AOD:DOA - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Hook

“Jericho,” she told the young man who was seated behind the circulation desk. He nodded in response to her name, but did not look up at her face. He typed the letters into the computer, staring at the screen like he had blinkers on. She wondered why. She refused to believe that he was simply being rude.

At least he replies when I talk to him, she told herself as she lowered the bar, that’s a good start.

“Jericho,” repeated the twenty-something part-time librarian, “That is a beautiful name.” He still did not turn his face up toward her. She looked at his nametag again to be absolutely sure before she spoke.

“Thank you, Rhodes,” she replied, gracefully accepting the compliment about her name, “So is yours.”

So is yours? Rhodes repeated in his head, My name is beautiful? Incredulous at the praise, he started to move his head to look at her, then checked himself. Don’t look up. Don’t look up. He had seen her at a distance already. Beautiful young women were always noticed, especially in the calm of the library. Just her voice was making his heart race. Rhodes did not think he could stand it if he got a good look at her up close. Heaven help him if she passed near enough for him to smell her perfume. One more stunning woman whom I will never get to date.

Jericho noticed his twitch, like he was going to look up at her but stopped himself. It made her wonder why. She supposed some reasons.

Focus on his job? Attention deficit disorder? Is this going to be a problem?

The possibility of defeatism did not occur to her. She could not have known that Rhodes had grown tired of striking out with every woman his age that he had ever met. For him, simple loneliness was preferable to loneliness plus rejection. He did not like to think of himself as a masochist, so he had picked the lesser of two sufferings. Fortunately for Rhodes, he was young yet, and his decision to give up trying to get a date was very likely temporary. To be honest, his resolve had dissolved on a dozen occasions already this year. Twelve inglorious instances of crash, burn, die. And still he kept going back into the fray.

Maybe I actually AM a masochist, he supposed. He imagined going to a meeting for Masochists Anonymous. Hello, my name is Rhodes and I am a masochist. Pause for everyone sitting in the room to reply: Hi Rhodes.

He glanced to his left and right, thinking of where he worked. He decided that a library held no more or less masochists than any other work place. Get back on task, he reminded himself, Beautiful woman waiting to be served.

Rhodes cleared his throat, pushed the mental replay button, and reviewed the last few seconds of what Jericho had said. He nodded to himself. As he typed, he managed to respond to the compliment about his name being beautiful.

“Thanks,” Rhodes almost coughed, “I’m named after the Colossus, not the scholarship.” He smiled to accompany his small talk, then felt a twinge of insecurity. Oh no. Was that quip too snooty? He noticed that he was uncharacteristically chatty, and wondered if he had drunk too much coffee at break. Jericho responded regardless.

“Well you are much more handsome than your namesake,” she flattered him. His expression changed briefly to puzzlement. He did not know what befuddled him more: that a woman his own age was engaging him in small talk, or that she spoke about the Colossus of Rhodes from ancient Greece like she knew what it had actually looked like. The Colossus had been destroyed thousands of years ago, and no authoritative images existed.

You are over-thinking this, he told himself.

Rhodes overcame his self-doubt, tilted his head upward, and took a good hard look at Jericho’s face for the first time. Her smile erased his confusion, and he heard music: a big brass wind instrument like a trumpet or a trombone, but not something he had ever actually heard before. And he was staring.

Her skin was vibrant but not flawless. It made Rhodes think that she must have had a few tiny scars that had healed almost perfectly. He had read about plastic surgery and the places where doctors concealed the small white scars, but that was not Jericho. Hers were at random locations on her face and neck. Rhodes stopped thinking about her flaws as her smile focussed his attention.

The musculature around her mouth was unusually mature. She had a well-developed embouchure, as if she played a wind instrument. The association of a visual cue to a musical cause resonated with him. While he waited for her to speak again, he realized something. Her voice charmed him, but he would have been happy to be deaf as long as he could watch her lips move as she spoke.

