To Read or Not to Read
by Vincent Hobbes
Published by Hobbes End Publishing, LLC at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Hobbes End Entertainment, LLC
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“Welcome. Welcome. Please do come in,” said a friendly voice.
A chime chingled, and Shelby hesitated at the door. She wasn’t sure why she had entered, and nearly turned away. But something was enticing about the place, she had time to kill, and was curious.
The store was small, quaint. The room was dimly lit, and smelled of leather and pine wood polish. It had a soothing feel to it, and Shelby took another step inside.
“Welcome to my humble store,” said the voice. It was a heavy dialect. A familiar accent. The words were guttural, and deep.
“Hello,” she said.
“Strauss Books. I know the name is plain, but how could I possibly explain this place?” he asked with a laugh. It was high pitched, cackling.
“W . . . where are you?” she asked, still paused in the doorway.
Poof!—like a magician, he appeared from behind the shadows of piles of books.
“Allow me to introduce myself—” the man said boldly. He moved like a flash of light. One moment he was rounding the counter, the next he was directly in front of her. With a flick of his wrist, he eccentrically extended out his hand.
She took it by habit.
The man shook Shelby’s hand vigorously, a wide, curved smile on his face.
“My name is Günter von Strauss,” he said. “And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Uh, nice to meet you too, Günter.”
“Herr Strauss,” he corrected.
“Oh, my name’s Shelby—Shelby McClain.”
“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” he complimented, winking.
She smiled at this, and relaxed. His hand was soft in hers. Frail. Cold. Now that Shelby could fully see him, her apprehension drifted away.
The man was elderly. Perhaps in his seventies, maybe older. He wore a black suit, tailor-made. His shirt was maroon, flashy at the collar, but still proper.
Strauss’ hair was full, and swiped back with a dime-size bit of grease. It was gray, and he had a distinct widow’s peak. A few wrinkles covered his hollow face. He was clean-shaven, and wore thin glasses that drooped down on his nose.
For some reason, the man reminded Shelby of a circus ringleader.
Strauss’ body might have been old, but his eyes flurried with life. Shelby could see it—a passion that still burned inside him. Youthfulness—mixed with a friendly smile. Shelby could not help but feel welcomed.
“Your accent—” Shelby began. “German?”
“Indeed,” he responded. “Now that we are introduced, might I ask a question?” Again, another smile formed across his face. Sincere. Grandfatherly.
This brightened her, and she responded, “Of course.”
“What brings you into my humble store?”
She blushed, lowering her head shyly. “I’m just passing some time.”
“I see. Let me guess—your kids are at the roller rink across the street.”
“How did you know?” she asked, looking up.
Strauss leaned in close. “I’ll admit, most of my business is women waiting on their children.” He leaned his head back, chuckling softly.
She joined, easing the tension of talking to a stranger even more. “My oldest is at a birthday party. I couldn’t stand the music,” she said with a laugh.
Shelby looked around. The bookstore was small—paling in comparison to the mega-chain retailers she normally shopped. Yet, something about the place made her feel comfortable.
Strauss stepped back a few paces and wildly extended both his arms. He gestured grandly, saying proudly, “Strauss Books. I stock only the finest collection.”
He bowed extravagantly.
Shelby giggled at this. “You have a nice place,” she complimented, taking a slower look at the vast selection.
“Thank you,” he replied. Although his accent was heavy, Shelby understood.
“Do look around,” he offered.
“Oh, I . . .” she began. “. . . I’m afraid I don’t have much time.” She looked down to her watch, knowing that was untrue. She had forty minutes to spare—plenty of time.
“Nonsense,” Strauss responded. “There are only two options on this block. My place, and McGraw’s Lumber. Now, I don’t think that sounds very fun.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she chuckled.
“Stay for a moment. It is chilly outside. I just finished brewing some tea. I’ll make you a cup.”
“You don’t have to.”
“It’s my pleasure. Take your time and look around. I’ll be back in a flash,” he insisted, passing behind the counter and into a room behind it.
“Is this a rare book store?” she asked loudly, hoping he could hear.
“Oh, no,” he replied from the other room.
Shelby could hear the clank of mugs.
“I carry something for everyone’s taste,” Strauss added.
“I don’t have much time to read,” said Shelby. Her fingers traced the outline of a shelf of hardback spines.
“Do tell—why not?” he said from the kitchen.
