Crosstalk (36 page)

No,
she thought, still feeling the sensation of his hands on her waist. “Yes,” she said. “Where's the TA?”

“Still up in the stacks,” C.B. said. “Sexting his girlfriend.” He listened a moment. “Nope, I was wrong. Sexting his
other
girlfriend. I told you, it's—”

“A cesspool in there,” she said. “I know. What about the lost phone?”

“Whoever lost it hasn't noticed it yet, so we're good—” He raised his head suddenly, listening.

“What is it?” Briddey whispered. “Is the birthday party over?”

He didn't answer.

“C.B.?”

“What?” he asked, coming back from wherever he'd been. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, ‘Is the party over?' ”

“You could say that, yeah,” he muttered. He reached for the flashlight. “They're still down there, but the librarians are starting to have ‘I really should be getting home'–type thoughts,” and he must have heard her thinking of the possible telltale light from the flashlight because he said, “I need to go lay something up against the door.”

“Okay,” she said, and got down off the table.

“No, you stay here. One person's less likely to knock something over than two.”

“Do you need your jacket back?”

“No, I can take this off,” he said, pointing to the plaid flannel shirt he wore over his T-shirt. “I'll be right back.”
And I'll be right here with you,
he added silently.

Thank you,
she said. And it wasn't as if he'd left her in the dark. She could still see the wavering flashlight beam as he made his way to the door, and make out stacked chairs and cartons and the disapproving glare of George Washington.

And if you can see it, so can the librarian,
he said, and she could hear the muffled sounds of him taking off his flannel shirt and jamming it into the space under the door.

Can you tell if the party's breaking up?
she asked.

He didn't answer for a long minute, and then said,
Yeah. Some of them are coming back up here to get their coats and purses.

What about Marian?

No, she's cleaning up after everybody—and not very happy about it.

Good,
Briddey thought. That meant C.B. could finish covering the space under the door with his shirt and come back here. But he didn't, and Briddey didn't dare call to him again for fear the librarian had finished cleaning up, and he was trying to determine her whereabouts now.

He was right. People didn't necessarily think about where they were or where they were going, especially if they were on familiar ground. Their movements were automatic, like C.B. had said erecting her perimeter needed to be, and he probably had to really listen to catch a clue that might tell him where the librarian was.

But several minutes went by, and C.B. still hadn't said anything, nor had the beam of the flashlight moved.
C.B.?
Briddey called.
Can you hear where the librarian is?

What?
C.B. said blankly, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.
Oh. No, she's—oh, shit. She's coming right this way,
and the light went out.

The darkness was instantaneous and total—cave dark, coal-mine dark—and it caught her completely by surprise. She gasped, and grabbed automatically for C.B., but in the smothering darkness she couldn't even tell which direction he—and the door—lay in.

And her mind hadn't acclimated to the voices. Her perimeter and the library's books and C.B.'s distracting chatter about Victorian novels and the Ark of the Covenant and sex hadn't been protecting her from them. They'd merely been biding their time, waiting for her to let her guard down, to let go of C.B., to be alone again. In the dark.

“They often came without my calling, but sometimes they did not come. I would pray to God to send them.”

—J
OAN
OF
A
RC

It was the theater all over again, only much, much worse because she couldn't see anything. And C.B. couldn't come to rescue her because it was too dark. He would bump into something, trying to work his way back here, and the librarian would hear him and catch them. And she mustn't move either, mustn't make a sound, even though the voices were crashing all around her in deafening waves of frustration and fear and fury.

She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from crying aloud and called,
C.B.!,
but there was no way he'd be able to hear her over the voices. They were too loud, too violent.

Your perimeter,
she thought. C.B. said if the voices came back, she should imagine her brick wall, and she tried, visualizing the red bricks, the thick gray mortar, but it was too late. The voices were already inside.

C.B.! It didn't work! What do I do now?
she called, but even if by some miracle he heard her, she wouldn't be able to hear him through the roar of the voices plunging around her, inundating her—

Don't think about them,
she told herself sternly.
Think about the marshmallows—green shamrocks, yellow stars. And songs.
But she couldn't remember the words to the theme from
Gilligan's Island,
and C.B.'s Victorian novels were up in the stacks.

