Authors: Clea Simon
‘Buried. Great.’ Everything was creeping her out today. ‘Maybe I should have drunk
more
last night.’ She raised her voice slightly in defiance. Two aisles down, she heard someone clearing his throat.
‘Sorry,’ she called softly, absurdly reassured that someone else was down here on Level A with her. And with that she went to work.
She started with the basics, first. ‘
The Polite Lady
, yes, that’s good.’ She pulled the book from the shelf, marveling that a work that had first been printed in 1760 should be so accessible. Here, in her hands, was one of the definitive guides for behavior for the latter half of the eighteenth century. She pictured tea being poured, as well-trained servants looked on. But there was so much more, even then.
Letters on Female Education
, yes, she thought, that was another important book. For women were reading, women were
writing
; and even such ‘improving’ books would hold hints of that wider world of newspapers and novels and intellectual turmoil. Dulcie knew what she was looking for. Here she’d find the foundation for her thesis; the proof that, yes, the author of
The Ravages of Umbria
would be just as aware of what was expected, and what was silly, as any contemporary author. In here – she pulled another book,
Letters on the Improvement of the Mind –
Dulcie would find the model for Demetria, a simpering, two-faced traitor. Once she understood who the character was,
why
she turned on her friend would follow.
Arms loaded, Dulcie retreated to the aisle’s end. Around the corner, she could see an empty carrel. She deposited her books, put her feet up, and began to read. Time slipped away. ‘Critics and snobs, all of them,’ she found herself muttering more than once. Who cared if the author of
A Sicilian Romance
had ever actually been to Sicily? Had Defoe ever been shipwrecked? Just because
The
Ravages
was set in a fictional Umbria didn’t mean the author wasn’t smart. Maybe the mountains were a dramatic device.
A light went on nearby. The owner of the cleared throat, she figured. Soft footsteps faded and in a moment the light turned off. Where was she? Ah, the struggle between the rational ‘Augustans’ and the emotional ‘Romanticists’. Well, that was what they were called once men got involved. Historically, she was getting ahead of herself. Gingerly – her right foot had fallen asleep – Dulcie pulled herself up. How long had she been sitting? Too long, she realized, as she managed to straighten out both legs and hobble back to where she’d originally pulled the book. No, she would have to go back earlier. The card at the edge of the stack said ‘1805–1845’. Humming softly, she crossed over to the earlier rack and then, for good measure, the one before. With a slight buzz, a light came on: 1745–1780. Yes, that would do.
‘Wow!’ Dulcie pulled a bound volume off the shelf:
The Public Ledger
, 1761–62. How often would she be reminded of what a treasure trove this library was? Somewhere, a few stacks away, a lighter footstep passed by, making Dulcie smile. At least she wasn’t the only one worshipping here on a Sunday morning. She reached up for one more volume – just above her reach.
The Leedes Intelligencer.
Nope, not quite. Looking around for a stepstool, Dulcie saw that the neighboring aisles had gone dark. No stool, no bystanders. ‘May Toth, the god of libraries, forgive me,’ she whispered, putting her toes on the first level of bound volumes and hoisting herself up. Her fingers almost reached over the top. If she could move the leather-bound volume out just a fraction of an inch . . . ‘There, I’ve—’
Dulcie jumped back just in time as the thick crimson tome fell to the floor with a thud. ‘Sorry!’ Her stage whisper wasn’t answered, even by a cough, but Dulcie thought she heard footsteps hasten off. Ah, well, so she’d disturbed another denizen of the depths.
The book itself, once she’d retrieved it, seemed unharmed, although Dulcie could imagine the scolding Mona would give her if she knew. ‘Well, she won’t,’ Dulcie said to herself as she carried the two books, each containing a year’s worth of daily newspapers, back to her carrel.
There she stopped abruptly, surprised. ‘What the hell?’ Dulcie spoke at full volume. Nothing here made sense. The books that she’d neatly piled were pushed back, her pad was on the floor, and her bag had been opened and emptied. One pen was still rolling, until it came to rest by Dulcie’s foot. ‘What is going on here?’ If someone had been looking for her wallet, he’d be disappointed. After paying for her muffin, Dulcie had tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans. But who had done this? Only another student would be this deep in the stacks. Maybe it had been an accident. Someone had stumbled. Maybe someone really needed a pencil.
