were the classics. As she discovered this volume of Austen, she could hardly believe it was only forty dollars! She adored its perfect little form, so compact yet so full of wonderful language that she could barely contain herself.

  As I came out of the vision, the weakness hit again, harder this time, but Connor was waiting. He slammed a large floppy paperback into my arms and the only word I could make out on the book’s spine was Cookbook. I braced myself, expecting some boring scene of a homemaker crockpotting soup or perhaps images of a family settling in for Thanksgiving dinner. I was not prepared to find myself in the back of a bookstore. I was a greasy-haired teen in a long black coat. I checked the book in my hands and saw that, upon closer examination, it wasn’t a cookbook in the traditional sense. The Anarchists Cookbook, the cover read—a modern-day guide to urban survival, full of such fun stuff as growing your own weed or making a pipe bomb. The teenager checked to make sure that no one was nearby and quickly stuffed the book down the back of his pants, pulling his sweater down over it to hide the bulge. His heart raced as he walked past the cashier and toward the door, sure that he’d get caught…

  When I pulled out of the vision, Connor was waiting with another book, but I waved it away weakly. “Enough. Are you trying to kill me?”