She was all alone with the voices, and they were dragging her under, into the drowning darkness. She was going down.
C.B.!
she gasped, choking, swallowing water.

And he was suddenly there, reaching for her, saying,
Jesus, I am so sorry!,
ordering her to give him her hand. But she had already flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck like a shipwreck victim grabbing for a spar floating past.

Where
were
you?
she sobbed.
I couldn't hear you, and the light went out and the voices—

I know. I am
so
sorry. Marian the Librarian was right outside, almost to the door, and I was afraid she'd see the light under it—

Don't leave me again!
she cried, tightening her arms around his neck.

I won't, I promise.
And his arms went around her, enfolding her, shutting out the voices, the darkness, shutting out everything but his lips against her hair, his voice in her head saying,
I'm here, I'm here. Shh, it's all right.

She was holding onto him so tightly, she was practically choking him, and she knew she should let go, but she couldn't. The voices would come back, they'd—

Hang on as long as you need to,
C.B. said.
We can't leave for a little while anyway. Marian's still making the rounds. She's checking the bathrooms. I'll spare you her thoughts on the subject of the men's room. Now she's checking the Reading Room. She's really mad about having to lock up again. It's the third time this week. Why is she always the one? Because she's a pushover, that's why…

Briddey knew full well C.B. was doing the running commentary to distract her, just like he'd done in the theater with the Lucky Charms, but she didn't care, so long as his arms were around her and his voice was in her head.

She's getting her coat and purse out of her office,
C.B. said.
Now she's going downstairs…she's locking the front door…
A long pause, and then he said aloud, “I think she's in her car. I just heard, ‘big pileup on the southbound interstate,' which means she's listening to her car radio. And now she's wondering why she has to sit at a red light for hours when there's no traffic coming either way. Definitely out of here and on her way home. We can go.” Which meant she needed to let go of him.

“Not if you don't feel ready,” he said gently, and she was suddenly very conscious of her body, pressed against his.

“I'm fine,” she said, taking her arms from around his neck and stepping back. “Thank you.”

“You're sure you're okay?”

“Yes,” she said.
No.
The voices—

He grabbed her hand. “Now?”

She nodded.

“Good, then let's go.” He made his way through the darkness and the maze of furniture to the front, bent to get his flannel shirt, grabbed the flashlight, and opened the door.

The corridor was dark, lit only by the red exit sign at the end, and it had an echoing, empty quality that was reassuring, but Briddey hung back.
Are you sure there's not a security guard?
she asked.

“Positive,” he said aloud. “Those budget cuts, remember? And besides, I can read minds. Everyone's gone,” but he must have been worried, too, because he shut the door soundlessly behind them and didn't turn on the flashlight.

The lost phone,
Briddey thought as he hurried her back down the corridor.
He's afraid somebody will remember where they left it and come back for it.

They can't,
he said,
unless it's Marian's. She's the only one here tonight with keys to the building.
But he didn't slacken his pace.

Where are we going?
she wondered as he led her soundlessly into a staircase and down a floor, but he didn't answer.
The staff lounge,
she thought, and sure enough, he stopped at a door marked
WORKROOM
, opened it, and switched on the light.

The lounge wasn't much larger than the storage closet and about as crowded. They'd crammed a half dozen plastic chairs, a sagging bile-green couch, a counter with a sink and cupboards, a refrigerator, and a microwave into it. And a large table with a half-eaten pink-and-white sheet cake on it, which must be from the birthday party earlier. The librarian needn't have worried. There was tons of it left.

C.B. walked to the counter, set down the flashlight, and shrugged on his flannel shirt. Then he opened the cupboard, lifted up a can of coffee, took a key from under it, shut the cupboard, picked up the flashlight, and came back over to Briddey. “Come on,” he said, switching off the lights, and they set off again.

So not the staff lounge.
The Reading Room?
she thought, but they were going the wrong direction. And C.B. had said the stacks were too cold. Then where?

C.B. still didn't answer. He led her down yet another hallway, stopping finally in front of a door marked
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
. It opened onto a flight of stairs leading up, this one much narrower than the others. He shut the door quietly behind them, switched on the flashlight, and led her up the stairs.

At the top was a metal door marked
NO ADMITTANCE
. C.B. handed Briddey the flashlight.
Shine this on the lock,
he said, unlocked the door with the key he'd taken from under the coffee can, and opened the door.

