Lost Pages

Jane Klee was on her knees desperately searching for a book that doesn’t want to be found. She’s been looking for nearly an hour now, pulling rows and rows of dusty hardbacks off the old wooden shelves in the small sorting room, looking for a one of a kind, handwritten, matte black, 1^st edition but she’s having no luck locating it. She’s older, mid-sixties, thin, tall with stringy dyed brown hair, fair skin, and a bad back. Today Jane wore her light pink blouse and black skirt, tights and flat black shoes. Her clothes were worn and old but never dirty. Jane always looked professional which I guess she had to, given that she was our manager and head librarian of the Memorial Branch Library. She’s in pain as the old grey carpet beneath her doesn’t offer much support as she searches through the mess of books in the lower shelf of the nonfiction section. At first, she tried to bend over and search, but her back couldn’t take the stress. She then grabbed a chair and tried to move it along with her, but that wasn’t happening fast enough. Finally, with the encouragement of a .22 caliber handgun to the back of her head she dropped to her knees. I caught a glimpse of her several times, scooting down the aisle, wincing in pain before I ducked down with the others behind the circulation desk near the front door. She was in our line of sight, a straight shot from the circulation desk, past the small conference room and Jane’s office, directly to the back break room slash sorting area. There was four us back there behind the large wooden semi-circle, listening to Jane move around, pleading and coughing but only two of us, Randolph and myself, dared to peek out towards her. I couldn’t help looking over every time I heard her cough, thinking this was the final straw for her old weak smoker’s lungs, breaking my stare with the city issued calendar pinned to the wall and today’s date, October 20^th, 2000, circled to remind the team of our yearly inventory shift. I stared and zoned out, thinking if this had happened any other night, Jane would’ve found this book quickly, as usually there aren’t that many books in the sorting room but because of inventory night there were piles and piles of books to go through. I thought that if I only had a cellphone like the more well-off students in my class, I could’ve called the police and, in that case, I would be a more well-off student and not working the inventory shift in this library, ironically to save up to buy books for community college which is only nine short months away. I glanced down beneath the calendar looking at John Deroche, our resident eclectic, who had fainted and slammed his face against the returns book bin. That’s the metal cart that catches the books when you return them in the book drop off. It’s a square frame with a cloth bag in the center and when everything happened, John panicked and stumbled, and crashed down face first onto the frame. John is an older man in his sixties like Jane, he’s tall, bald and wore glasses, his clothes were always freshly pressed, and he wore sneakers so he could do his daily walks around the parking lot during his breaks. He was a bit of a hypochondriac, always calling his doctor or his mother when he felt ill, and he was the only person I ever met that spoke his mind no matter the circumstances or the audience. He repeatedly told Jane to stop smoking, told Marian she needed to lose weight, and told me to lay off the candy and to iron my shirts. I thought it was funny, I had never heard anyone say exactly what they were thinking and the way he did it was kind of innocent, like a child who didn’t know any better, walking in place, rubbing his hands together, with both the look of concern and authority across his face. Now John was laying on his side, his head on Marian’s chair mat, his forehead cut, and his eyes closed. I couldn’t help but smile thinking about how much John hated our floors and how he would react knowing he was laying nearly face down on that old grey, dirty carpet. Last year he put in a formal request, against Jane’s wishes, to the city to replace our carpet as it offered no support, was stained and smelled awful. The city responded with shoe inserts and air fresheners. If John knew he was laying there, on the exact spot where Marian would brush the crumbs from her homemade egg salad sandwiches and walk around barefoot when her feet would bother her when the weather changed, well he would probably faint. Poor Marian, she was struggling to breathe as she sat on the floor trying to shake her legs awake. She was in her fifties, short, heavyset, with thinning curly hair, bad knees and a limp on her left side. She wore a lot of makeup and a lot of perfume. She dressed in these large, oversized blouses, with slacks and soft shoes. She was nice but, in a way where you felt less than. Sitting next to her was Randolph, the assistant head librarian. He was in his forties, average build, dark slick black hair, he wore contacts and had a goatee. He had a slight hump in his back, creased slacks and always wore suspenders over his colorful shirts which made him look like a poet or beatnik, at least what I thought a poet or beatnik would look like. His shoes were like mirrors and he always had a fascinating factoid to share with you. Randolph seemed wise and well read, as a Librarian should seem. He had this amazing vocabulary and would encourage me to learn new words and speak slowly and with confidence. He was a real chatter box and seeing him so quiet with his head down, occasionally looking up when Jane coughed, and his arm around Marian was sad. He was scared and I guess I was too. 

