Snapdragons
an excerpt

It was an ordinary bookstore, one you might pass by and not even notice unless you were truly interested in books, or bookstores. In fact, he had passed by it many times not noticing it, and he was quite interested in books, and, even more so, in bookstores. There is just this feeling of giddiness that overcomes one when entering a bookstore.
Stanton Hanley lingered at the display window, looking to see what the owner thought might attract someone in. It was early autumn, just beginning to get verifiably cold here in the northwest of Scotland, and the display was playing off the theme. A birding guide. A gardening book, opened to the chapter on “What to do when the weather turns cold.” A collection of Connie Willis books, (he smiled at that, “To Say Nothing of the Dog”) and some cookbooks about soups. All this was strewn about with golden and orange maple leaves, and intertwined with a long brown scarf.
He stepped back a bit and looked at the building, or rather, how the shop fit into the building, since it only took up one small corner of a larger wooden structure. It was one of many along the narrow street, all seeming to loom out over him. Three storied, it was quite wide, with two mall shops at either side, the other a tobacconist, and in the middle an entry into a foyer with stairs and a passage back to some offices there. The front was painted a truly ugly brown, perhaps to match the scarf in the display.
He peered in through the glass of the door, and beyond the pleasant “Open, please do come in” sign, and saw that though the front of the store was quite narrow, perhaps only ten or twelve feet wide, and as the room went back it seemed to open up more, with stairs going up into unknown recesses above, and a labyrinth of dim cavernous shelves winding back into the bowels of the building.
He nodded, very satisfied at the prospect of undiscovered territory.
The sign over the door said “Foggy Iris Books” and below that, in smaller lettering, “New, Used and Antiquarian Books and Miscellany.” It was the “and Misc.” that changed hesitation into opening the door. If he had chanced to look, before he opened the door, he would have seen, carved into the dark stained oak of the door casing, the figure of a claw and flame, about the size of an American silver dollar.
A small bell attached to the door announced his entry, though the teenaged girl at the desk to his left could not hear past her earbuds. The door shut behind him, leaving the crispness of the autumn afternoon outside, and he was confronted with the timeless smell of books. Not musty or moldy, just page after page of wisdom and folly exuding their fibrous essence into the warmth of the shop. Somewhere, in the back most likely, a fire crackled.
He sighed contentedly, ‘Would that I could spend my days thus.’
He shook his head, banishing a slumbering desire, and turned to the girl at the desk.
She was studying some trig. text, oblivious to all but sine and cotangent and whatever godawful noise emanated through the minute space between her eardrum and the earbud. He smiled somewhat patronizingly and leaned over to wave his hand into the area just inside what he deemed to be her general spatial awareness. But not so close as to frighten, or appear to be threatening.
Her upward glance was a mixture of irritation and feigned helpfulness, and she pulled one earbud out to say,
“Can I…Help you?”
“Uh, well, I’m not sure.”
“Are you looking for a book?” In that brief moment, he saw her face change ever so slightly. It might have been a narrowing of the eyes, or a slight tensing of the jaw, but he knew something was wrong. She glanced back into the store, then leaned towards him, anger on her voice, “What are you doing? If she sees you she’ll probably call the police.”
“What?”
“Look, that last thing you tried to pull nearly got me fired and I won’t do it again. Now if you don’t leave I’m gonna have to call her up, and then she’ll call the police and that will be that.”
Just then a woman came from between the stacks, carrying a couple books and looking around at everything but the two of them by the door.
The girl sighed, “Just go!”
“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to cause trouble, and yes, I’ll leave.” He reached out for the door handle, but didn’t open it. “You know, I’ve been to so many bookstores lately, when did I last come in here?”
She winced a smile, “Day before yesterday? Duh.”
“Thank you.” He pulled the door open.
“Oh, Wait!” she said in a loud whisper, “Don’t forget the snapdragons.”
He eyed her for a moment, blinking his eyes, nodded, and left.
Standing outside the building again he looked at the door, and this time saw the carved figure next to the middle hinge. He nodded, ‘I have only just come here on my age vector, but I was here two days ago. This must be the place. I wonder what it is I do that will get her into such trouble?’
As the door closed, the woman came up to the desk to buy some books.
Analise McFee went through the motions of the sale without really paying attention to the customer.
“Do you know if you have volume one of this?” The customer held up one of her purchased books.
“Uh, I’m not sure.” Analise looked out the window, up the street, watching the back of the man as he went up the street. “I need to be here, I’ll get the owner.” She turned to yell up into the second floor stacks, “Loretta? Can you help this lady with something.”
“Just a moment,” came the reply.
Analise smiled nicely to the customer, “I’m supposed to watch the door.”
The woman nodded, and browsed back towards the stacks.
Analise leaned over towards the window, looking up the street. She smiled brightly and waved.
“Can I help—who are you waving at, Analise?”
The girl looked up to the balcony, “Uh, it’s just that guy that came in the other day, you know? The one—“
“He came back? Why didn’t you tell me?”
The browser joined Loretta in wondering.
“I, uh, he just came in, asked about something, then, uh, left.”
“Is he still out there?” Loretta walked quickly along the rail to the stairs at the left of the building. The railing and balusters were thick oak, ages old, dark and shining.
“No, he just disappeared—“
“Disappeared? What do you mean?”
Analise sighed loudly, “I mean, he just walked away and is gone.”
“I’m sorry, Ma’m, I’ll just be a moment.” Loretta turned at the bottom of the stairs and opened an equally dark oak panel door, flicked a switch and stepped quickly down into the basement. She heard a shuffling from below.
“You’d better not take those!” She shouted.
Ten paces would bring her to the cabinets that held the pamphlet files in the back corner of the basement. More shuffling, then the sound of a drawer closing, then a soft snapping sound. She rounded the corner of the storage bins, “I told you, you can’t have—“
There was nobody there. The cabinets were all closed, the bare bulb shone harshly, only a lingering oddly familiar smell evidenced that someone might have just been there. It was faintly smoky with an undertone of musk.
“Damn.” Loretta walked over to the ‘Mi-Mop’ file, put her hand to it, hesitated, closing her eyes. ‘This can’t be happening again. Fifteen years. I wonder if it’s him?’ She pulled on the drawer, which extended out two full feet. She opened her eyes and saw five metal boxes. She held her breath and opened the box labeled Morrison Fragments. Inside were four thin manila envelopes.
“Damn you!” There was a note at the bottom of the box, which she picked up gingerly. The writing was not familiar:
‘Only borrowed.’
“Yeah, right.” Shs slammed the drawer shut and made her way back upstairs, crumpling the note into the pocket of her jeans.
She stopped at the top, closing her eyes again, ‘If it was him, would he be much older? Would it be the same story?’
“Loretta? Oh my God! He’s bleeding! He’s back!”