After a few heartbeats, Rhodes recognized that he had been captivated. He became aware of the rest of creation again as it rushed in on him. Blushing, he returned to Earth. He was glad that Jericho’s eyes were hidden by sunglasses, because otherwise, he was sure, he would still be on Cloud Nine.

Rhodes was now so distracted by Jericho’s appearance and manner that he did not reflect on the anomaly of her wearing sunglasses, indoors, at night. Abstractly, he thanked God that there was no wind blowing here inside the library, since it would have turned her shiny black ringlets into a halo of hair, and Rhodes would have remained forever lost. He mastered his imagination, cleared his throat, and fidgeted in his chair. He looked back at the computer screen, and tried hard to keep his eyes there. Jericho took that as her cue to talk again.

“Jones,” she volunteered. Then her fragrance reached him and his discipline cracked and nearly shattered.

Is that a summer rainstorm? he asked himself, starting to feel giddy. His gaze was drawn back to her, but he struggled not to stare this time.

“Sorry?” he answered blankly, then urged himself to concentrate. Focus, focus, focus.

“Jones. Last name. For the files.”

“Oh yes. Right. Jones,” Rhodes repeated. “Jericho Jones.”

“That’s right,” she smiled. He ignored the heat in his face. He continued typing. Jones. Jones. No, Jones! he told himself as he misspelled her name several times and kept having to use the backspace to delete his errors. Jericho decided that they were on track now, so she dictated.

“372 South Buttars Road,” Jericho continued, “R.R. #1 Cobourg, Township of Hamilton.”

She waited for him to enter the information. He appeared to be able to touch-type, but he seemed to make a lot of mistakes. He must have finally got it right because he stopped typing.

“You live so nearby,” Rhodes said aloud, then regretted his unguarded words. What am I doing? He bit his lower lip. Jericho rolled right along.

“Well, I am applying for a library card, so it makes sense that I do,” Jericho replied, still smiling, “Live nearby, that is.”

“Oh yeah. Right,” Rhodes answered as smoothly as he could just then. The sound of music was gone now, and all he heard was the soft ‘thunk’ of his clumsy reply going over like a lead balloon. Jericho glossed right over that too.

“You still have that agreement with the Township of Hamilton, right?” she asked, worried that she had missed a detail in her research.

“Yes. Yes. Cobourg Public Library operates the Gores Landing and Bewdley branches for the Township of Hamilton. You can join this library without a fee.”

Rhodes thought about where Jericho lived.

372 South Buttars Road, Rhodes repeated Jericho’s address in his thoughts. He clicked a few things in a web browser, and imagined driving along South Buttars Road. He mentally inventoried the properties and buildings. They had changed very little since he was born. After he made it through this registration, he would check out the location on a mapping program.

Rhodes was so distracted as he tried to picture which property was Jericho’s house that he did not ask what had brought her to the area. He just assumed that she must have moved here recently. There was no way that a beauty like Jericho could have grown up in the area without Rhodes having heard of her before. Then he realized which piece of real estate had to be the one that Jericho gave as her home address.

“Oh, the old farmhouse down near the shore,” Rhodes nodded understanding. He thought of the strip of the Township of Hamilton that stretched down to Lake Ontario between Cobourg and Port Hope. The most remarkable thing to happen in that neck of the woods in the last few years had been the train derailment one March. Twenty-five railway cars had left the tracks, and every residence inside a one-kilometre radius had been evacuated: a total of ten houses. The spilled fuel had been contained, and no one was the worse for wear. There had still been clean-up equipment clustered there months later, like a caravan of squatters who refused to leave the grounds of a country music jamboree.

“Oh, so you’re a local boy?” Jericho judged by Rhodes’ knowledge of the geography of Northumberland County. She glanced around the library, then looked back at Rhodes, and decided that he belonged here, both in the library and in the community.

“Born and raised,” he replied, “I’ve lived here my whole life except for when I went away to school.” He clicked the mouse and typed a bit more. “Could I have your number?”

