One Book In The Grave

Chapter 22

It took us a while to pack up our things. This time I knew how the days would go, so I brought some books to read and some pretty blue yarn from China’s shop that I’d promised myself I would knit into a scarf. I included my travel set of bookbinding tools and supplies as well as Beauty. I would need some distractions to get me through the long days without Derek. Since he and Gabriel would be out there shadowing Solomon, I knew I would need plenty of work to fill up my time.

We planned our next moves carefully. If anyone had been watching my apartment building, all they would have seen was me in my nondescript Prius, leaving my garage somewhere around ten o’clock that night, ostensibly for a pizza-and-ice cream run.

Two hours earlier, they also might have seen Derek and Gabriel driving off in their own much-flashier cars, looking for all the world as though they were going off to their respective offices or homes.

In reality, Gabriel headed for Dharma to set things up at the house we’d be staying in. Derek, on the other hand, took a scenic drive around the city, in and out of different neighborhoods and up and down the steepest hills he could find. When he was certain he hadn’t been followed, he doubled back toward my place, parked a few blocks away, and stealthily made his way into my building.

Emily’s car remained in my security garage. Derek snuck back out to get his car while the rest of us exited my building out the back. A minute later, Derek pulled up for us and drove us to Dharma.

It might’ve seemed like a lot of trouble to go through just to get out of town. But after being tracked down and discovered three times now, I was willing to make the effort.

On the way to Dharma, I called Inspector Lee to let her know I would be staying at my parents’ house for a few days. Lee had been to Dharma once before, after Abraham Karastovsky was killed, so she’d be able to find me if necessary.

The house Gabriel had arranged for us was hidden in a small canyon on the outskirts of town. It was situated at the dead end of a winding, narrow road, and I noticed that we passed very few houses on the way there.

This house wasn’t as deluxe or as high up on the mountain as my brother’s, but it was plenty big enough, clean, and well provided with food, supplies, and shelves of books. There was a wide-screen, high-definition television with every cable station known to man. The beds were freshly made, and clean towels hung in the bathrooms.

Gabriel showed us around; then Max and Emily wandered off to unpack their things. They had chosen-that is, Emily had insisted on-separate bedrooms, so that left the master bedroom for me and Derek, although Derek didn’t intend to stay here much. The living room couch was a sofa bed, so Gabriel would sleep there tonight, if he slept at all.

We walked outside. Cloud cover hid the moon and stars, so the night was as dark as pitch. Gabriel carefully pointed out where the property ended abruptly at the canyon’s sheer edge. At the bottom of the canyon was a stream and a dirt road, but there were no houses down there. He assured us we would be safe here for a few days.

I turned and studied him closely. “Tell the truth. Is this one of Guru Bob’s safe houses?”

After a pause, he said, “I plead the fifth.”

“Chicken.”

Gabriel’s lopsided grin was positively devilish, but he remained mum.

“Fine,” I said, a little huffy. “Don’t know why I bothered to ask you. I’ll pin down Guru Bob next time I see him.”

“Better him than me,” he said, still grinning.

Once more, Max and I settled into a daily routine, this time with the addition of Emily.

I had asked myself more than once, Why do I keep insisting on staying with Max? Who had appointed me guardian over the man? The answer was easy, after I’d thought about it awhile. I was the one who had found Joe’s body. I had found Max’s knife in my tire. It was my book, Beauty and the Beast, that had set everything in motion from the day Ian first called me in to restore the book.

No, it went back further. Three years ago, Beauty had played a role. Angelica-or Solomon, or someone, but I still believed it was Angelica-had decided that the book symbolized some elusive prize that, though currently unattainable, might someday be hers. So perhaps she had stolen the book from Emily in hopes of one day using it to attain that prize. Namely, Max.

It was a bizarre theory but it was the only one that worked for me. Deep down inside, I couldn’t fathom why Joe’s killers and Max’s tormentors had carried out such unspeakable acts, but their motivations didn’t matter. All I knew was that I had to take some personal responsibility for seeing that the bad guys were brought to justice. If that made me Nemesis, as Guru Bob had insisted was my role, then so be it.

So here we were in our safe, comfortable house. The three of us made polite conversation when we had to, and otherwise we avoided one another except when necessary. It was easier when Derek showed up at night or Gabriel stopped by. Then it felt like we had company and could socialize pleasantly with each other. But during the day, Emily, Max, and I moved cautiously around one another, trying not to tip the balance of the fragile bubble we’d created to protect Max and Emily.

