Rest In Peace (13 page)

Opening the door, Lucy went in. The first thing that struck her was the smell. A warm, musty smell of worn bindings and brittle pages, old leather and aged wood, damp wool coats and wet shoes, dust, a hint of mildew, and the strong rich smell of coffee.

The second thing she noticed were the books. Books everywhere. Shelves of books, tables of books, books stacked in corners, piled carelessly on the floor. Overstuffed chairs holding books instead of people. Books on the front counter and the rolltop desk behind it, and books on the staircase at the back of the room.

“Welcome to the eighth wonder of the world,” said a familiar voice.

Turning, Lucy saw Dakota standing beside her, balancing a stack of books in her arms.

“I've never seen anything quite like it,” Lucy agreed.

“Yes. We work very hard to maintain our reputation for clutter. Oh—Lucy, this is my dad.”

Lucy instantly saw the resemblance. Though very tall and lanky, with wire-rimmed glasses and an absentminded smile, Mr. Montana had the same red hair and blue eyes as his daughter. He welcomed her to the store, encouraged her to get some coffee, and made her promise to come back again. Then, as a telephone rang, he obligingly transferred Dakota's books, excused himself, and hurried away.

Dakota raised an eyebrow at Lucy. “He'll tell you the exact same things next time you come, so don't be offended. He never remembers anybody.”

“I like him. He seems really sweet.”

“He is, but he makes me crazy. Come on—I'll give you the grand tour.”

Dumping her coat and backpack behind the counter, Lucy followed Dakota through the rest of the shop. There were two more equally cramped rooms downstairs, and Dakota kept up a running dialogue as the two of them tried to maneuver their way around browsing customers and through tightly packed aisles.

“We try to categorize everything,” Dakota explained, pointing things out as they went. “Keep all the genres together, make things easy for customers to find. But we just don't have enough space.”

Lucy could see what she meant. Shelves bowed beneath their heavy loads, and baseboards were lined with boxes overflowing their contents.

“We're already double-shelving, so the rows are two books deep. And people hardly ever put stuff back where it belongs. So lots of titles end up in the wrong places.”

“How do you keep track of everything?” Lucy asked in amazement.

“We don't. If we ever tried to clean behind those shelves, I bet we'd find books that have been missing for years.”

The second-floor rooms, though every bit as crammed with books, were far less occupied with people. The light seemed dimmer up here; the rooms more stale and cold. There wasn't space enough for even one chair.

“What's that?” Lucy asked, pointing to a door with a KEEP OUT sign.

“Oh, that goes to the attic. We have a little office up there, but mostly it's just more books.”

“Impossible.”

“My mom keeps talking about moving to a bigger place. A newer store.” Tilting her head, Dakota straightened the lopsided sign. “My dad keeps holding out for character and atmosphere.”

“Do they both work here?”

“My dad, full-time. He's a writer, so this is perfect for him when business is slow. My mom's an artist. In fact you probably passed her gallery on your way. It's about five doors down.”

Lucy was impressed. “It must be great to have such a creative family.”

“Not if you're the only one who's not creative.”

“Come on, I don't believe that.”

“It's true. My sister's an awesome photographer; my brother's in a rock band and writes his own music. I'm the middle sibling who got
completely
passed over when it came to talent.”

“There must be something you like. Something you're passionate about.”

Dakota nodded. One corner of her mouth tugged down, and her pale eyes narrowed in thought.

“There is something,” she admitted.

“Well, tell me. What is it?”

“You'll think I'm strange.” Dakota hesitated, then sighed. “But then, of course, I
am
a bit strange, so you would be right.”

Lucy couldn't help smiling. “Just tell me.”

“In here.”

Abruptly the girl turned and led Lucy into the last of the upstairs rooms. This room was easily the smallest of them all, with an odd configuration of shelving much like a maze, reaching from floor to ceiling and completely obscuring the windows, with unexpected turns and dead ends, and no rhyme or reason whatsoever.

“This is my favorite place,” Dakota said quietly. “This is my passion.”

She leaned against the door frame as Lucy took a cautious step into the room. For several long minutes Lucy was silent, her eyes sweeping back and forth over the hundreds of titles around her.

“Do all these deal with the supernatural?” Lucy finally asked. A tiny chill crept through her, raising goose bumps on her arms.

“Some people call it supernatural. Some call it real.”

“What do
you
call it?”

Dakota moved slowly into the room. Her expression was thoughtful as she ran one hand along a row of old books.

“Lucy, there are just so many things out there that can't be explained or understood—not by our limited human perceptions, anyway. But those things still exist. They still happen. People are still affected by them . . . destinies are still controlled by them.”

“Is that what you believe, then—that our destinies are predetermined?”

“I believe in everything.” A thin smile flitted over Dakota's face. “But the question is . . . what do
you
believe in?”

“I . . . I guess I never thought about it.”

“Witches? Zombies? Ghosts?”

Lucy pretended to be studying some titles. Adamantly she shook her head. “I really don't know much about any of that stuff.”

“But you must have wondered about
something
in your life, right? Hasn't anything ever happened to you that was just too bizarre for this world?”

Lucy's eyes shot to the girl's face. “Why would you say that?”

“Vampires? Werewolves? Spells and curses? Just because you can't see what's in front of you doesn't mean it's not there.”

The chill spread to Lucy's heart. She was wearing warm clothes, but she was beginning to shiver.

“No,” she heard herself say. “No, I guess nothing like that's ever happened to me.”

“Oh, well.” Dakota seemed totally comfortable with Lucy's reaction. “I warned you, you'd think I'm strange.”

“I don't. I don't think that.”