She sighed and bent to gather her pens. There’d been no harm done, but the disruption was disturbing. For a moment, she thought of Lucy’s dream. No, having her stuff messed up was bad enough. Nothing really dangerous could happen down here. Not with all the security up at the entrance. She straightened and dropped the pens in her bag – only to watch them fall down to the floor again. Opening her bag, Dulcie looked inside. This hadn’t been a random bag toss: someone had sliced through the bottom of her messenger bag, and whatever had cut through the canvas had been sharp.
‘Oh, this is crazy.’ Dulcie’s own voice sounded loud in her ears. Why would someone do this? She looked around. Although the day had begun sunny and hot, down here the only light came from the soft glow of the overhead fixture. Even the nearby stacks had gone dark.
She’d have to tell security, that was all there was to it. Sure, they’d think she was nuts, but someone else might not be so lucky. Someone else might leave a wallet in a bag or a jacket pocket. Dulcie vaguely recalled a news item about book thefts. No, the rare texts – and the vast majority of standard ones – were now microchipped to prevent them from walking out. It was personal property that was at risk.
So much for the day’s work. She gathered up her pad and pens, sticking them in the undamaged outside pocket of her bag. The books she gathered up in her arms. She had too many to carry; she’d reshelve the bound volumes but the rest were coming with her. Air-conditioning or not, she’d get some work done today.
But after that invasion, that attack on her property, Dulcie no longer wanted to leave anything out of sight. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she hefted all the books. Where were the newspapers from again? Yes, three over, down by the end. Putting the three volumes she wanted to check out on the floor, she found the slight space where
The
Public Ledger
had rested and slid it back in. Up there, just above her head, the slot for
The
Leedes Intelligencer
made a guilty gap.
Dulcie sighed, suddenly tired. But reshelving by staff could take days. Among the grad students, library etiquette mandated a different response. If you weren’t using it, and if you had the sense to put it back properly, you ought to.
Dulcie looked around. No lights betrayed the presence of any other person, and so, as quietly as she could, she slipped off her flip-flops, climbed on to the edge of the lower shelf, and managed to lift the bound volume up to the top shelf. ‘There!’ She couldn’t resist a triumphant whisper. With a gentle push, the book slid into place.
And then she heard it. Not quite an echo, but something. She froze, listening. Had she somehow pushed a book out, on the other side? No, the metal frame of the shelves kept each section secure. So, what . . .? Dulcie turned. Yes, it was a footstep. Someone was walking slowly down the aisles.
It was probably someone reading the cards, looking for a specific date. Dulcie kept her thoughts quiet, as she stepped down. But as she picked up her books from the floor, she grabbed her flip-flops, too. She couldn’t have said why she preferred to be barefoot just then, but she did – and began to creep toward the entrance.
The footsteps followed. In the quiet of the library, Dulcie couldn’t tell if they were one aisle over, or two, or even more. All she knew was that after each of her own steps, she heard another.
This was crazy. Why was she being so quiet? The overhead light announced her presence like a beacon. These were normal library hours. She had every right to be here. Of course, other people were here, too. She stood up straight. ‘Hello?’ Even her stage whisper sounded loud. There was no answer. Even the footsteps had stopped. ‘
Hello
?’
She raised her voice, trying to hold it steady.
Nothing. Maybe she’d been hearing things. Maybe whoever it was had simply been looking for a book and had left. Maybe . . . She took two quick steps. Three soft footsteps followed after.
Maybe it was one of her friends, playing a game. But if this were a game, it was an awfully mean one. Plus, whoever had cut her bag had a weapon: a knife or razor, something sharp enough to slice through canvas. Dulcie looked around. There were no windows, of course, not this far down. Though, if she could get to the elevator or even the end of this row of stacks she had a vague memory of something – an alarm, an intercom, a way out.
She bolted, her bare feet slapping against the metal floor. As she ran, lights sprang on overhead. But she was almost at the elevator. She was almost—
A cart, loaded with books, flew in front of her, banging into the wall with a thud. Dulcie froze, her path temporarily blocked. The stacks grew quiet again and she inched forward. The cart was still, the aisle behind it empty. She could move it, roll it out of her way. But who had pushed it there, and why?
