by Laurie Cass
And speaking of attorneys, the more this guy talked, the more I was sure it was Paul Utley. Angry Guy Shane didn’t have this guy’s vocabulary, and, if my first impressions of Jared were anywhere close to being accurate, he didn’t have this kind of intensity. Then again, I didn’t know anything about Bob Parmalee and hardly anything about Steve Guilder.
“Let’s talk about a sixty-forty split,” he said. “Sixty percent for me, forty for you. Now, you might think a fifty-fifty split would be fair, or even sixty-forty to your benefit, but let’s look at the facts.”
This guy was definitely an attorney. It wasn’t possible that any other variety of human would talk that way.
“Yes,” Paul said, “you’ve found the book, or at least its approximate location, but would you have even known it existed without the inciting incidents that came before? Incidents that were the result of my knowledge? And Andrea’s?”
He had a point, but it didn’t matter. “Moron,” I whispered. If he thought a true librarian could possibly steal a valuable book, he could think anything.
Paul sighed audibly. “This is getting old.”
I edged farther along the back of the wooden shelves, stabbing myself with tiny bits of raw wood in the process, hoping that none of them were big enough to catch me tight. I had to get to the other end. There was no other choice.
“I’m stronger than you,” he said, “faster than you, and I’m certainly a lot bigger than you. There’s no way this will be a fair fight, which is the way we lawyers prefer things.” He laughed. “So, I ask you: Why are you making this so difficult? I asked Andrea the same the same thing, and look what I had to do to her.” He laughed again. “I even had to pretend to love her all over again, for crying out loud.”
His words sent my blood pressure soaring. If there was one thing I hated more than people turning down the corners of pages in library books, it was condescension, and this guy reeked of it.
“Come out, Minnie,” Paul said, “and let’s discuss this like reasonable adults. After all, nothing has happened yet, correct? I haven’t done a thing except frighten you, and that was pure accident.”
It was?
I sidled sideways a little bit more. The end of the shelves were close now. If I leaned to the left, maybe I could see where Paul was and what he was doing. After all, maybe he did just want to talk. Maybe I’d jumped to a conclusion that I’d laugh about later. Maybe my instincts had been wrong.
Moving slowly, carefully, and quietly, and always, always watching the path of the flashlight’s beam, I eased left.
“An accident.” Paul was crouching low, sending the cone of light around the room, looking for . . . what? My feet? “You understand that, right? Why would I want to scare you? Come on out, and we’ll talk about how to deal with the book.”
His lawyer’s voice was soothing and monotonous and almost sirenlike. Happily, a short stint as a telemarketer when I was desperate for cash in college had endowed me with a permanent immunity to sales pitches, and there was no doubt Paul was trying to sell me something.
Groaning, he put his hands on his knees to help push himself upright. As he did, the flashlight dropped out of his hand and clattered to the floor. He cursed and leaned down to pick it up.
But it was too late. When the flashlight had fallen and hit the floor, it had spun around and illuminated what he held in his other hand.
Illuminated the long, shiny, and very sharp-looking knife he was holding with a strong grip.
If there was ever a time to launch Plan A, it was now.
I braced my back against the wall, wedged my knees tight, placed my hands flat against the shelving. And pushed.
Creak!
Paul Utley whirled around, but since I was behind the shelving, there was nothing for him to see.
Though I was pushing for all I was worth, the freakishly heavy thing didn’t tip over. It swayed a little, though, and I moved instantly into Plan A-1, because I hadn’t spent the last four winters in northwest lower Michigan without learning something about how to get my car out of a ditch. The key was to rock it.
Push, release. Push, release. Push . . .
With each cycle, the arc of movement grew wider and faster.
Utley’s flashlight danced around the room, but too fast to catch the slow action of the shelves.
C’mon, I urged it. Tip!
Push, release. Push, release. Push . . .
Paul’s flashlight finally touched on the movement. “What the—”
It toppled over in superslow motion. I heard the boxes on the crowded shelves start to slide forward, heard one thud to the floor, heard Utley shout, and then finally, at long last . . .
Crash!
I didn’t wait to hear any more. I was scrambling for the stairs, tripping over boxes, hurling myself forward, trying to get away from that long, shiny, deadly knife. My cell phone was in the back room, but it was only a couple of blocks to city police station. If I ran fast, I could have someone back here in less than—
“It’s a freaking cat!” Paul Utley said.
I stopped dead.
“Hey,” he said, loudly, “I bet this is that bookmobile cat everyone talks about. What’s your name, kitty?”
“Mrr.”
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”
Now Eddie decided to be Mr. Friendly? Now?
But maybe he’d see through Utley’s fake friendliness. Maybe cats really did have some of the traits ascribed to dogs. Maybe Eddie would sense Utley’s underlying intentions, claw the back of his hand, make him drop the knife, pick up the knife in his teeth, and scamper away with it, and I’d take it in my handkerchief to preserve the fingerprints and—
And that’s where my fast-forwarding fantasy came to a screeching halt. I’d never carried a handkerchief in my life.
