The Collectors' Society 01 (11 page)

“Was I so obvious?”

He shrugs, smiling that charming small smile of his again, and I remind myself there are more important things to focus upon than smiles and delicious-smelling men. “Maybe just a little.”

I take my eyes off of him and angle them toward a flashing light. “Perhaps I need paper, so I can keep track of all of this.”

One of the women, dressed in a man’s suit, presses a finger against her ear. “There are scratches alongside the window frame, sir.”

Van Brunt frowns as he strokes his neat beard. “Have photos sent directly to my phone.”

“Dammit!” A fist smashes down against the wooden desk Wendy’s sitting at. “Camera 2-04 was disabled!”

Van Brunt’s eyebrows lift high. “And pray, how did one of your cameras become disabled, Ms. Darling?”

She briefly looks up from her computer, rage flashing in her eyes. “I’m working on it.”

Van Brunt turns to Finn. “One might say that’s more bold than coincidence. What have you found out?”

“Franklin Blake reported that the man and woman seen lurking around the Institute last week were, in fact, present earlier today.” Dawkins comes over and hands Finn a folder while my new partner is speaking. “They were tracked seven blocks away before they entered a shop. They stayed there for approximately two-and-a-half hours before they exited into a taxi. From there, they were tracked to a warehouse in Queens.”

Van Brunt rocks on the heels of his immaculately polished shoes, his arms behind his back. “What is the nature of the warehouse?”

Finn flips through the folder before extracting several sheets of paper. I’m surprised when he passes them to me rather than Van Brunt. “Officially, restaurant supplies, although it’s been raided by the police twice in the last five years for drug distribution.”

“And the shop they went to?”

“Ex Libris. It’s a secondhand bookstore owned by a F.K. Jenkins.”

I glance down at the papers I’ve been handed. On top, there is a pair of colored photographs featuring a man with slicked-back blonde hair, a closely cropped beard, and large black-rimmed rings forming holes in his earlobes. The woman is almost sickishly pale and reed thin. Wild dark hair dipped snow white at the ends curl down toward her waist. Another sheet logs dates, times, and locations, and several others that feature noted physical details on the duo.

Van Brunt moves closer to the window. “Have you spoken with Jenkins?”

“I went to the Ex Libris bookstore at approximately 9:47 this evening to do so.” Another colored photograph is extracted and passed over to me. “Police records show Jenkins is sixty-two, was born in a small town in Nebraska, and has been arrested four times. Twice for disorderly conduct, once for petty theft at the age of eighteen, and once for failing to pay for parking tickets.”

The corners of Van Brunt’s mouth tick upward. “How many tickets?”

“Twenty-four. The arrest was two years ago, and he was released within an hour. He no longer has a car nor a driver’s license.”

I stare down at the photo. F.K. Jenkins is an immensely rotund man with a sour face. Even at the angle he was captured within, his head turned off to the side, there is little doubt that he possesses eyes both sharp and calculating.

Van Brunt runs a finger along the edge of the window. A face appears beyond the glass and illuminated by a beam of light, mouthing:
photos sent
. Van Brunt nods and turns back toward Finn. “Anything else of note?”

“The shop is four-story and cluttered. Stacks of books fill nearly every available surface. It’s obvious there isn’t much turnover, and many of the items for sale are in poor condition and priced accordingly. When I went to the second floor, which is also filled with books, there was a locked door marked
no admittance
; downstairs there was an out-of-order bathroom, a small office behind the sales desk, a door leading to the alley behind the building, and another locked door. From what I can tell, Jenkins resides on the third floor. I’m unclear about the purpose of the fourth floor, though. Building schematics have it officially listed as an attic.”

“Any books of note?”

Wendy’s fingers still over her computer as her head snaps up. Everyone else in the room goes silent as they turn to face Finn and Brom.

Finn says, “All were present.”

I shift through the paperwork Finn has handed to me find a listing of book titles. At the top of the list is
The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha
, the book whose Timeline was deleted recently. Other titles that quickly catch my eye are:
The Three Musketeers
,
Hamlet
, and
Anna Karenina.

“Are you saying you think this F.K. Jenkins is the culprit?” one of the men nearby is asking.

“All theories are subject to verification, Mr. Fleming.” Van Brunt crosses his arms. “Finn, I want the identities of the other two as soon as possible.”

“Aha!” Wendy thrusts a fist into the air; the multitude of bracelets lining her arm clatter. “They think they were so clever, disabling 2-04, did they? Too bad that Camera 3-06 and the one from the street light across the way were in fine working condition. I’ve got a visual on the perpetrators.” She grins. “As an added bonus, I’ve got a little something-something to show you from earlier today, too, thanks to that asshat in the next building’s shoddy security system.” A hand is lifted up so she can blow on her nails whilst swinging them back and forth. “I guess we have a purpose for his rabid conspiracy theory paranoia after all.”

Everyone closes in on Wendy and her computer, but it isn’t until Finn places a warm hand against the small of my back that I join in the small semi-circle. The touch is brief, and I’m dismayed that the skin beneath my dress tingles long after his hand moves away.

It makes me nauseous to think that such a feat is even a possibility.

Upon her computer, a grainy black-and-white moving photograph (
video
, Finn quietly lets me know) flips back and forth between views. There is a man dressed in dark colors, his head covered by a distinctive hat that has a long bill in the front that leaves his features in shadows. He’s got a belt of sorts around his waist, filled with what appears to be tools. One is extracted; it’s a small box he slides up to the side of the window. Buttons are punched as he squats down on his haunches.

“That little bugger,” Wendy marvels viciously. “He thinks he can hack my system.”

Suddenly, the man leaps to his feet, startled. The box is shoved into the belt and he flips over the railing with a competence I haven’t seen in months.

