Kate Carlisle - One Book In The Grave

“Oh, my God, Max,” I said, my voice hushed in awe. “These are incredible. I can’t believe all this is hidden down here.”

“I didn’t want to take the chance of working upstairs. Sometimes the neighbors come over for dinner.” He shrugged. “It was too risky.”

I turned slowly in a circle, taking it all in. “And you’ve never sent anything out? To anyone?”

He sighed. “I couldn’t.”

“Now, that’s a crime. What’s this?” I approached a small, ancient letterpress machine in the corner. “No way. You’re doing your own typesetting now?”

He shrugged. “I thought I might try to write a book.”

“And using a computer is so passé.”

Laughing, he said, “That’s right. You might have noticed I’ve got some extra time on my hands. I thought I would teach myself letterpress.”

I picked up the setting stick and studied the neatly set metal block letters. “So essentially you can now craft a book from start to finish.”

“Gives me something to do,” he said modestly.

I laughed and shook my head in wonder. Turning, I stared at one wall covered in different sheets of beautifully raw, rough paper strewn with plant material, tiny flowers, twigs, leaves. There was paper in shades of green more vivid than anything I’d ever seen in nature, shades of crimson so vibrant I had to wonder if he hadn’t drawn his own blood to stain it red. But no. Not even blood could achieve such a startling hue.

“How did you get this color?” I asked, touching the fibers to make sure they were real.

“Beets,” he said. “I grow them myself. Saves time and money and trips to the store.”

I turned and looked at him. “You’ve gotten better. I didn’t think it was possible, but all this is just more proof that you’re a freaking genius.”

“And you’re still crazy,” he said, chuckling. “Why don’t you grab a few sheets and take them with us? Maybe you can bind them into an album or something.”

My eyes goggled. “You mean it? Seriously? I would love to.” Instantly, I reached for the pins in the walls and began to gather up all the sheets I could handle. “I probably shouldn’t take too many.”

He laughed. “Too late. You’re a paper pig.”

“Fine,” I said, laughing with him. “As long as I get all this paper, I can live with that.”

“Take all you want, Brooklyn. I know you’ll treat my work with love.”

“I will.” My eyes burned and I walked over and hugged him. “It’s so amazing to see you alive and…Oh. I need a minute.”

He held me for a moment, rubbing my back. “I’m glad you came. And I’m sorry for hurting everyone, but I’m glad we’re going to end this thing.”

“Me, too.”

“Thanks, Brooklyn,” he whispered.

I sniffled. “We should get going.”

“Yeah.” He let me go. “Take some more paper. It’s better off going with you than sitting here in this basement.”

“Okay.” I headed for another wall. “This is like Christmas. I feel like I’m taking Rembrandt paintings off the walls of the Louvre.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” he said, then added, “They’re more like Van Goghs.”

“Oh, shut up, Vincent,” I said, laughing. “I think I’ve taken more than enough.”

“Not yet.” He waved toward another wall. “Come on, they’re all just going to rot down here.”

To prove he was serious, he walked over to a table in the corner where more sheets of pale golden handmade paper, thick and rough with deckled edges, were stacked. “Let’s take these, too.” He held them up for me to see. “They would make some cool journals, wouldn’t they?”

“God, yes.” I could already picture the bindings I would make for them. “Do you want to pack up any of your equipment?”

“I don’t think much of it’ll fit in the Bentley,” he said wryly.

“Well, not the big stuff,” I said, glancing at an industrial-sized sink in the corner. “But you could take some screens and tools with you.”

“I was planning to. I hate having nothing to do.”

“And maybe you’d like to pack up some of your goat cheese to take along,” I said, trying to be subtle.

He laughed again as he gathered his tools. “I made some a few days ago with dried cherries. Tastes incredible on sweet oat crackers.”

“If you insist.”

On the long, winding drive back home, the four of us huddled in the Bentley and argued and brainstormed. Gabriel and I sat in the back and let Max, the tallest, brawniest of the guys, sit in the front, since he never would have been able to squeeze into the back.

We debated the best way to keep Max safe without alerting the entire world to the fact that he was alive and well and hiding in Dharma. His enemies were already responsible for one death. We didn’t want to add to the body count.

“I hate this,” Max blurted. “I’ve been taking care of myself for years and now, all of a sudden, I’m sitting in a Bentley, for God’s sake, letting you guys take over. It’s not easy.”

“I imagine not,” Derek said. “But you’ll get used to it.”

Max, Gabriel, and Derek all argued about the situation, with me throwing in a comment now and again. I knew Max was more than a little demoralized by the situation, but we all told him to let that go.

I was concerned that since his enemies had already tracked him to Marin County, they would easily follow us back to Dharma. But Derek and Gabriel had run another circumference check of Max’s property an hour before we left. They were fairly certain no one had followed us from Max’s farm, but the Bentley was so conspicuous. Anyone could’ve seen us driving down the main street of Point Reyes Station on our way back to Sonoma County.

I once again brought up the unpromising possibility that the shooter had been simply a hunter with bad aim. But even I knew I was grasping at straws.

We changed topics, hashing out the big question still on all our minds: Why now? What had happened recently to cause Angelica-for want of a better suspect-to put the book on the market and do it in such a way that it would attract my attention and ultimately lure Max out into the open?

Again, we discussed the possibility that Solomon was dead. Gabriel made quick work of quashing that prospect by Googling him on his smart phone and searching for him on Facebook. Solomon had posted an updated class schedule on his Facebook page that very morning.

So yes, Solomon was alive.

Maybe it was Angelica who was dead. I was convinced that the only way this scenario worked was if, on her deathbed, she had confessed to Solomon that Max was still alive.

“Stranger things have happened,” Gabriel murmured, and checked her out online. He also found her Facebook page and reported that she was still teaching at the Art Institute.

Since Gabriel and I were sitting together, he passed me his phone. As much as I hated staring at Angie’s Facebook page with all the vanity photographs she’d posted of herself, I had to give thanks for social media and search engines. They made it so much easier for all of us to snoop around in other people’s lives.

And speaking of snooping, I made a mental note to look up Emily’s name on Facebook later, when Max wasn’t around.

“Where are you planning to hide me?” Max asked, his tone self-mocking.

I leaned forward. “We’re driving straight to my parents’ house.”

He whipped around. “I’m not putting your parents in danger. Any of those people driving behind us could be following us with guns.”

He was right, darn it. I could see Derek’s eyes in the rearview mirror, narrowing in thought at the likelihood of our being tailed. If he was alone in the car, he would probably be able to evade anyone following him by turning the car into a racing machine and outrunning them. But with a car full of people, he didn’t have that option now.