“Well, my husband travels a lot. With three boys, I hardly have the time. Soccer practice. Music lessons. School. Ugh. It’s hard enough to find time to watch a television show, let alone read a book.”
“I would suppose so,” he chimed, his voice friendly. “You look much too young to have three little-uns.”
She laughed at this. “Thirty-two, and I’ll take that as a compliment.” Her fingertips drifted to another row.
Strauss appeared around the corner, carrying a mug of warm tea.
“Thank you,” she said, gripping the mug.
“Please, take your time and peruse my selection. I think you’ll find it very diverse. I have Mark Twain and Sherlock Holmes. I have Socrates and Plato if ancient philosophy is your thing.”
“Ugh. No thanks,” she said, sipping her tea.
“Greek mythology?”
“Nope,” she said with a smile.
“Ha. Very well, perhaps you prefer something more modern. I keep up with all the bestsellers. Although I prefer the classics myself, I don’t expect my patrons to. New titles are on the far shelf. Paperbacks are to the left.”
Shelby turned and walked to the shelf. She was merely being polite, having no intention of buying anything. There was a pile of unread books on her nightstand, and the last thing she needed was to add to her collection.
“Horror on the left. Science Fiction below—I’m afraid I don’t carry much of that. But I do have action and adventure. Mystery. Perhaps you’re looking for romance. Hmm,” he said, with a quick lick of the lip.
“No, thanks,” she said bashfully. “I usually stick to crime novels, stuff like that. I like James Patterson. Michael Connelly. A few others. But I’m not into romance novels. Not at all. I’ve never understood how women get into such things.”
“I see,” he said, looking almost suspiciously at her. “Most of my regular clients like romance. Married woman, especially. I suppose their husbands don’t give them much attention. Although, I do not judge on what book a patron chooses. I merely sell a service. Your privacy is safe with me.”
Had he said he sold a service?
Didn’t he mean a product?
Perhaps she heard him wrong. He had simply misspoken, she convinced herself.
Shelby took her time at the shelf, recognizing many of the names. They were new bestsellers as promised, although she had no real interest. Shelby was merely being polite, and sipped her tea while browsing. She even set her mug down a few times, flipping through the pages of a few books, acting as if she was interested.
Again, Shelby looked at her watch. Thirty-five more minutes.
“Do you see anything you like?” Strauss asked. He was close behind, peering over her shoulder. For an instant, it appeared as if his neck was extra long. It stretched like a snake, moving his small head past her shoulder so he could see better.
She snapped her head, but Strauss was a few feet away, and not invading her personal space.
She thought it strange, but dismissed it, shaking her head at the notion.
“Oh, a few authors I enjoy. I didn’t know Dan Brown has a new book out.”
“As I said, I carry the most up-to-date titles. My patrons insist upon it.”
“I see.”
Shelby heard a chime.
“Oh, pardon me,” said Strauss with another bow. “I must tend to a customer. Her time is up.” He turned to walk away, but she interrupted his step.
“What do you mean?”
Strauss looked oddly at her, as if she should know. “Her time is up. Frau Tinkleton is a trooper—over twenty minutes inside.” He smiled and turned again, walking down a short hallway.
Shelby was curious now. She set down her tea and grabbed another book. It was a Stephen King novel, and it was heavy. She held it up, flipping to the middle, pretending to read a page. Her eyes watched as Günter von Strauss stood at the end of a hallway on the other side of the store. Three doors lined the wall, and he stood in front of the farthest. He knocked softly, and then jiggled the handle. Another few seconds and he gently opened the door to a room.
At this angle, Shelby could not see what was inside. Strauss entered the room for a moment, and she could hear soft words, although not what was said. Eventually, Strauss came back down the hallway, and Shelby’s eyes flashed back to the book in her hand.
“I’m terribly sorry about the interruption,” he commented as he approached.
“It’s okay,” she responded, setting down the book. She followed the row with her eyes, spotting the paperbacks at the far end of the shelf. She neared, reaching down, grabbing another familiar author. She then took a final sip of her tea, and began walking toward Strauss. They met at the counter.
She handed him the glass, saying, “Thank you. That was wonderful tea.”
“Would you care for another cup?”
“Oh, no thank you. I must be going soon.”
He nodded, but said nothing.
She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Strauss was a nice enough man, and most likely his store saw little business. Shelby felt sorry for the old man, and knew a few bucks spent on a book would make her feel good about herself.
