Kepler’s Dream (16 page)

She looked at me, her eyes deep and blue as a river or a sea. “
Thank you. It's a noble ambition.” The GM shook her head, and there was some part of the story on her face I didn't think she'd ever tell, details she'd never shade in for me. “But I don't believe we will ever find Kepler's lovely
Dream
. Some things in life are lost”—her gaze wandered up into the trees for a moment—“and we never do find them again.”

EIGHT

ROSI
e
D
e
CID
e
D SH
e
H
a
D B
e
TT
er
DO H
er
WO
r
K I
n
TH
e
background, where she wouldn't be seen. As a family member, even if the Mackenzie family was not exactly a model of togetherness, I could probably go into the more restricted zones. So, some days later, with Lou along as my beard—the “beard,” I learned once from a movie, is the innocent guy who goes along with you as part of your disguise—I ambled over to the Librerery.

I wasn't expecting telltale fingerprints or spatters of blood or anything, but it couldn't hurt to take a look at the place again and try to imagine what could have happened that night while Rosie was shivering nervously out behind my room and I was wandering through the back tangle trying to find her.

I remembered hearing weird noises. Maybe they were just dreams or ghosts; then again, maybe they were the solid snobbish footsteps of Abercrombie Books. Could Our Honored Guest really have gotten to the Library and back during that time, so he could still come out of his room in his robe looking sleepy right after the alarm went off? Or had Mr. Books planted someone
else—an accomplice, possibly a guy good with his thumbs—to rustle around in the books for him and shuffle off with the most valuable one in the collection?

And how would whoever it was have gotten into the Library anyway, unless, like that policeman said, the door had accidentally-on-purpose been left … open?

As I approached the steps down to the building that morning, I saw that the door was ajar, again. That surprised me: it seemed early in the day for Tweedledum and Tweedledee to be working. I told Lou to entertain himself digging up old skunk remains, tapped the door lightly, and there in the dimness saw Christopher Abercrombie. Counting. Counting and murmuring and counting and murmuring, looking all through my grandmother's many, many remaining books.

He was moving a finger along the edge of a far-off bookshelf when he saw me. He jumped, like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A little revenge for the time he'd sneaked up on me while I was listening to the GM on the phone with my dad.

“Ella!” Abercrombie exclaimed. “What brings you here?” A pair of glasses dangled around his neck like jewelry. “I assumed you were one of the boys reporting for work. Not that they usually manage to get here at such a tender hour. I think they view mornings much as zombies do: not a time to be about.”

I ignored his joke. Who had time for zombies? “I want to find out what happened to Kepler's
Dream
.” I looked right at him, doing my best evil eye. It was supposed to get him to confess right there and then. Or at least make his face develop a guilty twitch.

If there was a twitch, though, or a shadow of guilt, I missed it. All I saw was the familiar smirk.

“How marvelous,” he said. “Young Ella to the rescue!”

I didn't see that sarcasm was necessary here.

“You share your grandmother's lack of faith in the Albuquerque Police Department, I take it?” I nodded. “So do I, I'm afraid.”

Then Abercrombie peered at me closely, as though I were some kind of specimen. His goatee seemed to quiver. He looked a little like a goat, in fact.

“And tell me, Ella,” he bleated, “what is your theory, currently?”

“Theory?”

“Yes. Who do
you
suppose would take the trouble to break in to your grandmother's library to steal a rare, valuable edition of a work of astronomy?”

“Well …” I wasn't expecting this question. I wasn't in the mood to chitchat with Abercrombie about what I supposed.

“A precocious adolescent from the nearby Juvenile Facility? Who has long wanted to read Kepler's posthumous masterpiece?”

The thought of those trapped teenagers had crossed my mind, but he was right, it did seem far-fetched.

“Or perhaps a little magpie flew into the Library, drawn by the glitter of the genuine gold leaf on the pages?”

I swear, he winked at me.

“Who would even know enough about this book to steal it?”

I shrugged. He was making me nervous, the way he was watching me. “Well, it seems like …”

I hesitated. He nodded, with that (expletive deleted) smile on his face.

“Ye-e-e-s?” he pressed. “It seems like … ?”

It seemed like Abercrombie Books was more of a pain than ever. It seemed like he was messing with me to throw me off the scent. I needed Lou in there—he might not have been a bloodhound, but he had a better nose than I did.

“It seems like … It probably wasn't a stranger,” I said finally.