Max and Emily spent the first two days treating each other with kid gloves, their manners painfully impeccable. Max wouldn’t leave the room without asking Emily if he could get her something or if she needed anything or if she was comfortable. She did the same to him.

The second evening, Max turned on the television, and their interaction became a major exercise in diplomacy.

“Do you like this show?”

“Oh, I don’t care.”

“No, we can watch whatever you want to watch.”

“Oh no. I’ll watch whatever you want to watch.”

Finally, I grabbed the remote and found a Law & Order we’d all seen twelve times before.

I was ready to scream. Derek had remained in the city that night, so I had no one to be honest with, no one to talk me down if I was itching to step out of line. So, naturally, I did.

“Meeting in the kitchen,” I bellowed the next morning after I’d gulped down my first cup of restorative coffee.

The sliding-glass door in the living room opened and Max walked in. “They probably heard you yelling all the way down in Glen Ellen. What’s wrong?”

“You shouldn’t be outside,” I snapped back.

“Who died and anointed you the pope?” he said.

I ignored him. “Emily, kitchen. Now.”

“I’m in the middle of something,” Emily said, poking her head out of her bedroom door across the living room. “Can’t it wait?”

I stared cockeyed at her. In the middle of something? Where did she think she was? There was nothing out here to be in the middle of. “No, it can’t wait. Sorry.”

She huffed and puffed her way across the living room and into the kitchen, then flashed me a scathing look. That’s when I realized that the sweet, docile Emily of yesteryear was now a pleasantly vague memory. I mentally cheered her on and wished Max lotsa luck. Meanwhile…

“I’m sick of us tiptoeing around each other,” I said. “It feels like we’re at some yoga peace retreat where we’re all expected to be enlightened and groovy and polite.”

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“I’m talking about the fact that I’m scared to death and I imagine both of you are, too.”

She took a breath and some of her features relaxed. I took that as a good sign.

“Max,” I continued, “you’re a guy, so you’re putting up a manly front. I get that. But, Emily, you’re acting like we’re at a garden party, having tea. And me? I’ve turned into a raving bitch.” I glanced around. “Okay, no argument there. So look. I know we haven’t seen each other in a few years, but we were friends, remember? I think we need to start working like a team. As friends. Not strangers. Not anymore. We need to stay close and be aware of things around us. We need to be our own best security system.”

“I’ve got my rifle with me at all times,” Max said.

I nodded. “I know, and I’m glad. But if someone is watching this place, if they try to attack us, they’re going to do it while Gabriel and Derek are away. So we’re basically on our own here. I think we should talk about contingencies.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” Emily said sarcastically. “May I go now?”

I was taken aback and answered her in kind. “You may kiss my butt.” But I immediately regretted it because I knew something was wrong. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said bluntly, before I could finish my sentence.

“You don’t sound fine.”

Her face wrinkled in a scowl and she said, “Bite me.”

It was so incongruous that I laughed. “Okay, you’re supposed to be the nice one. What’s going on?”

She fumed silently and went through lots of lip tightening and teeth baring. Finally she blurted, “I’m going stir-crazy! And I’m frustrated! I’m…I’m…urgh!”

Urgh? It sounded like she was growling. I had a sneaking feeling what the subtext of her words meant. I turned and looked at Max, who appeared poleaxed. But after a minute, his eyes cleared, then turned dark as he flashed Emily a dangerous scowl.

“Come with me,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her out of her chair.

“No, you come with me,” she said, and dragged him off toward the bedroom. Before they were out of the room, she hopped up into his arms and straddled him.

Oo-kay. My work here was done.

Over the next few days, I didn’t see much of them. Well, except when they would stumble out of their bedroom, rumpled and replete and hungry. One evening I baked enchiladas, then went to take a long bath. When I got back to the kitchen, there was one enchilada left, and it was the straggly, half-filled one on the end. I guess the young lovers needed to keep up their strength.

When they weren’t in their bedroom they sat close together on the couch or cuddled on the rug near the fireplace, having long, private talks. At night they would venture onto the deck and huddle in a blanket. I couldn’t hear the conversations, just the occasional giggle or sigh.

I was superfluous, except in my role as cook, dishwasher, and feeder of the cat. I couldn’t complain, though. I still had Clyde’s friendship. And it was lovely to watch Max and Emily reconnect.

It wasn’t all hearts and flowers, of course. It was slow going and there were glitches at first. I knew both of them were frustrated. Emily was occasionally tentative and Max had a tendency to brood.