“This is the problem I face with my particular passion, you see. It doesn't involve any sort of creative talent, and I happen to be the only one who believes in it.”

Still stunned by Dakota's revelations, Lucy watched her leave the room.
Tell her. Tell her the truth. Maybe she'll believe you. Maybe she'll have some insights
. . .
maybe she'll know how to help
. But Lucy couldn't say a word. Instead she could only stand there, trapped in a curious web of longing and denial.

“Lucy, are you coming?” Dakota was poised in the doorway, watching her. “I guess we've put off studying long enough.”

The two went back downstairs. Dakota cleared off a lumpy, well-worn couch by the front window while Lucy poured each of them a cup of strong coffee from the pot on the counter. Then the girls settled themselves at opposite ends of the sofa, with their notes and textbooks spread out between them.

Somewhere between lists of required book reports and unsolvable math problems, Lucy's attention began to wander. From time to time, she caught herself glancing over at Mr. Montana scribbling at his desk, or at the big round wall clock creeping interminably toward nine, or at Dakota's head bent low over yet another school project. The shop was practically empty now. Through the half-fogged window, she had a clear view of the courtyard beyond.

“You're drifting,” Dakota mumbled, without looking up. “Only two more pages, I promise. Pay attention.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't be. It's incredibly boring.”

Amused, Lucy tried her hardest to focus on the subject at hand. Dakota kept up a monotonous translation of French verbs. The bookstore was quiet now, and despite her megadose of caffeine, Lucy could feel herself getting drowsy. Her eyelids were heavy. With a halfhearted effort, she forced them open again and stared sleepily out the window.

Night lay deep within the courtyard walls. Like diminutive candle flames, the fairy lights glimmered softly through the shadows. The shadows where someone stood watching.

His face was near the glass.

Staring in at her.

And he looked just as she remembered, just as he had the last time she'd seen him, except for the bloodless pallor of his skin and his blank, hollow eyes.

“Oh God . . .”

She felt herself trying to stand. Trying to rise from the couch, trying to hold herself up and lean forward on shaky, unsteady legs . . .

“Lucy?” Dakota broke off in the middle of a sentence, looking up at her with a quizzical frown. “Lucy, what is it?”

And Lucy's voice trembled out, no more than a whisper.

“It's Byron.”

17

“
What?
”

The book fell from Dakota's hands. As she jumped off the couch and reached out for Lucy, her eyes shot straight to the window.

“
What! Where?
”

But Lucy didn't hear. She was frozen helplessly in place, unaware of anything now but a misty pane of glass and shimmering pinpricks of light and a blanket of nighttime shadows in the courtyard just outside . . .

The deserted courtyard outside.

“I—” From some dreamlike place, she felt Dakota trying to pull her down again. “Didn't you see him?”

“Lucy, there's nobody out there.”

“No, there
is
.
Was!
I
saw
him!”

“Lucy?” Dakota tugged at her again. “Come on, sit down. Let me get you some fresh coffee.”

But Lucy brushed her aside and ran for the door. Ignoring a startled glance from Mr. Montana, she hurried out to make a hasty search of the courtyard. A raw breeze swept down the alley, stinging through her clothes. It snaked through the wind chimes and played a macabre melody.

“Byron?” Lucy called.

Yet she'd seen someone there.

She'd seen
Byron
there.

Lucy rushed from the courtyard and back out through the alley. She looked frantically in every direction, but the shops were all closed, as still and deserted as the sidewalks.

And then she saw him.

He was at least fifty feet ahead of her, head bowed, walking rapidly toward the corner. She could see his dark hair blowing wild across his shoulders, and the long, easy stride of his legs . . .

“Byron!”

Before she even realized it, she was following him, racing along the pavement, oblivious to the cold.

He was turning the corner now.

For one split second Lucy saw him hesitate, as though he might look back at her. He seemed to be listening to the pounding of her footsteps. Then he lowered his head again and disappeared.

“Byron!”

Lucy ran faster.

As she came around the corner, she could see that Byron was moving faster, as well. His shoulders were hunched against the wind, his collar turned high around his neck. He cut across a parking lot, then headed for a gap between two buildings. It was all Lucy could do to keep up.

Her breathing was ragged; her chest burned from the cold. As she entered the narrow opening, she caught a shadowy glimpse of Byron at the other end of the alley. Once more he paused, but just for an instant, before stepping out into the dim light of a streetlamp beyond.

“
Byron! Wait!
”

Lucy burst from the passageway, her heart ready to explode.

And then she stood there, staring in disbelief.

The figure had vanished.

From end to end, as far as she could see, the area was completely deserted.

“No . . . no . . . it's impossible . . .”

She seemed to be in some sort of delivery zone. To her left stood a row of identical buildings, small loading docks, and Dumpsters, obviously back entrances to shops and restaurants. To her right was a fenced-in wooded area, which she guessed to be a park. The high spiked gates were chained with a padlock; there were benches and overgrown pathways inside.

Maybe he climbed the fence. Maybe he left through the park
. Yet Lucy doubted he'd had enough time to cover that much distance before she'd come out of the alley.

She was talking about Byron as if he'd deliberately led her here. As if he'd deliberately eluded her.

She was talking about Byron as if he were still alive.

But I saw him. I
saw
him!

Lucy strained her ears through the darkness. The wind had gone still. It was so unnervingly quiet, she could hear the echo of her own heartbeat.

So quiet
. . .

Suddenly she wanted to get away from here. For the first time it dawned on her just how foolish she'd been to follow some shadowy figure into an isolated part of town. He wasn't Byron—of
course
he wasn't Byron! And now he could be anywhere—
close
to her—
watching
her. The one in the cave . . . the one in her nightmares . . . the one nobody ever believed existed . . .