“That's right!” Abercrombie clapped, like a teacher trying to lead me to the right answer. “But what, Ella,” he went on—and I started, for the first time ever, to wish those high school boys would show up, to spare me more of this conversation—“would someone even plan to do with this book, once they had it?”

This at least seemed obvious. “Sell it.”

“Ah, but you see”—Abercrombie Books was now exceptionally pleased with himself—“a
Morris
Kepler, a Morris edition of the famous
Somnium,
or
Dream,
though one of the most sought-after volumes among bibliophiles, would be”—he looked at me pointedly—“
impossible to sell
out in the world. Each of the extraordinarily few extant copies is accounted for. Which, paradoxically, makes a stolen volume at once invaluable—and worthless.”

I folded my arms.

“But I fear that whoever ran off with Kepler's
Dream
might not be aware of that. Which means they may be in for a terrible shock.” He gave a hearty, fake chuckle, as if that idea was
hilarious. “Here, Ella,” he continued in a hushed tone. “Let me show you something I discovered earlier, may I?”

And he ushered us both to the end of the room, where the books were deep in shadow. He was gesturing at something. At first I thought it was those glass shelves I hadn't looked at for a while, the ones with the medals, the fishing flies and the photos. The silvered man and his wife, when they were younger.

Then I realized Mr. Books was pointing at the fireplace.

“Isn't that surprising?”

All I saw was ashes. What was so surprising about that? It was a fireplace. I hated him thinking he was so smart, though, so I stared for a minute—and suddenly my brain caught up with me.
Ashes.
Who had been burning a fire in there?

“Your grandmother doesn't often visit the Library in the evening, does she?” Abercrombie knew she didn't. “I wonder who else might have come into the Library and lit a fire.”

He bugged his eyes out dramatically, and I couldn't tell if he thought
I
had. I had built a fire only once in my life: the night the book disappeared, when Rosie and I were in Miguel's cabin trying to get warm. But there was no way Abercrombie could know about that.

“I'll tell you what I have noticed, Ella,” he continued in a confiding tone, like suddenly I was his best friend. “I've noticed that Miguel Aguilar makes most of the fires around this place. Have you noticed that? He's very skilled at it.”

I glared at him, my arms still folded. I knew what Abercrombie
was suggesting—that Rosie's dad had something to do with taking the
Dream
—and like Rosie, I knew it was ridiculous. But we were going to have to find a way to prove something different.

There was a rustle outside.

Abercrombie raised his eyebrows. “It's one of the zombies,” he stage whispered. Really, the guy should have been in the theater, not in books.

It was the short one who came inside, and though he had yet to make eye contact with me that summer, for once I was really glad to see his Texty self. Plus, for the first time ever he seemed wide awake and like he had something on his mind.

“Top of the morning to you, Jason!” Abercrombie's nephew rolled his bleary eyes as he swung his backpack off his shoulder. “What brings you in so early this morning? Shouldn't you be—”

“That (expletive deleted),” Texty interrupted. He jerked his head backward, like a peacock, at some invisible figure behind him. “That should be his name, Jack (expletive deleted), not Jack
son
.”

“Jason—please. The child!” Abecrombie chided.
Child!
That again. What was I, in elementary school still? Besides, I was used to expletives. I guess Abercrombie didn't know my dad.

For the first time in history, Jason looked at me. He shrugged. “So-rry,” he said, with as much sincerity as a kid who's been caught eating candy. “Listen, I've got to talk to you, Uncle C. Something super-important.”

“Well, carry on, I'm just here taking note of a few catalog items …”

“
Yeah, but it shouldn't be in front of
the child
.” He imitated his uncle's drawl, and I had a minute of wanting to sic Lou on Jason, to nip his busy little thumbs.

The two of them traded looks for a moment, goaty uncle to texty teenager, and then decided to go off to take a walk, leaving me there on my own.

I didn't mind that. It was the first time I had been in the
Librerery
by myself, and it was a peaceful place. My grandmother's church of books.

I went over to the shelves that had always interested me the most and found the photographs of my grandfather. A man who had known the stars. The real stars in the sky, but also the stars I used to worship, the way some kids do celebrities: Aldrin, Armstrong, Collins. I stared at his silvered face and wished it could speak to me.

“Ah, Ella. Here you are.” The silvery lady from one of those frames, now older, appeared in the room. I was worried I might get in trouble for being in there alone, without any white gloves on, but my grandmother seemed distracted.