The Book of the King (11 page)

The alley was made of brick—loose and difficult to navigate. Constance edged closer. Owen guessed it was because of the darkness and the foreboding trash bins piled high with black bags.

Constance coughed and put her arm over her face. “What's that smell? It's awful.”

It was acrid and sharp, like the first strike of a match. A wave of black smoke descended. He'd smelled this before.

“The B and B!” Constance said. “It's burning!”

The B and B had once been a thriving bed-and-breakfast where—before the hotel was built—travelers could find a clean room and a hot meal served family style. But the town expanded, the section where the B and B was located grew older, and homes and businesses there became less desirable. Crime rose, people moved away, the new hotel opened, and the B and B catered to fewer people—many of whom were trying to hide from authorities.

The place was two stories high with a gable on each of its four sides. The roof shingles that remained were dark from the sun and weather, but many had blown away. Paint peeled, and rosebushes and ivy had taken over.

Today a fire engulfed the roof, and flames shot through the gables. Fire trucks formed a T at the corner, hoses stretched through the yard, and water shot at the flames hissing and smoking. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

Escapees huddled under blankets behind one of the fire trucks. One wore a bathrobe, another was in boxer shorts, and all seemed shaken.

Owen edged closer, listening to a woman talk to a fireman. “There was just this loud sound above us as something crashed into the roof; then came the awful smell and the flames and people screaming.”

“And everyone got out?” the fireman said.

“I don't know everybody,” she said.

“There was a guy staying on the top floor in that corner,” a man said. “Came a couple of weeks ago. Haven't seen him since the explosion.”

Someone asked what caused the fire, and the fireman said, “Sounds like lightning.”

“But there was no thunder,” the woman said.

“This close,” the fireman said, “the flash and the thunder come at the same time. Hole up there looks like a classic strike.”

“Could that man still be up there?” Constance said, her small voice cutting through the din.

“We can't get in yet, young lady,” the fireman said. “That's top priority when we do.”

Owen tried to lead Constance away before anyone asked why they weren't in school.

But Constance asked the woman in the robe, “Did the man carry a big book with him?”

“Come to think of it, I did see him with a big red book under his arm the other day. He's a strange-looking bird. Didn't make a lot of eye contact.”

“And he stayed up there?” Owen said, pointing.

She nodded.

The black hole in the roof was just above his room.

Owen and Constance wandered a block to an abandoned park and sat on a rickety bench. Branches extended like the arms of a monster. Rusted playground equipment sat unused and weeds grew. The smoke from down the street turned from black to white, meaning the fire had finally been doused.

“Think he's in there?” Constance said.

Owen shrugged. “Someone didn't want him around here anymore.”

Constance swung her legs as they watched. “Your father?”

“I don't think he'd go that far.”

The rain held off, but the sky remained dark. Owen hoped the firefighters would be done soon. He decided against telling Constance about the voice.

“Ever feel like you're not supposed to be here?” Constance said. “I mean, some people are happy as clams, whatever that means. I don't know if a clam is happy at the bottom of the ocean or wherever they live. I'm happy enough, but part of me feels like I'm supposed to be somewhere else. Doing other things. Or that part of me is in another place, and I'm just hanging here, biding my time. Does that make sense?”

Owen's heart stirred. She made perfect sense. He felt that way all the time—lost though surrounded by the familiar. His life was just a long list of things to do, instead of having a purpose, instead of plugging into whatever it was that he was supposed to plug into.

They wandered back down the street and found yellow tape running around the B and B, but the fire trucks and police cars were gone and the escapees had been evacuated. The sign above the stairway tilted at an odd angle, and a pile of burned furniture and shingles lay by the stairs. The place still smoldered, and it was difficult to get a breath.

“Going in?” Constance said.

“Alone, yeah.”

“No way.”

Owen turned to her. “I need you to keep watch. Plus, there might be holes in the stairs. Anyway, you don't want to come out smelling like smoke. What would your mom say?”

She tapped her foot. “Five minutes, then I'm coming in.”

As Owen walked inside, he put a handkerchief over his nose to filter the smoky haze. The place was eerie enough without the fire damage, but with the electricity off and little light coming from outside, it was downright spooky. Water dripped from the ceiling. The firefighters had torn off the railing at the top, and there were holes in the steps. Owen tested each step, kept to the inside railing, and hugged the wall until he made it to the top.

Upstairs the floors were soaked and pieces of wood and clothing floated. Owen sloshed carefully toward the end of the hall.

Something banged.

Owen caught his breath. “Anyone here? Hello?” He pushed open the door to a bathroom and plaster fell, landing with a splat.

Finally Owen reached the man's room. The door had been torn off and lay on the floor. He stepped inside. The bed was burned to a crisp—Owen could see the springs inside the soggy mattress. The bed seemed too small for a man the size of his visitor. Owen imagined him scrunched up, knees to his chest, cradling the red book, reading it day and night.

A mirror lay broken on the black floor. Owen saw himself in the shards and looked up at a hole in the ceiling that had burned all the way through the attic and out the roof so he could see the dark sky.

