C. Box - Force of Nature

She felt the hairs prick up on the back of her neck and her forearms as she said, “No. You can’t check out any more books.”

“What if these are the only books I’ll ever need? Then what?”

She looked back at him, exasperated. “I really don’t have time for this,” she said. “We need to close the library.”

She reached out for the three books, and he handed them to her. As she took them, he kept a grip on them for a second, then released. His smile never wavered.

“Please,” she said.

She quickly scanned them. The Art of War by Sun Tzu, The Looming Tower by Lawrence Wright, and Falconry and Hawking by Phillip Glasier. She paused before she scanned the last book.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“No.”

She’d seen a copy of the book before. Nate had given it to her daughter Sheridan when she first showed interest in becoming an apprentice.

“It’s kind of dated,” he said, “but the basic foundation hasn’t changed for thousands of years. So how dated can it really be?”

“I have no idea,” she said, scanning the book. She had trouble meeting his eyes again. How could that book be a coincidence? She turned to the side to face her computer monitor.

“What’s your name, please?” she asked, calling up the database of county residents who had library cards.

“Bob White,” he said, chuckling. “Just like the bird.”

She entered the name. “There’s a Randall White and an Irene White but no Bob. Do you go by Randall?”

“I’m surprised,” he said, but his tone wasn’t. He said, “There must be some kind of mistake.”

She turned back to him and shrugged.

“Maybe you can try again,” he said. “Maybe you entered the wrong name.”

“I don’t think I did.”

“Try it again,” he said. “Just for grins.”

She didn’t want to but had no good reason to refuse other than reluctance to turn her back on him again. But if it would move things along and get him out of there…

While she tapped the keys he said, “So where is your husband these days? Still out investigating?” The last word simmered with sarcasm and she mistyped “W-h-i-t-e” and had to delete and rekey. It wasn’t unusual for patrons to ask about Joe. The location of the game warden was valuable information in a hunting and fishing community. But the question was tinged with malice, and was too familiar from someone she’d never met.

“No, he’s on his way here now,” she lied.

“He is, is he?” he chuckled. He obviously didn’t believe her, and she felt her neck flush.

Then: “What about your kids? Are they home?”

A chill rolled through her. She couldn’t type. She swiveled in her chair and stared at him.

“Why are you asking about my family?” she whispered.

“I guess I’m just neighborly. I’m a neighborly guy.”

“You need to leave,” she said, dropping her right hand below the counter and gripping the pepper spray. “You have no idea who you’re talking to. You do not talk about my family,” she said, her eyes flashing.

“Who are you?” she asked, terrified that she already knew.

“Bob White. Like the bird. I already told you that.”

“I could call nine-one-one right now,” she said.

He nodded. “Yes, you could, Marybeth. And we could both wait here in embarrassed silence until they arrived.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. When he used her name, she felt as if she’d been slapped.

“Your name tag,” he said, gesturing toward her breast.

She felt her face flush.

“What I’m really interested in,” he said, leaning forward on the counter so his face was two feet away, “is falconry. They call it the sport of kings, you know. It’s an ancient art with almost religious overtones.” He tapped the book as he talked. “I understand you’re acquainted with a master falconer. I’d love to talk with him and, you know, pick his brain.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

He shook his head slightly, as if disappointed.

“Please,” she said, her mouth trembling. “Just leave.”

A low hum suddenly came from the breast pocket of his leather jacket, and she saw a split-second look of irritation in his eyes. He rose off the counter and pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the caller ID.

He stepped back away from the counter until he was in an aisle of shelving. Close enough to keep an eye on her but far enough not to be overheard. Or so he thought. Due to the strange acoustics in the building, she could clearly hear him when he raised the phone to his mouth and said, “Yes?”

Beneath the counter, out of his view, Marybeth reached down and opened her own phone. She kept her chin and eyes up, though, so he couldn’t sense what she was doing. Opening her phone, she opened up her “favorites” screen. Joe’s number was at the top, and she pressed send. Quickly, and without looking down, she keyed the speaker button and turned down the volume of his voice message. It was good to hear his recorded voice, even briefly, before she dialed it down. When the prompt came to leave a message-she had the cadence memorized and knew without hearing it-she increased the volume all the way. She was now recording on his phone, wherever it was. And he’d hear what happened in the library if anything did.

The man who called himself Bob White listened to his phone without responding. But even at that distance and in the poor light, she could see him stiffen.

“But not our target?” His voice was clipped and angry.

Then: “I don’t care. We can talk about it when you get here.”

After a minute more of holding the phone up to his ear, the man closed it without another word and dropped it into his pocket. He hesitated for a moment, then strode back toward her out of the shadows. His head was tilted slightly forward, and his eyes pierced into her from under his brow. She felt her heart beat faster.

He turned sharply toward the door to the parking lot, as if changing his mind from his original intention. Over his shoulder, he said, “You can keep the books. I’ve already read them.”

He walked toward the doors swiftly, retrieving his phone and raising it to his face. Before he pushed his way out, he covered the speaker and looked back over his shoulder.

“It was a real pleasure to meet you, Marybeth Pickett,” he said through clenched teeth. “I look forward to the next time.”

And he was gone.

She waited until he was clear of the vestibule before running to the doors herself and throwing the locks. Even though she was sure she’d attended to all of them, she double-checked each. Through the glass, she could see him backing out of his space and turning toward the exit onto Main Street.

She was shaking so badly she had to concentrate to punch the three numbers on the handset back at her desk. When Wendy, the dispatcher, answered, Marybeth said, “This is Marybeth at the library. A man was just here…”

And after she hung up, she picked up her cell phone and said, “Joe, I hope you heard that. It was him. Get home now. I’m calling the girls to tell them to lock everything up and stay inside. Joe, he knows too much about us.”

Joe Pickett didn’t receive the message, because at 9:30 he was miles away from the highway, on the side of a mountain, grinding his departmental pickup down a brutal and narrow two-track in the falling snow. He was looking for an abandoned line shack deep in the timber that might or might not contain the remains of Alice Thunder. By the time he neared the shack, he was quietly fuming.

Heavy wet snowflakes shot through the beams of his headlights like meteors. Luckily, the road was knuckled with protruding rocks so the traction on his tires was sound, but they made for painfully slow progress and a ride similar to being caught inside a tumbling clothes dryer.