Jericho smiled at the double entendre and Rhodes blushed again as he realized it too. She gave him the landline. He typed, then turned the screen around to show the display to her as he spoke.

“Could you confirm your information?”

Jericho glanced at the screen and nodded. Her dark, curly bob bounced up and down, then a question occurred to her.

“How did you get my postal code?” she inquired. Rhodes felt smug, but managed not to smirk. He was pleased and impressed that she had noticed.

“Internet,” Rhodes explained, trying not to come off as a stalker, “While we were talking. I copied your address into a search engine. We use it a lot here for new memberships.”

He did not share the rest of his observation.

And how I managed to talk to you and use the internet without screwing it up, I’ll never know.

Jericho was not done with polite conversation.

“You get a lot of new memberships at the Cobourg Public Library?”

“Enough,” he shrugged. He noticed that the man in line behind Jericho was glancing at the screen with interest. Rhodes got no impression of a musical instrument there. Rhodes glared at him and turned the screen back to himself. Like you have a chance, he thought at the man. He then grabbed a white plastic card out of a drawer, and waved it under a red laser that was mounted on a desktop stand. The computer read the bar code on the card and beeped in satisfaction. The tone sounded musical in a way that it had never seemed before. Rhodes looked at the laser, but convinced himself it was the same piece of equipment that he had used for several years. He wondered whether someone had messed around with the software in the past five minutes, then dismissed the idea. He turned his gaze back to Jericho.

“Sign the back and you’re good to go,” he said lightly, and handed the library card to her, along with a disposable pen. Jericho laid the card on the counter top, clicked the pen, and signed the white strip on the back. Rhodes observed her hands.

Nice manicure. Smooth skin. More of those fine white scar lines. Good grip. Sweeping style of writing.

Rhodes felt himself looking at Jericho like there was something more to see than a gorgeous woman in her twenties.

She has to have a boyfriend already, he told himself. He checked her left hand. No wedding band or engagement ring. And no mark of one having been recently removed. He checked the other hand just to be sure.

Nada, he told himself with hope, then remembered that lots of people lived together without getting married, and he felt his confidence slip back a step. He glanced around to see whether there was a lucky young man in evidence, but spotted no one, and held on to his wish. Then the dream got better. Jericho handed back the pen. Rhodes put it in his shirt pocket, intending to keep it forever because Jericho had touched it. As Rhodes struggled with the immorality of taking library office supplies home for private purposes, Jericho asked a question.

“Books on warfare?” she asked. Rhodes appraised Jericho with even greater interest.

“Second floor. West side,” he directed her, using his right hand to point first at the stairs and then to wave at the part of the ceiling that corresponded to the second floor area for that section. He decided that the gesture made him look like an idiot and that he would never get to see Jericho again. He lowered his arm. He was most definitely keeping the pen. He would buy an identical replacement pen and bring it in to leave at the library.

“Thanks Rhodes,” she smiled easily and sauntered around the front of the desk toward the stairs. He had never heard his name sound so good. That scent of a summer rainstorm trailed behind her. It was hard not to inhale loudly. He exhaled in silence and quietly breathed deep again before the fragrance was gone.

As Rhodes watched Jericho move away, he noticed that her walk was unusual: confident, balanced, graceful and somehow assertive or predatory. He gave his head a shake. He could not remember ever having read so much into someone’s gait.

As Jericho walked away, she could feel Rhodes watching her as she went up the stairs. At the landing half way up, she met Edna Simmons, a sour old lady, who stopped and stared at Jericho. Edna reached out to touch Jericho, who smiled as the elderly woman put her hand on the sleeve of Jericho’s beige suede jacket. Jericho touched Edna’s arm in return, and said something that made Edna beam. For a heartbeat, Rhodes actually wished he could be the old woman. Then Jericho moved on, and as she turned, she caught Rhodes staring. He realized that his action could be interpreted as checking out her butt. He had not been, but now he glanced down reflexively at her pants. He registered that they were khaki-coloured cargos, and that they fit well but not too tightly.