About an hour ago John was just finishing up one of his many walking breaks around the parking lot. The only difference this time is it was inventory night, and it was raining and usually we are all out of here by 9pm. Now, nearly midnight, we find ourselves at the mercy of a man wielding a gun, demanding we find a book that was donated here on accident. John was returning from his walk in the rain, coming in the back door wearing his slicker and shaking off his umbrella, slowly making his way into our breakroom slash sorting room and he didn’t see the man as he rushed in behind him and pulled out the small black pistol. John fainted, Marian screamed, Randolph tried to run out the front doors, but they had been locked for hours and Jane was in her office. I was working on a cart of books, putting them in order, relieved that we were nearly done and with all the rain the power had stayed on, usually if it rains for more than 30 minutes the power goes out and we have to wait around until it gets turned back on so we can set the alarm but tonight it looked like we were going to get done early but then I heard the commotion. I headed towards the sorting room when I saw everyone running out into the main area of the library, quickly followed by a man pointing a gun at the back of Jane’s head. The man was average height, average weight, brown hair, tan skin, young looking, not much older than me. He was soaked from the rain, wearing tennis shoes that squished out water with each step, old blues jeans, a faded black shirt, a windbreaker and no mask. Although he had the gun, he seemed more scared than any of us. He was twitching, and constantly looking around as he dripped all over the library, waving the gun back and forth and shouting about his book. Jane quickly offered to help him, keeping it cool and collected, handling the situation as if it was some angry bookworm who couldn’t find a copy of the latest Stephen King novel. She explained that she would help him find whatever he wanted and to just not hurt anyone. He agreed and then pointed to me and Randolph to move John. Randolph grabbed John’s feet and I grabbed his arms, and we dragged him over to the others as Jane started looking for the cause of all of this; a large black hard back, maybe 300 pages, with a red symbol on the cover. It didn’t have an author as it was someone’s personal book, a one off and the man said someone donated this book and he needed back now. 

It had been quiet now for a while with just the sound of the rain hitting the ground outside but nothing from Jane or our guest. I crept around the circulation desk, towards the wall that led to the sorting room and there I saw Jane still on her knees, but no longer searching for his book but instead frozen, listening as this man was bent over talking to her. Just then Marian looked up and saw me peeking at Jane and called out to me, just loud enough to catch my attention. I snapped my head towards her, watching as she and Randolph begged me to come back and sit still. Before I could head back, I heard Jane coughing, but this one sounded worse than before, more violent as if she was choking. I looked down the straightaway but couldn’t see her and then there she was, the man had his hands around her throat and held her up against the wall next to her office. Randolph and Marian couldn’t see what was happening, but they could hear it and they both buried their faces into their hands. With the gun against her face, he pushed Jane inside her office, slammed the door shut and we heard her scream several times before the power went out. 

Marian was sobbing and Randolph couldn’t bring himself to look up anymore. John was out cold, and I had the brilliant idea to try and sneak past Janes office out the back door. I reached over to Randolph and Marian, trying to convince them to come with me but Marian’s legs were numb, and she couldn’t stop crying and Randolph just shook his head, too afraid to move. I was afraid too but thought I could make it if I was quiet enough and went now. I could go out the back, through the parking lot, down the ditch and up to Ram’s corner store. Rams was open until midnight, and he carried a gun, and he would often tell me he wasn’t afraid to use it. I would visit Ram at least twice a week during my break. I would grab a few snacks and we would chat about the topic of the week although the conversation would always lead back to the JFK assassination and the conspiracy that surrounds it. I thought about what would’ve happen to this guy if he ran into Rams with his puny .22? Ram would pull out the shotgun he kept under the counter and the rest you would see on the nightly news. Enough stalling, it was time to go, I retied my shoelaces, stood up and started walking quickly towards the back. The building was quiet and dark, with only the sound of rain in my ears and the occasional lighting piercing the sky, coming in to brighten up the room. As I passed Jane’s door I heard the keys of Alamo City Nightwatchmen, Tom Wheeler, jingling at the front doors. He must’ve seen the power out and decided to come check on us. Poor Wheeler had no idea what he was walking into. 

