And this morning, first thing, she decided to head to the library. After spending the night soothing Isaac back to sleep, then lying restless and helpless in her own bed for hours, she felt like she had to do something today. She’s not convinced that the book Cooper recommended to her will hold any answers, but she’s certainly willing to look. Guidance. Advice. Wisdom. Something.
Isaac trails her grudgingly into the library, clutching his toy race car, and plants himself on the floor among the shelves of books. As libraries go, it’s a makeshift affair: just a storefront on the main thoroughfare, just down the street from the Laundromat. Yet it’s surprisingly well stocked, the rows of shelves jammed with a wide range of books. The Institute seems to be committed to giving the residents this one amenity, at least. Fran knows. She spends a lot of time here. She feels like she’s read every book in here, twice.
As Fran walks in, Marilyn’s threading the new shipment of local papers onto the long wooden poles that serve as reading spines and which allow her to hang the papers, like inky laundry, on a wooden rack. Marilyn keeps the place admirably tidy and well ordered. She’s in her mid-fifties, with a matronly air, and a meticulously maintained bouffant hairstyle that can’t have been fashionable at any point during her lifetime. She’s pleasant and helpful and perfectly harmless, which leads Fran to wonder frequently what exactly Marilyn did, or saw, to wind up here in the Blinds. If Fran had to peg anyone here as an innocent, she’d probably pick Marilyn Roosevelt. But, no doubt, Marilyn has her secrets, like everyone, even from herself.
Marilyn shakes her head with neighborly concern. “Quite a commotion last night.”
Fran ignores the prompt and gets right to business. “I’m looking for a book—it’s called Raising Icarus. It’s a book about parenting.”
Marilyn laughs. “Did Sheriff Cooper recommend it? I’m sure we have a copy—parenting books aren’t in such hot demand around here.” Marilyn turns to the old-fashioned card catalog on her desk, pulling out the narrow drawers and riffling through hand-lettered index cards. She pulls a card out. “Here we go—it’s filed under Social Sciences. The call number is on the card.” She hands the hand-lettered index card over to Fran; it’s got the call number up top, followed by the title, author, and a long sequence of numbers on the bottom.
“What’s this number?” asks Fran.
“That’s the ISBN. Helps you know you’re getting exactly the book you’re looking for.”
Fran smiles and pockets the card, then turns to go scour the shelf. It’s only once she’s found the book that she stops and retrieves the card from her pocket. Something about the sequence of numbers scribbled on it nags at her.
The ISBN is a string of ten seemingly random digits.
She feels a sudden hollowing in her chest as she turns her back to Marilyn and holds the card up next to her wrist.
12500241214911
Fourteen digits on her wrist. Too long.
She’s almost relieved.
She puts the card back in her pocket and admonishes herself for being so dumb as to think she’d stumbled on a clue.
She pulls the book that Cooper recommended from the shelf. It’s a hardcover, with the title, Raising Icarus, written in looping script above a photo of a young boy and his smiling mom. There’s something weirdly familiar about the boy’s eyes— Then she stops.
Puts her thumb over the digits at the end of her long tattoo. Covering all but ten of them.
She walks back over to Marilyn’s desk, where Marilyn is puttering over her newspapers.
“Would you check another book for me?” says Fran, as calmly as she can. “I don’t know the title. I just have a number for it. Can you do that?”
“The ISBN?” Marilyn says. “Well, for that, I’ll need my books-in-print catalog.” She unshelves an enormous hardcover, the size of an encyclopedia, and opens it. “The Institute sends me these every once in a while. The irony is, it’s so out of date that it’s probably out of print itself.” She chuckles as she flips it open. “I keep telling them we need a computer to look these books up but, you know, prohibitions. All right—what’s the number?”
Fran pulls the index card from her pocket and pretends she’s reading from it, as though she’s scribbled the number down. It doesn’t matter either way, since Marilyn’s back is turned and she’s concentrating on her catalog. Fran holds up the card but recites the first ten numbers from her wrist.
1250024121.
It’s not hard. She knows them by heart.
Fran watches as Marilyn flips through pages.
Waits an excruciating moment.
Then another.
Telling herself this is stupid. This will all be for nothing.
“Yes, here it is,” Marilyn says. “And you’re in luck.” She spins on her swivel chair back toward the card catalog. While Fran waits, she notices that the library has suddenly gone very quiet, and Isaac’s motor-car noises sound very loud, but very far away. She feels her chest constrict.
Marilyn plucks another card from a narrow drawer and holds it aloft triumphantly. She turns in her chair and holds out the card to Fran.
Fran almost doesn’t want to take it, but she takes it. Once she has it, she doesn’t want to read it. But she reads it.
As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals & Notebooks 1964–1980, by Susan Sontag.
“That’s the one,” Fran says feebly, trying to sound convincing, forcing a smile.
“We have a copy,” says Marilyn. “Should be filed under Biography.”
Fran nods and turns to go search for the book. In truth, neither the title nor the author’s name means anything to her. The title sounds kind of ridiculous, to be honest. But there’s no way this is a coincidence—not all ten digits. She finds the section and runs a fingertip across the spines.
Snowden, Solzhenitsyn, Sontag.
Here it is.
She pulls it from the shelf.
It’s a volume of diaries. She flips through it. There’s a second book, a sequel, with a matching spine, still on the shelf. She pulls that book down, too.
“Certainly looks thought-provoking,” says Marilyn, cheerily, from behind her.
“Something to pass the time,” says Fran, then shoves both books, along with Raising Icarus, under her arm, grabs Isaac’s hand again, and tugs him toward the door.
Cooper watches himself in the mirror as he buttons a fresh new brown uniform shirt. He has five identical brown shirts, all with identical pearl snap buttons, and he tries his best to make sure at least one of them is clean for work every single day. It’s the little things that keep you sane.
He smoothes a hand over the front of the shirt. Good enough. Got to look presentable, especially if you’re going to meet with Dr. Holliday.
It’s a big ask. He’s got a little leverage, and a little charm, and he’s hoping, together, that will be enough.
He checks the clock. It’s nearly nine in the morning already.
He looks over at the unfolded fax laying faceup on his dresser.
He should have fed it in the shredder the moment after he first received it. No need to hang on to it—the message isn’t going to change.
But he did hang on to it, maybe because shredding it might give him a moment’s pause, like maybe he’s going to wriggle out of it.
Looking at the dead-eyed mug shot of Gerald Dean.
What did you do, Gerald?