by Ann Benson
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
About the Author
Also by Ann Benson
Copyright
For Jennifer Robinson and Jackie Cantor
Pros in prose
The author wishes to express her extreme and eternal gratitude to editor Anne Groell for her insightful help in bringing this book to fruition.
Prologue
It was the first spring after the long, hard winter that marked the second coming of the plague called DR SAM. The sun was April bright, but the wind seemed stuck in March; it roared down the mountainside with the ferocity of a lion, blowing ripples on the surface of the river’s fast-moving waters. Slender shoots of green struggled upward through the tenacious bits of ice that were stuck along the riverbank. The water was nearly opaque with the silt and debris that nature washed downstream, as she did every year. By June her tirade would be over and it would be clear as glass, all the way to the bottom.
Janie Crowe and Tom Macalester—husband and wife—sat astride their horses and stared at the bridge, beneath which were the Encampments.
“I don’t know,” Tom said. “I don’t like the looks of what’s down there.”
“I don’t either,” Janie said.
Trolls were supposed to rule the land underside the bridges of the world. But beneath the bridge that connected Northampton to Hadley, there were colonies of ne’er-do-wells, escapees of DR SAM who could not—or would not—fit into any of the survivor groups that had formed in the valley. They were the rogues, the bad seed that no one wanted. They had banded together into a frightening and unpredictable enclave of maladroits who extracted anything they could from those who needed to pass over the bridge.
Tom looked up and down the river. “God, you’d think by now someone would have started a ferry service….”
“Maybe someone tried,” Janie said. “Maybe they were chased off.”
“I don’t see any other way to get across.” He pointed upriver. “In August we could probably wade to the other side. There used to be a ford about a hundred yards up. But now…”
The water was simply too fast-moving, however strong the horses might be.
“I guess we cross on the bridge, then.”
“Yeah, I guess we do.”
For a moment, Janie looked south along the riverbank. In the time before, it had been a playground, a wonderful community resource open to anyone who could get there. The banks of the shallow river extended well outward, so children could play waist-deep in water as far out as fifty feet; it was only in the very center of the flow that larger boats could navigate. And so it had become a gathering place for smaller pleasure craft of all kinds: motorboats, canoes, kayaks, Jet Skis, pontoons. In the heat of August, it was the best way possible to spend a day in Massachusetts.
Now it was an obstacle, a cold and forbidding challenge. To get to their destination, Tom and Janie would have to cross.
“We go now or we turn back,” Tom said. “We have to time this to make the best use of the daylight.”
Ten seconds passed. “Go now,” Janie said.
“Okay,” Tom said. “We ride fast, and we don’t stop. You understand?”
His wife nodded solemnly.
“All right. Ready?”
“Ready.”
He whipped his horse with a leather crop, and the gelding took off like a champion. Janie heeled her own mare, who cast off the docile nature her rider had come to love and took on the persona of Seabiscuit.
The horses’ hooves pounded thunderously over the bridge; down below, renegades came awake and bolted to awareness. As Janie and Tom neared the downslope of the bridge, where it met the road on the other side, the trolls who lived under the steel and concrete poured out onto what was left of the pavement. They streamed toward the center of the road, where the horses ran; with grabbing hands they tugged at the frightened animals, looking for any kind of handhold that might dislodge the rider and thus expose the horse to their claim.
Janie felt hands upon her thigh and slapped them away with her crop. Then she saw a filthy ragged man reach up and take hold of the bit in her horse’s mouth. She pulled one foot out of the stirrup and kicked at him with all her might. He fell back, clutching his jaw.
Up ahead, she saw Tom, who had fought off his own ravagers and now waited at the edge of the road for her to catch up.
“Come on,” he yelled. “You’re almost here….”
Janie could not look. She closed her eyes and trusted the horse. There was nothing else that could be done.
Somehow, they found themselves safe and dry on the other side, the trolls vanquished—for now.
“You’re a warrior,” Tom said to her.
“No,” she said. Her entire body was shaking. “I’m not.”
“Hey. We made it. We’re over the bridge. The rest of the trip will be easy.”
Janie thought it was a good thing that the remainder of the trip to the book depository would take an hour; she would need that much time to regain her composure so Myra Ross wouldn’t see her in such a state of upset. But her anxiety abated as they neared their destination.
And it returned when they arrived, for the place looked deserted.
Janie Crowe hugged her coat around herself as she stepped carefully through the pile of sticks and leaves in the recessed entry of the book depository. She shaded her eyes with one hand and peered through the streaked glass into the vestibule, hoping for signs of life. Seeing no one, she tried the door.
“Locked,” she said to her husband. She pounded, hoping someone would come. No one did. She pounded again, harder, using the side of her mittened fist. The glass vibrated under her attack. “No one,” she said.