Good for fall weather, Rhodes processed laterally, oh no. Now I really AM looking at her butt.

Embarrassed once again, he looked away and found the man still waiting. The patron wore a disapproving expression: the one that Rhodes called ‘Buddy, you are a mess.’ The look went well with the man’s hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. It turned out that he also wanted to apply for a library card.

What? Is it a full moon tonight? Rhodes wondered at the veritable stampede of new members. He looked around behind the man to see whether there was perhaps someone else waiting to sign up, but there was no one. This fellow was it. Rhodes mentally pushed the button in his brain labelled ‘Enrol New Patron’. The spoken words now came easily.

“Driver’s licence and either a recent piece of mail with your name and address, or a credit card please,” Rhodes rhymed off, “We want to make sure that you are who you say you are. Library books won’t protect themselves, you know.”

After pasting on a smile at his own joke, Rhodes focussed on slowing his breathing as he fought the after-effects of adrenaline. He noticed that the man’s breathing sounded raspy as he took in air before replying to Rhodes.

“You didn’t ask her for a piece of I.D.,” the grumpy man protested, nodding his head in the direction in which Jericho had gone. Rhodes hesitated, but not because the man was unpleasant. Rhodes was a seasoned veteran when it came to dealing with miserable members of the municipality. His pause was because he could not remember whether he had asked for I.D. from Jericho, so he covered.

“She produced it before you joined the line,” Rhodes decided, confident that Jericho Jones was exactly who she said she was, and if you don’t like that answer, you can just go to Hell. The man looked at him doubtfully, then presented the items. The driver’s licence photo looked more like a corpse than a person. Rhodes did not look at the new library patron again for comparison. He stifled a shudder and entered the data in silence.

* * *

A few minutes later, Jericho was in the checkout line again. She was holding A History of Warfare by the British military historian John Keenan. Rhodes was grateful that he was still on desk duty to be able to process Jericho’s checkout.

Check out her book, not her butt, he told himself. He cleared his throat. Again.

“That’s a good one,” Rhodes commented as Jericho handed him the book. Then Rhodes said what he had been thinking after Jericho had walked upstairs, “Women don’t usually read books on warfare.”

He immediately regretted making a comment that differentiated based on gender. It had to be politically incorrect. He wondered what syndrome he had just developed that had him gushing with uncensored thoughts. Jericho read his discomfort and smiled. She glanced at the warfare book and thought of his comment.

“No, they don’t,” she agreed, “But maybe I’m not like them,” she replied as Rhodes accepted her new library card from her hand. He wished that he had somehow managed to touch her fingers in passing, or that there was a way he could keep her library card. He glanced at the book she was taking, and decided that, after she returned it, he would have to keep that as a souvenir too. She would spend a lot more time holding the book than she had spent holding the pen.

Books go missing all the time, he rationalized his sudden kleptomania. Next he would try to convince himself that Jericho would never need to take out a restraining order against him.

As he checked out the hard cover, he agonized over his comment about women not reading books on warfare. The computer printed the receipt on thermal paper, and Rhodes felt the heat of embarrassment in his face once again. He wondered if the heat from his skin would erase the text on the receipt. He actually shrugged at his thought, then passed the book over the de-magnetizer. He tore the receipt from the printer and handed the strip of paper to Jericho. He checked it for grey smudges where his fingertips had touched the thermal paper. There were no marks.

The receipt is still legible, he told himself, fingers must not be affected by embarrassment. He struggled to come up with a response to Jericho but could not muster one. Jericho decided that Rhodes had nothing to say. She wondered what she had done wrong. She did not entertain the possibility that her mere presence might stymie Rhodes.

