The Book of the King (14 page)

But just as he was about to cross the street, he spied Gordan and his crew. Gordan wore a cast on his arm, and Owen could tell by the way the others stretched and shifted that they were sore too.

It was clear they hadn't seen him yet, so he crouched behind a garbage bin. Their voices carried through the alley and bounced off the walls. A sophomore boy Owen recognized joined them. He patted Gordan's shoulder.

Gordan cursed. “Don't ever touch me!”

“Bummer,” Sophomore said. “How'd it happen?”

“Just horsing around,” Gordan muttered.

“So no state wrestling tournament for you?”

Gordan's tone changed. “We have something to talk about, if you don't mind.”

When Sophomore shrugged and walked away, Gordan pushed the others against the building. “Something tells me we shouldn't do this tonight,” he said, pacing. “Let's let him think he's safe.”

“After what he did?” a wrestler said. “He is safe!”

“That was a fluke,” Gordan said. “He's always got his nose in a book. Probably figured out some fancy martial-arts move.”

“That made you hit the ceiling?”

“Shut up! If we catch him off guard, we'll have him.”

“And how do we do that?”

Gordan glanced both ways. “I'll send a pair of eyes in tonight. Get a layout of the place. Then we'll hit him tomorrow.”

Owen sped around the other way, behind the bookstore, and darted into the kitchen of Blackstone Tavern. He was out of breath.

Petrov scraped a knife against his apron. “Missed excitement.”

“What's that?” Owen panted.

“Lightning and booms. Your father look for you here.”

“I need a favor, Petrov.”

“You no go in basement again, right?” He laughed. “Big screams from Sloven to me.”

Owen didn't smile. “I need to get to the roof so I can get into my room without anyone seeing.”

“Roof? What is matter, Owen?”

“Can you help me?”

Petrov put the knife down and dried his hands. “Trouble?”

“Please, I don't have much time.”

“Follow me. Sloven need supplies anyway.”

They climbed a narrow flight of stairs that curved and emptied into a long room Owen guessed was for weddings or other gatherings too large for the dining room. Another smaller stairway led to the roof, where Petrov unlocked a door at the top.

Owen stepped out and gazed across the rooftops of the town. “Thank you. I won't forget this.”

“You talk crazy. What is matter? You run away? I go with you.”

Owen knew no one else who would put their job on the line for him. “Your apartment. Is there room for one more person?”

“One bedroom, but you sleep on couch.”

“I might take you up on that.” Owen stepped onto the roof.

“Hey,” Petrov said, “you no limp no more.”

Owen nodded. “Surgery,” he said, and he smiled. “See you later.”

Owen climbed onto the bookstore roof and used the fire escape to reach his window. He slipped inside on tiptoes and let the burlap sack fall silently onto his bed.

Hearing nothing, he quietly opened his door and crept out to check the living quarters. His father was not there.

Now, where to hide a valuable book?

Owen ventured into the bookstore for supplies, and when he had hidden his treasure, he sneaked to the little alcove that looked down on the first floor. Several customers milled about—more than usual at this time of day. Then he spotted his father with a police officer. Owen moved to where he could hear.

“I told you, he's been at school all day.”

“Really?” the officer said. “No one told you he made it there this morning but then left and never returned? And shortly after that a young girl went missing. She's back home now and unharmed, but they were both seen at the B and B today. Inside actually. That's the place that burned to the ground.”

“And you believe he would burn down someone's home?”

“It's a bed-and-breakfast, sir.”

“I know what it is,” his father snapped. “But you can't be serious. He's afraid of his own shadow. Who is spreading these rumors?”

“The girl for one, sir. And bystanders saw him. You must admit it seems suspicious for your son to be there when he should have been at school.”

“If it was him.”

“Where is the boy now, sir?”

“He hasn't come home from school yet, and frankly I need his help when he does show up.”

Someone tapped Owen on the shoulder, and he turned to stare into the eyes of Clara Secrest. Owen put a finger to his lips and held his breath.

The officer said, “Please call as soon as he returns. We need a few words with him.”

“What have you done?” Clara whispered.

Owen waved her to the back room. “Don't ever do that, whether I'm wanted by the police or not.”

She chuckled. “Have you become a criminal?”

“It's just a misunderstanding. What are you doing here?”

Clara leaned against a desk. “What would be your guess? This is a bookstore, isn't it?”

“This is the room of misfit books,” Owen said. “You like fiction? nonfiction? gardening? sewing? We have just about everything.” His throat tightened as he realized this had been one of his dreams—to be alone with the most beautiful girl in the school, the town, and for all he was concerned, the country.

Clara moved closer. “You have any books about love?”

“Love?” he said, his voice cracking. “Why, yes, I'm sure we have many. There's a romance section, or in nonfiction there are titles about how to find the love of your life, that type of thing.”

Clara smiled, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “How about books about older women falling in love with younger men?”

Owen could evade fire-breathing dragons, so why couldn't he tame his voice now? “I—I'm not sure. I could look . . . after the coast is clear, I mean . . . you know.”

Clara tilted her head and ran her tongue across her lips. “You're funny, Owen. What's a guy like you do on a Saturday night?”

“You mean, like tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow would be Saturday, yes. Would you like to go to a movie with me?”

“Wow.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I just . . . yeah . . . I mean, if my dad . . . I mean . . . wow.”

Clara giggled. “Well, talk to your dad and let me know.” She took Owen's hand and wrote her number on his palm. She imitated the officer's voice. “Please call as soon as he returns.” She looked up. “And see if you can find a book that would suit me.”

