The Sequel by R. L. Stine Page B

square coffee-stained table. “Having a productive day, Mr. Gold?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He spins the laptop around, opens it, and gazes at the screen. “Blank? A blank screen? Again?”
    Zachary grabs the computer and spins it back around. “What do you mean again? What are you talking about?”
    The hazel eyes lock on Zachary, now with cold menace. “Isn’t that why you stole your book from me?”
    â€œHah!” Zachary can’t help a scornful laugh from escaping. “Is that why you’re here, Cardoza? You’re crazy. You’re messed up. You need to leave now.” Zachary jumps to his feet as if to chase the man away.
    Cardoza doesn’t move. He clasps his hands together on the tabletop. “Word for word, Mr. Gold. Line by line. You stole my book. But I’m not a vindictive man. I just want a little payback.”
    Zachary’s mind spins. Once again, his eyes search the small room for someone who could rescue him. “Cardoza, you need help,” he murmurs. “You’re deluded.”
    This man is insane , Zachary thinks. But is he dangerous?
    And then: Do other authors have to put up with this kind of harassment?
    And then: Does he really think I’m going to give him money?
    â€œPlease—leave me alone,” Zachary says softly. “I’m asking you nicely.”
    â€œI can’t, Mr. Gold. “I can’t leave you alone. I don’t know how you uncovered my manuscript. But you know I’m the one who created the Howard Striver character. He is based on my older brother, after all.”
    Zachary is still standing, hands on the back of his chair. “I’m begging you—” he starts.
    Cardoza shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.” He motions for Zachary to return to his seat. “I think you and I are going to develop a very close friendship.” That cold smile again. “Unless you want the world to know you are a thief and a fraud.”
    Zachary sees the women push out the front door with their strollers. This is his chance. He ignores his suddenly racing heartbeats, grabs the laptop in one hand, leaves the case on the floor, spins to the front and runs.
    â€œLook out!” A young long-haired young man carrying a muffin and a tall coffee cup leaps back as Zachary bolts past him.
    Zachary is out the door. Nearly collides with the two strollers. The women have stopped to adjust the babies in the seats. They glare at him as he stumbles and skids to a stop, turns, and runs up Amsterdam Avenue.
    A mild, hazy day of early spring. The air feels cool on his blazing hot face. He dodges two men with handcarts, making a flower delivery to the store next-door. Runs past a man setting up his shawarma cart on the corner, a brief whiff of grilled meat as he passes.
    Zachary has to stop at the corner as a large Budweiser truck rumbles through the red light, horn wailing like a siren.
    Which way? Which way?
    He glimpses a dark blur behind him. Is Cardoza following him?
    Zachary shields his eyes with one hand and squints into the sunlight. Yes. The big man is chasing him. Head down like a bull stampeding a toreador. A glint of silver, a flash of light in his hand.
    Is he carrying a gun?
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    Maybe it’s a phone.
    Zachary darts behind the beer truck, crosses the street.
    I can outrun him, but it would be better to hide. Especially if that’s a gun in his hand.
    The branch library stands in the middle of the block. The front window appears dark. Is it open? With the budget cuts, it’s closed a lot of days. Zachary trots to the door, tugs the handle. Yes. Open. He swings the door just wide enough to slip inside.
    Shouts outside. Is it Cardoza? The sound cuts off as the glass door closes behind him.
    The librarian, a young woman, black bangs cropped across her forehead, red-framed glasses glinting in the light over the front desk, perched on a tall wooden stool, almost lost