Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [104]
“Yes, she has a box cutter, but don’t hurt her, please. She’s been hurt enough.”
Lapin said to the uniformed officers, “Come on. Let’s find her.” The officers, guns drawn, entered the stacks.
Annabel stood. “I’m going with you.”
“Ma’am, I think it’s better if you don’t,” Lapin said.
“Help!”
They all turned to see Sue Gomara come up the stairs two at a time, out of breath, frantic.
“What’s the matter, Sue?” Consuela said as the intern stumbled into their midst and grabbed Consuela’s arm.
“I know him,” she said.
“You know who?” Consuela asked.
“The stalker. The guy who’s been after me.”
Lapin said to Consuela, “Why don’t you take the young lady down to your office and calm her down. I’ll be there after we find Ms. Marwede.”
“Dolores?” Sue said. “Find her?”
Consuela put her arm around her intern. “Come on, Sue, let’s do what he suggests. You can tell me about it in my office.”
Annabel watched Consuela lead Sue Gomara to the stairs, then turned to see Lapin follow his officers. For a moment, she was tempted to join Consuela and Sue, but she shook off that decision and trailed after Lapin into the stacks, hundreds of floor-to-ceiling steel shelves housing the Hispanic division’s vast collection of books. A series of low-wattage bulbs strung along the ceiling, dimmed each night by timers, provided barely enough light to see, everything in shadow, murky, lacking distinctive shape and form.
She saw that the two uniformed members of the library police had split up, coordinating their movements through their radios, light from their flashlights creating bizarre, erratic patterns on the ceiling. Lapin was a dozen yards ahead in one of the main aisles, off which hundreds of narrower aisles extended, each a cul-de-sac. He moved slowly, tentatively, radio in one hand, a revolver in the other, pausing as he reached each cross-aisle, weapon held vertically next to his right ear, a quick glance, then on to the next.
Annabel followed in Lapin’s footsteps, her steps silent, holding her breathing in check. She stopped at an aisle veering off to her left that she’d been down more than once in search of books bearing upon Las Casas. She remembered that at its end was a short jog, no more than six feet long, running parallel to the main aisle and not visible from where she stood—or from the route taken by Lapin.
She turned into the aisle and moved with care, the faint light from the widely spaced bulbs above providing only gloomy illumination. Everything was bathed in gray; she ran the fingertips of her right hand along books as though that would help her see. Her eyes went to the floor and saw the box cutter where it had been discarded, half exposed, jutting out from beneath a bottom shelf. She picked it up, took the few remaining steps to where the aisles intersected, stopped, and raised her head, prompting her hearing into heightened acuity. The sound was a tight whine, animal in nature, wrenching.
“Dolores,” Annabel said, pressing her back against the books and carefully peering around the corner. Dolores stood at the end of the short aisle, in a corner, barely discernible in the dismal lighting. Annabel fully exposed herself and took a few steps in the direction of the researcher-librarian.
“Please, don’t,” Dolores said. “Stay away.”
Annabel extended her hands in a nonthreatening gesture. As she did, Dolores slowly sank to her knees, almost in slow motion, arms pressing the envelope containing the discs to her chest, that ethereal whine of a few moments earlier now reduced to a series of whimpers.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Dolores said. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, turning from Annabel and vomiting.
When her body had stopped heaving, Annabel closed the gap and reached down to touch her shoulder.
“Why don’t we go see Consuela and others who’ll want to hear what you have to say.”
Annabel walked behind Dolores to the main aisle, where Lapin and some of his uniformed force were retracing their steps. Lapin instinctively pointed his weapon at Dolores.
“No, it’s all right,