Part 6 (1/2)

The black shape comes closer and melts into a man. Both boys watch him and fall silent. Jack raises his gun, takes careful aim, and squeezes the trigger as ”Crack!” pops from his mouth.

The man tumbles to the ground.

Jack utters a low, almost whispered, laugh.

”Got him.” Jack rises to a crouch and starts toward the p.r.o.ne body. ”C'mon!”

Gabe swallows hard and follows, crouching like his friend.

The man lays in an awkward, spread-eagled pose. One arm splays above his head while the other is folded across his chest. His hand clutches at his long, grey coat. Blood smears his fingers.

”Jack...”

The man's eyes dart between both boys. He opens his mouth. ”Meine Frau und Kinder. Sorgfalt fur sie, bitte...”

”German. I told you so,” Jack taunts. He raises his gun and ”Pow!” fires at the man's head.

In the distance, the sound of straining diesel engines and the clank of tank treads echo through the fog. Jack and Gabe exchange a look.

”We better find cover,” Jack says. He runs for the ditch.

Gabe is frozen. He looks down at the dead man, staring at the empty eyes.

”C'mon, dummy!” Jack calls.

”You're an a.s.shole, Jack...” Gabe lowers his head and sprints after his friend, muttering under his breath.

Chapter 31: Sometimes They Don't Come Back.

Sometimes they come back on time. We sort them, plop them in place on the cart, and s.h.i.+p them back to the shelves to be handled and picked over. But too often, they're overdue. Occasionally they show up with a handful of coins. No note. No ”sorry”. Others never pay their fines; we just find the books in the outside bin.

After they've been gone for a long time, the pages are usually creased and wrinkled, the corners bent-even on st.u.r.dy, library bound specimens, and all too often they have water damage. But I like to use the phrase ”liquid damage” because you can never be too sure what caused those stains, especially when they're discolored or dark.

The stains bother me. Total lack of respect.

Once, a young woman with fresh st.i.tches and a black eye brought a self-help book back with some of those dark stains. She handed it to me, offered a weak grin, and shuffled out without a word. The book was only overdue by two days. She never paid the fine.

Sometimes the books come back, but sometimes they don't.

So yes, we look. We search. We make every effort to find our missing books. I've scoured abandoned houses, located volumes tucked in furniture at Goodwill, and tracked down a particularly valuable copy of Alice in Wonderland in a bowling alley bathroom. A few years ago, I found a few volumes of d.i.c.kens, torn into strips and shreds and stuffed into a dog kennel behind old man Bernard's place. He had used early ill.u.s.trated copies of David Copperfield and Great Expectations with a gilt pressed covers for dog bedding, and he only raised mutts.

Some of those volumes are so battered and stained, even destroyed, recovery becomes a symbolic act.

But even worse than the stains, even those dark smudges which just might be human blood, is when I can't find the books at all. Sometimes they disappear without any trail, and those...those are the ones that really bother me.

Chapter 32: The Thing about a Haunting.

Some people swore that the house was haunted. Because of this, the children were afraid. Their father requested a haul-away dumpster, bringing his sledgehammer and pry bar, gloves and safety goggles. With these tools and free weekend hours, he aimed at the heart of the myth. It was a tiny house, after all, and they wanted the land more than the building.

The man grunted under the work, cut his knuckles, coughed mouthfuls of dust and splinters and stale air. Sweat cut channels down his face. He wrenched doors from their frames, shattered the remnants of windows, and pried siding from the walls. The dumpster filled once, and the service brought an empty one.

”Don't you want some help?” his wife asked.

He studied the cuts and calluses on his hands. ”No,” he said. ”I'm fine. It's good to work again. To really work with my hands.”

The sledgehammer broke bedrooms into fragments. Blonde splinters rained down. Gypsum powder clouded his goggles as he worked, fine and white and powdery. Voices echoed. People lived there, once. The walls whispered s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversations. The floorboards squeaked and groaned with the memory of footsteps. The man heard only his ragged suck of breath and the work prodded rattle of his heart. His bones shook with the work; his muscles sagged like lumps of baker-stretched-dough.

Even a small house bares its teeth and fights when it must.

The man cried as he worked. Big, barbaric tears.

The house surrendered in the afternoon, and the man knelt on the packed earth amidst the ruins, head bowed, and his skin soaked and sticky with grime and sweat. He closed his eyes. Perhaps he prayed for the house and its former occupants and the dreams, loves, and heartaches he destroyed with metal and muscle and blood. Perhaps he merely found his breath and summoned the strength to go home, call the county to haul away another full dumpster, shower, and eat dinner with his family.