Inside was another staircase, and at the top of it, another door.
What will this one say?
Briddey wondered.
“Keep Out. This Means You. I Mean It”?

But it was unmarked and unlocked. And pitch-black inside when he opened the door. He pulled her in and shut the door behind them. “I just need to find the light switch,” he said. “Will you be okay if I let go of your hand for a second?”

“Yes.”

He dropped her hand, and she heard him pat around as if for a wall switch, then stumble against something.
Shit,
he said, followed by a whack as he bumped into something else.

I hope it's not another storage closet,
she thought.

“It's not,” he said, sounding amused, and he must have found the switch because the room sprang into brightness.

Briddey's mouth fell open. She was standing in an elegant, book-lined room with a polished wooden floor and a ceramic-tiled fireplace at the far end, and, drawn up cozily to it, a sofa and two red leather wing chairs. At this end was a many-drawered wooden card file like the one in the storage closet with a bust of Shakespeare on it and an old-fashioned oak library table and chairs; and, against the far wall, a chest-high wooden desk piled with books.

“Wh-what…how…?” she stammered, looking around in amazement at the rows of books and the Tiffany stained-glass lamps. “Where
are
we?”

“The library,” C.B. said, lighting the lamps next to the sofa and on the table between the wing chairs.

“But I thought you said there were budget cuts,” she said, taking in the ornate fireplace, the Persian rugs, and the rich-looking cashmere throw on the back of the sofa.

“There were,” C.B. said, going over to the counter and reaching behind it for an old-fashioned brass key. He went back to the door, inserted the key in the old-fashioned doorplate, and locked it, and then switched off the overhead light, so the room was lit only by the Tiffany lamps. “But not in 1928, which is when the library looked like this, and when Arthur Tellman Ross was a freshman.”

“Who's Arthur Tellman Ross?”

“Him.” He pointed at a portrait of an elderly, stern-looking man. “And this is the Arthur Tellman Ross Memorial Room, though the librarians all call it the Inner Sanctum.
I
call it the Carnegie Room because that's what it looks like—those great old Carnegie libraries. Or the library in
The Music Man.
”

“But what's it doing here?”

“Long story, which I'll tell you later.” He went over to the table and switched on the green-shaded brass reading lamp that stood in its center. It cast a pool of light over the table and on the books on the shelves behind it, turning their blue and green and red bindings to jewel tones.

“It's beautiful,” Briddey said.

“And invasion-proof. There aren't any windows; the door locks from the inside; it's solid oak, so nobody can hear us in here; and they don't have any idea I even know about this place—and anyway, they've all gone home.”

And we're safe from the voices,
Briddey thought, looking around at the book-lined walls. Even though she knew it was the readers' thoughts and not the books that screened them, she felt even safer here than she had in the Reading Room.

Which was ridiculous. They had no business being here. They could be arrested at any moment, and even if they weren't caught, there'd be hell to pay tomorrow with Trent over her having left him at the theater. She had no idea what she was going to tell him—or Maeve—but it didn't matter. So long as she was here in this lovely, lighted space, she was safe from everything, even the voices.

“But we can't stay here forever, unfortunately,” C.B. said. “Which is why we need to build you a panic room.” He pulled a chair out from the library table. “Sit down.”

She did, and C.B. went around to the other side, pulled out the chair across from her, and sat down. “The process is pretty much like the one we used to put up your perimeter,” he said. “Only this time we're not building a wall, we're building a room. You know what a panic room is, don't you?”

“One of those lead-lined rooms where you hide if intruders break into your house, like in that Jodie Foster movie a few years ago.”

“Yes, only safer than that,” C.B. said, “and better acted. And it doesn't have to look like the inside of a bomb shelter. In fact, it shouldn't. I can't imagine anybody feeling particularly safe inside a bomb shelter, since the only reason you'd be in there is that nuclear war was about to break out. And the only reason you'd be in a panic room is that somebody was breaking into your apartment—hardly conditions for feeling safe. So ‘panic room' probably isn't the right term. Think ‘safe room' instead, or ‘sanctuary.' A place where you can feel warm and protected.”

Like I do here with C.B.,
she thought.

“Yeah, well, I may not always be around,” he said. “As you found out in the storage closet.”