The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [62]
Of course, the security guards patrolled by frequently and cast hard looks at him, and he knew no matter how tired he was—no matter how much he wanted to lay his head on the table or, better yet, curl up on the carpet that was softer than anything he had slept on in weeks—he knew he didn't risk it. The moment he slept instead of read, he would be loitering, and the guards would toss him out, and maybe write him up so he could never come back. So he read book after book, and when his brain could no longer force the dancing letters into comprehensible order, he would simply stare with his eyes open and turn a page every few minutes. Then, after that poor facsimile of rest, he would blink, get up, and find another book.
Usually when he was at the library he spent his time in the Western history collection. It was there, just that afternoon, in a bound book of crackling yellow newspapers, that he finally found what he had been searching for. It was a copy of the Castle City Clarion from December 26, 1883. His eyes blurred as he read the title of the first entry in the Obituaries section:
Maude Carlyle, aged 35, hosteller, of consumption
Beneath that was a second entry:
Bartholomew Tanner, aged 37, former sheriff, by his own hand, of a revolver wound to the head
Travis ran a shaking finger over the page as he read the obituaries, but they were short and offered little information, and there were no pictures. Which of them had gone first? Only he knew. Tanner had wanted to spend Maude's last days together with her. And when she was done with this life, so was he. Travis stared, not understanding, as dark blots spread over the page, and only after a while did he realize they were his own tears.
He was still staring at the book when a security guard touched him on the shoulder and told him he had to leave. At first Travis thought he must have fallen asleep in his reverie, that he was being kicked out. Then the announcement came over the loudspeaker that the library was closing. He had hastily shelved the book and hurried out into the failing day.
Travis was right. By the time he made it to the homeless shelter there was already a cluster of men waiting outside the door for any last bed that might become available. Some of the men looked at him through narrowed eyes, and he hurried on; he would find no shelter there tonight.
He supposed he could try one of the churches, but most were a long walk away, and they were likely to be filled as well on a night as cold as this—what few still offered shelter for the homeless. Every day, the newspapers Travis retrieved from waste bins bore news darker than the last. More company closures and layoffs, more bombs planted in shopping malls and random shootings, more strange new diseases without cause or cure. The flood of charity had thinned to a trickle; most churches had been forced to shut their doors to the needy and had become beggars themselves.
Most, but not all. As he walked, Travis looked up. It loomed against the skyline north of downtown, on the other side of the river, as sharp and imposing as a mountain. Only this mountain was not made of stone, but rather of steel and glass. The first time he had seen it, the structure had still been under construction. Now light welled forth from within, like the radiance of heaven spilling through bleak clouds, gold and hard—beautiful but forbidding.
Some of the other men Travis had spoken with from time to time said that you could still get charity at the Steel Cathedral. All you had to do was fall on your knees, confess your sins, and pledge your soul, and you'd get a soft bed and all the hot food you could eat. Only if that was true, why was there a line outside the homeless shelter? Maybe it