Glenn Cooper - Book of Souls

It hadn’t been a great idea to argue with his wife while she was breast-feeding. He figured that out halfway through their contretemps. There was something mean-spirited about raising his voice and drowning out his son’s gurgling and sucking, not to mention wiping Nancy’s usual look of maternal serenity off her face. On the other hand, he’d made a promise to help Spence, and he argued that at least he hadn’t agreed to haul off to England. Nancy was hardly placated. For her, Doomsday was in the past, and the Library was best forgotten. She understood the danger of black groups like the watchers. She was all about the present and the future. She had a baby she loved and a husband she cherished. Life was pretty good right now, but it could turn on a dime. She told him not to play with fire.

Will was nothing if not stubborn. He had grabbed his jacket, stormed out of the apartment, then immediately started feeling rotten. But he refused to turn tail and apologize. The give-and-take of married life was a concept he understood intellectually, but it wasn’t ingrained, and might never be for all he knew. He mumbled something to himself about being pussy-whipped and hit the elevator down button hard, like he was trying to poke someone’s eye out.

As soon as he boarded the bus, Will admitted, “Good thing we’re not doing this in my place.”

“In the doghouse, Mr. Piper?” Spence asked.

“Just call me Will from now on, okay?” he answered moodily. “You got coffee?” He slouched on the sofa.

Kenyon poured while Spence touched GET DIRECTIONS on his GPS unit and pulled away from the curb. Their destination was the Queens Mall, where Will figured they could park the bus without much hassle.

When they arrived, it was still dark, and the mall was several hours from opening. The parking lot was wide open and Spence parked at the periphery. His cell phone had five bars, so they wouldn’t have to worry about signal quality.

“It’s 10:00 A.M.. in London. I’ll dial in,” Spence said, getting up and wheeling his oxygen box.

He placed the cell phone on the kitchen table on speaker mode, and the three of them sat around it while he punched in the international number. An operator connected them into the auction, and an officious voice answered, “Martin Stein here of Pierce & Whyte. With whom am I speaking?”

“This is Henry Spence calling from the United States. Hear me okay?”

“Yes, Mr. Spence, loud and clear. We’ve been expecting your call. If you could indicate which lots you intend to bid on, it would be most useful.”

“Just one, Lot 113.”

“I see. Well, I think we might not get to that item until well into the second hour.”

“I’ve got my phone plugged in and I’ve paid my wireless bill, so we’ll be okay on this end.”

In London, Frazier was fighting jet lag and boredom, but he was too disciplined and stoical to grimace, yawn, or squirm like a normal person. The old books kept marching past in one dull stream of cardboard, leather, paper, and ink. Histories, novels, travelogues, poetry, ornithology, works of science, mathematics, engineering. He seemed to be the only uninterested party. His compatriots were in a lather, bidding furiously against one another, each with a characteristic style. Some would flamboyantly wave their paddles. Others would raise them almost imperceptibly. The real hard-core regulars had facial expressions that were recognized by the staff as indications-a sharp nod, a twitch of the cheek, a raised brow. There was some serious disposable income in this town, Frazier thought, as bids on books he wouldn’t shove under a short table leg, rose into the thousands of pounds.

In New York, dawn had come, and daylight filled the bus. Every so often, Stein came onto the line with a progress report. They were getting closer. Will was getting impatient. He’d promised he’d be back before Nancy had to leave for work, and the clock was spinning. Spence’s body was noisy. He was wheezing, coughing, puffing on an inhaler, and whispering curses.

When Lot 112 came up, Frazier’s mind cleared, a surge of adrenaline goosing his respiratory rate. It was a large, old volume and at first he mistook it for his target. Toby sang the praises of the book, pronouncing its title fluently in Latin. “Lot 112 is a very fine copy of the anatomy book by Raymond de Vieussens, Neurographia Universalis, Hoc Est, Omnium Corporis, Humani Nervorum, published in 1670 in Frankfurt by G. W. Kuhn. There are twenty-nine engraved plates on contemporary vellum, some short tears, but otherwise a remarkable copy of an historic medical treatise. I will start the bidding at?1,000.”

The bidding was brisk, with multiple interested parties. A dealer at the rear, a heavyset man with an ascot who had been particularly keen all morning on scientific offerings, led the way, aggressively bumping the price by hundred-pound increments. When the dust settled, he had it at?2300.

Martin Stein came on the line, and announced, “Mr. Spence, we have reached Lot 113. Please stand by.”

“Okay, gentlemen, this is it,” Spence said. Will looked anxiously at his watch. There was still time to get home and avoid a big domestic dustup.

Frazier locked his eyes on the book the instant it was brought into the auction room. Even from a distance, he was certain. It was one of them. He’d spent two decades in and around the Library and there was no mistaking it. The time had come. He’d spent the morning watching the action and had learned the mechanics of bidding. Let’s get ready to rumble, he thought, psyching himself.

Toby spoke about the book wistfully, as if sorry to see it go. “Lot 113 is a rather unique item, a hand-inscribed journal, dated 1527, beautifully bound in calf hide, over a thousand pages of finest-quality vellum. There is, perhaps, an endpaper that has been replaced at some distant point. The book appears to be an extensive ledger of births and deaths, possessing an international flair, with multiple European and oriental languages represented. The volume has been in the family collection of Lord Cantwell perhaps since the sixteenth century, but its provenance cannot be otherwise ascertained. We have consulted with academic colleagues at Oxford and Cambridge, and there is no consensus as to its origin or purpose. It remains, if I may say, an enigma wrapped in mystery, but it is an outstanding curiosity piece which I now offer at a starting bid of?2,000.”

Frazier raised his paddle so obviously it almost made Toby jump. It was the first significant physical movement the large man had made in almost two hours.

“Thank you,” Toby said, “may I hear?2500?”

From their tinny speaker, Will heard Stein offering 2500, and Spence said, “Yes, that’s fine.”

Stein nodded to Toby who said, “There is a telephone bidder at 2500, may I hear 3,000?”

Frazier shifted uncomfortably. He’d hoped there wouldn’t be any competition. He raised his paddle.

“I have 3,000, looking for 3500,” then a quick “Thank you,” as he pointed to the rear. Frazier turned to see the heavy man with the ascot nodding. “Now looking for 4,000,” Toby said quickly.

Stein relayed the bid. “This is horseshit,” Spence whispered to his companions. “I bid 5,000.”

“I have 5,000 here,” Stein called out to the podium.

“Very well, then,” Toby continued smoothly. “Do we have a bid for 6,000?”

Frazier felt a spasm of anxiety. He had plenty of dry powder, but he wanted this to be a cakewalk. He raised his paddle again.

“I have 6,000, may I hear 7,000?”

The man in the ascot shook his head, and Toby turned to the phone desk. Stein was speaking, then listening, then speaking again until he announced rather grandly, “I have?10,000!”

“Let me take the liberty of asking for?12,000,” Toby said boldly.