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That was fine with us, so we grabbed our things and left.
Literary Haunts
RAOUL WAS ON VACATION. ACCORDING TO HIS ASSISTANT, he hadn't taken so much as two consecutive days off in five years but now, when we needed him, he'd decided it was time for a monthlong European holiday. I suspected this wasn't coincidence--he'd probably heard of the Cabals' latest "investigative" tactics, and feared he'd be next on their list.
Although Raoul was gone, he wasn't out of contact. That's the life of the self-employed--you can never really be away, or you might come home to find your business in shambles. Even lying in my hospital bed, I'd checked my e-mail and followed up on anything critical--well, anything my customers considered critical. Raoul hadn't left a phone number, but he was available by e-mail. His assistant sent off an immediate "Call Lucas Cortez" message for us.
"Can we check out the grimoires?" I said. "Wait, let me guess. He keeps those locked up, meaning they aren't available until he comes back."
"I'm afraid so."
I sighed. "Strike two. Well, let's go find Jaime."
Although the building was larger than most used book-stores, every available inch of space was in use, leaving a maze of narrow, serpentine aisles flanked by ten-foot-high shelves. The occasional murmur or shoe squeak indicated other shoppers, but they were lost among the stacks.
"Guess we should split up," I said. "Should we lay a trail of bread crumbs?"
"Perhaps, though I may suggest a more prosaic solution. Do you have your cell phone?"
I nodded. "Whoever finds her first, calls. Got it."
I tracked Jaime to the horror section and told her about Raoul.
"Shit," she said. "There's no luck like bad luck, huh? Guess we should get back to the hotel then, and Lucas and I can tap into the gossipmonger circuit."
I looked at her empty hands. "You didn't find anything?"
"Not what I was looking for."
She turned to leave, but I put a hand on her arm.
"We can spare a minute. What were you looking for?"
"Stephen King. Now, every bookstore must have him. But he's not here."
I scanned the shelf, which appeared to be arranged alphabetically by author. "You're right. That's strange. Did you want his latest? Maybe it's in general fiction."
"I'm actually looking for Christine, which should be under horror."
"Let's check the map up front, maybe ask the clerk." I started walking. "Isn't Christine the one about the possessed car?"
"That's it. I've been wanting to reread it ever since this show I did a couple months ago. A guy had this car that he swore was possessed, just like in the book. I don't do private consultations, but my prodco was filming the show, and they thought it'd be cool if we checked out his car in the parking lot. Oh, here's the map."
I scanned the map. "Aha. Here's our problem. King gets his own shelf in the Popular Authors section."
As we walked to the section, Jamie continued her story. "So this kid--he's maybe your age--has this gorgeous 1967 Mustang convertible. First thought: 'Uh-oh, call DEA.' The kid didn't look like any trust-fund brat, so where'd he get a car like that? When I ask him, he gets all nervous. Says his grandpa left it to him. And sure enough, it really is haunted. Guess who by?"
"The grandfather," I said.
"Bingo. The old guy jumped me the second I got within sensing distance, so spitting mad he could barely communicate. Seems he did leave the car to the kid. But on one condition. He wanted to be buried in it. No one else in the family would listen, but the kid promised to do it."
"And then he stiffed him."
Jaime laughed. "Yeah, the kid stiffed the stiff. Took the car, took the money, and plopped Gramps into the cheapest casket he could buy."
"So what'd you do?"
"Told the kid the truth. Either he buried Gramps in the car or he had to live with a permanent pissed-off hitchhiker. Oh, here it is."