Tom climbed down off his horse. “Is there a back entrance?”
“Yeah, but it’s a fire exit—no outside handle.”
“Okay, let me try,” Tom said. He pulled on the handle with all his might, but it wouldn’t give.
He looked at his wife, his expression forlorn. “You really want to go in?”
“We’ve come all this way.”
“I can break the glass, but if I do that, the place won’t be secure anymore.”
Janie stared at the door for a few moments, thinking of the treasures that lay within. To the average pilferer, the books and manuscripts would have little value. No one but a curator of antiquities was likely to steal them.
“If she’s in there,” Janie said, “we’ll be taking her back with us,
so we don’t have to worry about her. If she’s not…I don’t know. The things she’s collected can’t be replaced.”
“Neither can she,” Tom said.
Janie pressed her nose against the glass and peered in one more time.
A small figure shuffled through the shadows.
“I see someone!” She knocked furiously, but the figure did not reappear.
She turned back to her husband. “We have to go in.”
“Okay,” Tom said. He pulled out his handgun. “Stand back.”
He shot the glass of the door near the handle.
The glass cracked but did not shatter.
“Damn,” he said. “She wasn’t kidding when she said this place was armored. You’re absolutely certain you want to do this?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “I just want to be sure before we use up bullets we can’t replace.”
He shot the handle once more. The echo of the report rang in their ears and a new series of cracks appeared, but there was no further breach. Muttering to himself, Tom grabbed the rope that was draped over his saddle horn. He doubled the rope, slipped it through the door handles, and tied it around the saddle horn securely. Then he got back on the horse and spurred it forward. The animal lurched ahead, snorting in protest. After he managed a few struggling steps, the doors pulled open, glass tumbling like geometric ice onto the concrete landing.
Janie stepped over the shards and tried the inner doors, which opened easily. Tom tied up the horses, then he and Janie stepped inside, finding themselves in the familiar hallway.
“Hello?” Janie called. Her voice echoed off walls that were bare of the exhibits she remembered from the last time she’d been there—in the time before.
They walked a few yards down the main hallway. Suddenly Tom grabbed Janie’s arm to stop her and pointed to his left.
Janie looked where he’d pointed. In the dim light, it was hard to make out even the most basic architectural features, but she noticed a movement as well. A head popped out of a doorway, then just as quickly went back in.
“You stay here,” Tom said quietly.
Janie clutched his arm and whispered, “Whither thou goest, remember?”
He knew better than to protest. They stepped quietly down the hallway, hugging the wall until they were just outside the door.
With his gun raised and ready, Tom peeked just far enough around the door frame to see a thin, smallish figure.
“Hello?”
A raspy but defiant voice answered, “Stay away. I’ve got a gun. There’s nothing in here but old books, so go away.”
Still, there was no mistaking the accent. “Oh, my God, Myra, it’s me, Janie, and Tom….”
A long moan of disbelief followed. Janie got one step into the room before her friend from the time before spoke again.
“Stop! Please! Don’t come any closer.”
“But why—”
“I’m sick.”
Janie came to an instant stop, as did Tom. In unison, they pulled up the breathing masks that hung around their necks.
A match flared; Myra Ross lit a candle. She raised the light until it revealed her face.
Janie could not suppress a gasp of shock. She took one step forward.
“Maybe I can help you….”
Myra managed a bitter laugh. “So, my ‘daughter’ the doctor, have you been able to help anyone else with this problem?”
Janie didn’t have to answer. “How long have you been sick?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“Since last night.”
Only hours, and already she was this bad; she wouldn’t be one of those people who lasted several days. She’d go quickly.
Janie knew it was a mercy.
“Myra, I…I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too. All I’ve lived through, and this gets me. Go figure.”
“Maybe it won’t get you,” Janie said, voicing a hope she did not truly feel. “Some people do get better.”
“Not old ladies,” she said. “No, Maidie, this is my time.” She coughed into her hand and wiped the resulting phlegm onto her pants leg. “My mother, rest in peace, would platz to see me do that. But I’m all out of hankies. So, is this a social call, or do you have some other business?”
Janie and Tom looked at each other. A silent understanding passed between them that their plan to bring Myra back to their compound was moot. Finally, Tom said, “We came to get the book, if you’ll be willing to part with it. You know we’ll take good care of it.”
“Willing?” She made a small effort at laughing; it came out dark and bitter. “I’d be on my knees thanking God right now, if I thought I could get up again. Please, take it. I’ll die happier knowing it’s in good hands.” She coughed more deeply than she had just a few minutes before, the sound wet and rattling.