Who could blame either of them? Emily explained to me that she hadn’t been with a man since Max’s “death” three years ago. She’d made every effort to move on, built a good, if quiet, life for herself. She’d been content to live alone. Now, suddenly, the man she’d loved so deeply had returned. But he’d lied to her, shown he didn’t trust her. Was it any wonder she sometimes questioned their present relationship?

And Max had lived the life of a solitary refugee for the past three years. He had survived in the shadows of society, afraid to be too friendly or gregarious in case he attracted too much attention. He’d always been a bit of a brooder, but now he was world-class.

It was so easy for me to see the big picture from the sidelines, but I tried to avoid offering advice or critiques and simply kept my mouth shut. There was a very good reason for that: namely, I was the last person on earth to give anyone relationship advice. Hello? Once engaged to a gay man? Not smart!

No, the two of them would have to stumble through this one on their own. But I was encouraged and held out hope that they would come through stronger and more in love than ever.

If we all survived the safe house, that was.

Even though I kept my mouth shut, I did keep my eyes open and focused on the “happy” couple. Not simply for safety reasons, but because they were just so fascinating and normal.

For some reason, observing the two of them interacting together reminded me of a BBC nature program I’d been hooked on years ago when I was living in London. It was called The Return of the Tit-Willows.

Out in the woods, a camera had been inserted inside a tree where the young tit-willow couple had set up residence. Viewers could observe everything the birds were doing. The original reality show, right? It was fascinating to watch, but the absolute best part of the show was the narrator. He would describe each bird’s movements as though he were doing commentary at a golf tournament, his voice hushed and extremely serious. It was gripping.

The male tit-willow approaches the nest. The female senses his arrival and readies herself. Wings flutter, feathers fly. Then…What’s this? It’s off with the boys he goes! Six weeks later, there’s the piper to pay.

LOL, as Melody Byers would say. I couldn’t get enough of those BBC nature programs.

After another long day and night, Emily and Max left their room and became sociable. We all got along well and Emily and I had some good talks, usually in the kitchen while playing flunkies to Max, our esteemed chef, who really had honed his kitchen skills.

Over dinners, Max talked about his life on the farm and Emily was enthralled. She loved hearing about the fig trees and the goats and the honeybees and the radicchio he’d grown. Loved hearing how Max had found Bucky through a dog-rescue service and how Clyde had walked into Max’s kitchen one day and adopted him.

She was amazed that Max woke up so early and worked so hard on his farm, and she was fascinated by the way he’d changed his world so drastically. She grilled him on the process he went through to become a different person. Max’s experiences became romantic and exciting when seen through her eyes.

Clyde warmed up to Emily slowly, and Emily made it clear she loved the cat. While I was thrilled to know that Clyde would be cherished by his new mistress, it was a bittersweet shot of reality for me. The time had come to decide whether to find my own little cat to love. But would another cat love me like Clyde did? It was a big chance to take and I would need to think it through very carefully.

During the day, though we’d never discussed it, Max and I had begun taking turns distracting Emily. He and I had our work to keep us busy, but we needed to find things for Emily to do. Otherwise, she would become so totally bored, she might run screaming out of the house.

That afternoon, Max taught her how to make paper. I watched, too, because while I’d learned the process long ago, I’d never taken a class from Max. He was fabulous and worth every groupie he’d ever attracted.

“It’s so disgusting,” Emily said, smashing the pestle into the large bowl that had been filled with soaking-wet newspapers and old magazines, which were beginning to turn into a mushy paste from constant beating.

“That’s the perfect consistency,” he said, sticking his finger into the gloppy gray pulp.

Emily grinned. “It might be fun to teach my students to do this.”

“They would love it,” I said. “It’s like playing with mud.”

“That’s where I learned to do it,” Max said.

“In school?”

“Second grade. My mother still has the first piece of paper I ever made, hanging on her bedroom wall.”

“Aw,” Emily said.

But I was watching Max’s expression as it fell at the mention of his mother. The poor woman still didn’t know her son was alive. I knew his mother, and I hoped his stomach was up for the punching it would receive at the hands of that woman.

That night, Gabriel and Derek arrived as usual, and we gathered around the table to hear what news they had, what they’d discovered that day, who they were tracking, the latest information from the feds on the survivalists, how the police were building the case against Solomon.

We knew Gabriel was taking one for the team by trying to date one of the Ogunite women to gain information about its members. We couldn’t wait to hear the details.

Instead Gabriel dropped a bomb.

“Solomon has disappeared,” he said.