The cart was a message. Somebody knew where she stood; somebody didn’t want her to leave. This wasn’t random, the snatch and grab of an unwatched wallet. This was personal. Down here, in the bowels of Widener, she’d felt safe from attack, from strangers, from rape. Unless it wasn’t a stranger. Unbidden, an image of her broken window sprang into Dulcie’s mind. Maybe whoever it was hadn’t found what he wanted on her laptop. Hadn’t gotten whatever it was from Tim.
The footsteps were quiet, but still there. Someone was moving slowly and very, very carefully, but Dulcie heard him. At the far end of the tall shelf of books, someone was moving to box her in. Someone had shoved the cart, letting her know that she couldn’t go in that direction, and now that someone was walking up to the edge of her aisle.
She looked up the row of books, the metal shelving lit by the soft overhead glow. Whoever it was out there knew she was here. But if she moved very slowly back, she could put another stack between herself and it – him. She could maybe back out, work around to the other elevator, or a fire alarm, and be free. Dulcie looked around for the familiar red boxes. That rumor about the fire suppression system couldn’t be true, could it? Not that it mattered; there were none in sight.
She took a step. The light above her buzzed and flickered. How sensitive was the motion detector? Thinking back desperately to the days when she and Jonah had made out here, she remembered counting twenty – no, thirty – seconds before the lights went black. But how long before they turned on?
Another step back. The light flickered again, and the footsteps fell silent. Whoever was out there, he was waiting, Dulcie realized. He would head her off, trap her. And he was armed.
But she knew this library, and with a flash of anger, she hit on an idea. Crouching low, she darted back to the wall aisle and dashed a few feet. Sure enough, the next two aisles lit up – and by reaching out her hand, she got one more to react. The footsteps followed. Good! Let whoever was out there think she was running scared. She could wait him out.
Quickly, before the light could shut off, she returned to where the cart had cut her off. Pressed against the wall, Dulcie tried to steady her breathing. Twenty, twenty-one . . . She’d had no idea she was counting until the light snapped off. Thank you, Harry Elkins Widener! Dulcie closed her eyes in relief. She’d give it a few more minutes and then—
But the footsteps had stopped. She’d been following the soft pad of the shoes, hoping to hear them fade away, but they hadn’t. They’d simply stopped, and she could too easily picture someone – a shadow – standing there, waiting. Either he’d figured out her ploy, or he was smart enough to know that no matter how she ran, he had her trapped. She was in a corner of the stacks, up against the outside wall. He stood between her and both the elevators and the stairwells. He was fast, and he had a knife. Dulcie took a deep breath. Smarts were what were called for here. Smarts – and a little help.
Where was her cell phone? She tried to envision it, to picture whether it had been taken from her bag or fallen to the floor. If it was still in the small inside pocket of her bag, she could reach in and flick it on. Sure, she’d be breaking library rules. But assault with a deadly weapon was against library policy, too.
Slowly as she could, she slid her right arm up the side of the bag. Smoothly as she could, she slid her hand inside, feeling for the telltale lump – and jumped when the metal phone hit the floor. It clattered once, but by instinct she’d reached for it, and that was enough. The lights flashed on with a buzz and the footsteps came running.
There was nothing for it. Dulcie shoved the cart back up the aisle in front of her and took off. The footsteps were catching up, on the other end of the stacks, between her and the elevators; between her and the emergency stairs. She’d have to cut through at some point. Dulcie started counting. How many aisles on Level A? Would he be able to pin her against one of the walls? Lights blazed on as she ran, each step marking her trail for her attacker. Could she outpace him?
‘Damn!’ She caught up short. In front of her was a wire cage – ‘Elizabethan Texts. Special Permission Only’. She’d outraced her century, and looked around for a way out. Behind her all was lit up. To her right was the wall. To her left, somewhere, her attacker waited. Dare she double back? She turned. Eight aisles back, a light flickered out, then another. Her every movement was being tracked. She’d run into a corner. She was trapped.
Was that him? She saw a movement, six aisles back. Something low to the ground – a foot? A shadow? She heard the footsteps again, getting closer. There! No, it came from this end. A rat? Here, in Widener? Suddenly, a dark aisle lit up, and then another, and another. A small grey shape was dashing down the aisle away from Dulcie, darting into every stack as she herself had done to ignite the lights. It was Mr Grey, emblazoning the entire floor. She heard the human footsteps pause and stop. She heard them start to run – away from her, toward the light, toward the fleet figure of her phantom pet.