She twisted her wrist, looking down at it.
“How much for this one?” she asked, flashing it his way.
But Strauss did not look at her selection. Instead, he stared straight into her eyes, saying, “Oh, these books are not for sale.”
“They aren’t?”
He chuckled. “Oh, heavens no!”
Shelby looked at him oddly. She figured this must be a joke. Any moment he would laugh at her. Any moment, they would have one last chuckle, she would spend eight dollars, and be on her way.
Any time now.
But it was no joke. It was not of Herr Strauss’ nature to tease anyone, especially a customer. He was a gentleman, and would never do such a thing.
Tilting her head, a humorous look on her face, Shelby asked, “Then what is this place? A library of some sort?”
“You’re allowed to take the books home at a library, but not here. I rent time for people to read, Frau McClain. Time for people who have no time to spare.” Strauss’ eyes twinkled.
“I don’t follow. People . . . read here?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s a wondrous concept.”
The door chingled, and Herr Strauss excused himself once more, this time to greet a customer entering his store.
It was good timing, because Shelby could not help herself, and giggled uncontrollably. She covered her mouth quickly; the thought of renting time was as odd as anything she had ever heard.
A large woman came through the door. She was in her fifties, and walked in from the cold, stomping her feet at the doorway.
“Hello, Frau Huddleston,” Strauss bowed flamboyantly.
“Herr Strauss,” she said loudly. There was no bashfulness to this woman, Shelby could tell.
“Would you care for some tea? I just made some,” he asked.
“I would, thank you.”
As he scurried back to the kitchen, the woman asked, “Do you have any new ones in yet?”
“Far shelf. Top right,” he responded from the kitchen.
Shelby had already decided to make her exit. She looked at the book in her hand, and thought of leaving it on the counter and making a quick getaway. But Mister Strauss—or Herr Strauss, as he had introduced himself—was much too nice for such an act of cowardice. He might have been slightly odd, but that did not warrant such an insult.
She turned back to the shelf, meaning to return the book in her hand to its rightful place. She would thank him again for the tea and go back to the skating rink.
Shelby looked at her watch. Twenty-nine minutes.
The thought of the newest breed of pop music blaring on loudspeakers, and fifty kids skating in circles under annoying lights, did not sound at all appealing. Still, she felt awkward in this store, and was ready to leave.
The woman, Marge Huddleston, neared a moment later, looking at the same shelf of new releases. Shelby gave her a brief nod, and then continued searching for the place she had gotten the book.
“Watcha reading?” Mrs. Huddleston asked.
“Huh? Oh, nothing really.”
“Let me see,” said the woman. She was much larger than Shelby, who had worked hard at maintaining her figure. The woman didn’t allow her much choice, extending her hand out and turning the book in Shelby’s hand.
“Michael Crichton?” asked the woman curiously.
“Yeah,” said Shelby.
“Never heard of him.”
“Oh, well he’s quite good. This is one of his best. It’s about cloning technology and . . .” Shelby trailed off. She could tell by the look on the woman’s face that she was uninterested, perhaps even confused. Shelby quickly said, “It’s just something I’ve read before. What are you buying?”
“I ain’t buying nothing,” the woman said with a short grunt. “You don’t buy books here. You rent time to read them.”
“Oh, yes. Mister Strauss—”
“Herr Strauss,” Mrs. Huddleston corrected.
Shelby rolled her eyes. “I mean, Herr Strauss. He said you don’t buy books here, but I don’t know what that means. What’s the point of a bookstore if you can’t buy any books?”
“Ah, I see. You’ve never been here,” said the woman, finally turning her attention fully to Shelby. “Okay, let me explain. First, very few people know of this place. Those who do know, either come back often, or never come back at all. Either way, we don’t talk about it.”
“Why not?” Shelby asked.
“Because if we did, all the rooms would be taken. I hardly have any time to spare as it is, and I appreciate not having to wait in line.”
Shelby was beyond confused. “What do you mean, wait in line?”
“You see those rooms?” Mrs. Huddleston said, pointing. “There are only three reading rooms. This place won’t hold more.”
“I see. How much do you pay to . . . read?”
“Ten bucks. I usually stay for ten minutes. A bargain if you ask me.”
“What?” Shelby said. “Are you serious?”
“I am.”
“So, you pay a dollar a minute—”
“Yup. That’s exactly right.”
