The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [50]
Inside the second room was Jack.
He was hunched over a small desk with a large headset nearly covering all of his head. Apart from the desk there were more bookshelves in the room, a small stove, and a rather large dresser.
"Jack," Orphan said.
There was no response. Jack was hunched over the desk, listening to sounds Orphan couldn't hear, scribbling furiously onto a notepad.
"Jack!"
He approached the sitting figure and tapped him on the shoulder.
For a few moments, nothing happened. Jack continued to scribble on his pad, seemingly unaware of Orphan's presence. At last, however, he put down his pen, stretched his back, and removed the headset.
"Orphan, what happened?" He did not seem pleased at this intrusion into his personal space. "I've not seen you since last night. Are you all right?"
"No," Orphan said quietly.
"No?"
"No, I'm not all right."
Jack looked irritated. He rubbed his face with his hands, then said, "It's late."
"Or early," Orphan said. "Depends on how you look at it."
"What are you talking about? Look, did you want anything? Because I'm quite busy and if it can wait for tomorrow–"
"No, it can't," Orphan said, and suddenly the gun, the Colt Peacemaker, was in his hand, and pointing at Jack.
Jack stood up, his hands making a nervous, calming motion at Orphan. "What the hell are you doing? And where did you get that thing?"
"It's loaded," Orphan said. His voice shook, but only a little. "Don't make any sudden moves."
"I don't doubt it is," Jack said. "Look, what is this about, mate?" He glanced at the gun and then looked into Orphan's eyes. "Please put that thing away."
"Where is he?" Orphan said. The words constricted in his throat.
"Where is who?" Jack said, but there was a sudden look of horror on his face, brief yet powerful, and Orphan knew, with a helpless, sinking feeling, that he was right.
"Where is the Bookman?"
"Put down the gun, Orphan."
"Where is he?" Orphan said. The gun did not move. It pointed at Jack's chest. It made Orphan sick, to be threatening his friend. Yet he didn't remove it.
"Please," Jack said. There was something small and helpless in the simple word. He took a step forward, raised his arm as if to gesture, and his mouth opened, his lips parted in the beginning of speech…
And froze instead.
He made an ungainly statue. He was fixed in a position of frozen movement, the raised arm suspended in mid-air, the open lips just about to blow out air and with it their first word… His foot had not quite touched the ground, remained hovering just above the floor.
Orphan, uncertain, said, "Jack?"
There was no answer.
He put the gun away in his belt. It was not as if he would have ever used it. He approached his friend cautiously. Confusion made him hesitate. He touched Jack's arm. His flesh was hard. He put his hand before his friend's mouth, but could feel nothing, no breath blowing against his fingers.
"What the…?"
He stepped back. The room suddenly felt very small and crowded. The books stared at him from their shelves with sly expressions.
He stepped forward. Concern made him go back to his friend. He stood close to him, reached to check his pulse…
With a smooth, flowing motion Jack sprang into life. One moment he was still. The next, he was returned to life, and his foot came down with force on Orphan's, sending a hot flame of pain into Orphan's mind, bringing with it, sickeningly loud, the sound of delicate bones breaking.
Jack's arm came down, hard. His fingers bunched into a fist. The fist connected with Orphan's nose, and more pain flowered, and he was thrown back.
His back connected with a bookcase. His hat had fallen off. More pain, and then it was raining: volume after volume of antique books fell on him