The Book (32 page)

Amid his obvious uncertainty, Trust prodded even deeper into Holden’s mind. “Do you recognize the structure across the yard on our left? That’s the Capitol Building. Interesting detail, when the dome was under construction, with girders poking out and looking like a broken bottle, Abraham Lincoln, our greatest president, stood beneath it and gave his inaugural address to a country that was completely divided. The man had to wear a disguise on his way there just to avoid assassination. Less than a month later, the Civil War began and our country bled its brothers and sisters dry for the rest of his term. He was killed two weeks after his second inaugural. Shame. But do you know what that man is most remembered for today?”

“Obvious. He got rid of slavery, man. That was huge.” The director’s ever-present grin was making Holden uncomfortable.

“That’s right. The Emancipation Proclamation.”

To Holden’s astonishment, Trust left the window and walked back to the door. He punched a code rapidly into the keypad and the door released from the wall with the same pressurized hiss. Holden fought to get a read on the code, but it was too far away. As Trust asked the woman in the first cubicle for help, Holden thought desperately for a solution to get out of that room. But he couldn’t. He simply could not stop returning to what Trust had been saying about recycling. It was making too much sense and Holden had to get away from it. He needed to find something that could pull him out of that head space. Something that could bring him back. Something that –

He found it. Salvation in the simplest form, once again.

Before Holden could act, before he could set his escape in motion, Trust was back in the room holding a copy of an Editor’s Book. “I’m going to read you an excerpt,
unedited
, from a famous letter written by Abraham Lincoln to the editor of the New York Tribune.” He marched pompously to the window and tilted The Book toward Holden, so he could read the words himself.

If Holden hadn’t already developed a solution for escape, he may not have been able to resist following the will of the Publishing House, simply by hearing those unedited words. Words from a former president who was still heralded as the savior of the slaves – when, in actuality, his purpose in doing so was to return peace to his country. Just peace, with or without free will.

“Don’t you see, Holden? Even the man who abolished slavery said he would keep it if it meant peace! The cost of enslaving others is great and tragic and real, but the reward, Holden. The reward is everlasting. And it would be for you, too.”

“That’s not true. Everyone in the world would hate me,” Holden muttered, feeling a swell of debate in his mind about whether to proceed with his plan.

“Sure, they will hate you now. People hated Lincoln. But who controls history? Who determines the ones that have statues erected in their honor? Immortality, Holden.” The grin on the director’s face was demented and strange. It was as if he were a vampire, debating the siring of his victim during the moments of hunger instead of ripping their throat away in a single rapturous bite. “Do this for us, and you are immortal. A hero to the generations of the future. History books will enthrone you and your grave stone will be the largest in the country.”

Holden looked out the window. He hid his reaction and stared at the building. The Library of Congress. He could feel the strings that were slowly attaching themselves to his little puppet arms and the honest truth became clear. They were going to do it regardless. Whether he agreed or not, they were going to blow up that building.

Did he want to leave? To escape? Of course. But even after getting back to Chicago there would be nothing he could do to stop them. What other options did he have? Either get on board and set sail under the flag of the enemy (who kinda made sense), or go home and stay on the sinking ship and watch the enemy sail away, regardless of your involvement. At the same time, Holden felt resistance. How could he, in his right mind, participate in such an act? Destroy all the books in the world, including the ones he now held so dear. The last remaining copies. Sure, they had a library in Winston’s basement, but that was it. Once the Library of Congress was destroyed and The Book was altered to remove thousands, they were gone forever and what were the odds that Winston would be able to find enough sources to compile an original? Holden knew he didn’t have time to decide. If he said yes, he would die a terrorist and play a crucial role in the largest catastrophe in the history of the world. If he escaped, he could find a way to get the word out. Maybe even save a book or two. But there was a whole recycle bin full of
What If
’s in that plan. If he said no, the discussion was done. Today. Now. And if his escape plan didn’t pan out, he was only two floors below meeting his maker. Holden could go to the pearly gates and drink a beer with Peter in less time than it takes to add gas to the van and feel right as rain because he didn’t contribute to the slavery of the world.

And then he thought back to the room and to the sprinkler heads. They hadn’t expected that. The director had planned for everything. He wanted Holden to start losing his mind in that room and then feel more discomfort as he was walked through their offices. He was never supposed to stay in that room. Trust wanted to sell Holden on participating in this self-destructive kamikaze act (which, by the way, only included posthumous fame on the earth and no forty virgins in some alternate heaven-scape). Without coming right out and saying it, the director had told Holden,
“Die…or do it and die and we won’t kill anybody else.”
Lots of really great options there.

But –
BUT
they had underestimated him.

That room with the grass carpeting and sky blue ceiling was meant to chill him out while, at all times, constructed with the strict intent of causing dislocation and a heightened sense of lingering doom. Marinating the steak before the flame. But they didn’t know Holden as well as they thought they did. They underestimated his ability to find peace and security in a simple sprinkler head. It reminded Holden of his escape plan. Really, it was always the sprinkler heads. Sure, how they looked against the ceiling and the emotions they stirred within him, the simple joys of the journeyman, the water monkey who no one expected would be hanging out with one of the more powerful men in the world. But it was always the sprinkler head. And it was always supposed to be Holden. Because only he would know how to escape.

Done. He was ready.

“Sounds good,” Holden replied, patting Martin Trust on the back. “When do we get started?”

