Fanatics (11 page)

“I guess I’ll just have to wait,” I said, “for the third dream.”

“You think you’ll have another?”

“I know I will.”

M
RS
. S
TOPPINI HAD TEA
for three laid out on the kitchen table when Raphaella and I appeared at the back door of the Corbizzi mansion. Stiff and stern, she ushered us inside.

“Good morning, Mr. Havelock,” she intoned, then turned to Raphaella. “And you must be Miss Skye. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.” She held out a bony hand.

“Hi,” Raphaella replied, throwing me a glance that said “I see what you mean.”

“You’ll take tea,” asserted Mrs. Stoppini, showing us to the table with a turn of her wrist.

We chit-chatted about the weather—the kind of aimless small talk that drove me nuts—then our hostess got down to business. She had begun to impress on Raphaella the need for discretion and confidentiality when I cut in and excused myself.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you two to discuss details. I need to see about something in the shop.”

I went out the door before anyone could object.

In the workshop I turned on the lights and fan, then slipped into my apron. The assembled mantel lay on the workbench, bristling with clamps, pale under the lights. I freed it and carried it to the wall, where I stood it beside the blistered and scorched remains of the original. Stepping back a few paces, I ran my eye over every detail, comparing them. Satisfied, I lifted the new one to a dust-free bench and cleaned it with rags lightly sprinkled with solvent, careful to remove every speck of sawdust. Then I took it to the spray booth and spent twenty minutes or so mixing stains to match the old mantel’s red mahogany finish as closely as possible. After trading the apron for a set of coveralls, a hat, gloves, a mask, and goggles, I turned on the sprayer and began to apply the finish.

I returned to the house to find that the two women—whom I wouldn’t have been surprised to see facing off like a couple legionaries—were still at the table, their cups empty, their plates sprinkled with crumbs, chatting almost informally about
MOO
. Raphaella tossed me a “get me out of here!” look.

“That’s that done,” I said, closing the door behind me.

Raphaella got to her feet. “Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Stoppini. I suppose Garnet and I should be getting to work.”

A
LTHOUGH SHE HAD HIDDEN
it well during our tea, Raphaella was nervous about the library, and as we walked down the corridor to the east wing, her tension grew. When
I rolled the doors aside and stepped into the room, which was bright with morning light, she stopped.

“I see what you meant,” she murmured. “Something happened here all right.”

“Professor Corbizzi died.”

“Something more. Much more. Something bad.”

“Like the churchyard on the 3rd Concession?”

On the way home from a delivery to the city one night more than a year before, I had run smack into the worst snowstorm to hit the county in ten years. Barely escaping a huge pileup of cars, buses, and tractor-trailers near Barrie, I had steered off the big highway and taken the 3rd Concession. My luck held for a while, but the darkness and thick, whirling snow reduced visibility to zero and I skidded off the road, smashing into something I couldn’t even see. Luckily—I thought at the time—the pioneer church called African Methodist, unused for years, was close by. I slogged through blinding snow and howling wind to take shelter inside. I passed a long, cold, and scary night, haunted by dreams and disembodied voices.

About three months later, Raphaella and I passed the church on our way to the mobile home park where I was about to take up a part-time job as caretaker. We stopped to look around. In the quiet sunlit churchyard Raphaella had immediately sensed something evil.

“The feeling’s just as powerful, but different,” Raphaella replied now. “I’m not being clear, am I?”

“You don’t have to be. I’ve felt it since the beginning. I hoped it would disappear once the damage from the fire was repaired and the smoke odour removed.”

Raphaella walked slowly along the south wall, avoiding
the alcove, the way I had done on my first exploration of the library. Her fingertips brushed the books as she passed.

“What a collection,” she said, awed by the sheer number of hardcover volumes. “Show me the secret cupboard.”

I fetched the keys from the desk and went through the unlocking ritual.

“It’s like an Alexandre Dumas novel, isn’t it?” she whispered.

“I’ve never read a Dumas novel. And why are you whispering?”

She stood behind me as I rolled up the screen, revealing the interior of the hidden cupboard.

