Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

With the heat wave, critters had been increasingly been looking for relief from climate change inside the house, forcing their way inside through rubber seals and around pipe fittings from the inferno that was the forest to the cool air within. Most of them did not survive the journey, and Alan or Shelley would find them on the floor in various places: ex-cockroaches, departed centipedes, spider-angels. Shelley had a particular phobia of spiders, and would ask Alan to clean them up so she wouldn’t have to handle them; he always obliged, having no problem with the arachnids unless they decided to crawl on him (and the penalty on the books for that was death).

So when Alan found a big wolf spider, larger than a quarter, curled up on the kitchen floor, he immediately wanted to dispose of it before Shelley could see. It would just upset her, even if it was dead, so he gathered it up in a kleenex and threw it in the trash before she could see it. He had a passing thought to crushing it in his hand–to make sure it truly was dead for good and all–but the idea of wet hemolymph spider-juice between his fingers for nothing put him off, and he simply chucked it in and forgot about it.

Until that afternoon.

Opening the trash can to dispose of a granola bar wrapper revealed the wolf spider, very much alive, clinging to the inner garbage bag. And with Shelley about, Alan couldn’t squash it without raising a variety of uncomfortable questions. Not could he take his preferred way out and capture the beast for release outside. No, Alan was left hoping that Shelley didn’t see the spider in the trash as she prepared her lunch, feeling his gut clench every time she opened the trash and bracing for a scream.

She didn’t see it, but neither did the spider lay low as Alan tried to subtly encourage by dropping additional trash on top of it. It continually flaunted itself near the top of the bag, as if daring Alan to look upon what he had inadvertently wrought. When he threw away his Chinese take-out container after lunch, the spider moved right in, gingerly sampling the leftover chunks of chicken.

When Shelley excused herself to use the bathroom, Alan saw his chance and sprang into action, snatching the container from the trash and sprinting outside with it, racing against his wife’s potty break as well as that particular arachnid’s impish lack of self-preservation. It tumbled into the front garden bed along with a half-dozen chicken chunks and a sprinkling of General Tso’s sauce, while Alan secreted the container in the outside trash, Shelley hopefully none the wiser.

And indeed she wasn’t. The spider, though, learned nothing from its sojourn, as Alan learned when it reappeared the next day–this time on the ceiling.

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Madame Ludec stepped over Baueaz to Warden Z’bari, neither of them able to do anything more than move their eyes.

“I’m sorry, my friends,” she said, plucking the key from the warden’s belt. “It took me so very long to synthesize that botulism toxin with what I have at hand, I simply had to use it. You were both doomed when you touched my doorknob.”

The heavy key clicked in the lock, while Ludec carefully turned the knob with a handkerchief, which she dropped onto the ground in front of Z’bari’s wide eyes.

“The good news is, if your men can find you inside of the hour, there’s an antitoxin that will allow you to live, paralyzed of course, for a bit more. Nothing personal, of course, my dears: you have your job, and I have mine.”

Ludec collected a small set of vials and poultices hidden behind one of her needlework pieces on the wall. “And don’t worry–I intend to catch this ‘mad poisoner’ of yours and show them the folly of their ways. There is no one yet alive that is the match for Madame Rajki Ludec, and if it be her time to die, it will be in the service of the noble poisoner’s art.”

With practiced hands, Madame Ludec locked the door behind her and threw the visitor’s cloak over her. With a gruff voice, she told the first guard to escort Conjurer Baueaz outside, and that Warden Z’bari was staying behind to interrogate the prisoner.

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“That is most troubling, most troubling indeed,” said Madame Ludec. “Such a master poisoner operating under your very noses, I can see why you would turn to another, falsely accused though she be.”

“Can it with the false modesty,” Warden Z’bari said. “It might work on this witless conjurer, but it won’t work on me, not while I’ve lost six men to you on my watch.”

“Your dedication to your work does you credit, Warden,” Ludec said sweetly. “As does your determination to reward your men with a noble death. Dysentery, food posioning, and sepsis are all such ignoble ends for the Landgrave’s guards; if a mad poisoner looming over them gives their deaths any meaning, and their families any closure, it is a stigma I am happy to bear.”

