empty.
Marybeth took a deep breath and walked from one side of the building to the other, methodically checking each aisle of shelves for the owner of the vehicle outside. She speculated that perhaps the driver wasn’t even in the library-that he or she had simply parked his or her car in a public lot and walked elsewhere or was picked up. It seemed unlikely, though, since there were no retail stores open in the neighborhood and the Stockman’s Bar was four blocks away, with plenty of parking available on the street.
There was no one in the aisles.
As she walked back up to the front counter, she defied her inner librarian and called out, “Is anybody still in the library? I’m ready to turn out the lights and lock up.” Her voice sounded weak to her. “Hello? Is anyone here?”
From the front of the building, she heard a man clear his throat.
She froze for a moment, squeezing hard on both the phone and the pepper spray. At least she thought she’d heard a man. But it might be that damned boiler…
He stood at the checkout counter with his back to her as she approached. The man was tall, with light hair, wide shoulders, and long legs. He wore a heavy brown suede leather jacket that looked expensive.
“May I help you?” she asked. “We need to close up the building.”
The man swiveled his head toward her, and she instantly felt a chill. He was pale, with sharp, close-set blue eyes and high cheekbones that looked sculpted. What was striking about him were his full red lips. His mouth was set in a slight, bemused smile.
“I think you can,” he said softly. There was a twinge of a Southern accent. He held up a stack of three or four books.
She bustled around the end of the counter, putting it between them. She felt his eyes on her as she casually moved the hand with the pepper spray behind her back. As she bent over to sit in her chair and slid close to the counter, she placed the phone on her desk and the spray can on her lap where he wouldn’t be able to see it. She tried not to appear rattled.
“I’d like to check these out,” he said. “But I can’t seem to find my library card.”
“I can’t issue you a new one right now,” she said, “but we can have it done tomorrow for a five-dollar replacement fee.”
“Five dollars?” he asked, amused. “That’s just highway robbery.”
She looked up at him. He seemed to be playing with her, and she tried to make him know she wasn’t entertained. “You can check out the books with a temporary voucher, provided you’re a county resident. But you’ll need to find your card or get a new one as soon as possible.”
“Or what happens to me?” he asked, smiling with his mouth.
“What happens to you?” she repeated.
“Yeah. Do I get thrown in jail? Does the sheriff come to my house and lock me up?”
She felt the hairs prick up on the back of her neck and her forearms as she said, “No. You can’t check out any more books.”
“What if these are the only books I’ll ever need? Then what?”
She looked back at him, exasperated. “I really don’t have time for this,” she said. “We need to close the library.”
She reached out for the three books, and he handed them to her. As she took them, he kept a grip on them for a second, then released. His smile never wavered.
“Please,” she said.
She quickly scanned them. The Art of War by Sun Tzu, The Looming Tower by Lawrence Wright, and Falconry and Hawking by Phillip Glasier. She paused before she scanned the last book.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No.”
She’d seen a copy of the book before. Nate had given it to her daughter Sheridan when she first showed interest in becoming an apprentice.
“It’s kind of dated,” he said, “but the basic foundation hasn’t changed for thousands of years. So how dated can it really be?”
“I have no idea,” she said, scanning the book. She had trouble meeting his eyes again. How could that book be a coincidence? She turned to the side to face her computer monitor.
“What’s your name, please?” she asked, calling up the database of county residents who had library cards.
“Bob White,” he said, chuckling. “Just like the bird.”
She entered the name. “There’s a Randall White and an Irene White but no Bob. Do you go by Randall?”
“I’m surprised,” he said, but his tone wasn’t. He said, “There must be some kind of mistake.”
She turned back to him and shrugged.
“Maybe you can try again,” he said. “Maybe you entered the wrong name.”
“I don’t think I did.”
“Try it again,” he said. “Just for grins.”
She didn’t want to but had no good reason to refuse other than reluctance to turn her back on him again. But if it would move things along and get him out of there…
While she tapped the keys he said, “So where is your husband these days? Still out investigating?” The last word simmered with sarcasm and she mistyped “W-h-i-t-e” and had to delete and rekey. It wasn’t unusual for patrons to ask about Joe. The location of the game warden was valuable information in a hunting and fishing community. But the question was tinged with malice, and was too familiar from someone she’d never met.
“No, he’s on his way here now,” she lied.
“He is, is he?” he chuckled. He obviously didn’t believe her, and she felt her neck flush.
Then: “What about your kids? Are they home?”
A chill rolled through her. She couldn’t type. She swiveled in her chair and stared at him.
“Why are you asking about my family?” she whispered.
“I guess I’m just neighborly. I’m a neighborly guy.”
“You need to leave,” she said, dropping her right hand below the counter and gripping the pepper spray. “You have no idea who you’re talking to. You do not talk about my family,” she said, her eyes flashing.
“Who are you?” she asked, terrified that she already knew.
“Bob White. Like the bird. I already told you that.”
“I could call nine-one-one right now,” she said.
He nodded. “Yes, you could, Marybeth. And we could both wait here in embarrassed silence until they arrived.”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. When he used her name, she felt as if she’d been slapped.
“Your name tag,” he said, gesturing toward her breast.
She felt her face flush.
“What I’m really interested in,” he said, leaning forward on the counter so his face was two feet away, “is falconry. They call it the sport of kings, you know. It’s an ancient art with almost religious overtones.” He tapped the book as he talked. “I understand you’re acquainted with a master falconer. I’d love to talk with him and, you know, pick his brain.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
He shook his head slightly, as if disappointed.
“Please,” she said, her mouth trembling. “Just leave.”
A low hum suddenly came from the breast pocket of his leather jacket, and she saw a split-second look of irritation in his eyes. He rose off the counter and pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the caller ID.
He stepped back away from the counter until he was in an aisle of shelving. Close enough to keep an eye on her but far enough not to be overheard. Or so he thought. Due to the strange acoustics in the building, she could clearly hear him when he raised the phone to his mouth and said, “Yes?”
Beneath the counter, out of his view, Marybeth reached down and opened her own phone. She kept her chin