“Hmm.”

Making a dramatic little show, I lifted the items from the shelves to the table one at a time, then stood back. “Open the big one last.”

Raphaella quickly inspected the typed sheets, the big leather-bound volume, the wooden box with the inlaid crucifix design. “Did you record this inscription?” she asked, scrutinizing the medal.

“Not yet.”

She put down the medal and removed the velvet cloth from the cross. “Look at this!” she whispered in awe, standing it on the table. The light pouring through the library windows sparkled in the gemwork and set the carved gold aglow, making it seem alive. The cross stood tall and solid, a work of art that seemed anything but holy.

Raphaella picked it up and tilted it this way and that. “It’s kind of sinister, isn’t it?” she mused. “It’s supposed to inspire reverence, but it’s a little … menacing. And this is
the part you told me about,” she added, peering into the blown-glass globe.

I went over to the desk and brought back the magnifying glass. She took it from me and squinted through it.

“The glass is wavy and it has tiny bubbles in it. This thing inside, I can’t tell what it is. It’s shaped like a big washer, with a little projection out each side. Strange.”

“I wish that was the only odd thing around here.”

T
HAT AFTERNOON
, with the secret objects locked away and the weight of the room’s disapproval on our shoulders, Raphaella and I discussed the most efficient way to inventory the library. She had established a base at the trestle table nearest the window, setting up her laptop and pulling from her bottomless backpack a couple of notebooks, some pencils, a pencil sharpener, a ruler, and a cellphone with a camera, as well as Internet and email capability and a digital music player. Then she quickly created a database on the computer, ready and waiting for us to fill it with information.

“And you accuse
me
of slipping into techno-mode once in a while,” I said, pointing to the cell.

“I’m willing to make an occasional concession,” she said, picking up the shiny black button-covered device, which the manufacturer called a
PIE
—a personal information
exchanger. “They come in crabapple, lemon, strawberry, and licorice. This one’s licorice.”

“In keeping with the food metaphor.”

“I guess.”

“Anyway, let’s start by trying to discover if the professor organized this gigantic book collection according to a system,” I proposed.

“Good idea. I’ll start with these books behind me and go that way,” she replied, pointing to the escritoire.

We began a slow tour of the shelves, moving in opposite directions.

“The most obvious thing is that there are no numbers or letters on the spines, unlike a public library,” I pointed out.

“Dewey Decimal or Library of Congress notations.”

“And no coloured dots glued on.”

“And the shelves aren’t labelled.”

We continued our slow progress.

“Aha!” I crowed.

“I know, the books are arranged by the author’s last name.”

“And,” I added, brushing my fingertips along the books on a bottom shelf, continuing on to the top shelf of the next unit, “they’re organized by topic, if that’s the right word.”

“I’m in a reference section,” Raphaella said. She had reached the wall behind the escritoire.

“I’ve got philosophy here. Somebody named Aquinas. Plato. More Plato.”

“Wait! I’ve got an idea.”

Raphaella went over and rummaged around in her backpack. “Just what we need—removable labels,” she said, holding up a small box.

“Okay. I’d say what we should do now is find the professor’s starting point. The reference section behind the escritoire is probably it. Things should be easy for you now.”

“Wait a second,” Raphaella protested. “What do you mean, easy for
me
?”

I sat down at the escritoire and wound a piece of paper into the Underwood. “I didn’t bring my laptop today, so I’ll start a list of the non-book stuff, beginning with this ancient writing machine,” I replied, “and you can transfer it to your database later.” I pushed hard on the round black keys, each with a gold letter printed on it. A satisfying clack accompanied every stroke.

We worked for over an hour. Raphaella was humming along with the show tunes serenading her through the ear buds of the
PIE
. I made a list of the contents of the escritoire and filing cabinet, then noted the furniture and carpets, with a brief description of each item. I left the library to check on the mantel. The deep red finish was drying nicely. When I returned, Raphaella was standing on a three-step riser, sticking a label on the top edge of a bookshelf unit by the window. Bits of yellow, pink, and blue paper adorned the shelves all over the room.