“But I can buy this book at the store for seven,” said Shelby, perplexed. She laughed at the absurd nature of renting books—especially at such prices.
“You won’t need more than five minutes your first time,” assured Mrs. Huddleston. “Five bucks should be enough. It took me months to get up to ten minutes. It’s a good thing, though. My old man hardly misses ten bucks from time to time. He’s at the lumber store right this moment. God knows what he’s building. I promised I’d drive him to town if he’d let me stop by here for twenty minutes. Ten to sip tea and talk with Herr Strauss. Ten to read.”
Shelby shook her head. “You’d be lucky to read a chapter or two in ten minutes.”
“Pardon me, am I interrupting?” questioned the accented voice from behind them. Both women turned, and Strauss was standing in the middle of the room.
“Herr Strauss, you have confused this young lady,” said Mrs. Huddleston with a grin. “She doesn’t understand your store policy.”
He turned to Shelby, an apologetic look on his face. “I am truly sorry, Frau McClain. At my age, I tend to forget things. It’s happening more often lately, I’m afraid. I thought I explained.”
“It doesn’t matter, though. I really must get going,” Shelby insisted.
“Give Herr Strauss a moment to explain. Trust me, this is the greatest bookstore ever! The books here are magical!” Mrs. Huddleston exclaimed.
Shelby smiled, but it was weak. She was feeling pressured. But, she remained polite, as was her nature, and listened as Strauss spoke.
“I stock only the best novels. I hand select them myself. I personally read each and every one to make sure they are safe for my patrons.”
“Safe?” asked Shelby.
“Of course. I wouldn’t want any mishaps. I stock only books that are appropriate—ones that will not endanger those who read them. Some books have limited dangers, so I usually rip out the pages. I’d hate to take away from the beauty of a story because of one scene.”
“You rip out the pages?” Shelby asked.
“Let me give you an example,” replied Herr Strauss. He walked to a nearby shelf, took a moment, and then made a selection. He flipped the book open, showing it to her. “See. Moby Dick. A wonderful novel if you haven’t read it.”
“Perhaps in high school. I don’t remember.”
“Well, no matter. It’s an elegant story. One that will capture your imagination. There are only a few parts that are dangerous. I’d hate for one of my patrons to be eaten by a whale, or God forbid, fall overboard in a storm. So, I took the liberty of tearing out those sections. See?” he asked, showing her the missing pages.
“I see,” she muttered. Shelby was most definitely uncomfortable, and she had no clue what Herr Strauss was talking about. The fact that he took the liberty to censor books did not sit well with her. But, before she could respond, the door to the room down the hallway opened. Herr Strauss turned as an elderly woman exited.
“Ah, Frau Tinkleton. I presume your reading went well?” asked Strauss, approaching the woman.
She was elderly, probably in her seventies, as well. She had silver hair and used too much hair spray. She was one of Strauss’ regulars, visiting three days a week. Her selection was usually poetry, or one of the classics.
“It did,” she replied, her voice cracked as she spoke. The two met at the counter, and began chatting.
“Shit,” exclaimed Mrs. Huddleston.
“What’s the matter?” asked Shelby, turning.
“Mrs. Tinkleton goes to my church.”
“So?”
“She surely won’t approve of this,” said Mrs. Huddleston, holding a book out in her hand. It was one of those sappy romance novels Shelby so desperately hated. It had a cheesy title with a picture of a man and a woman on the front cover. The man was well built with long, flowing blond hair. Of course he was not wearing a shirt. He held an attractive woman in his arms.
“It’s the third in the series,” commented Mrs. Huddleston. “Lots of juicy scenes,” she added with a grin and a wink. She quickly cast the book aside, searching frantically for another. Finally, she chose one just as the elderly woman strode near.
“Mrs. Huddleston,” the old woman said, nodding her head.
“Mrs. Tinkleton,” she replied.
The old lady had a scoff on her face. Shelby guessed she was the judgmental type by the way she looked Mrs. Huddleston up and down.
“Hi, I’m Shelby McClain,” she said with a smile.
“Edna Tinkleton. I’ve never seen you here before,” the old woman stated, looking sourly at Shelby.
“First time,” replied Shelby.
The woman nodded her head, taking a few moments to stare down Shelby.
Again, she felt uncomfortable. Shelby looked at her watch. Twenty-six minutes.
The elderly woman looked back to Mrs. Huddleston, staring at the book in her hand. “Pride and Prejudice, eh?”
