Author: Alexie Aaron
Category: Paranormal
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/alexie-aaron/page,18,552944-the_knight_of_pages.html
Clara watched as Natalie secured the triptych before they left the office. This time, Clara was able to appreciate the wall art and the rooms as they passed through them. In the large workroom, she took a moment to compose herself before putting the strap over her head. “Thank you for your reception and thank you for honesty.”
“Clara, I hope to be seeing you again when both of us have more time. Give my regards to Nash and Kalaraja.”
“I will.”
Clara walked out of the apartment, and as she waited for the elevator, she reflected on all that had been revealed to her. Nash certainly was closed-mouthed about being a knight. What else was he keeping to himself?
~
Nash was in the process of closing the shop when Clara returned. He took the bag from her. Clara wondered where Kalaraja was.
“Up here,” Kalaraja called. “I was trying to return the books you took out, but they keep falling off the shelves.”
“I think I’m supposed to read them,” Clara said, taking the stairs two at a time. She found Kalaraja at the back of aisle four. She took the books from him and hugged on to them. “I’m sorry I abandoned you, babies.”
Kalaraja snorted. “How did you find the Queen of Books?”
“Very confident. She gave me a history of the Order of Scrolls and showed me her workshop. She is taking our warning seriously and will be contacting the other knights.”
“Good.”
“Are you an alchemist?” Clara asked.
“Me? No.”
“But you’re not ordinary, are you?”
“Clara, I have a certain skillset, but I’m flesh and blood just like you.”
“Except you were bit by a radioactive spider,” Clara teased.
“Well, there is that,” he said, playing along.
“Stop flirting with my landlord, unless it’ll get me out of my lease,” Nash called up the stairs.
Clara rolled her eyes. “Coming,” she said. “Later, Spider-Man.”
Kalaraja started to follow her when a book presented itself. He looked at Storm Front, one of Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files books, and shook his head. “I told her I wasn’t an alchemist. I didn’t say anything about not being a wizard.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jones looked at the members of his homicide team. He was pleased with the small group his commander had assembled. Getting Officer Blunt was a bonus. She had adjusted the whiteboard as he requested. It was set up with the center containing the information and photo evidence of the murder-suicide. Kabir Patel’s information was also contained in this area due to the blood match and what may be his handprint on the back door. On the left side, Blunt had updated Marc Davis’s information. Above that, she fitted in Marianne Irving’s data. On the right side, she printed out a description of the black book. Under this, she printed Wendell Baumbach and Nash Greene. She looked over at her boss. Jones nodded and waited until she sat down before he spoke.
“I’m not going to lie to you and tell you I know exactly what drove Monica Voorhees to kill her friend Trisha Prue. According to the people we interviewed, they were friends since grade school. Monica was a bridesmaid in Trisha’s recent wedding. According to her husband, Monica invited Trisha on a spa week. This is why he didn’t report his wife missing.”
“I call bullshit on that one,” Gordon Dahlberg said. Dahlberg was a seasoned sergeant who had been riding a desk since he was shot by a gang bullet while trying to cool the tensions between two rival groups. It took out one of his knees but not his sharp mind. He had been the number one person to go to for any information that was reachable via the internet or phone.
“Go ahead, I’ll bite,” Jones said.
“A guy who just got married would be calling his truelove regardless of spa weeks. And who goes to a spa for a week?”
“Rich bitches,” Officer Ria Molina said and quickly corrected herself when Jones gave her the evil eye, “Affluent bitches.”
This caused the group to laugh, which eased the tension.
Dahlberg continued, “I’m saying that there must not have been much love after the wedding.”
“Which supports the theory of Dr. Mason’s assistant that Trisha Prue was a bridezilla,” Jones said. “It may explain why she was targeted by Voorhees but doesn’t excuse the deed,” Jones reminded the group. “I’m at a loss how Kabir Patel may have gotten involved in this? He did come in voluntarily when he woke and found himself covered in blood and had no memory of the three previous days.”
“Drugs could have wiped all their memories,” Molina said.
“The tox screens on all the victims were clear of anything we have on the books that could possibly cause this,” Jones said.
“Mass hypnosis?” offered Dahlberg.
“It could explain Kabir and Voorhees, but Marc Davis and Marianne Irving also lost memory.”
“I’m sorry, I came late to this party,” Molina said. “How are Davis and Irving involved in Trisha Prue’s murder?”
“They have both gone through events that have left them without memories. Both were in contact with the book we feel ties them all together. I feel that omitting their evidence would be foolhardy.”
Molina nodded that she understood.
“Back to Marianne Irving. Miss Irving’s psychiatrist, Father Saul, stated that he has never seen a patient from whom he couldn’t retrieve part of a memory. In Miss Irving’s case, there was only the recorded message left on her phone to give her any clue that it seemed that she voluntarily put herself in jeopardy.”
“We don’t have a copy of her interview,” Dahlberg said, looking through the papers on his desk.
