didn’t matter to us—to us, a book is meant to be read. We just shelved them where they belonged.”
While Fordyce talked, Gideon drifted away and began to peruse the fiction section, pulling down books at random and flipping through them. He didn’t want to admit it to Fordyce, but he feared his idea might turn out to be a waste of time. Unless by sheer chance he came across one of Chalker’s books with a significant piece of paper stuck into it, or some telling note in the margins. But that seemed unlikely—and book collectors did not normally annotate their books, especially autographed editions.
He drifted along the aisle of fiction, starting with Z and going on down the shelves in reverse alphabetical order, plucking out a book here and there, Vincent Zandri, Stuart Woods, James Rollins… He riffled through books at random, looking for notes or papers, or—he smiled to himself—rough sketches of atomic weapons perhaps, but finding nothing. In the background, he could hear Fordyce questioning the librarian with a gentle but persistent thoroughness. Gideon couldn’t help but be struck by the man’s competence. Fordyce was a strange combination of methodical, by-the-book determination and impatience with rules and red tape.
Anne Rice, Tom Piccirilli… He pawed through book after book with a rising irritation.
And then he paused. Here was a signed book, a copy of a David Morrell novel, The Shimmer , with the author’s signature under a scribbled Best wishes.
Nothing telling there. He flipped through the pages but there was nothing else. He shoved it back. A little farther on, he encountered another signed book, this one by Tess Gerritsen, titled The Bone Garden . Another generic dedication: To Reed, Best Regards . And another, Killing Floor , signed by Lee Child, To Reed, My Best . Chalker had good taste, at least.
Fordyce droned on in the background, extracting every last drop of information from the librarian.
Gideon worked his way down to the B’s. The Abbey in the Oakwood by Simon Blaine was personalized: To Reed, with affectionate regards . And it was signed Simon .
He paused before putting it back on the shelf. Did Simon Blaine sign all his books just Simon ? There was another Blaine novel next to it, The Sea of Ice . To Reed, with my best, Simon B.
Fordyce appeared at his side. “Dead end,” he murmured.
“Maybe not.” Gideon showed the two books to Fordyce.
Fordyce took them, flipped through them. “I don’t get it.”
“ With affectionate regards ? And signed by first name only? Sounds like Blaine knew him.”
“I doubt it.”
Gideon thought for a moment, then turned to the librarian. “I’d like to ask you a question.”
“Yes?” She hurried over, glad to have a chance to talk again.
“You seem to have a lot of books by Simon Blaine.”
“We have all of his books. And come to think of it, most of them came from Mr. Chalker.”
“Ah,” said Fordyce. “You didn’t tell me that.”
She gave an embarrassed smile. “I just now thought of it.”
“Did Chalker know Blaine?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps. After all, Blaine lives in Santa Fe.”
Bingo , thought Gideon. He cast a triumphant eye on Fordyce. “There you have it. They did know each other.”
Fordyce frowned. “A man like Blaine, a bestselling author—National Book Award winner, it says here—isn’t likely to have had much of a friendship with a geek from Los Alamos.”
“I resemble that remark,” said Gideon, in his best Groucho Marx imitation.
Fordyce rolled his eyes. “Did you see the date on that book? It was published two years before Chalker converted. And the fact that he gave away Blaine’s books along with the others does not exactly indicate a deep friendship. Frankly, I don’t see a lead here.” He paused. “In fact, I’m starting to wonder whether or not this whole trip west has done nothing but cost us crucial time.”
Gideon pretended not to hear this last
While Fordyce talked, Gideon drifted away and began to peruse the fiction section, pulling down books at random and flipping through them. He didn’t want to admit it to Fordyce, but he feared his idea might turn out to be a waste of time. Unless by sheer chance he came across one of Chalker’s books with a significant piece of paper stuck into it, or some telling note in the margins. But that seemed unlikely—and book collectors did not normally annotate their books, especially autographed editions.
He drifted along the aisle of fiction, starting with Z and going on down the shelves in reverse alphabetical order, plucking out a book here and there, Vincent Zandri, Stuart Woods, James Rollins… He riffled through books at random, looking for notes or papers, or—he smiled to himself—rough sketches of atomic weapons perhaps, but finding nothing. In the background, he could hear Fordyce questioning the librarian with a gentle but persistent thoroughness. Gideon couldn’t help but be struck by the man’s competence. Fordyce was a strange combination of methodical, by-the-book determination and impatience with rules and red tape.
Anne Rice, Tom Piccirilli… He pawed through book after book with a rising irritation.
And then he paused. Here was a signed book, a copy of a David Morrell novel, The Shimmer , with the author’s signature under a scribbled Best wishes.
Nothing telling there. He flipped through the pages but there was nothing else. He shoved it back. A little farther on, he encountered another signed book, this one by Tess Gerritsen, titled The Bone Garden . Another generic dedication: To Reed, Best Regards . And another, Killing Floor , signed by Lee Child, To Reed, My Best . Chalker had good taste, at least.
Fordyce droned on in the background, extracting every last drop of information from the librarian.
Gideon worked his way down to the B’s. The Abbey in the Oakwood by Simon Blaine was personalized: To Reed, with affectionate regards . And it was signed Simon .
He paused before putting it back on the shelf. Did Simon Blaine sign all his books just Simon ? There was another Blaine novel next to it, The Sea of Ice . To Reed, with my best, Simon B.
Fordyce appeared at his side. “Dead end,” he murmured.
“Maybe not.” Gideon showed the two books to Fordyce.
Fordyce took them, flipped through them. “I don’t get it.”
“ With affectionate regards ? And signed by first name only? Sounds like Blaine knew him.”
“I doubt it.”
Gideon thought for a moment, then turned to the librarian. “I’d like to ask you a question.”
“Yes?” She hurried over, glad to have a chance to talk again.
“You seem to have a lot of books by Simon Blaine.”
“We have all of his books. And come to think of it, most of them came from Mr. Chalker.”
“Ah,” said Fordyce. “You didn’t tell me that.”
She gave an embarrassed smile. “I just now thought of it.”
“Did Chalker know Blaine?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps. After all, Blaine lives in Santa Fe.”
Bingo , thought Gideon. He cast a triumphant eye on Fordyce. “There you have it. They did know each other.”
Fordyce frowned. “A man like Blaine, a bestselling author—National Book Award winner, it says here—isn’t likely to have had much of a friendship with a geek from Los Alamos.”
“I resemble that remark,” said Gideon, in his best Groucho Marx imitation.
Fordyce rolled his eyes. “Did you see the date on that book? It was published two years before Chalker converted. And the fact that he gave away Blaine’s books along with the others does not exactly indicate a deep friendship. Frankly, I don’t see a lead here.” He paused. “In fact, I’m starting to wonder whether or not this whole trip west has done nothing but cost us crucial time.”
Gideon pretended not to hear this last
Similar Books