“No ideas, then, how it could have been accomplished?” Conjurer Baueaz said, sounding disappointed.

Ludec cocked her head. “Tell me, did they vomit blood? Was there blood in their stool?”

“Why yes, both,” Baueaz said, excitedly.

“Shortness of breath a day, perhaps two, after showing flu-like symptoms?”

“Exactly, exactly,” the conjurer said. “You know what it is?”

“It is an inelegant cudgel where a subtle scalpel is called for,” Madame Ludec said. “Anthrax, likely put through a process of aerosolization so it is inhaled rather than merely settling upon the skin.”

Baueaz was scribbling notes on a scrap of paper. “Yes, yes, it all makes sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Madame Ludec.

“And why, pray, is that?” said the warden.

“Why, because anthrax should have been detected by any member of the Magician’s Guild,” said Ludec. “Especially with such symptoms. So either your friends looked for it and could not find it, or it was somehow undetectable. And surely your friends are not so dimwitted as to not know the symptoms of anthrax.”

“Certainly not,” Baueaz said with a nervous chuckle.

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The warden turned to Baueaz. “You are not to accept anything that Rajki Ludec has touched, not so much as a glass of water. You are not to touch her, or touch anything that you have seen her touch, other than the floor and the chair that we will bring in for you.”

“Madame Ludec is in prison, and a strongly held prison at that,” Baueaz said, “to say nothing of my standing as a member of the Magic Guild. Surely there is nothing she can do to harm me.”

Warden Z’bari snorted. “There is nothing magical about Madame Ludec,” he said. “She is simply a powerful alchemist and inveterate poisoner. She has killed seven of our guards since being admitted, though of course she denies it.”

“Seven?”

“She somehow synthesized cyanide from peach pits and slipped it into a water jug. Killed the guard and a man he shared it with. Before we put her on restricted rations, she got ricin out of her dinner beans and managed to contaminate Boll d’Efort when he was filling in as cook. He and three others shat themselves to death. Last one was my predecessor as warden, who made the mistake of accepting some needlework as a gift. It was contaminated with thallium, and we are still not sure how that was obtained. Trace amounts in some metals, perhaps.”

“Why is she still alive, then?” Conjurer Baueaz followed the warden through the heavy cellblock door, watching as it was locked behind him.

“Well, for one, she is related by blood to the Landgrave,” Z’bari said. “And for another…well, you will see.”

The final key turned, and the cell door opened to reveal Rajki Ludec. She was an old woman, at least seventy, finely dressed in the manner of a grandmother. She rose, politely, to greet the men as they entered with an extended hand. “Good day you you, my lords,” she said. Clutched in her hands was what looked like needlework, and the specious cell was decorated with completed stitchwork of a high quality and detail.

“You know the rules, Madame Ludec,” said Z’bari. “Keep your distance.”

“Oh, of course.” Ludec lowered her hand. “Forgive me, warden. An old woman’s memory is not the sharpest of traps, eh?”

“Hmph.” Z’bari jerked his thumb at his guest. “This is Conjurer Baueaz from the Magician’s Guild. He wants you to consult on a poisoning.”

“Oh, but I wouldn’t know where to begin with a poisoning, Conjurer Baueaz,” said Madame Ludec. “You see, I am quite innocent of the crimes levied against me, blamed through no fault of my own for circumstantial reasons. Not that I blame dear Warden Z’bari for this, mind, as he is merely honorably discharging the duty given him.”

“Indulge me, please,” said Baueaz.

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“State of California v. Greenwood established in 1988 that there is no reasonable expectation of privacy with regards to refuse, and that it is permissible to take things without trespassing or violating local ordinances,” said Earl.

“Trespassing, then,” the cop said. “Beat it.”

“This is a public library,” Earl retorted. “And a public space besides.”

“The librarians might not agree,” said the cop. “Come on.”

“Librarian said to fill my boots. Offered me a box.” Earl smiled. “I just want to save the books, officer. Donate them to a thrift store, put them in a little free library. You’re gonna stop me for no reason?”

“Yes,” the cop said. “Now get out of here. One more word out of you and it’s a $150 fine for trespassing and a free ride in a police car.”

