The Book (9 page)

The page that had been virtually ripped out of the digital version was startling to read. Holden didn’t know why, but it almost seemed as if the entry had been removed because it encouraged self-awareness.
What sort of person would want to delete something so personal?

In the next book, the note upon the five dollar bill described that the entire ending after that point had been removed and completely rewritten. Holden couldn’t believe it. He had just read that book a month prior and he had to take the fifth and final book,
Remembrance of Things Past
by a man named Marcel Proust, which had a fur of money fluttering from its spine, and set it aside in order to fulfill his need to learn how the fourth story was supposed to end. Even then, his joy was stunted because he read everything except the final paragraphs. The moment he turned the page to devour them, Winston shuffled hurriedly down the stairs with an eye on his watch.

Far more energized, the elderly librarian strode fearlessly to the table, snatched The Book from Holden’s grip and returned the chip to the rear control panel before crashing into his oversized chair, gasping desperately for breath. Apparently eighteen minutes had just ended.

As Winston delicately refastened the back cover, Holden sat in a stunned paralytic state, unable to move in the knowledge that was slapping him in the face. Winston returned The Book to Holden, pushed the five stories aside and said, “I know you have a million questions, but I’m only going to answer a few of them…and in the order of my choosing. Let me preface this by confirming what you have just realized. What I just made you realize.” He slowly interlocked his arthritic fingers and rested them on the tightly buttoned vest that seemed to hold his organs in place. “The discovery you found in J.D. Salinger’s book was not a one page mistake. It wasn’t even a one book mistake. What you have stumbled onto is an atrocious reality…a mistake in every book. I chose books from
your
device at random to prove that the truth you found is universal.”

“Wait a minute.” Holden sat forward, mashing his eyelids tightly as if that would pull the thought quicker to his trembling lips. “You’re telling me that all books…
every single book ever written
has been altered in some form or another?”

“Yes. A very crucial fact that I could only illustrate through someone else’s words.”

“No.” Holden stood from his seat and crept past the table. “That’s not true. I don’t believe you. There’s no way you could know that.”

Winston adjusted himself on the chair so that he could cross his legs. It took him quite a while to get comfortable and in the silence of that long minute Holden was forced to linger on his final statement. When Winston came to a place where he was willing to speak again, his words were simple. “Indeed, I cannot prove that every book ever written has been altered, but what I can do is base my judgment on the fact that every book I own or have seen in person has been altered, which leads me to believe that the books beyond this rarely vast library have been altered as well.”

“Even if you’re right, it doesn’t make sense,” Holden argued, his voice echoing loudly in the brick-lined cellar. “Why is this happening?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure that somewhere in the past people knew why these pages were being adjusted, why things had to be changed, but we don’t know anymore. There’s no telling why they’re doing it. All we can glean from this is that we are forced to live without the knowledge of our own imprisonment. We willingly accept it, in fact, the moment a new edition of The Book goes on sale. The sad reality, Holden, is that we are all too stupid to know that we are being controlled, word by word, and, once realizing this, we would rather return to our stupidity because what we have stumbled onto is not a glorious endeavor toward a life of truth and peace, but a life of fear. And a short one at that.”

“But it’s all so wrong. What gives someone the right to censor people that way?” Holden barked, angry at Winston’s straightforward attitude. “How can you be so casual about this? The Editors of the Publishing House have stolen our freedom of speech.”

“Quite untrue. Don’t you understand? It’s not us, Holden. It’s our forefathers and their characters that have had their voices removed. You have accidentally stumbled upon one of the most tragic conspiracies of all time. The taming of all mankind through addition and subtraction. The only reason I’m opening you up to the entirety of it is because you need to realize that life will be very frustrating from this point forward because there is nothing,
absolutely nothing
that you will be able to do to stop it.”

Silence caved in the walls and brought a deafening pressure to Holden’s ears. An hour ago, he had been a pipe fitter in search of a few answers on his day off. What was he now? In what sort of deep horror did he now found himself swimming? For a time that felt far longer than it was in reality, Holden stared at his copy of The Book. It was so new, the cover still shined and carried the crisp musk of fresh leather. He had been so proud to have it with him every day. What a part of life it had been. And what was it, really? After today, the man Holden had been, with a simple mind and a small life, would be gone. There was no going back from this.

Holden turned to Winston and searched for something to break the silence before the sound of him getting sick all over the man’s adorable reading room would do the job for him. He reached down for The Book and turned it over in his hands.

“Why did you take this apart before I started looking through my stories for inconsistencies?”

Before responding, Winston cleared his throat and uncrossed his legs. “Every Book is installed with two tracking systems. One global. One internal. If you would’ve performed an
Explore
search through these five books for the words that were missing or jumped directly to pages that have a record of being altered, you would have been flagged, tracked, captured and recycled.”

“Sorry? What do you mean
recycled
?”

Winston looked up at the brick-vaulted ceiling and adjusted his glasses. “Why don’t we save that for another day.”

“Whatever. Just tell me then…that chip you took out of my Book made them unable to know what’s going on?”

“Precisely. Let me elaborate. This planet is completely networked, even over our oceans and deserts, but there are still untracked dead zones. Although they are extremely small, the Publishing House expects to deal with them once in a golden moon. If a Book on their network loses contact with the server, they allow eighteen minutes before reconnection. At that time, the user is guaranteed to pass over the miniscule dead zone. But, because the probability of any Book going off-line twice is so minute, really a mathematical improbability, that was the first and only time your Book can be taken off the grid. Otherwise, they will assume that you are manipulating the system. See, you can’t even imagine how lucky you are Holden. Most people who reach this information as you have make the very large mistake of combing the entire Book, going onto the internet and searching for similar incidents, or requesting information directly from the Publishing House on why things would have been edited in such a way. That’s why you have never heard about this. Those unfortunate people have been removed from society.”