Wendy taps at the letters on her computer. “Here’s the earlier attempt.”

This time, there are two people in the video—both in dark garb and similar in height. The faces are obscured due to the distance of the camera angle. A small rectangle is extracted and pressed against something I cannot see. Within seconds, the people startle and flee the scene.

If the people gathered round wanted pictorial proof they’d caught F.K. Jenkins in the midst of treachery, they’ve come away sorely disappointed. None of the figures presented remotely mirror what the photograph in my hands shows.

A snort escapes Wendy. “What a bunch of fucking imbeciles.”

“I want security beefed up,” is Van Brunt’s immediate response.

Her face flushes red with indigence. “Did you not just watch what I did? There’s no way those freaks are getting through my system.”

“Pride cometh before the fall, Ms. Darling. And no system is infallible. No harm can come from attempting to better our defenses. I’ll expect an update at our afternoon briefing later today.”

She sighs, but grudgingly offers a salute.

Soft chatter resumes in the room as Van Brunt heads back over to the window. I ask Finn, “How many people know about the Society?”

“Thousands,” he admits, “but most of those numbers are liaisons—or contacts—within Timelines. Here in New York, though? Pretty much only the people in this building.”

“You are a secret society, then.”

One corner of his mouth lifts up. “
We’re
a secret society, yes.”

“Why hide the truth?”

“Not everyone is like you. Not everyone can easily accept that there are worlds outside of their own, or different peoples, or even magic.”

“Who says I’ve easily accepted this all?”

He accepts the papers back and stuff them into the folder. “You did, for the most part.”

I lift an eyebrow. “I most certainly do not remember us having such a conversation.”

“Ah,” he says, “but we did. Upstairs, in the hallway. When you insisted on coming with me.”

For a moment, I wonder if my memory is muddled once more, like it was for so many weeks at the Pleasance, and I’m left uneasy. “I’m positive I did not say such a thing.”

“Your actions told me,” he says as we head toward the elevator, and I’m right back in Wonderland, sitting beneath a red-and-white mushroom.

“You’re sloppy, you’re loud, and you talk too much.”

Sometimes, I wondered why I willingly came back time and time again for such abuse.

The Caterpillar dragged his hookah over to the pillows we were lounging on. The sun was hot that day, the air heavy and acrid with each smoke ring he blew. I was never offered a puff on these visits—not that I ever would have taken one, but sometimes I wondered what it would take for just such a gesture.

“What’s wrong with talking?”

His beady eyes narrowed as he grunted. I had to wait nearly a full minute before he answered. “It’s hard to hear others when your own words overwhelm your thoughts.”

“How am I to get answers to my questions, if I do not ask?”

A perfect smoke-shaped jabberwocky floated away from us, its jaws snapping. “The most truthful answers are found through observation. Words allow lies.” One of his little silk slippers dangled from a foot as he huffed in irritation. “For example, I can say that I am the White King.”

I’d laughed. “Don’t be silly. You don’t look a thing like him. For one, you’re a caterpillar. Secondly, you’re much older than he is. And thirdly—”

More forcefully, “I am the White King, Alice.”

I was annoyed, but more so weary of the constant riddles. “Of course you aren’t.”

He blew a perfect representation of the White King’s face. “I’ve said I am, so I must be.”

“Fine. Two can play this game. I’m the Caterpillar,” I announced.

“You are a child,” was his retort, “who will never achieve her goals if she doesn’t grow up.”

“I’m eighteen!”

He merely puffed away on his hookah.

“Even in Wonderland, those who are eighteen are adults.”

He continued to smoke in silence; his beady eyes, once narrowed, glazed over before eventually closing.

“I don’t have to listen to you, you know.”

He blew a smoke Alice in a little dress, running in circles.

But I continued to sit with him for the rest of the afternoon, even though no more words were said by either of us. I was continuously a failure in his eyes, the worst of his pupils who just couldn’t seem to learn her lessons.

“S
O, YOU’RE THE FAMOUS Alice from Wonderland.”

The only word that could aptly describe the woman sitting in the chair across from me is sumptuous. Long, dark hair, pale-blue eyes rimmed with black fringe, and perfectly molded lips are only a few of the features that have me feeling as if I’m the plainest, homeliest girl to ever be born.

“I am Alice,” I say carefully.

She smiles and leans back in the rich leather chair, crossing her legs as she takes me in. “You’re a bit different than expected.” Her accent is soft and one I can’t immediately place. Indian, perhaps?

“So I keep hearing.”

“I’m the Librarian.” No name is offered—only a title. It’s a small yet familiar comfort, even though the feel of her eyes upon me is distinctly uncomfortable.

We’re sitting in a large office at the west end of the library, sharing breakfast. I’ve got my tea, she’s got strong coffee, and together we’ve picked at plates of fruit and toast in tangible silence for the better part of three minutes.

“How are you liking the Institute so far?”

I run a thin line of jam across a dry piece of toast. “I’ve been here too little to form an adequate opinion.”

She chuckles. “Across Timelines, all people tend to form opinions nearly instantly. It’s only later, after observation and experience, do they decide whether or not their initial feelings were spot-on.”

I gingerly set my knife down on the edge of my plate. “I find it best to withhold judgment until I do have those experiences.”

Her slim fingers curl around a white cup bearing black words that I am only partially able to make out. Elegant script says:
In paginis mundūs
. “That is a noble sentiment you hold, yet I wonder,” she muses, “if it can actually be put into practice.” Her meaning isn’t lost on me. An impression has already been made of the famous Alice sitting before her, and I have yet to figure out if it is favorable or not.

“I’ve asked for you to join me this morning so we can have a chat.” She slowly sips her coffee before continuing. “I’m sure Brom has mentioned me to you.”