after Emerson.”
O O O
The next Tuesday, Keith spotted Marcy walking alone across the common, and hurried his pace to catch up with her. His mouth was open to call out a greeting to her, when Carl Mueller appeared from between two concrete posts on the edge of the parking lot, and matched his stride to hers. She smiled shyly and tilted her head to one side, responding to something Carl was saying with a satisfied smirk on his face. Keith was too far away to hear what they were saying, but it was obvious from the body language what he was seeing: this was the above-reproach boyfriend in Marcy’s life. Carl fell neatly into that sort of pigeonhole. He considered himself to be a cut or so better than most of the other students, and had somehow persuaded Marcy to agree with him. Poor kid.
Keith had an impulse to run up and start a conversation with her, which would infuriate Carl, but Marcy would probably get upset if he annoyed her boyfriend. He assumed that Carl must be in the mysterious study group, too. That would explain perfectly why Marcy was uncomfortable about having him, Keith, around. Not only was Carl a snob, but he was a jealous snob, too. The guy probably monogrammed the flowers he gave her. He wondered if Carl knew he knew Marcy.
He followed them down the street, trailing about a hundred feet behind, until they came to Gillington Library. Hanging back so they wouldn’t see him, he paused at the top of the steps, squinting through the double glass doors, until he saw which way they turned. Ah. Left. The stacks.
Feeling like a private detective on the scent of an adulterous divorcee, he flashed his ID card at the librarian on duty at the entrance to the stacks. Marcy and Carl had disappeared, and Keith heard the bang and whirr of the elevator. He ambled down the aisle toward the double metal doors, idly fingering the spines of books, as if looking for just any old thing to read.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the indicator drop. Either this study group met in the basement of the stacks, or the lovebirds were just looking for somewhere dark to neck. Not Marcy! he chided himself, right hand slapping his own left wrist. She wasn’t that type. Campy, but true.
The librarian, a thin woman of middle age who looked like a failed actress, glanced at him oddly. “Black widow spider,” he explained solemnly, holding up his wrist for her examination. “The bite is usually fatal.”
“Oh.” She nodded and then looked away, her forehead pulled into a puzzled frown.
The indicator stopped on Level Fourteen, which was the lower half of the third sub-basement. The library stacks were half-high levels, eight above ground, and six below. As far as Keith knew, there was nothing official that went on in those underground levels. They were archives; locked floors to be entered by library personnel only.
Unless Carl and Marcy had keys, they must have exited the elevator before then. And yet, he hadn’t noticed the indicator stopping before it showed the basement numbers. Something most definitely was going on here. Cursing himself for not paying attention, he found the stairs and started down to search the floors one by one.
Weaving his way through the low-ceilinged, narrow aisles of the stack levels, Keith put on a show of bored nonchalance flavored with the attitude any harried student had toward trying to find an obscure book out of which some teacher threatened to construct the entire final exam for his course. The first four underground levels were a snap. The lighting was good, and no one paid him much attention. The heavy thrum of the heating system spread a blanket of white noise throughout each floor. Maybe ten students occupied each floor in various isolated carrels, cramming for one course or another, with heavy head full of knowledge cradled in supporting hands over a textbook. But his search was frustrated. None of the meeting rooms was occupied. Marcy was nowhere around.
He wondered if he had
O O O
The next Tuesday, Keith spotted Marcy walking alone across the common, and hurried his pace to catch up with her. His mouth was open to call out a greeting to her, when Carl Mueller appeared from between two concrete posts on the edge of the parking lot, and matched his stride to hers. She smiled shyly and tilted her head to one side, responding to something Carl was saying with a satisfied smirk on his face. Keith was too far away to hear what they were saying, but it was obvious from the body language what he was seeing: this was the above-reproach boyfriend in Marcy’s life. Carl fell neatly into that sort of pigeonhole. He considered himself to be a cut or so better than most of the other students, and had somehow persuaded Marcy to agree with him. Poor kid.
Keith had an impulse to run up and start a conversation with her, which would infuriate Carl, but Marcy would probably get upset if he annoyed her boyfriend. He assumed that Carl must be in the mysterious study group, too. That would explain perfectly why Marcy was uncomfortable about having him, Keith, around. Not only was Carl a snob, but he was a jealous snob, too. The guy probably monogrammed the flowers he gave her. He wondered if Carl knew he knew Marcy.
He followed them down the street, trailing about a hundred feet behind, until they came to Gillington Library. Hanging back so they wouldn’t see him, he paused at the top of the steps, squinting through the double glass doors, until he saw which way they turned. Ah. Left. The stacks.
Feeling like a private detective on the scent of an adulterous divorcee, he flashed his ID card at the librarian on duty at the entrance to the stacks. Marcy and Carl had disappeared, and Keith heard the bang and whirr of the elevator. He ambled down the aisle toward the double metal doors, idly fingering the spines of books, as if looking for just any old thing to read.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the indicator drop. Either this study group met in the basement of the stacks, or the lovebirds were just looking for somewhere dark to neck. Not Marcy! he chided himself, right hand slapping his own left wrist. She wasn’t that type. Campy, but true.
The librarian, a thin woman of middle age who looked like a failed actress, glanced at him oddly. “Black widow spider,” he explained solemnly, holding up his wrist for her examination. “The bite is usually fatal.”
“Oh.” She nodded and then looked away, her forehead pulled into a puzzled frown.
The indicator stopped on Level Fourteen, which was the lower half of the third sub-basement. The library stacks were half-high levels, eight above ground, and six below. As far as Keith knew, there was nothing official that went on in those underground levels. They were archives; locked floors to be entered by library personnel only.
Unless Carl and Marcy had keys, they must have exited the elevator before then. And yet, he hadn’t noticed the indicator stopping before it showed the basement numbers. Something most definitely was going on here. Cursing himself for not paying attention, he found the stairs and started down to search the floors one by one.
Weaving his way through the low-ceilinged, narrow aisles of the stack levels, Keith put on a show of bored nonchalance flavored with the attitude any harried student had toward trying to find an obscure book out of which some teacher threatened to construct the entire final exam for his course. The first four underground levels were a snap. The lighting was good, and no one paid him much attention. The heavy thrum of the heating system spread a blanket of white noise throughout each floor. Maybe ten students occupied each floor in various isolated carrels, cramming for one course or another, with heavy head full of knowledge cradled in supporting hands over a textbook. But his search was frustrated. None of the meeting rooms was occupied. Marcy was nowhere around.
He wondered if he had
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