Now that Jericho had her tome in hand, she thanked Rhodes, then stepped to the edge of the circulation desk. She put her hardcover book on the corner of the counter, then buttoned her jacket and started pulling her hat and gloves out of her jacket pockets. Rhodes wanted to watch Jericho prepare to go outside, but had to deal with a patron.

Why didn’t I say something? he agonized, Why couldn’t I respond. She must think that I am an idiot.

Fuming, Rhodes automatically checked out the books for the next person in line, a middle-aged lady named Cora Byrnes, who was borrowing half a dozen volumes.

Secrets of the Egyptian Mummies, he read the first title silently. He was happy to have something to do lest he be unable to keep his eyes from Jericho. He tried to control his breathing in order to slow down his pounding heart.

It took Jericho so long to put on her accessories that Rhodes had finished processing Cora Byrnes before Jericho moved away. Rhodes put a receipt in the last book and closed the cover. As Cora picked up her armful of checkouts from the circulation desk counter, Jericho dropped a beige leather glove. She bent down to get it as Cora, carrying her six borrowed books, stepped toward her. When Jericho came back up, she knocked the pile of books from Cora’s arms. The hard covers dropped to the floor. The thump of novels hitting the carpet was joined by exclamations and Jericho’s apologies. The commotion drew looks from every person in sight. A few patrons on the second floor heard the noise, and peeked over the railing to get a look. And of course the library staff members were on high alert for any disruption.

Rhodes got out of his chair and leaned over the counter to see how Jericho was doing. She had the books in hand before Rhodes could hope to go around and help.

Too fast and too slow, Rhodes thought of Jericho’s reaction and his own response He lamented the missed opportunity to be helpful and to have a little more interaction with Jericho. He was too distracted to wonder how a person could do such a clumsy thing one minute, and move so gracefully the next. He simply watched how Jericho was recovering.

Continuing her profuse apologies, Jericho helped set up Cora with her pile of books again. Then Jericho walked out with her, opening the doors and holding each one of them in turn for Cora, all the way out to the parking lot. Rhodes lost sight of them, and hoped he would be on duty the next time Jericho came in to get a book. That was as proactive as he felt like getting right now. He gave his head yet another shake when he realized that he had been daydreaming for a few seconds. He looked around.

Did someone notice that I zoned out? he wondered. No one seemed to be smirking in his direction. Rhodes supposed that they were used to such distracted behaviour at the library.

Seeing that there was no one else in line, Rhodes tidied up the check-out equipment, grabbed the trolley of returns, and headed for the start of the fiction section. It was time to re-shelve the books so that they would be ready for the perusal of the next patrons.

* * *

In the well-lit parking lot, Jericho actually held the car door for Cora, then waved goodbye to her. After Cora had driven away, a dishevelled figure stepped out from the bushes on the south side of the library. He spoke to Jericho.

“Did he take the bait?” Hastings asked for confirmation, handing Jericho one of the two things that he was carrying. It was a black plastic case. She took it with both hands, one on the smooth black handle, and the other on the dimpled black bottom surface. She stared at the case for a moment, as though making sure of something, then looked at Hastings.

“You shouldn’t lurk like that.”

“I wasn’t lurking. I was skulking.”

“You’ll get arrested for either of them. And I won’t be coming to bail you out. Remember that they’ll take away those sunglasses in prison.”

He scoffed at the thought of law enforcement officials apprehending him. He reiterated his question.

“The bait?”

“Would I have come out here if he had not?” she answered with a question.

“You didn’t give me the answer I need. Oh, let me guess. You didn’t pique his interest at all. You should have vamped. And I told you that you should have worn tight clothes.”

Jericho regarded Hastings with disapproval.

“Tight clothes would have been unacceptably immodest,” Jericho countered about her attire, but did not comment on her behaviour, “And if you doubt my assertion about whether I attracted his attention, then come around to the west side of the building with me.”

