| Episode 021 | |
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Wings of Pencil
The antique bell over the day rang with a clear, high-pitched
chime.
In the ancient bookstore, the warm air echoed the sound of the bell
as the door shut behind it. Shelves
of books filled the store to the bursting point, leaving almost no space
to walk. The powerful scent of ancient paper and old binding filled
the dusty air.
“<Hello? >” came the accented voice from within the
store. Out from behind one of
the bookshelves came a middle-aged man in a sweater-vest and brown slacks.
With a dull red tie and tattoos down his neck, he adjusted his
wire-frame spectacles.
Standing by the door in a heavy black coat was a man with pale skin
and dark black hair. He
looked at the older man with an indifferent look as he took off his
leather gloves. “I come about a book,” the figure said in English with a
stark Chinese accent.
The man in the vest paused. “Aye,”
he said with a solemn tone. “Come
on back.” He turned from the man and led his way through the winding
bookstore to the rear wall. Through
an innocuous door, they came into a tiny room that was lined with
bookshelves. On each shelf
were older books as well as a host of scrolls and similar things.
The bookstore owner turned and waited as the pale man closed the
door behind him. As he did, the telltale sound of pressurized atmosphere
resealing caught both their attentions.
“I’ve got the third one,” he said in a Scotch accent.
“The fourth one, I’ve got a bead on, but that’s as far as
I’ve gotten.”
“Let me see,” the man said.
The bookstore owner turned around to the opposing bookshelf and
pulled it back. Sliding it forward from the other shelves, he pushed it to
the side, revealing another shelf behind it.
Those shelves were ominously sparse.
He retrieved a single volume from the shelf; one with red binding
that was worn at the edges and an elaborate symbol in gold on the front.
“This,” he said with awe, “is the third book written by Allen
Ivers.” He gently handed it
to the pale man, appreciating the reverence with which he handled the
book. “The only man,” he continued, “in the world to ever…”
There was a loud bang.
Both men turned to the door as it was kicked in.
The pale-man was shoved forward into the bookstore owner as three
Paris police officers rushed in, their guns pointed and ready.
The pale man turned to the police as they both held up their hands.
The police led the two suspects out into the store where more
officers filled the place. A
man in a brown trench coat and a cheap suit was waiting for them.
“<Good morning, MacLean, >” he said in a cheap French
accent.
“<Detective Ellis, >” the bookstore owner said with a
look of shame. As he spoke,
an officer handed Ellis the book they had been handling.
“<Well now, >” Ellis said with a smile.
“<What have we here? >”
The pale man standing next to MacLean’s eyes grew wide as he
developed an uneasy look. “<Detective,
>” MacLean said, staring at the book.
“<You don’t want to look in that book. >”
“<Well, now, buddy-boy, >” Ellis said with an amused
smile. “<You’re in no
position, to be advising anyone of anything. >”
As Ellis spoke, he flipped to a random page and glanced at the
words.
Ellis fell over, dead before he hit the ground. |
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