“Wait. I don't need to call. I'll meet you at the theater at seven.”

No sooner had Clara left than a commotion began below. Scuffling and shuffling and loud voices.

Owen peeked around the edge of the shelves and saw Karl pointing up at him.

Karl and Owen's father rushed upstairs, but Owen beat them to his room, locked the door, and flung himself onto his bed.

“Owen,” his father said, knocking, “open up. I need to talk with you.”

“Tell Karl to go away first!”

“But he is my friend. He only wants what's best.”

Yeah, as if a mere human friend could take a knife to the heart. He's probably also the eyes Gordan mentioned.
“Then I have nothing to say!”

Whispers, his father saying, “Just go. I'll get back to you.” Then footsteps walking away.

“Fine, Owen. Karl's gone.”

Owen cautiously opened the door to the anxious face of his father.

The man stepped inside and immediately began pacing, not looking at Owen.

Owen could count on one hand the number of times his father had been in his room other than to order him up and out of bed. Somehow the man must have felt uncomfortable talking, sharing dreams, hurts. Owen longed to know what it had been like when his father discovered his mother was dying, but they never talked about it. If Owen brought it up, his father quickly changed the subject.

They'd never even talked about their future. Was Owen expected to take over the store someday, or might there be something else for him? Perhaps a vacation. A move. Even a day at the beach. Owen had always loved the sound of waves lapping on a shore, but every time he mentioned something like that, his father dismissed it.

Now it was his father who wanted to talk, and the conversation was in Owen's hands. “What happened today, Owen?”

“Happened?”

“I . . . I . . . that's what I want to find out. You took that girl from her school, didn't you? The authorities were here.”

“I didn't take her. She followed me on her own. Father, what's going on? Why don't you tell me the real story?”

“I'm trying to get at your story, Son, because you're in serious trouble.”

“Tell me about Karl, Dad. What has he been telling you?”

“Karl is just a vagabond; you know that.”

“He saw me come out from behind the bookshelf.”

“So it is true. You do know. . . .”

“I saw you the other night with those robed people—or creatures. Why would you keep something like that from me?”

Mr. Reeder rubbed his hands. “I told you only as much as I believed you could handle—”

“You told me nothing!”

“Which is exactly what I thought you could handle.”

“You don't know me, Father. How could you possibly know what I could handle?”

“Don't talk to me that way!”

Owen shook his head and slumped onto the bed. “I want to understand you, Father. I want to know why you've stayed locked up here, why you keep me locked up here. I want to know what you're afraid of, what makes you happy, if you ever think of Mother, what you remember about her, whether she talked about me, dreamed about our family. But it's like you're a stranger.”

“I've stayed here because of you!”

“But why? Secret meetings! Rooms I wasn't supposed to know of! Tunnels! What are you hiding?”

“I've been hiding
you
!” his father spat. He tapped his forehead. “I know you're not right up there, that things come to your mind and you don't live in the real world. You break from reality. You're a menace to the other children. They're afraid of you. That's why I've kept you here. I've tried to protect you from them, and look what it's gotten me.”

“It's not true!” Owen cried. He pointed to his face. “Does this look like anyone's frightened of me? Now I want to know what you—”

Karl moaned from the doorway and walked inside.

“I don't want him in here, Father!”

“Forget him, Owen! And enough talk about me. I want to know what
you
are hiding. Where is the book?”

“Get him out of here, Father!”

Karl dropped clumsily to the floor and looked under Owen's bed.

“It's not here!” Owen said, standing.

Karl lifted the bed, staring Owen down. If that was meant to intimidate, all it did was make Owen resolve he would never let the book fall into the man's hands.

Karl and Mr. Reeder tore out drawers full of clothes, tossed boxes from Owen's closet, stripped the bed, and nearly destroyed his desk. Karl was like a man possessed. Owen loved what he had seen of the book, but what could it possibly contain that turned these two into madmen?

When Karl slid the desk chair toward the closet, Owen shouted, “Stop it!”

Karl lifted an eyebrow and climbed onto the chair, reaching to the ceiling. Owen swore the man grew even taller, stretching a good six inches above his normal height. Karl looked as if he were made of rubber. He pushed open a tile leading to the attic, and Owen rushed him, hoping to topple him.

Owen's father caught and held him. “It's all right, Owen. It will all be better after this. You'll see.”

“How can you say that, Father? Don't let him take it!”

Karl laughed when he pulled down the burlap sack, dust floating into the room.

“Is this worth abandoning your own flesh and blood?” his father said.

Owen could smell Karl's breath, black and full of death. He lunged for the sack, aware of the man's rotten teeth and sandpapery skin.

Karl yanked the sack away as Owen hit the floor.

“I'm trying to do what is best,” his father said as Owen struggled to his feet. “I know you can't see that now, but burning this will save you from a lot of trouble.”

Owen's father held him back as Karl left the room and started down the stairs.

Desperate and empowered by an adrenaline rush, Owen pried himself loose and bounded down the stairs to find Karl in the fiction room by the fireplace. Karl had tossed the sack into the fire but held the red book, leafing through its pages. He looked puzzled, as if trying to decipher hieroglyphics. Suddenly he ripped out several pages and tossed them into the fire.

“No!” Owen lunged for them, but Karl stuck out a foot and shoved him across the room into another bookcase. The pages crackled in the flames and were soon engulfed. “Please don't!”