The following morning, Gabriel and Derek both left, heavily armed, to investigate Solomon’s disappearance from his home in the Hollow. We’d come up with plenty of theories last night. Gabriel thought that Solomon might have gone into full survivalist mode and was living in some backwoods cabin in anticipation of capturing Max and dragging him there.

Max doubted Gabriel’s scenario. Solomon enjoyed creature comforts too much. He would never willingly go without plenty of good food and fine wine and a comfortable bed. I barely knew the man, but I agreed with Max.

Wherever Solomon had disappeared to, I was hopeful that Derek and Gabriel would be able to hunt him down.

Once the men left, in order to keep both Emily and me from crawling the walls, I pulled out all my bookbinding tools and set them up on the dining room table.

“I want to show you how to make an accordion book,” I said. “I think your kids will love this.”

“Let’s do it,” she said determinedly, and we sat down and got creative. It took a half hour to make the little book and Emily was delighted.

I’d used this same pattern for teaching simple bookbinding to attendees of conferences and book fairs. People loved making these miniature books. They didn’t have to know what they were doing, really, and they came away with a charming, colorful keepsake.

“That was so simple,” she said, holding her finished book in her hand. For the cover cloth, she’d chosen a modern Japanese print with shots of lavender, black, and red. A matching purple grosgrain ribbon wrapped it closed. “Even my first graders could make this.”

“Definitely.” I picked up the scraps and tossed them in the trash can. “I’ve taught kids before. And whenever I teach this class, I always pre-fold the paper and cut the ribbon and covers in advance. Makes it easier for everyone.”

“I would do that, too.” She chuckled. “They can handle the glue sticks, but first graders and scissors don’t go well together.”

“Right.” I opened another bag of supplies. “Do you want to make some more?”

“I’d love to,” she said, spreading out the pretty swatches of cloth and choosing her favorites. “I can use the practice.”

Emily caught on quickly and within the next two hours she’d made six colorful little books.

I used that time to set up a work area in my bedroom. I wanted to work on the Beauty and the Beast, but didn’t want Emily or Max to see it until after it was finished. Even though Max had given his permission, Emily had no idea I was restoring the book and I didn’t want to have that argument just yet.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to do the more intricate work of gilding the cover while I was away from my workroom and office, so I busied myself with separating the cover boards from the text block. Some threads had already frayed, and some of the signatures, or folded pages, had separated from the rest of the block. I would resew the entire text block, but first I wanted to get rid of all the loose and tattered threads.

Using my tweezers, I started at the top of the folded pages and took my time, being careful not to split the vellum. The paper wasn’t fragile, but after a hundred years or so, the threads had worn grooves in the folds, so there was a chance of tearing if I wasn’t meticulous.

After almost one hour, the threads were gone. I cautiously thumbed through the signatures to make sure I’d caught any errant strings that might have gotten loose within the pages themselves. I wasn’t very efficient because the edges were deckled, or uneven, so I began to turn each page, one by one, to check more carefully.

Halfway through the book, I came to two pages that were stuck together. I’d noticed the sticking pages before and knew I’d get to them eventually. It was common in deckled-edged books to find pages that hadn’t been completely separated after they left the bookbinder’s. But this book was so old and had been read often by children and their parents. Someone should have separated the pages long before now.

I remembered reading the book myself when I first bought it years ago. I didn’t remember missing part of the story, but maybe I hadn’t been paying attention.

I found my X-Acto knife, slipped it in between the two pages, and began to make little sawing movements along the edges. But the knife slid right through. The pages had been separated, so why were they stuck together?

I pulled gently at the ends and realized the two pages had been glued together!

My first thought was that this book had been the victim of Victorian censorship. Now I was dying to know what part of the fairy tale had been deemed too salacious to be seen by children. What juicy bits were contained in those glued pages?

I took hold of the edge of the pages in my hand and slowly, nervously pulled them apart, telling myself that if I met any resistance, I would stop. But I didn’t. With some horror, I realized after the first inch that the glue used was rubber cement. The pages were coming apart relatively easily now, but at what price?

Little by little, another inch came unglued, then another. And that was when I saw the edge of a thick piece of paper glued in between the vellum. I continued to pull, revealing more. Finally, I could see more than one piece of paper. There were three or four pages. It took another bit of pulling to slip the papers out.

It was a long, handwritten letter.

My hands were shaking. Sometime within the past three years, someone had planted this lengthy letter inside the book. It became clear who that person was as I began to read.

Dear Max.