Mystery Bookshop Seattle
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3:01 P.M. PST
“So what do you think happened to the book?” said Dad, as we left the house and crossed the street to the bookstore. “It’s been missing for a couple of months now.”
I thought about it in silence. The last time I’d seen that particular volume had been at my grandmother’s funeral—though not exactly under the best circumstances. My father’s mother was one of those people who lived through multiple wars and world crises, but when she died in her eighties, everyone agreed on one thing: She looked like death warmed up.
And there were only two copies of her favorite novel among her bookshelves. One belonged to me; the other was in the trunk of my car. They both bore stamps from the British Museum library, indicating they had been checked out by members of their collection staff. But when I tried to renew them, I learned that no one knew why they hadn’t come back, or where they might be.
There is something very odd about the fact that these books are still there after all this time. Perhaps someone has found them and hidden them away somewhere? Or perhaps the rightful owners have tracked down my grandmother’s copy and are using it to track me down. It would explain why no one knows anything about their whereabouts.
Dad stopped walking and turned around. “The point is,” he went on, “that if I could find a way of getting into the British Library, I know exactly which shelf I’d look on first.”
“That’s great!” I said with a smile. “But how can I help?”
He smiled back, but his eyes weren’t smiling at all. He looked tired again, even more so than usual. That’s part of what made it such a shock when he suddenly spoke.
“You’ve already helped me enough. You’re doing good work with that PI stuff. And you haven’t needed my help since you started. So if you don’t mind, I want to get on with looking forward. Like I always try to do.”
I nodded. “Sure.”
“There’s another reason I wanted to talk to you today, too, if you don’t mind. See, I’m thinking about opening a new business. Something small and local, something that will keep us working together long-term.”
I waited for him to say what the new business would be, but he didn’t. Instead, he pointed toward the Mystery Bookshop. “What about here? This place is perfect. It looks old, like the kind of shop that could have been here forever. People love antique stores. Especially when they specialize in rare things.”
I frowned. “Dad, this isn’t an antique store, it’s a mystery bookstore. And your idea sounds like one of the dumbest ones I ever heard. No offense.”
His face fell. “Don’t tell me—”
“No, Dad. I don’t mean it like that. I just meant that there’s nothing wrong with having a coffee shop or a restaurant or some other kind of business. And it’s not like you need to quit the bookstore right away.
Maybe someday, but this is still a good spot. You should keep it open until then, and see how it goes. Because if it doesn’t go well…” I shrugged and sighed. “Then you’ll be stuck in the book trade for life.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “I suppose you’re right.” Then he reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a letter. A letter from the University of Chicago. His wife had been accepted for admission to the graduate program at the university’s department of medieval literature. It was unbelief—
A man walked past us on the sidewalk and stepped onto the grass. I caught a glimpse of his face as he passed. I hadn’t even realized there was anyone else nearby. Now I saw three more men, coming down the hill toward us.
One of them was tall and thin, with a pale complexion and thick black hair. The others were shorter and stockier, wearing jeans and hooded sweatshirts. All of them were carrying guns.
“Wait!” I shouted. “Stop!”
They kept walking. They approached us without slowing down. As they came closer, I noticed that two of them wore wedding rings.
My father clutched the letter in his hand. “Run,” he whispered.
All I could do was watch as the gunmen opened fire. Two gunshots ripped through the air. One hit Dad on the side of the head, knocking him off his feet. The second shot killed him before he reached the pavement.
***
As I watched the shooters approach, my father sank to his knees. Blood poured down over the letter and dripped onto the grass. My legs gave out and I dropped to the ground beside him.
One of the gunmen leaned over my dad and put his gun to his temple. He aimed his weapon behind me and fired twice more. Bullets tore into the wall of the shop. They ripped through shelves and boxes, shattering glass cases and sending books flying everywhere.
My father screamed once more before his body slumped forward.
The gunman turned his attention back to the rest of us. We stood frozen where we were, paralyzed by fear. Or maybe stunned was a better word. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
The tall shooter raised his gun and pulled the trigger.
BANG!