“Good. You’re back. Now, take a seat.”

I flopped into a leather chair as Raphaella perched on the edge of her working table. Pointing with a pencil, she began.

“We already know the books are arranged by author surname. They are grouped by subject—history, art, et cetera—but that’s still too cumbersome when there are so many books. All Mrs. Stoppini needs is an inventory, right? And a way to find a certain book, if necessary. So I’ve come up with a plan. Each of the bookshelf units will be called a
column. Starting to the right of the doors over there we have column one. Beside it is—”

“Column fourteen.”

“What? Col—?”

“I thought it might be more interesting if we numbered the columns randomly.”

“Garnet, don’t be immature.”

“But being immature is part of my boyish charm.”

“You don’t have any charm, boyish or otherwise. May I continue?”

“Indeed.”

Raphaella flashed a smile. “To the right of column one is?”

“Two?”

“Excellent. Two. And so on, moving clockwise around the room till we come to the doors again. Got it?”

I nodded.

“Each shelf in a column is called a row,” she went on, “and each row is numbered, starting from the top. Each book in each shelf or row is called a slot.”

“Brilliant. Your talents are wasted in a health food store.”

“Garnet.”

“No wonder the Orillia Theatre Group always chooses you to stage-manage their productions.”

“Test time. Roman numeral V, baby Roman numeral x, arabic numeral 12 is?”

“Column five, row ten, slot twelve,” I answered.

“Which is—” Raphaella slipped off the table and crossed the room to the shelves beside the newly painted wall above the fireplace and placed her index finger on the spine of a book—“
Fresco Techniques of the Italian Renaissance
.”

“I’ve been meaning to read that, but I never seem to find the time.”

Raphaella ignored my remark. “When I enter the titles in the database, every book in this room will be identified and easy to find. For the books that will be listed in more detail—the ones in the alcove—we can put in the particulars afterward.”

“It’s clever, astute, and brainy,” I said. “Really.”

Raphaella gave a mock bow, then walked back to her table and picked up her backpack. She consulted her wristwatch.

“I’m glad you’re pleased. Now you can take me home.”

A
FTER SAYING GOODBYE
to Mrs. Stoppini I locked up the shop, then Raphaella and I drove into town. I dropped her at her mother’s store on Peter Street, turned around, and headed for the fresh produce market out by the highway. It was my turn to cook dinner.

When I approached our back door with my groceries, I heard loud voices coming from Mom’s office. Angry voices. At first I thought it must be a radio or the
TV
, but I soon realized it was my mother and father, hammering away at each other in a way I’d never experienced in my life.

I slipped through the kitchen door and quietly placed my grocery bags on the table. I couldn’t believe my ears. My
parents had never fought like that. They argued once in a while, and not always good-naturedly. They grew impatient with each other—or with me—now and again. But the noises coming out of the next room were shocking.

“No, no, and no again!”

“Gareth, you’re shouting. Control yourself, for heaven’s sake. I’m trying to explain—”

“There’s nothing to explain,” Dad insisted.

“The war is in the south. I’ll be in the western part of the country, in Herat.”

“The war is all over the place! You know that. What’s—?”

“Herat is peaceful, I’m telling you!”

“Are you listening to yourself? You know that country! It’s a hellhole of macho tribesmen trying to kill each other and every foreigner they see. Not to mention
NATO
air strikes.”

“I’m telling you I’ll be safe. I go in, do the research, and leave.”

“You of all people ought to know what nonsense you’re spouting. You’re being ridiculous. Look at that Iranian-Canadian journalist a few years ago. She was beaten to death! By the police!”

“That was in Iran.”

“Which is on the western border of Afghanistan. And Afghanistan is even more dangerous! The place is falling apart! And with their attitude toward women—let alone a woman
reporter
, a
foreign
woman reporter asking impertinent questions! Look, Annie,” my father said, forcing himself to calm down, “I’ve never interfered with your career before, even when you went to …” His voice hardened as it quieted. “Not this time, Annie. No. When I think of what happened in East Timor … Garnet and I—”