My hand was on the front doorknob. Outside it was full dark; more time had passed than I realized. The sidewalks were empty of life, and the only car in sight was parked at the far end of the street. I pushed open the door and squinted, trying to see the time on the freestanding clock at the corner.
“That’s a good kitty,” Utley said.
My cat’s purrs were loud enough so that I could hear them from the top of the stairs.
“Just a little closer . . . No, come on now, just a few feet more . . .”
A few feet more and Utley would grab Eddie, my fuzzy friend, my pal, my napping buddy. He’d put that long knife to my cat’s white throat and use him as a hostage. Eddie would hiss and howl and claw and scratch, but Utley wouldn’t care, because he needed that book and he needed me to keep quiet about it and about him.
Time for Plan B.
Which was unfortunate, because I hadn’t had time to formulate more than a rough draft.
I scanned the sidewalk one more time, hoping against hope that I’d see someone coming, someone who could help us, someone who would instantly respond to a shriek for help.
But there was no one.
“Come here, you stupid cat!”
“Mrrrr-RRR!!” Eddie growled and hissed and spat.
I turned and ran pell-mell back down the stairs.
Chapter 19
I screwed my eyes shut and slapped at the light switch. “Leave him alone!” I shouted, then opened my eyes slowly.
I’d turned on the lights in the hopes that the abrupt glare might give me a slight advantage over Utley, but now that I’d followed through on the idea, I wasn’t sure what I’d really hoped to accomplish, other than showing him how small and unthreatening I really was.
Because much as I wanted to smash into Utley, head down and racing fast in my best imitation of a football player trying to make the tackle of his life, toppling him to the ground and smashing his head on the concrete floor to give him a stunning blow that would render him unconscious long enough for me to grab my cat
and run us to safety, I couldn’t risk it, not with that knife being so close to Eddie’s . . . to Eddie . . .
I stood like a lumpy rock on the bottom step, swallowing convulsively, so scared for my cat that I could hardly breathe, trying to come up with more ideas that would get Eddie and me out of this alive and unharmed.
“So, here we are,” Paul Utley said, smiling.
It wasn’t a very nice smile—so wide it somehow reminded me of a snake.
I didn’t care for snakes.
“Yes,” I said. “Here we are.”
“Sorry about your cat.” His smile went a little wider, and my heart clutched until a muffled “Mrr” came from under Utley’s arm, where Eddie was being held in place by a firm elbow. The knife must have been in Utley’s other hand, which was hanging low and slightly behind his back.
By this, I assumed Utley didn’t realize that I knew he was armed. I devoutly hoped this gave me some sort of advantage. Too bad I didn’t know what kind of advantage that might be. But I’d play along, see if I could get him talking, see if I could make this spin out long enough for us to get away.
“You scared me,” I told Utley, “turning off the light. If all you want is that book, why didn’t you just ask?”
Utley studied me. “Are you telling me that you’re willing to sell Wildflowers?”
It wasn’t mine to sell, I wanted to shout. The owner, whomever that might be, was the only one who had the right to make decisions about the book. I’d weep myself to sleep if what the owner wanted to do was slice out pages and sell them piecemeal, but it wasn’t my choice to make.
But instead of saying all that, I smiled. “It’s worth a lot of money.”
Utley continued to study me.
“I’ve checked, you know,” I said. “The last time a copy of Chastain’s book sold publicly, it went for almost half a million dollars. There wasn’t much information about its condition, so we’ll have to assume it was pristine. Now, this one was sitting on a sideboard for a hundred years. Not in direct sunlight, which helped keep it from aging, but it wasn’t in a controlled environment, either.”
“There were undoubtedly private sales of the book,” Utley said, still watching me carefully.
“Oh, sure.” I nodded, then did one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life: started walking straight toward him. “But I don’t know enough about private sales to know if the prices would be higher or lower than a public sale.” I raise my eyebrows. “Do you happen to know?”
“No,” he said, moving his knife hand further behind him.
“That’s too bad.” I kept inching slowly forward. “See, what I’ve been trying to figure out is if it makes more sense to sell the pages individually, or if the whole book should be sold at once. Maximizing its value is key.”
“It appears that you’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this,” Utley said, sounding amused.
You have no idea, I thought grimly. “Well,” I said, “working in a library pays the bills, but it’s no way to really get ahead, if you know what I mean.”
Utley grunted. “A lot like being a small-town lawyer, then. Unfortunately, my wife doesn’t understand there aren’t many multimillion-dollar class-action suits running around Tonedagana County. The money this book could bring would solve all my problems.”
It burned me that he was blaming his wife for his own greed, but I pushed that away and stepped even closer. “Say, do you mind letting my cat go?”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Utley’s smile made my insides clench. “I need some insurance, right, kitty?” He jostled Eddie, and grinned at the low growl. “Kitty needs a little work on her manners.”
I willed Eddie to stay quiet and still. “She’s a he,” I said. “And he still has his claws, so be careful.”
Utley chuckled. Clearly, he didn’t have cats. “Kitty and I are just fine. Aren’t we, kitty?” He jostled Eddie again, who gave a drawn-out hiss. “Now, Minnie, you and I need to get down to business. First off, I have to see the book.”