“Very well,” said Earl. He picked up a book off his scavenged pile–Constitutional Law, 17th ed. and handed it to the cop. “Here. for next time.”

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“So what do you think led him to do it?” said Jason. “Fill this place with more books than any person could ever read, despite being nearly blind?”

“My uncle used to say that if everybody assumed someone else had a copy, eventually every book in the world would see its last copy thrown out and no one would know,” Marianne said. “I think he was trying to give them all a safe home, in his own way, to keep them from being destroyed.”

“And where does that leave me, the estate salesman, seeing the collection broken up?” Jason said. “It’s not too late to send us away, if you’re having second thoughts.”

“I suppose sending them to new homes is what he would have wanted.”

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“I really appreciate you volunteering the time to come and have a look at this, Mr. Wilkins,” said the Salvation Army lady, a retiree named Gladys. “We know clothes, and shoes, but electronics are tough and these old video game systems are just beyond me.”

“Happy to help,” Wilkins said. He passed over a fresh business card to replace the one Gladys had torn off the wall to call him. “What do you need me to look at?”

Gladys and her fellow retiree hefted a box onto the Salvation army’s counter. “We had this come in the other day, but it’s so old. I’ve never heard of it. We were just about to put it in the trash, because it’s so dusty and old, but we thought you would know better.”

“Let’s see here.” Wilkins opened the box and pulled out a large black video game console. True to Gladys’s description it looked like it had spent the last 30 years in someone’s nose, but the caked-on dust came off easily under his fingernail.

“TurboGrafx-16,” he said, setting the system down. “It’s from 1989, not very well known. Back cover’s here.” The system was worth close to $200 even if it was fried–Wilkins had never even seen one in person.

He pulled out four TurboPad controllers–themselves $50 each–which was more than the system could handle. A minute of rooting around revealed a rare TurboTap accessory, itself another $50.

“Joysticks for the games?” Gladys said.

“Of a sort,” said Wilkins. The next thing to come out of the box was a TurboCD, an add-on that let games on CD-ROM
be played in the system. It was dusty, but cracking the lid showed it to be pristine inside. Most people wanted $500 just to say hello for one of those. A tangle of audiovisual cables followed, along with a ziploc bag filled with game cards and game CDs, all still in their original jewel cases.

“How much do you think we can sell it for?” Gladys said.

Wilkins turned to the old ladies. “Frankly, this is a lot of junk,” he said. “But I think I can use it for parts. I’ll give you $20 for the lot.”

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Everyone had their thing, that area of specialization and interest in which they could sort the wheat from the chaff, the valuable from the worthless. And for Maggie Kincaid, it was Arcards: Magic Decks.

She constantly sought out all sources of the cards, be they local hobby shops, social media sales postings, or the huddles outside of tournaments. Always ready to get the cards flipping, sorting them into three piles: buy, check, reject. It was pure muscle memory by this point, and Maggie could often feel her fingers reflexively twitch just looking at any sizable pile of the things.

What people always want to know, though, was why. Why would Mrs. Kincaid, age 53, care about a collectable card game that had been invented in 1996? The answer was always the same: it was fun. Not the game, per se: Maggie rarely actually played Arcards and was not terribly good when she did. But the hunt? The constant searching for deals? The thrill of getting a $2 card for 5¢? That was the real game, and it was as much fun for Mrs. Kincaid, age 53, as it had been for Mrs. Kincaid, née Ms. Tunney, age 26.

Some people traded stocks. Some collected rare baseball cards worth thousands. Maggie Kincaid could get that same endorphin rush for pennies, and yet people always asked why as if it were something that needed a deeper reason.

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People who stopped by Oottat Tattoo for ink, or just for a look at the Wall of Tats, would often ask where the name came from.

The younger artists would make up their own stories. Andy would roll her eyes and say that they had it all wrong. It wasn’t Oottat Tattoo but rather Tattoo Oottat, named after its founder Iqualit Oottat in the original location of Nome, Alaska. Sure, the vagaries of fate had required it to be moved to the city of Davis, MS, but that was no excuse for changing the name. Shawnn would simply observe that the name existed to spark conversation, nothing more, and that it was doing its job well–though if you could please hold still and make a little less conversation when indelible lines were being etched into your skin, that would be great, thanks.

