Kate Carlisle - The Lies That Bind

“Yes, she’s the one,” Whitney said, then grimaced. “I remember that hair.”

“What an ingrate,” Marianne said, righteously indignant on my behalf. “She could’ve died if Brooklyn hadn’t found her.”

“What’s wrong with her?” quiet Jennifer asked.

“She’s just a royal bee-yotch,” Whitney said, and the others agreed.

I smiled gratefully. I was growing more fond of my students every day. “So, where were we?”

“It’s hammer time?” Mitchell said, causing more groans and a few laughs.

“Right. Everyone find their hammer in their tool packet.” While they went through their packets, I took a minute to catch my breath. Minka was a menace to my health.

“Okay, everyone ready?” I asked, holding up my favorite tool. I’d purchased the new bookbinders hammer when I’d returned from Edinburgh last month. My old favorite hammer, a gift from my mentor, had been stolen and used as a murder weapon.

It was a long story, and I tried not to think about it as I prepared to demonstrate the proper way of rounding the spine of the textblock.

I had them remove their glued pages from the wood presses and test the glue.

“The adhesive should still be slightly tacky,” I said, holding up my demo and touching the spine.

“The reason we hammer the spine is to round it out. A flat spine won’t allow the book to lie nicely. You want to round it slightly. And you do it by pounding it with a hammer.”

“Fun,” said Kylie.

I demonstrated by holding up two different books I’d made. “If you keep the spine flat as it is now, the book will plop one way or another when you open it. See? But a rounded spine will allow the book to fan open.”

“Cool,” Jennifer whispered.

“Now, hammering works best if you place the textblock flat on the table with the spine near the table’s edge.” I used the end of the worktable to demonstrate.

“I’m going to hurt myself, aren’t I?” Gina whispered to Whitney.

I smiled at her. “No, you won’t. These hammers are lighter and shorter than a regular carpenter’s hammer, and the head is wider. That’s because you don’t need to apply as much pressure to this as you would to a nail to pound it into a wall. Your pressure to the book is more of a smack than a smash.”

“Smack, don’t smash,” Gina muttered.

“You take the hammer and start pounding the spine with a pushing motion,” I said, demonstrating. “You’re effectively nudging the layers out to form a curved surface.”

“I like it,” Kylie said, clobbering the pages with her hammer. “I’m pretending it’s my husband.”

“This is fun,” Gina said, pounding like mad on her book. “I’m so fierce.”

“Easy,” I cautioned. “Push, don’t pummel.”

“Oops,” she said, and lightened the pressure of her thrusts.

“Now, turn the textblock over and do the same thing from the back side so it evens out. Do this several times, and you’ll see the spine becoming rounded.” I held mine up for everyone’s scrutiny.

“As soon as you have the desired curve, place it back into the wood press and apply another thin layer of glue. That way, it’ll stay rounded for good.”

A twittering sound chirped. Cynthia grabbed her purse and found her cell. She checked the screen and looked at me. “It’s bidness. Can I take a quick break?”

“Sure,” I said. “Everyone knows what they need to do now, so proceed at your own pace and take a break if you need to. I’ll walk around and check your work or answer questions if you have any.”

For the next ten minutes, everyone worked quietly. Some people left the room, others came back in. I didn’t pay much attention to the comings and goings as I stopped to ask Marianne and Jennifer about their library arts-and-crafts program. Then I made another pass around the table and paused at Mitchell’s place.

“How’m I doing, boss?” he asked, grinning as he held up his glue brush.

“Much better,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said. “But I-”

A loud blast interrupted him.

Gina screamed and Whitney pulled her under the table.

“Oh, my God,” Kylie cried.

“Calm down!” I shouted. “It’s probably nothing.”

But I knew that sound. I’d heard it more than once before.

“Everyone stay here.” I ran from the room, closing the door behind me. No one was in the hall. I tiptoed to the entry and peeked around the corner. The gallery was empty.

“I’m right behind you,” Mitchell said evenly. “That was a gunshot.”

“I know.” I turned and scowled. “That’s why I told everyone to stay in the room.”

“Oh, right. Like I’m going to wait in there while you’re out here getting yourself killed.”

“Men,” I muttered.

“Yeah, we suck,” he growled. “Come on.”

We crossed the gallery to the north hall. I could see that Layla’s office door was open. Light poured into the hall, illuminating a lifeless lump on the carpet.

“Oh, crap,” I whispered. Déjà vu, anyone? I moved closer, then stopped abruptly. Mitchell stopped directly behind me.

It was Layla. Blood trickled from a hole at the center of her chest, leaving a bright red stain in the middle of her stretchy white top.

My head began to swim at the sight of all that blood and spandex. I looked away from the bullet hole, straight into Layla’s dull green eyes. She stared right back at me, but there was only emptiness.

Layla Fontaine was dead.

“Jeez, what’s with this place?” Mitchell wondered aloud. “You got bodies falling everywhere.”

“Call nine-one-one,” I said as I knelt to check her pulse. I couldn’t blame him for asking the question. Every other night I was finding another body in the hall. It couldn’t be good for business.

“Is she dead?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I mumbled, pushing myself up.

“Well, duh,” he said, thumping his forehead. “I guess the bullet hole should’ve been my first clue.” He pulled out his cell and made the call.

I brushed and straightened my wool dress, then leaned against the wall, staring off into nowhere. I listened to Mitchell speak clearly and dispassionately to the dispatcher. I was glad he’d followed me out of the classroom. Despite being a wiseacre, or maybe because of it, he was a good man to have in a crisis.

After a few seconds he covered the phone and asked, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, my back pressed against the wall.

“Don’t pass out.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m not kidding. You look like you’re going to faint. You can just walk away and go sit in the classroom.”

“No,” I insisted, then admitted, “Okay, I get a little woozy around blood.”

“Take deep breaths. Blood freaks out a lot of people.”

I was disgusted at my own weakness, but in my defense, it wasn’t just the sight of blood that was making me light-headed. It was the fact that Layla’s eyes were still open. It felt as though she were staring right at me. It made me wonder how the police could work around dead bodies when the victims’ eyes were still open, staring at them as they did their jobs.

If I were to ask my cosmically attuned mother what it meant when someone died with their eyes open, she would have some explanation about the soul choosing to leave the body through the eyes. The eyes were considered one of the higher senses, so maybe when the soul left this way, it meant the person would reach Surya Loka, or the divine solar, the eternal light, sooner. There, the soul would be purified; then it took only another step or two to reach Chandraloka, or, literally, moon heaven.

Or maybe not. At least, not in Layla’s case. Something told me heaven wouldn’t be her ultimate destination.