The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)

A Distant Conclusion

Previously: "Bully Sessions" 

There's no use trying to get the book back from those guys. What could you do? Ask them to return it? Best to let the whole thing quietly drop.

So life, briefly deflected, continues. You deposit a cologne bottle in the time capsule, write a paper on it, get a B+. ("Good contribution, original, insightful thought," Walberg scrawls at the end. "Essay structure needs improvement.") You waste a fair amount of time—and rub away a good deal of your friends' patience—by reviewing the events that led up to a recent romantic failure.

You studiously avoid the portables.

Eventually, you forget that you'd ever found and lost that book. The fall semester passes; Christmas comes and goes; a new semester—the last school semester of your life—begins. Most of the senior-class assholes have dropped out; a few have been expelled. Life is actually pretty pleasant.

* * * * *

Then, one day in February, you are summoned to the office from class. "There's a man in the conference room that would like to talk to you," says the secretary, and points down a short hallway. "Second door on the left after you've turned the corner."

It's a small room, very beige under the fluorescent lights, just big enough to hold a table, ten chairs, and the stink rising off the man sitting at the other end of the room. He has greasy, lanky hair hanging to the bottom of his jaw, and he's wearing a soiled sports jacket that appears not to have been washed in months. He watches you with dark, flinty eyes, and if he notices you recoiling slightly at his smell, he doesn't show it. "You Prescott?" he asks.

You nod.

"My name's Bredon. Have a seat. I'm a private investigator, following up on a case of identity theft and fraud."

"Fraud?" you stammer.

"It has nothing to do with you, kid, so just sit down. I'm tying up a few loose ends is all, and I've information you were a minor witness."

"I don't know anything about—"

"You ever seen this before?" From an open briefcase the man pulls out a book bound in crimson and gold leather.

It does look familiar. You touch it.

Of course! "Yeah. Uh—"

"When did you last see it?"

"Here, at school."

"I asked when, not where."

"I mean, here, last semester. Uh, September?" you add when he frowns. "Yeah, it was close to the start of the semester. You can ask Mr. Walberg if you want, it was— I had an assignment to do for him, and it was right around—"

"Thank you," he says, scribbling in a notepad. "How did you became acquainted with it?"

"I found it in a bookstore. Arnholm's Used Books, over by the college. Yeah, I bought it—"

"For how much?"

"Two dollars, I think."

That gets his attention, and he does a double-take at you.

"Yeah, two dollars," you stammer under his hard stare, "because it was defective. The pages were all glued together or something. Here, I can show—"

But as you reach for the book he shoves it back in the briefcase, which he closes with a snap. "And how did you part with it? Did you sell it to another party?"

"No." You feel your face turning red; you've not thought of that day in a long time, but the sudden memory makes it all fresh again. "Actually, it got, uh, taken off me by some guys."

"They have names?"

"Uh— It's been a few months, and there were so many of them." The man doesn't give you a smile of sympathy. "Uh, I know that Joe Thomason was one of them. And James Rennerhoff. Jeff Spencer. Joshua Call. I don't remember who else."

Bredon copies these names down. Then—moving quickly, as though afraid you might lunge inside it—he opens the briefcase just long enough to extract a legal pad. On this he writes for a very long time. "This is a release and bill of sale," he says without looking up. "Technically, you are still the owner of the Libra, and my clients require a clear title to it before they are able to settle certain litigation. How much do you want for it?" He raises his head when you don't reply.

"What?"

"To sell it for. How much do you want for it? The book, it's still yours, and my clients would like to buy it from you."

"Oh. Uh. Is it worth anything?"

He doesn't answer. You've no idea how much to ask for. "A hundred dollars?" you stammer weakly, and your heart makes three wild thumps in your chest.

He scribbles something on the pad, then turns it toward you. "Sign at the bottom, please." From his pocket he takes a wallet, and after you put your name on the pad he draws out a crisp new hundred dollar bill; you are disconsolate to see at least six more like it that don't make the same trip. Bredon takes the legal pad from you, and slides the Ben Franklin across the table.

"That concludes our business, Prescott," he says. "Thank you for your time and help. On your way out, tell the old lady with the bad dye job I'd like to see her." He bends back over his notebook and begins writing.

* * * * *

So, five months later, you came out of it ninety-eight dollars richer. At the break between classes you tell Caleb about the strange meeting in the office. He frowns, then dashes off. When you see him at lunch he has an old paperback in his hand. "Oh, I just thought maybe that guy you met was an eccentric collector or something. I had this copy of Tolkien in the back of my locker," he says, dropping the book in your lap. "So I went to the office to see him."

"Was he still there?"

"Yeah. He told me to go soak my head."

The End

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 1)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)"