Myra put one hand on her chest. “It’s—filling up—my lungs,” she said. Between words, she gasped for air. “I can—really feel it—now.”
As Janie’s heart sank, she cursed herself that they hadn’t come sooner. Mentally, she replayed the conversation between herself and Tom, several months back, shortly after their wedding.
She could come to live with us on the mountain.
She’ll never leave her books, you know that.
Please, Tom, I won’t be able to sleep at night—she’s been like a mother to me.
You don’t know what we’ll run into…not everyone is dead out there.
His wariness had been wise; their encounter with the people living in encampments under the bridge had proved that. Nevertheless, the difficult discussion still rang in Janie’s ears.
Myra’s been isolated, so she might still be okay, but she’ll be alone and scared and—
We’re easy prey. And besides, with your situation now, we need to be careful.
I’ll be all right, Tom.
“It’ll be all right, Myra,” she said aloud.
“How will it be all right?”
There was a heavy silence until Tom said, “Where is it?”
A cough rumbled up from deep within Myra’s chest. “In—the safe.” She made a motion with her hand, as if to indicate that they should follow her. “Stay—back.”
“Tell us where it is, we’ll find it.”
The frail woman managed one long slow breath without coughing. It seemed to restore her. “Please,” she said, measuring each word. “It’s a blessing to know I’ll go out on a mitzvah.”
She made another gesture, bidding Tom and Janie to part, and when they moved aside, she walked between them in small, pained steps. As she passed through, Janie saw with horror the gravity of Myra’s illness. She had always been svelte, but now she was emaciated. What skin remained on her bones was dark and wrinkled.
She led them farther down the main hallway and into a suite of offices that were now devoid of the furniture and equipment they’d once held. Children had once crowded these halls, full of their enthusiastic chatter, always happy to be away from the prison of school for any reason at all. Now, lacking the laughter, vitality, and much of its former collection, the Hebrew Book Depository seemed a hollow, empty place.
Myra struggled forward; purpose seemed to give some strength to her steps, and for a moment Janie detected in her voice a small remnant of the woman’s legendary pluck. “I held them off for a long time, you know,” she said as she shuffled along. “Just me. Just like when I was a young woman, in Israel.” But then she stopped walking and shrank again into the sick old woman she’d become. “But they got in eventually. Four men. Boys, really. I was outside for a few minutes. I was so sick of myself I just needed to hear some birds and wind. I got lazy—one time—and left the door unlocked. They must have been watching. Blew right in and helped themselves.”
She stopped walking and pressed her hand against the wall for balance. As she rested, she said, “One of them was coughing. The little bastard.”
After a few raspy breaths, she pointed. “Inside that
door. Go in there, and I’ll call out the combination. It looks like a water cooler.”
Tom looked at Janie and said, “Go ahead. I’ll stay here.”
She nodded. A few steps later she was kneeling in front of the safe-in-cooler’s-clothing.
“Ready.”
Janie turned the knob after each number, squinting to see the dial in the thin light. After the last turn, she heard the sweet click of the tumblers falling out of their pinholes.
It took all of her strength to work the handle, which had stiffened with neglect. Inside, she found a pile of books and manuscripts. She took the lot out of the compartment and placed them on the floor in front of her. Halfway down, by its familiar feel, she found the journal. She closed her eyes and clutched it to her heart for a few moments. And despite the urgency of their mission, she allowed herself one moment to feel its wonderful heft in her hands.
She came out of the safe room with the volume gripped tightly in her arms.
Wax dripped onto Myra’s hand as she held the candle high, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Okay,” she said, “you’ve got it; that’s good.” She coughed hard, her abdomen bending with each spasm.
She looked up and made a little shrug of acceptance, and Janie saw on her face an understanding of what was to come.
“Back to my blankets now, I think.”
Myra turned slowly, candle in hand, and shuffled back the way she’d come. Janie and Tom watched in aching frustration as she lowered herself onto the pile of blankets that would be her deathbed. It took a painfully long time for her to arrange herself, but finally she lay still.
“Go,” she said. “Get out of here.”
“We’ll stay with you until…you know….”
“No you won’t. Leave me in peace. I don’t want anyone to see this.”
Janie moved into Myra’s line of sight. “We’ll bury you when…it’s over.”
“No you won’t. Don’t you dare touch me…. I won’t have God asking me when I get to heaven why I let you get sick too.”
Janie said nothing for a moment, then, in a small voice, “Are you scared?”
She took a very long breath and spoke slowly, pausing for smaller breaths after every few words. “No, Maidie, not now. Old women are supposed to die. I’d like a little more time, but in a better world than this one…. I was scared in Auschwitz when I was a little girl.” She nodded at the book that Janie held in her arms. “My work is done.”