“No. Since she wasn’t in town when Voorhees killed Prue, I didn’t think it was necessary to drag her into this. She’s presently a voluntary inmate of the Sisters of St. Bernadette’s mental hospital.”
“Why are we mentioning her to begin with, again?” Molina asked.
“I believe that all these criminal acts were caused when a certain black leather book was placed in the hands of these people. The first sighting of the book was in Marianne’s bookbag. She told Father Saul that when she picked the book up, it was warm.”
“Maybe it had an electrical device inside, a tracker. Maybe we’re dealing with a serial sadist who tracks down victims and makes them do dark horrible things,” Molina said.
Jones rubbed his chin. “Your idea of a tracker makes a lot of sense. It would explain the book being warm. It would also explain how we haven’t found the book yet. It must have been retrieved after Patel woke up.”
“Or it’s still in his possession,” Officer Blunt said. “Do we have a search warrant?”
“I called Patel’s lawyer, and Kabir has agreed to a search without warrant. He also will be in today for questioning; although, he still doesn’t remember doing anything.”
“Then why is he coming in?” Molina asked.
“The evidence is strong that he was in Voorhees’s apartment at some point. Maybe Voorhees called him after for a rub-a-dub-dub in a tub full of blood? At this point we can only go by the facts. Which are, Kabir Patel woke covered in Trisha Prue’s blood. A man-sized handprint is on the back door.”
“Do we have a match that it is his handprint?” Dahlberg asked.
“We’re going to take his prints and DNA,” Jones said. “Sergeant Dahlberg, I’d like you to start with the security footage from Voorhees’s apartment building for Sunday moving forward. I’m going to send Officer Molina to check out whether there are any other cameras facing the building, hopefully the alley where the fire exit is. Officer Blunt, you’ll be my eyes as they are searching Kabir Patel’s apartment. Warn them that he has volunteered for this, and that I’ll not abide any unnecessary damages.”
“Yes, Detective.”
“Molina, I’d like you to meet me at One More Time bookshop at two-thirty to interview Nash Greene.”
Molina looked over at the board and aske
d, “Why?”
“I’d like to ease my mind. Hopefully, he has proof of where he was from Sunday on. Nash knows way too much about what is going on. He could be involved. Also, we’re going to look further into Wendell Baumbach’s activities.”
“Yes, Detective,” Molina said, copying the names down in her notebook. “Would you like me to run a background check on both men?”
“Wait until I have to bring them in for questioning. I don’t want to waste our resources if either or both have alibis.”
~
Nash woke to find Clara gone from the bed. The scent of her bodywash in the apartment told him that she had already showered. He didn’t hear the reset of the alarm, so he assumed she was still in the building. He looked at the clock and smiled. Clara’s natural time clock was set for her job at the restaurant. It would have been asking too much for her to sleep in past eight. He caught another scent wafting in from the stairwell. It was coffee. Clara must have started a pot on the first floor. He pulled on yesterday’s clothes, vowing to go to his apartment to replenish his supply of clothing. “Why not just take Clara there?” he asked himself aloud. “Because it’s a depressing dump,” he answered, looking around at how Clara had already made the apartment look homey with little touches of things she had found around the shop.
He walked down the steps and found the door to the second floor had been propped open. The hardcover books were quiet as he passed them. As he approached the steps, he heard light shuffling sounds combined with targeted breathing. He stood and looked down into the shop and watched as Clara was making use of the open area in front of the cash register to practice something. She kept referring to a book she had propped open on the counter. The more he watched, the more Clara became proficient at what resembled some kind of martial arts. Could you learn martial arts from a book? In this shop, anything was possible. If Clara had opened the book during the gloaming, she would probably have the mindset of the writer of the book.
He cleared his throat so he didn’t scare her as he descended onto the main floor of the shop.
Clara turned and pushed her hair away from her face by tucking it behind her ears.
To Nash, she looked like an elfin queen looking up at him. “‘The sound of her footsteps was like a stream falling gently downhill over cool stones in the quiet of night.’”
Clara put her hand on her heart and beamed. The words weren’t his own. She knew he quoted J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring. It didn’t matter. She consumed what was in his eyes and felt all the stronger for it.
“Good morning,” she said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, you didn’t,” Nash said, walking to her. He took her in his arms and kissed her. “Although, I did miss waking up with you.”
Clara blushed. “You were sleeping so soundly, I thought I’d let you sleep in.”
He lifted her face to see her better. “You’re so beautiful this morning.”
“It might be because your glasses are dirty.” She drew off his glasses, looking at him, and stopped. “Excuse me, have you seen the proprietor?”
“I look goofy, don’t I?” Nash said.
“No, just different.” Clara put on Nash’s glasses, and as her eyes watered with the high prescription, she asked. “How do I look?”
“Three minutes from a big headache,” he said, taking the glasses off. He brushed away the tears and then kissed her closed eyes.
“The coffee’s an hour old. Do you want me to make another pot?” she asked.
“Nope,” Nash said, still holding her close.
Clara put her head on his shoulder.
“What were you doing?” he asked, caressing her back.
“One of the books insisted I start training.”