Wheeler was a very big man, heavy set, had a bit of a lisp when we talked, and his dream was to become a cop. He wore the standard all black security uniform with the Alamo City Watchmen badge sewed on his sleeve, black boots, handcuffs, radio and carried one of those big heavy metal mag flashlights and pepper spray but no gun. At night, Wheeler would patrol all the library branches to make sure nobody was tagging our building or smashing our windows, never too concerned with a break in because what would they steal but tonight he was instore for a surprise. As the doors opened up front, I heard Randolph try and warn Wheeler just as Marian cried out for him to help. I ran to the far end of the sorting room and hid behind the receiving cart John was working on near his desk, as the man with the gun came storming out of Janes office and ran towards the front doors and Wheeler. I moved to run after him, finally getting the courage to fight back but before I got to my feet, I saw it. A large black matte book, a red symbol on the cover, bound by hand, a little dusty and the corners a bit worn. I knew I had seen that symbol before but where? It was laying in the bottom drawer of John’s desk, a place Jane didn’t think to look. I reached for it but before I could grab it, I heard Wheeler shouting. I could see the beam of light from Wheeler’s flashlight dancing on the walls, and I ran to see how I could help. As I came out of the sorting room into the main area of the library, I ran into a cloud of pepper spray just as Wheeler was shot. The two men had wrestled for the gun, and it went off, the bullet striking Wheeler in the shoulder. Marian was screaming now, full force, John began to stir, and Randolph pulled the fire alarm as he made his way out the front doors, waving his arms, running into traffic begging for help. I was coughing now, my eyes burning and my lungs struggling to keep up. From what I could see, the guy with the gun was in shock as Wheeler laid bleeding up against the outside of the circulation desk, spitting and coughing, the pepper spray still in his hand and his flashlight on the floor next to him. I moved to check on him but saw the gun still in the intruder’s hand. I motioned for him to put it down as he shook his head and said there were no more bullets. He repeated this over and over and then said he only had one bullet and that was for him. I don’t know what that meant, and I didn’t care, I wanted to check on Wheeler, as blood was making its way out of him and when I looked up again the man was gone. 

Hours later and the police are finally letting me go. I just finished talking to the detective in charge, giving him my statement on what happened. They took John to the hospital as he knew the least and was panicked about a possible brain injury. Marian and Randolph are still busy walking the officers through what happened. Wheeler was rushed off immediately, but I heard a paramedic say he would be fine, no major arteries hit. Jane spoke to the officers for a while. She had been beaten badly, choked and nearly killed. If Wheeler hadn’t showed up who knows what would’ve happened to her. I stood at the door as she told them what the guy said to her. Listening to Jane speak I knew she was dead serious about what he told her, but her story was unbelievable and then I remembered where I had seen that symbol.

I had been riding bikes with friends when we cut through an alley, and there it was in the backyard of a small house with tall grass and animal figurines. A huge carving of a circle, a tree and snake chiseled into a giant rock. I thought it was weird but that’s about it. 

I grabbed my things from my locker and stopped by John’s desk on the way out. 

It was still drizzling when I reached Woodlawn Avenue, a street you usually avoid at night. The house I was looking for was easy to spot as it didn’t have any lights on. I got out of my car, went through the gate, past the statues and figurines in the yard and placed it on the porch. Nothing happened and that was fine by me. 

Nearly morning now, I crept inside my house, trying not to wake my parents. 

It started to rain again as I crawled into bed trying to get comfortable. Thunder clapped and shook our old house as lighting struck nearby. I turned towards my windows facing the street and went to close the curtains when I saw a woman standing in the middle of the road. She was cloaked in all black and although the rain poured down, she didn’t seem to be wet. She was moving ever so slightly but she wasn’t walking, she was floating just above the ground. I can’t explain what I’m seeing, so maybe I shouldn’t try, maybe it’s just my mind, exhausted from what happened and filled with Jane’s story but here, in the dark, through the rain, I can see her face looking up at me, staring right through me as if she’s there to exist just for me and then, with a crash of thunder and flash of lighting she is gone.