Two more bullets pierced the shop. One went straight through my chest and struck me in the heart. The other hit my shoulder and knocked me backward. I landed hard on the floorboards, rolling back and forth. Three more shots blasted through the walls around me. The last one blew a hole through the ceiling and sent the heavy beams crashing down on top of me.
Even then, I didn’t realize the danger. I thought the first two bullets had been a mistake. Some random act of violence. But after the third shot, I figured out the truth.
As the gunman bent down to retrieve his gun, I grabbed his wrist.
“Please,” I begged. “Don’t kill my dad.”
He looked up. “Why?”
“Because the man who shot him isn’t dead yet.”
“Who—”
“Nobody.” I released his arm. “Just leave him alone.”
When the gunman hesitated, I yelled again. “Please! Don’t shoot him. Just go. Please.”
The gunman glanced over at his comrades. All of them were still focused on the front door of the shop, watching for any sign of escape. So he must have assumed I’d said nothing. He nodded and holstered his gun. Then he and his companions began running away.
Within seconds, they disappeared around the corner of the building and were gone.
After a moment, I rolled over, picked myself up, and staggered to my feet. My vision blurred. My hands shook. A terrible pain radiated from my chest. Blood soaked my shirt. I felt dizzy and weak.
I tried to stand, but the world spun around me. I stumbled and fell to the ground. Then I started crawling toward my dad.
“Dad,” I called out. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
His eyes blinked. He mumbled something.
“Hey, Dad. Look. I’m alive. You saved my life. Thank you.”
He grunted.
I reached out and touched his cheek. “You should get up. Come on. Get to your feet.”
I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. I saw a blur of blue denim and a flash of blond hair. Then the gunmen appeared. I recognized two of them – the tall blonde and the short dark-haired man. They stopped beside the bodies of my father and the bookseller.
The two of them knelt down next to my father and checked his pulse. Then they pushed their guns under the backs of his arms and forced him to his feet.
“Let’s go,” the woman said softly.
She took my father’s hand and led him toward the front door. The tall gunman followed her.
I got to my feet. Blood seeped through my shirt and stained my jeans. I struggled to move. But the pain in my chest made it impossible.
What am I going to do now?
Then all thoughts vanished.
Someone grabbed my throat. The cold metal of a gun pressed against my skin. It was just the tiniest bit uncomfortable, but that was about it. Only when the gun moved did I realize exactly how much force was behind the grip.
“…you know who did this?”
A voice. Soft, gentle, like a mother comforting a frightened child.
“No.”
“I can help you find out. If only I had a name…”
That’s strange, I thought. Why would anyone want to help me? And why speak so gently if they wanted to hurt me?
For some reason, the voice seemed to be coming from inside my head. I stared at the muzzle of the gun. Its owner wore a ski mask and shadowed his face with a pair of black sunglasses. But I knew he was there. I could feel him behind me.
Something poked me. I turned around. The barrel of another gun extended from an open jacket pocket. Then I realized I wasn’t the only one wearing one. Everyone around me was armed. That included the two men who’d held me down and threatened my family.
And the woman.
Why was she carrying her gun?
Then I remembered. She must have dropped it during the struggle.
But why hadn’t the gunman taken it? Or given it to one of his friends?
Was he really as powerless and helpless as I thought?
Or was he planning something else?
The woman.
Her blond hair flowed down the sides of her shoulders. Her blue eyes glistened in the dim light of the shop. They looked soft, almost sad. As though she wished I was someone else. Someone less deserving of death.
The gun barrel prodded me again. This time, the pressure was stronger.
“Tell me you know who did this,” the voice said. “If not, we’ll make sure you do.”
“I don’t—”
The gunman shoved me. I stumbled forward into the woman. They both stepped back, dragging me along between them. I couldn’t fight because my lungs were on fire. I fought to breathe.
They entered the street and headed across town.
My mother was right. There were too many people here. Too many witnesses. They might remember a guy in a white shirt. His son.
The gunmen walked quickly, heading toward the train station. Where would they take me? When they brought me before the leader, what story would he tell the others? How would they react? Would they believe him? What if I told the truth?
How long did I have until I ran out of lies?
The woman pulled off her ski mask as they approached the station. For a moment, I didn’t recognize her. Then I saw her face.
It was my mother.
The End