The owner, Howard Gaines, on the relatively rare occasions he was inking customers and not paperwork anymore, would tell the truth. When he’d first opened the shop in 1981, he hadn’t had money for a sign, so his brother John Jr. had made a “TATTOO” out of metal at his welding shop and painted it. Howard had hung it up, but not realizing that most of the traffic on Old College Blvd. was eastbound rather than westbound, John Jr.’s “TATTOO” read as “OOTTAT” to the vast majority of drivers. And, especially in the 80s, it was good for business. The metal sign was still out there, though the paint was in need of a refresh, but the name stuck. It helped that Howard hadn’t been able to decide on a name for his business after discovering that his first choice, “Love Ink,” was already taken by a calligraphy shop.

Cleverer customers would sometimes inquire if a backwards tattoo shop meant that the artist paid them. Andy would give them a penny from the penny jar, sarcastically, while Shawnn would offer a simple, flat “no.” Howard, if you could get him, would offer to pay the customer–but only on the condition that he got to choose the tattoo. One look at the exquisite flaming Rat Fink on his shoulder would usually be enough to end that conversation right quick.

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It all began with a doll, and it all ended with a doll.

Deborah had wanted nothing more than a Betsy Wetsy doll as soon as she had discovered one in her friend’s home. It had seemed like an innocent request to make to her parents, but her father had snapped at her, as he often did. Dolls were too expensive, the family was barely getting by as it was, and there was no point in getting something she would soon outgrow. When Deborah had observed that she outgrew her clothes, she’d earned a cuff for backsass.

A handful of times over the next few years, the sting had faded and Deborah had asked for another doll. The response was always the same: they were too expensive and she would outgrow them. Sometimes the message would be delivered with another cuff for emphasis, but Deborah learned her lesson soon enough and stopped asking. But it wasn’t enough to make her stop thinking about the dolls: she daydreamed about her favorites often, desperately made friends with wealthier girls so she could play with their toys, and even scoured the ground near local shops in case somebody dropped one.

Ultimately, she left her family and set out on her own. The first full paycheck she received working in the steno pool went to a deluxe Malibu Barbie doll, an almost unheard-of luxury and one which left her going hungry some nights. But it was worth it for Deborah to see the doll there on her shelf every night. She never even played with it, content to leave it in its box and admire it from afar, much as she had done for all her childhood.

Times were good and bad over the next decades. Though Deborah saw her financial position improve as she was promoted at work and eventually married Harold, who brought an income of his own. But she also faced the specter of long hours of secretarial work, miserable treatment by some of her higher-ups, and Harold’s descent into impotence, unemployment, and alcoholism. But through it all, there were the dolls. Deborah purchased a new one, of the latest sort, whenever she had the money and needed a pick-me-up, and they never failed to lift her mood.

An entire room of the house was given over to them, with Deborah keeping it immaculate. Harold may have let the rest of the house slide into squalor, and pawned plenty of things to get booze money after Deborah cut him off, be he knew never to interfere with her dolls. When cirrhosis took him in 1999, Deborah moved into a smaller room in the house and gave over all three bedrooms and her living room to dolls. By then, there were so many that she had to resort to cutting the tops off some of their blister cards to get them to fit–but it didn’t matter.

They made her happy.

When Deborah fell ill, her cousin suggested selling some of the oldest dolls to help fund her treatment. Deborah vehemently refused; she had the dolls to make her feel better, and getting rid of any would have been a devastating emotional blow just when she needed to feel her best. Once the cancer took its course, though, the cousin thought better of the sale–it would have taken months to sort out all of the dolls, see which ones were valuable, and then pack them for shipment. Deborah’s house was a much better, much quicker, money source, and it needed to be empty.

The local thrift stores were all too happy to take the dolls on, still in their original packaging. And for the next few months, as they gradually trickled onto shelves and were purchased, the collection was broken up. Deborah’s ultimate bequest, it seemed, was that no family in the county, no matter how bad their finances, would be in a position where they couldn’t buy a brand-new doll.

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