Jericho walked around the south side of the building, and then along the west side, checking for people who might notice what they were about to do. She looked up at the apartment building across the street, but balcony season was over. She checked closely for any smokers enduring the cool autumn evening, but there were no telltale glows from lit cigarettes. She peeked over her sunglasses, allowing her to see dimmer things, in case there were any pipe smokers.

No witnesses, she concluded.

She passed the front entrance, and stopped at the first windows she reached. She knew that she was now standing behind the magazine racks. Hastings stopped next to her. Jericho looked around one last time to make sure that they were not being observed. She made Hastings get down on one knee, then handed the instrument case back to him. She put one hand on the wall to steady herself. The yellow bricks and mortar were cold, rough and solid. She put her right foot on Hasting’s lower thigh and stepped up. Hasting grunted at the uncomfortable load.

Using the masonry-faced column for cover, Jericho peeked around the side and into the window. She had a clear line of sight to the circulation desk.

Through her sunglasses, her eyes adjusted to the bright interior. Her breath turned to fog in the autumn night air, obscuring her view. Some of her breath contacted the windowpane and condensed. She was now being frustrated by the air and the glass. She held her breath. The fog in the air stopped, and the fog on the window disappeared. Jericho took advantage of her restored view.

She spotted the yellow hard cover book which she had left on the corner of the circulation desk counter. She almost swore when a librarian other than Rhodes noticed the book and picked it up. To be precise, Jericho nearly cursed, but not quite.

* * *

Irene picked up the book.

“Missed one,” she said sweetly, handing Rhodes A History of Warfare. He puzzled for a heartbeat. His face brightened at an opportunity for a second chance.

“No, I didn’t miss it. But I know who did. I’ll take care of it.”

Rhodes went behind the circulation desk counter and put the book in his knapsack, next to all the volumes that he had already checked out for himself. Irene nodded and moved to her next task.

* * *

Jericho hopped down from Hastings’ knee and took back the instrument case from him. Hasting noticed how her curly black ringlets bounced as she alighted on the ground. He stood up and brushed off his knees. She was smiling, but it was not really at Hastings.

“Hook, line and sinker,” she said, then suffered a twinge of guilt. She felt bad deceiving someone. She felt worse because Rhodes interested her. Then she reminded herself that this was war, and that sometimes war involved deception. Her conscience responded that Rhodes was to be an ally and not an enemy.

Hastings noticed the change in Jericho’s demeanour. He prodded her for an explanation, although he could guess what it was, and he did not really want to hear it.

“What?” he said resignedly, although his tone conveyed admonishment.

“Why do we need all this intrigue?” Jericho complained, “We should have just talked to him, straight out, face to face.”

Hastings had his response ready.

“Just talk to him straight out? Lay our cards on the table, right? And how well has THAT worked before?” Hastings answered critically. Jericho’s shoulder’s slumped visibly, and the ground held her full attention for a heartbeat. Then she raised her head, inhaled deeply, squared her shoulders and started walking. Hastings followed a couple of steps behind.

That is the most dignified sulking that I have ever seen, Hastings decided.

Jericho held out her hand behind her without looking back. Hastings wished that the gesture meant that he was to hold her hand in his, but he knew that was not the case.

“No,” he replied. She wanted the other item he was carrying. Reflexively, he shifted it behind his body. It felt heavy in its leather sheath. That sensation of weight puzzled Hastings. It had never felt heavy before. He looked at Jericho’s back, and decided that he was not done with her. “Now that you have seen him, what do you think?”

Even her pouting looked disciplined.

“He’s kind of cute,” Jericho admitted. Hastings thought before he spoke.

So many years here, doing such an ugly job, and still she lacks reserve, Hastings judged, it is charming, but it is still a liability. The urge to be a little cruel came easily to him today, in a new but comfortable way. He cleared his throat and spoke.

“I remember the last time you started talking like that,” Hastings said, affecting a grim tone. Jericho clammed up and marched ahead. Hastings kept the rear guard position, and had to take an extra step once in a while to keep up. The waxing moon kept an eye on both of them.

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