Play dead

EIGHTEEN

They came from Scranton and Wilkes-Barre, from York and State College and Erie, from points south, west, east, north. They came with the intention of making it big, with the intention of disappearing completely, or with no intention at all. Except, perhaps, finding the love they both ran from and sought. They came with paperbacks and Diet Cokes in hand, with mini Bic lighters in the small change pockets of their jeans, with mysterious female treasures tucked into the folds of their backpacks and purses, raw materials unseen and perplexing to even the brightest of the male species. They got on their buses and trains in Cleveland and Pittsburgh and Youngstown, in Indianapolis and Newark. They hitched rides from Baltimore and D.C. and Richmond. They smelled of the road. They smelled of Daddy and cigarettes and cheap food and even cheaper perfume. They smelled of hunger. Of desire.

They had so many styles-from Goth to grunge, from Barbie to baby doll-yet they seemed to have just one heart, one thing that united them in their differences. They all needed tending. They all needed loving care.

Some, of course, more than others.

Joseph Swann sat near the periodicals room of the main branch of the Free Library. There were fifty-four branches citywide, but Swann preferred the main branch for its size, for the way it diminished a patron by proportion. He preferred it for its choice.

The library also attracted runaways. It was indeed a free space, and in summer the air-conditioning was splendidly cool. Along the parkway, from City Hall to the art museum, they could often be seen blending in with students and tourists. Locals rarely walked the sidewalks here, along Benjamin Franklin Parkway, a wide tree-lined boulevard fashioned after the Champs-Elysees in Paris. In summer it was packed with sightseers.

Swann was one of the Philadelphians who did come here often. In addition to the library he also frequented the Rodin Museum, the Franklin Institute, the steps of the art museum, which reminded him of the Scalinata della Trinita dei Monti, the Spanish Steps in Rome. Here, as there, people lunched on the steps, lingered, romanced, photographed.

But for the night children, the Free Library was a place to spend a few quiet hours. As long as you were relatively quiet, and you looked to be studying or researching something, you were left alone.

And it was for this reason that Swann was rarely unaccompanied in his quest, regardless of the venue. There were others, so many others, he had seen over the years. Men who came for their own dark purposes. Men who lingered too long near restrooms and fast-food restaurants located near middle schools. Men who parked on suburban streets, maps deceptively in hand for cover, side and rearview mirrors adjusted toward sidewalks and playgrounds.

There, right now, stood just such a man. He was younger than Swann, perhaps in his late twenties. He had long, thin hair pulled back into a ponytail, tucked into his shirt. Swann pegged the man by the cant of his lascivious leer, the angle of his hips, the nervous fingers. He was covertly watching a girl at one of the catalog computers. The girl was adorable in her matching pink T-shirt and jeans, but she was far too young. The man may have thought he was invisible to others, especially to the girls themselves, but not to Joseph Swann. Swann could smell the repulsiveness of his soul from across the room. He wanted to put the man in the world of a particularly gruesome illusion called Strobika, a deliciously shocking effect that involved sharpened spikes and Swann calmed himself. There was no time, nor need, for anything of the sort.

This man was nothing like him. This man was a predator, a pederast, a criminal. Few things made Swann angrier.

Over the months, as his mind fit these pieces into his puzzle, he had often wondered about the fates of those he had not chosen, those completely unaware just how close they had come to becoming part of his riddle. How close they had come to becoming part of history.

Given his needs, the selection process was easier than one might think. Often, a single stroll through the library's computer center, where patrons could sign on to the Internet, produced interesting results. One glance at what someone was looking at on the Web told him much about the person. If he followed, and was pressed for a topic, he could recall the subject of their search and weave it into conversation. It rarely failed to engage.

Swann glanced at his watch, then across the room, toward the magazine racks. Sunlight suddenly streamed through the windows, and he saw her. A new maiden, slouching in the corner armchair. His heart skipped a beat.

This one was about seventeen or so. She had coal black hair. She was Asian-American, perhaps of Japanese descent. She had the slightest overbite, her two front teeth resting on her lower lip as she twirled a strand of hair, deep in concentration on her periodical, biting gently down as the possibilities swirled, all the choices presented to one so young.

He watched her as she idly flipped through the pages. Every so often she glanced at the doorways, out the windows; watching, waiting, hoping. Her fingernails were raw and red. Her hair was three days or more from a shampoo.

At just after 9:20-Swann checked his watch again, these moments were valued in his memory-she put down the magazine, picked up another, then gazed across the room, a downy longing to which Swann instantly responded.

The girl rose from her table, returned the magazine to its rack, traversed the room, the lobby, and stepped onto Vine Street, her nutmeg skin aglow in the Philadelphia summer morning. She believed she had nowhere to go, it seemed, no destination known.

Joseph Swann knew differently.

He had just the place.