“Training?”
“I think I’m supposed to be your bodyguard.”
“That’s why I have you so close.”
“I was wondering about that,” Clara said.
“Can I show you my etchings in the workshop?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Clara said. “I love it when you’re smarmy.”
The shop phone rang. Nash released Clara to go and answer it. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m not finished with you yet.”
Clara giggled.
Nash picked up the line. “Hello, One More Time bookshop.”
“This is Detective Jones. I’d like to stop by and have a conversation.”
“I’ll be here until three and then again after five,” Nash said.
“I’ll be there at two thirty,” Jones said and hung up.
Nash replaced the receiver. He looked over at Clara. “We’re going to have company too damn close to the gloaming. Detective Jones is coming for a conversation.”
“I’ll keep the books in line,” Clara offered.
“I’d like you to stay with me. The books will do what the books will do. I’ll be much braver with you at my side.”
Clara’s eyes softened. “I’ll be happy to stay with you.”
“Do I sound bossy?”
“Sometimes. In the bookshop, you’re the boss. In the kitchen, I’m the boss.”
“Then come here. Your boss needs some attention.”
“Yes, sir,” Clara said and ran over.
Nash took her hand, and the two walked towards the workshop. He opened the door, and he had no sooner turned on the light when he swept her into his arms. He felt so safe when she held on to him as he kissed her. Clara’s love moved over him like a cloak of strength. He stopped and drew her over to the beat-up couch. He scooped up the books and set them on the floor before he sat next to her.
“I don’t know what the future brings, but I know that I want to experience it with you beside me. I want to support your dreams and have you help me to achieve mine. Clara, I promise to listen to you, never discount your words, and understand when you need space.”
Clara lifted an eyebrow. “Nash, what was it, my insecurities, past baggage, or pointy ears that sealed this deal?”
“The ears.”
“‘I will not give you counsel, saying do this, or do that. For not in doing or contriving, nor in choosing between this course and another, can I avail; but only in knowing what was and is, and in part also what shall be.’”
“A woman who can quote Tolkien, how did I get so lucky?”
“Just don’t ask me to speak elvish. Klingon I can manage but…”
Nash slid off the couch, lay on the floor, and pulled his shirt open. “Kill me now, for I will never find another woman like you.”
“You don’t have to find another. Just stay around for this one. Come up here and show me your appreciation.”
Nash growled and did just that.
~
Catherine looked at her son with concern. He was too quiet. Normally, he had some entertaining stories when they sat down for lunch. Today, he just ate his food in silence.
“I thawed a nice roast for supper.”
“Clara isn’t coming,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” Catherine asked.
“You were fishing for information. Clara is in a serious relationship. She told me herself when I asked her.”
“Well, the pretty ones are the first to go…”
“She’s Nash’s girlfriend.”
“Nash Greene?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. I admit being surprised. He’s no prize.”
Wendell looked at his mother and saw that she was telling the truth before he agreed. “I know. He’s a rude, pompous know-it-all. She’ll tire of always being wrong. He doesn’t listen. I learned to listen in book club.”
Catherine liked the confidence she had started to see in her son.
“He’s poor and sickly. I’m not sure that he can perform, if you get my drift.”
“Wendell, not an appropriate subject for mother and son,” she scolded.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that he ge
ts to me sometimes.”
“Try to be a little more understanding. Some men have to have their own kingdoms, and that bookshop is his.”
“You’re right, Mother.”
“So does Clara work with him?”
“Oh, no, she’s a chef. I looked her up online, and she’s the head chef for Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz. She explained to me that she was just hanging around the shop the day we met.”
“Was she kind in her refusal?”
“Gracious.”
“So there is still a friendship to nurture,” Catherine said. “You may want to ask her to book club.”
“It may be too late in the evening for her. But if there is an opportunity, I will ask.”
“Good for you.”
Wendell breathed easier. The interrogation was over. He almost slipped and told her his plans for Clara Tyler, and they didn’t involve dinner with his mother. He got up and picked up the plates. “I’ll wash up. You rest,” he said sweetly.
Catherine walked into her parlor in search of her e-reader. A knock on the front door diverted her to the foyer. She looked out the peephole. A middle-aged black gentleman stood there. He raised his badge. She opened the door and said, “Yes?”
“Mrs. Baumbach, I’m Detective Jones. We spoke on the phone. I was wondering if I could have a few moments of your time.”
“Here, or should I grab my coat?”
Jones smiled at the elderly woman. “Here is fine.”
“Well, come in then. “Wendell, we have company,” she called.
There was no answer. She walked into the kitchen and caught the closing of the back door. She returned. “I’m sorry, he must have just stepped out.”
“I’ve come to speak with you, not Wendell,” he reminded the woman.
“Would you like a beverage?”
“No thank you.”
“I’ve just finished lunch. I was about to read before my nap. Do you read, Detective?”
“Not as much as I used to. I find my eyes are tired after all the reports I go through. I do, however, still manage to put a dozen books behind me a year.”
“That’s very admirable. Any particular subject?”