He knelt carefully and looked under the bed, then lifted the mattress to see if the book might have been sandwiched between it and the box spring. The charred dresser was empty.

The more Owen studied the room, the more convinced he became that this fire had been carried out with great precision. But why? To kill the man? Why would anyone want such a humble creature dead?

The only other door in the room led to the closet, but Owen hesitated. He had to see what was inside, but he was afraid of what he might find. Could someone be waiting in there even now?

Owen slowly turned the still-warm doorknob and opened the door slowly, causing it to creak. When he had it halfway open, he peered inside, only to jump when someone spoke.

“Find anything?” Constance said.

He whirled. “It hasn't been anywhere near five minutes.”

She shrugged. “I don't have a watch and I count fast. What's in here?”

Owen found an old shoe box and a tattered coat. “I haven't seen the book or any evidence of the man.”

Constance dropped to her hands and knees near the dresser and examined it. “Sometimes there's a hidden panel in these.”

Owen rolled his eyes.

A door banged below, and heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs.

Constance and Owen locked eyes.

Every echoing footfall made Owen wonder whether it could be an officer coming for them, someone from one of their schools, or worse. Owen could hardly imagine anything worse than Constance's school realizing they had a girl missing. Owen tried to hold his breath, desperate to not be heard gasping in the burned-out room.

Had Owen been alone, he might have stayed glued to the floor. And had he been reading this story rather than living it, his eyes might not have moved past the last period of the previous chapter. But feeling responsible for Constance, and perhaps with a measure of confidence after what had happened at school, he sprang into action. He seized her hand and pulled her into the closet, leaving the door open an inch.

The footsteps reached the landing, and someone with heavy boots stepped into the room.

Owen leaned toward the opening and heard something heavy being dragged, like the chest of drawers being pulled away from the wall.

Constance drew a breath as if to speak, but Owen clamped a hand over her mouth.

Then silence.

Had they made a noise? given themselves away?

They did not have to wait long to find out and neither will you, for the closet door swept open, and through the haze and smoke and darkness, Owen found himself face-to-face with the stranger he had met at the bookstore.

Constance screamed, and Owen drew her close, assuring her it was all right and not blaming her in the least for crying out at her first glimpse of the craggy face and long gray hair and white beard. As for Owen, a feeling of peace so real he could almost taste it washed over him. Here was the man he had been looking for, and he feared him no more than he feared Constance. It was as if Owen had returned from a long trip and found himself embraced by an entire village. Had you been able to see Owen's expression at that moment, you would have seen his relief mixed with joy.

The man recognized Owen immediately, of course, but looked at Constance quizzically. Then a smile of recognition passed over his face that made Owen wonder if he somehow knew her too.

The man reached in and Constance screamed again, but he gave her what Owen could describe only as a reassuring look. He reached above them, pulled a coat from its blackened hanger, and laid it out on the floor.

“Would you mind?” he said kindly, motioning the two aside. He pulled some kind of tape off the wall, under which he found a small lever. He tripped the lever to reveal a metal door, which he opened wide.

The book!

The man cradled it in his arms, then extended a hand to Constance. “You two shouldn't be here. It's dangerous.”

Constance said, “If you avoid the holes in the floor, it's okay.”

“I'm not talking about the house,” the man said. “I mean—”

Suddenly overhead came a sound that made Owen think of a huge, thick sheet being unfurled in the sky. Or could it have been the flap of enormous wings?

“Run!” the man shouted.

Owen did not have to be told again.

As they bolted from the room and to the stairs, the man pulled Constance while clutching the book to his chest, and another gigantic flap sent a pulse through the house. The whole world seemed engulfed in a shroud of black as deep as the night. More sounds now, guttural, chewing, crunching, like bones being ground to bits.

Owen spotted a flash of red through the hole in the roof. An eye?

“Don't look!” the man yelled, grabbing Owen's collar and yanking him down the stairs.

A sharp intake of breath above, then a rattling cascade, as if someone with a mouthful of water tried to take a breath. A blast of fiery air threw Owen against the man, and they nearly tumbled down the steps. Red and orange flames burst through the hallway, engulfing the stairs and following them as they hurtled down.

The man jumped to the landing, the book in one arm and Constance in the other, as a shape moved past a broken window.

Owen crunched shards of glass underfoot as he caught sight of red eyes watching through the window.

Several more huge flaps, then a gurgling and what sounded like a howl of victory.

“Jump!” the man hollered.

Owen leaped over the banister into the darkness, and his world switched to slow motion while he churned in midair. Behind him came a
click-click-click
, as if razor blades were being struck.

Arms swinging, legs spinning, jacket swirling, Owen free-fell toward the first floor. The wall illuminated red, and Owen watched the man with Constance wrapped under his arm hit and smash through the floor, the wood cracking around them like an eggshell. The two plunged into the darkness, and Owen reached for anything that would stop him from doing the same.

The air was sucked from the room, replaced with a raging inferno. The back of his neck sizzled, and he smelled burning hair as gravity pulled him toward the hole left by the stranger and Constance.