“Great idea. It’s back there.” I gestured at the back room.
“Excellent.” Utley smiled, and I really wished he hadn’t. “Why don’t you go and get it?”
How stupid did he think I was? If I went first, as soon as I laid hands on Wildflowers, he’d stab me in the back with that scary knife, I’d fall to the floor dead, he’d grab the book, and he’d hightail it out of the museum.
“Sure,” I said, starting to edge past him. “It’s right on top, and—”
“What’s the matter?”
“Look out!” I shouted, pointing behind him.
When Utley instinctively turned his head to see what I was shouting about, his attention was off me, and that was all I needed.
I gave him a stiff two-armed push with all my weight and all my might, and hooked my foot around his ankles, just like I’d been taught in the self-defense class I’d taken last summer.
“Hey!” He flailed his arms, dropping Eddie to the ground.
“Mrr!”
Eddie bolted away.
The knife flashed bright.
I kicked at Utley, aiming for his soft private parts, and he went down hard.
The sharp blade spun away across the floor, and I scrambled over the top of the fallen man, trying to get to the knife, sorry that Plan A hadn’t come together, hoping I’d know what to do with the knife if I got hold of it, knowing that Utley could ruin Plan B by getting to it first. Reaching, clawing, grabbing, praying . . .
“Police!” thundered a large voice. “Get your hands away from that weapon!”
A uniformed city police officer, Joel Stowkowski, the wonderful man who’d told me that no one was going to “get away with breaking into our library,” came down the steps two at a time.
Utley, who was lying flat on his stomach, arm stretching out long for the knife, turned his head. “Officer,” he said, putting on an awkward smile, “this is all a big mistake. I can explain everything.”
“Don’t move,” Joel ordered. As he pulled his handcuffs off his utility belt he glanced over at me. “You all right?”
I nodded a little tentatively, then, when that didn’t seem to set off any fireworks, nodded again with more certainty and slowly got to my feet.
“Need an ambulance?”
I shook my head. “I’m fine.” Which wasn’t the literal truth, since I felt banged-up and grimy, but I would feel much better after a long, hot shower.
Joel ratcheted the handcuffs into place, read Utley his rights, and spoke into his shoulder microphone.
“What took you so long, anyway?” I asked.
“You were doing such a fine job,” Joel said, ignoring the quaver in my voice and hauling a protesting Paul Utley to his feet, “that I didn’t want to interrupt. I saw and heard more than enough to put this guy away. You barely needed my help at all, seems like.”
In the distance, I heard police sirens approaching, and even though Utley was already incapacitated and unlikely to cause anyone any physical harm ever again, the sweet sound let me breathe easier.
The tips of two cat ears popped up from behind a box. “Mrr?”
“Of course, I see you had some help.” Joel pushed Utley toward the stairs. “Well done, Eddie.”
I reached out to pull my cat close and covered his ears. “Don’t let him hear that—it’ll swell up his head even bigger.”
“Mrr,” Eddie said. He put up a token struggle, but then let me hug him tight and kiss the top of his head.
“Mrr to you, too, pal,” I whispered. “Over and over and over again.”
* * *
“You did what?” Kristen asked loudly.
It was the next day. It was still hot, and we were sitting on Rafe’s shaded front porch, catching the breeze off Janay Lake. We’d started out on the marina’s concrete patio, but Rafe
had called us over, served us cans of soda, and then took off to play golf with some college buddies.
Chilson, on a hot Sunday afternoon in early July, was drowsy with sleep. The weekend tourists had already left, and everyone else was doing their best to avoid getting hot and sweaty. Well, except Rafe and his friends. I leaned back in his chair and propped my feet up on his porch rail, wondering what it was about men that made them do such things.
“You really ran straight toward a guy holding a knife?” Kristen glared at me. “And don’t use that self-defense-class excuse. How could you do such a stupid thing?”
“It wasn’t as dumb as it sounds,” I said, trying not to sound defensive.
“Yeah? How?”
“Lots of reasons.” I could see her mouth start to open, so I jumped in before she could get going. “When I’d gone upstairs to the front door, I’d propped it wide open. In summer, a Chilson police officer makes a walking round of downtown every hour on the hour. With the door open and the light on in the basement, I knew someone would be coming soon.” To forestall Kristen’s next objection, I added, “And I knew it would be less than an hour, because I could see the time on that downtown clock.”
“That’s one,” Kristen growled.
“Another reason rushing Utley wasn’t as stupid as it sounds is that I’d been watching him closely. His grip on the knife was loose, and I was sure I could knock it out of his hand without too much trouble.” Pretty sure, anyway.
“That’s not lots.” Kristen held up her index finger and her middle finger in what I had a feeling wasn’t the V-for-victory salute. “That’s two, and the second one was marginal at best. To reach the ‘lots’ quantity, you need at least four reasons. Give me two more.”
“Okay, how about this: I’m so short it would have taken so long for the knife’s blade to reach me that I could have grabbed Eddie, found the book, and ran to the police station before the downward stroke even started.”