“Uh…” the director laughed, shocked by the ease of his submission. “I suppose what we should do first is film a scene of you near a bookshelf that resembles one in the main reading room of the Library and then we’ll have –”

An odd, face-splitting grin came across Holden’s face and the director of Historic Homeland Preservation and Restoration had stopped speaking, to smile in return. His grin was stupid and curious because he had no idea that the reason behind Holden’s smile was that he was about to kick the wind out of his chest, bring the director to his knees and lodge his fist into the crook of the man’s boxy jaw. In the revelry of it, Holden tightened his grip and nodded his head, turning to look at the director one last time.

Lights out, Zebra man.

His knee swung up in the single, most powerful gesture he had ever conjured and crashed like lighting into the soft tissue of the director’s unready abdomen. The man’s radiant eyes bulged from his sockets and he crumbled to the glimmering, onyx floor in unexpected pain and disbelief. He hadn’t been there for more than a second before the wind from Holden’s tightened left fist fluttered his blond hair as the sprinkler fitter’s knuckles came crashing into the man’s square jar, launching him powerfully to the ground.

Holden bounced in place for a moment as Martin Trust landed shoulder first into the smooth black surface of the floor, kicking one of the chairs out from below the table. Holden knew there wasn’t much time. There could be cameras anywhere. He yanked the shoes from the director’s feet, cranked them down over his own, pulled the expensive jacket off the man’s shoulders and slipped awkwardly into it. The director’s feet were too small and his arms had no definition. Holden’s bulky frame tightened the jacket’s tailored seams as he launched himself onto the green acrylic table that cracked under his weight.

This is gonna hurt.

He took a moment to breathe before pulverizing his right fist, the one he spared in the struggle, directly into one of the sprinkler heads, breaking it free from its threaded home and launching it into the wooden strip on the wall. It nicked the mahogany with a crack and Holden leapt down from the table as silently as he could. So far, everything was going according to plan. He would only have to wait a minute. The longest minute of his life.

What Holden had figured out, as he stood staring at the lemmings that walked stupidly across the lawns of the nation’s capital, was that the company who had sprinkled the building would have likely installed a dry pipe fire sprinkler system. Government buildings, especially one so invested in technology, would need surety and fortification and those making the decisions realized that the probability of computer damage was too high to leave water in the pipes at all times. Only the presence of a fire would release the water and the delay was worth avoiding accidents. Yes, Holden was their prisoner. Yes, he was not nearly as intelligent as the man that cleaned their toilets. But Holden Clifford was the only person in that building who understood fire sprinklers and he knew that deliberate sabotage to the sprinkler head created accidental discharge. Accidental discharge meant that all fire protection methods in the building were activated. Which also meant that, for the necessity of egress, every single door, even of the frosted green and invisible variety, would unlock regardless of safety protocols. Details only a sprinkler fitter would know.

And it was now, as Holden wiped the blood that trickled freely from the lacerations of metal on fist, that he waited for the water to come, for the alarm to resound and for the glass door to release its bated breath of freedom. Within seconds, Holden Clifford would not have to face the certainty of yes or no. He could simply walk out the building.

A hiccup of spray and his clothes were doused from the shower that spurted from the faceted heads in the ceiling. The door sprang open and he walked painfully and nonchalantly from the conference room wearing the director’s tight suit jacket and shoes. Rather than race from the scene like Alice’s rabbit, Holden approached one of the frazzled Editors, looked the man in the eyes and said, “We should probably leave the building. Which way is safe?”

Frightened, the man was momentarily mute, as if he never made a decision of his own at work, and motioned toward the emergency stairs where people were collecting. After following a funnel of frenzied ‘coworkers’ into the stairwell, Holden followed the group unceremoniously out of the building where they stood and gazed up, wondering what set off the sprinkler system and how their computers were doing and
what about my digital frame and my egg salad sandwich?

Holden wasn’t there to hear the many whispers collecting in the gentle wind of the sidewalk. He was already three blocks closer to Wilmette, his feet burning as he raced toward the Lincoln Memorial, tossing the director’s expensive jacket at an Unfortunate, who took it gladly, and enjoying the sunshine of unforeseen freedom. He couldn’t believe he had escaped. It almost seemed too easy. But Holden knew he had no other choice. And now he had to accept that they would be looking for him and, even worse, they would still be planning to destroy the last library in the world.

He had no identification. He had no wallet or money or anything to pawn. The pain in his toes was unbearable and the face he was wearing would be recognizable to every single person in the world within an hour’s time. But still, Holden could breathe. He was free. The Publishing House was behind him. And all he had to do was get home.

* * * * *

028-76668

Two months had passed since Holden had gone and Wilmette seemed to wither in his absence. Trees lost their luster. The green had died and the months of September and October had burnished the leaves to many shades of brown and orange. People who played the game, who read The Book, believed it was the changing of the seasons; but those who missed Holden told themselves something altogether different: The world was dying and Holden may be gone forever.

Carving its way through the flurry of fallen leaves was an old model station wagon with a rack on the top that was overflowing with luggage and plastic containers. Between the boards of wood detailing, the car was painted with a luster of vibrant yellow. It drove slowly through the neighborhoods, winding the streets with its bright hue at an even, almost uncertain, pace. It was searching for something. When the station wagon reached the hauntingly empty driveway of Winston’s estate, the car pulled in and navigated its way though the unblemished lawn of leaves. If it weren’t for the stones that edged the driveway, they could have very rightly been driving over grass. The place looked abandoned. Obviously, no one had driven over the leaves since they had fallen and there were so many on the ground that the people who had arrived in search of something would, more than likely, be leaving with smiles more withered than the trees. But hope was a powerful thing and evidence of possible disappointment wasn’t enough to sway them. They parked near the front entrance and turned off the car.