Black Moon Rising by Peter E. Abresch

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Black Moon Rising by Peter E. Abresch

By: PEAbresch

Black Moon Rising by Peter E. Abresch

    Backwards.

    I walked backwards.

    Up to the library in Prince Frederick.

Not easy in eighteen inches of snow; eyes squinting

against the glare of the sun; chest heaving from an adrenalin

rush, sending clouds of condensation trailing behind like the

little-engine-that-could. I had thought of snowshoes but I

didn't have any; time was pressing and this was the best

I could come up with.

The snow thinned to powder under the overhang at the side

door of the glassed-in vestibule.

My hope was that people would see the tracks–I

intended to follow them out–and figure they came from

someone who had left the library when it closed. I was

encouraged in this reasoning by a pair of footsteps doing

precisely that, only women-size feet heading around the other

side of the building.

The problem, of course, would anyone catch me breaking

into the place? Early Sunday morning with snow on the ground?

But you never knew when a churchgoer, or even an old

girlfriend, would seek an early breakfast at Panera's

across the street.

    But apparently not today.

I dug lock picks out of my jacket as a new worry flashed

in my head.

    Suppose the lock is frozen?

I found it warm to the touch, heat from the inside, and

went to work. In hardly any time–like a half a damn

hour–I finally got it to turn, releasing the latch, and

sidled into the foyer.

No sounds went off, no lights flashed, but that

didn't mean something silent and deadly hadn't

snaked out over the wires to the sheriff's office.

    In for a nickel, in for a dime, to use a cliche.

I untied my boots–now this was a tough call. If I

left them on I'd be tracking in snow and stuff for

someone to notice, but if I needed a quick getaway, I'd

lose time putting them on, unless I just made a grab and

plowed through the snow in my stocking feet.

I searched the street, seeing no one, and eased the boots

onto a piece of plastic I had brought along and placed on a

fish-patterned rug.

The inner doors slid open at my approach and I slipped

into the long nave of the library.

Light streamed through clerestory windows two floors up,

birds twittered in the shelter of its overhang, and a faint

aroma hung in the warm air, like a combination of furniture

polish, paper paste, and old books.

I gazed down past the check-in desk, past cases that held

newly released books to rows of computers resting on long

tables and, behind them, periodical racks and easy chairs,

part visible, part recollection from when I had cased the

place.

I crossed the lobby, keeping right, until I reached the

café area with its blue floor, and gazed out the side

windows to my car parked at the back entrance to

Panera's. Other than it, nothing of interest and nothing

moving.

    Awright!

    Get in, get out, or get caught.

I hurried around the new-books bookcase to enter the main

library, and stopped as my stockinged foot encountered a wet

spot on the carpet. I looked up to the ceiling. Nothing.

Still, something wrong here.  Mental shrug.

I sped on, rushing down past three rows of computers to

the second reference desk.

    Then froze at the sound of a stifled sneeze.

    And waited.

Birds squabbled in the clerestory overhang. Snowplows

rumbled way out on Route Four. Dust settled in my wake.

Other than that?

    Had I actually heard it?

Perhaps something outside sounded like a sneeze. Like

what?  A sneezing snowmobile?

    Riiiiiight.

I gazed back toward the entrance, and up at the ceiling,

and things started coupling like railroad cars in a siding.

The second set of footprints out front, the warm keyhole, the

wet spot, the stifled sneeze, and clickity-clack–an

express train barreled down the main line of my brain.

I caught a shadow out of the corner my eye, gone by the

time I jerked around.

Cops? Not likely or I'd already be in cuffs. Which

meant someone else was sneaking around.  Looking for what?

    What Else?

    Black Moon Rising.

But creeping around also meant they didn't know where

it was.

I bent down to a row of reference books, those not allowed

to leave the premises, and reached for where I had shifted it

when I had cased the place, in amongst tomes on the middle

ages.  And came away empty.

    Gone or shifted about again?

I glanced up at a shoe scuffle in the next aisle. Through

the space between the top of the books and the bottom of the

shelf above, I saw a pair of tight fitting ski pants. The

lack of an anatomical deformity in the crotch clued me in to

the fact I was gazing at the figure of a woman. Not

necessarily less deadly, but not a hairy ogre named Bruno

either.

Back to business. I checked the next shelf down with

volumes on geography, then caught the glare of a plastic

wrapped book on the bottom shelf, next to Pirates and

Privateers, and yanked it out.

Black Moon Rising, Preston Campbell, 1895, first edition,

one of only two in existence.

    "I'll take that, if you please.‟

She stood there, five three, tight curls of blond hair,

red ski jacket, gun in her pocket pointed at me.

"Unless,‟ she said, breathing rapidly, "unless you

want me to blast your gonads into little pieces."

    My testes sucked up into my body.

Except... I didn't actually see a gun. And if she

were pointing more than a finger-gun-in-the-pocket at me, why

was she breathing so hard?

    I wheeled around and headed for the door.

    "Go ahead, shoot.‟

Three steps later it slammed into my back and sent me

sprawling to the floor, the book sliding out of my grasp.

    Sonofabitch, I had been shot.

    Shot!

    I was dying–-

    I had been tackled.

I had been tackled and the lady was crawling over me

reaching for Black Moon Rising.

    Sonofabitch again.

I grabbed her, pulled her back, and rolled over on top of

her, staring down into riveting blue eyes.

    "Get off of me, asswipe.‟

    Felt kind of good there.

Slender body under mine. Pretty face and warm lips. I

kissed her.  Sweet tasting mouth.

    "Get off of me, you tongue pervert.‟

    I got off of her.

    And picked up the book.

    She climbed to her feet and glared at me.

    "How did you know that was here?‟

"When Louie the Lip was picked up on racketeering charges,

and an odd murder or two, he surrendered in Panera's

across the street, but in the inventory of his rare book

collection, there was no mention of Black Moon Rising. What

better place to hide it than in the reference section of a

library?‟

    "Won't do you much good if I go to the cops.‟

"Under racketeering charges, all property belongs to the

Government.  I work for the Government.‟

"Oh really?‟ Her lips turned down and she nodded.

"Then why are the police scheduled to sweep this place

tomorrow?‟

I shrugged. The lady was more than a pretty face.

Still...

    "I have the book.‟

    "And I have a buyer.‟

     I stared at her.

    She cocked her head and wiggled her eyebrows.

    "Seven hundred and twenty five thousand big ones.‟

    I gave her a sterling view of my pearly whites.

"Are you telling me this might be the start of a beautiful

friendship?‟

"Perhaps, but if you give me tongue again, I'll cut

off your gonads.‟

    She seemed to have a fixation on my testes.

      I decided to overlook it.

And we walked out together, into the dazzling snow.

Comments

Will

Peter, you know I love your hard-boiled characters. There is always something funny, something sexy, something tense, and something urgent in your writing. This is no exception. Sentence for sentence this piece is entertaining as hell. And I love the references to Casablanca.