‘Oh, Amy,’ Ted said softly. ‘The man was bullshiting you. Big time.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think Sonny is smart enough to make up such a story. He told me Tom thought he ought to get in touch with Greg and tell him he might have seen such a man after all; that it would be all right if he left out the see-through part. But Sonny said the old man was terrified. He was convinced that it was one of two things: either he was coming down with Alzheimer’s disease, or he’d seen a ghost.’
‘Well, it’s certainly creepy,’ Evans said, and it was – the skin on his arms and back had crinkled into gooseflesh for a moment or two. ‘But it’s hearsay … hearsay from a dead man, in fact.’
‘Yes … but there’s the other thing.’ She set her teacup on the desk, picked up her purse, and began to rummage in it. ‘When I was cleaning out Mort’s office, I found that hat – that awful black hat – behind his desk. It gave me a shock, because I wasn’t expecting it. I thought the police must have taken it away as evidence, or something. I hooked it out from behind there with a stick. It came out upside down, with the stick inside it. I used the stick to carry it outside and dump it in the trash cabinet. Do you understand?’
Ted clearly didn’t; Evans clearly did. ‘You didn’t want to touch it.’
‘That’s right. I didn’t want to touch it. It landed right side up on one of the green trash bags – I’d swear to that. Then, about an hour later, I went out with a bag of old medicines and shampoos and things from the bathroom. When I opened the lid of the garbage cabinet to put it in, the hat was turned over again. And this was tucked into the sweatband.’ She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her purse and offered it to Evans with a hand that still trembled minutely. ‘It wasn’t there when the hat came out from behind the desk. I know that.’
Evans took the folded sheet and just held it for a moment. He didn’t like it. It felt too heavy, and the texture was somehow wrong.
‘I think there was a John Shooter,’ she said. ‘I think he was Mort’s greatest creation – a character so vivid that he actually did become real.
‘And I think that this is a message from a ghost.’
He took the slip of paper and opened it. Written halfway down was this message: Missus – I am sorry for all the trouble. Things got out of hand. I am going back to my home now, I got my story, which is all I came for in the first place. It is called ‘Crowfoot Mile,’ and it is a crackerjack. Yours truly,
John Shooter
The signature was a bald scrawl below the neat lines of script.
‘Is this your late husband’s signature, Amy?’ Evans asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing like it.’
The three of them sat in the office, looking at one another. Fred Evans tried to think of something to say and could not. After awhile, the silence (and the smell of Ted Milner’s pipe) became more than any of them could stand. So Mr and Mrs Milner offered their thanks, said their goodbyes, and left his office to get on with their lives as best they could, and Fred Evans got on with his own as best he could, and sometimes, late at night, both he and the woman who had been married to Morton Rainey woke from dreams in which a man in a round-crowned black hat looked at them from sun-faded eyes caught in nets of wrinkles. He looked at them with no love … but, they both felt, with an odd kind of stern pity.
It was not a kind expression, and it left no feeling of comfort, but they also both felt, in their different places, that they could find room to live with that look. And to tend their gardens.
THREE PAST MIDNIGHT:
A note on ‘The Library Policeman’
On the morning when this story started to happen, I was sitting at the breakfast table with my son Owen.
My wife had already gone upstairs to shower and dress. Those two vital seven o’clock divisions had been made: the scrambled eggs and the newspaper. Willard Scott, who visits our house five days out of every seven, was telling us about a lady in Nebraska who had just turned a hundred and four, and I think Owen and I had one whole pair of eyes open between us. A typical weekday morning chez King, in other words.
Owen tore himself away from the sports section just long enough to ask me if I’d be going by the mall that day – there was a book he wanted me to pick up for a school report. I can’t remember what it was – it might have been Johnny Tremain or April Morning, Howard Fast’s novel of the American Revolution – but it was one of those tomes you can never quite lay your hands on in a bookshop; it’s always just out of print or just about to come back into print or some damned thing.
I suggested that Owen try the local library, which is a very good one. I was sure they’d have it. He muttered some reply. I only caught two words of it, but, given my interests, those two words were more than enough to pique my interest. They were ‘library police.’
I put my half of the newspaper aside, used the MUTE button on the remote control to strangle Willard in the middle of his ecstatic report on the Georgia Peach Festival, and asked Owen to kindly repeat himself.
He was reluctant to do so, but I pressed him. Finally he told me that he didn’t like to use the library because he worried about the Library Police. He knew there were no Library Police, he hastened to add, but it was one of those stories that burrowed down into your subconscious and just sort of lurked there. He had heard it from his Aunt Stephanie when he was seven or eight and much more gullible, and it had been lurking ever since.
I, of course, was delighted, because I had been afraid of the Library Police myself as a kid – the faceless enforcers who would actually come to your house
if you didn’t bring your overdue books back. That would be bad enough … but what if you couldn’t find the books in question when those strange lawmen turned up? What then? What would they do to you? What might they take to make up for the missing volumes? It had been years since I’d thought of the Library Police (although not since childhood; I can clearly remember discussing them with Peter Straub and his son, Ben, six or eight years ago), but now all those old questions, both dreadful and somehow enticing, recurred.
I found myself musing on the Library Police over the next three or four days, and as I mused, I began to glimpse the outlines of the story which follows. This is the way stories usually happen for me, but the musing period usually lasts a lot longer than it did in this case. When I began, the story was titled ‘The Library Police,’ and I had no clear idea of where I was going with it. I thought it would probably be a funny story, sort of like the suburban nightmares the late Max Shulman used to bolt together. After all, the idea was funny, wasn’t it? I mean, the Library Police! How absurd!
What I realized, however, was something I knew already: the fears of childhood have a hideous persistence.
Writing is an act of self-hypnosis, and in that state a kind of total emotional recall often takes place and terrors which should have been long dead start to walk and talk again.
As I worked on this story, that began to happen to me. I knew, going in, that I had loved the library as a kid
– why not? It was the only place a relatively poor kid like me could get all the books he wanted – but as I continued to write, I became reacquainted with a deeper truth: I had also feared it. I feared becoming lost in
the dark stacks, I feared being forgotten in a dark corner of the reading room and ending up locked in for the night, I feared the old librarian with the blue hair and the cat’s-eye glasses and the almost lipless mouth who would pinch the backs of your hands with her long, pale fingers and hiss ‘Shhhh!’ if you forgot where you were and started to talk too loud. And yes, I feared the Library Police.