“Wait a minute. So you’re telling me that if I searched my Book over and over for…”

“Yes.”

Holden tore from the cellar at a subsonic speed and Winston did everything he could to catch up. “Where are you going? There is so much more you need to know before you go out on your own with this knowledge.” By the time Winston had reached the top of the stairs, Holden was already in his van trying to get it started. Winston reached for his overcoat and cane, slipped on his house shoes and walked out into the driveway. “You told someone, didn’t you?”

Holden slammed his fists on the steering wheel and turned the key again, hoping for ignition. “Yeah. Where I found this page,” he spat, as the man hobbled to the driver’s side window. “It was from a bar. The walls are coated in pages like this. Right now, she’s probably searching every book she can to find the differences.”

“Holden.” The engine turned over and Winston reached through the window to take him by the shirt. “This will be hard to hear…but she’s gone. Believe me and forget what you want to do right now. She’s already gone.”

“What?” Holden erupted with incredulity, tearing himself free.

“An hour’s time is more than enough. There’s no way she could get more than that before they would flag it as suspicious activity and take her.”

“Holden…wait.” Winston called, out of breath as he skipped after the van. “You’re going to leave and there’s nothing I can do about that. But…there is more we have to discuss. You’re not ready yet. Please, you must return. We have to finish this discussion.”

“I will.”

“Go then, but take this with you. If you do succeed and she is still alive…if you can, at all, get more of the pages.” His face was tight with determination, his words aggressive and direct as he pointed his free hand at Holden. “You
MUST
do it. Those words are more valuable than you…or I…or this woman. Please, get as many of them as you can, because if it isn’t already, that place will be in ashes by nightfall!”

Holden turned the wheel, put the car in drive and flicked on the windshield wipers. He knew, and could clearly see, that he had put a lot of pressure on this elderly man who was not expecting the fallout from such a bomb. Holden had come to his house hoping to find relief, expecting some joy by seeing his favorite book in person and perhaps building a relationship with a man that knew more about books than he did. In fact, he wished he hadn’t discovered the extent of it all because a deep regret for what he had brought on Marion was taking over his mind. If Winston was right, Marion was in terrible trouble and he hoped to God that he could reach her in time before it was too late.

As the van careened down the slick driveway, Winston’s lips lowered to a frown while cold rain pelted the glasses on his face. “Be careful, Holden. They are always two steps ahead,” he whispered to himself as he watched the van disappear. “And they know more than you think.”

* * * * *

009-21152

For thirty-seven minutes, Holden drove.

Fourteen of those thirty-seven, he felt he couldn’t breath. He was so unable to get a handle on the moment that, like the tires on the rain-drenched expressway, seemed almost too slippery to grasp onto. Marion was gone? How could that man, that rich crime lord, have the nerve to look Holden in the eye and act as if her life meant nothing?
It was true that Holden didn’t have feelings for Marion, beyond the physical (that he knew of), but she was a person and if there was at all some way that he could save her from whatever this was, whoever
they
were, he would do his best.

Recycled.

He couldn’t get that word out of his head.

What would they do to her?

The only wind of hope he could find as he glided into the city was in the way he had tried to recruit her help. Holden knew he had looked insane the day earlier. Maybe he had sounded crazy enough for her to have simply ignored him. Any other idea that came to relieve his anxiety was unlikely. He hoped that something had gone wrong at the bar. That the electricity had gone out because she had forgotten to pay the bill. That a keg had exploded. That a bar fight sent her to the hospital. Hell, he’d take a robbery at that point. Anything that would force her not to consider his ranting request. Anything to keep her from scanning The Book for the many pages on the walls.

As the van veered through traffic and he parked illegally outside the door of The Library, Holden could see at once that that something was wrong. The neon sign above the door was off. Marion usually opened early on Sundays; people needed a place to drink and enjoy their sports. But, as Holden wiped the condensation from the windshield with the back of his sleeve, he noticed one of the regulars at the darkened, red door, covering his head from the tenacious rain with one hand and tugging wildly at the handle with the other. It was locked. With no windows looking in, Holden imagined the worst. Instead of thinking out a logical way to confront the possible problem, Holden acted on pure, destructive instinct. He hastily pulled back into traffic before cutting dangerously into the shadows of the narrow alley that traced its way to the rear of the bar.

Holden couldn’t remember much before he heard the door to The Library slam to a close behind him. The impact of what he saw at that moment made the moments prior irrelevant. He remembered the door of the van slamming, the cool rain water on his face and crashing the rear door to the bar open as if he were a drunk, scrounging for booze. But the shock of so many lights amid such silence overtook his ability to retain inconsequential details.

The appeal of The Library was that it was usually rather dark. Most of the ambient light came from television screens or the few oil lamps on the walls that thrived off of clean, repurposed oil. It provided its customers with a dark and private atmosphere where they could drink the liquid that their liver hated most without consequence. Standing at the rear door, bracing his eyes from the abrasive light that streamed from the main seating area, Holden felt himself pulled to the conclusion of his life. He was staring at the light at the end of the tunnel that was created by mangy bathroom doors, empty kegs and beer boxes.