August slammed the fourth key into the slot and turned. Click! He opened the trapdoor and stared down into the storage compartment. It was completely dark. He looked up and saw a hand grab the edge of the curtain, but there was no stopping now.

He wondered if once he was down there he’d even be able to find his way around.

The curtain opened an inch. August could hear the flight attendants talking with a passenger about the crazy screaming kid and his undead grandfather. He dropped through the trapdoor and shut it over him, hearing the mat flop back into place. He was in. Seconds later he heard feet overhead. He couldn’t hear the flight attendants’ exact words, but he could tell by the rise and fall of their voices that they were questioning each other about something. He heard the folding seat open and shut, and a shrill voice followed.

August cringed, realizing he had left the key in the trapdoor. He heard the rug rolling back. The trapdoor rattled, then rose. August dived between two large piles of luggage, pulling in his legs just as a head popped into the light above.

“You see anything?” asked a voice.

“It’s hard to see anything down here,” the flight attendant said. He flicked on a flashlight.

August watched the beam float silently across the floor, then travel along the surface of the luggage and against the walls. Too late, he saw that his shoe was within view. He could almost feel the beam of light burning into his sole as it passed over.

“Are you sure you didn’t leave the key in the lock?” the flashlight bearer asked. “I heard that you sneaked down here with Thad one time.”

“What?” the voice overhead snarled.

“That’s just what I heard!” The flight attendant disappeared and the trapdoor shut.

August thought he had avoided the worst. He uncurled his body and stretched out in relief. Now he just had to find the Gutenberg.

“I’m a lucky guy,” he said aloud, a vote of his own confidence. And then, like a heavenly response to his boasting, he listened to the unnerving scrape of the trapdoor lock turning.

Eleven

eleven

Norman had taken the job at the library to avoid trouble. That was the idea. At least, that was his wife’s idea. She’d had enough of nights lying awake and wondering if Norman, a cop then, was lying dead in a gutter somewhere. The library was safe, a haven for bookworms, not drug dealers. Books were the stuff of comfort, and even though Norman hated to admit it at the time, he was ready for a more comfortable life too.

Then what am I doing? Norman asked himself, creeping down the stairs to retrieve a severed hand. This is crazy!