“It’s a classic,” replied Mrs. Huddleston.
“I would have guessed something different,” replied the elderly woman with a sneer.
“Such as?”
“Something filthy,” the old woman snorted.
Before Mrs. Huddleston could retort, Herr Strauss reappeared from the kitchen, carrying yet another mug of hot tea. He offered it to the old woman, who took it from his hands, exchanging it for the novel in her own.
He looked down at it, stating, “Gone with the Wind. A beautiful story.”
Mrs. Tinkleton smiled at Strauss, and then turned her head, glaring at Mrs. Huddleston with a sneer. “At least it’s not smut!” she scolded.
“Pride and Prejudice is hardly smut,” replied Mrs. Huddleston.
“I know what you come here for. Filth. Trash. Smut!”
Strauss cleared his throat. He realized the tension between the two women, and offered a bit of conversation to ease everyone. He took Mrs. Tinkleton by the arm, escorting her away politely.
Shelby remained still, holding her novel in her hand. She was dumbfounded. She felt like she was in a movie. Everything around her was surreal.
Mrs. Huddleston was insightful, though, and realized Shelby’s angst.
“She’s an old hag,” the woman whispered. “The type of woman who judges everyone she meets. Do not worry about her.”
“I’m not,” said Shelby. She was defensive. Ready to leave. “I don’t understand this place, and I really must get going.” She reached out to lay the book down, but Mrs. Huddleston stopped her.
“You really must give it a try. Just five minutes. Trust me, you’ll enjoy every moment.”
“You want me to pay to sit in a room for five minutes?”
“Yes. Please, pick a selection you’ll like.” Mrs. Huddleston winked at her again. She leaned in close, saying, “I suggest something a bit more . . . intense. A woman can’t have too much romance, now, can she?”
“I . . . I suppose not.”
“This is how it works. You pay for your time. Go into the room and relax. Flip open your book to a hot scene, and presto!—you’re in the story. You’ll experience everything firsthand.”
“In the story?”
“Yes. Herr Strauss’ books are magical. Open up to an interesting part and start reading. The next thing you know, you’ll be inside the story. You can watch the sacking of Troy if you wish. Sail the Mississippi with Tom Sawyer. Anything is possible!”
“I . . . I don’t understand. How can that be possible?”
“I don’t know, but it’s true. You can meet your favorite characters. Travel through time. See other parts of the world and have great adventures. Trust me, buy some time and you’ll see.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you,” said Shelby bluntly. She couldn’t help herself. This was too bizarre to believe.
“Oh, I didn’t believe it, either,” returned Mrs. Huddleston. “But Herr Strauss has a money back guarantee. I’m sure you have five minutes to spare.”
Shelby looked at her watch. Eighteen minutes.
“I suppose,” she answered.
“Great. Now, choose a book you like, although I still recommend something erotic. Perhaps at your age, you still have romance at home. My husband could care less about romance, which is why I come here.”
“So . . . you go into the story?” Shelby stammered, still in disbelief.
“Yes,” responded Mrs. Huddleston eagerly. “You go into the story! Just last week I walked the beach with an Italian prince. We did other things, too.” She grinned wide. “I’ve traveled the oceans with Captain Ahab, and met Dracula—in the daylight, of course. I know it sounds strange, but you must trust me. Once you find a book you like, just give it a try.”
Shelby nodded, but wasn’t convinced. She hesitated, and Mrs. Huddleston had to pat her on the shoulder for encouragement.
“Go on,” she urged.
Shelby had no interest in a romance novel. She decided what the hell, and approached the counter with the Crichton novel in hand. Herr Strauss and Mrs. Tinkleton were chatting eagerly.
“Did you decide on anything?” he asked.
“I . . . I suppose.”
“What did you pick?” asked Mrs. Tinkleton. She was nosey, and stared at the book in Shelby’s hand. “I’ve never heard of that. Is it more filth?”
“No. It’s not filth. It’s an adventure story, written by a bestselling author,” Shelby answered defensively. She was annoyed at the woman.
“No matter what you choose . . . it is none of my business,” said Herr Strauss, realizing the tension, and giving Mrs. Tinkelton a look. “How long do you wish to read?” he asked Shelby.
“Um, I don’t really know.”
“Let’s start you with five minutes. That should be more than enough for your first experience.”
“Okay.” Shelby dug in her purse, looking for cash. She pulled out a five, handing it over reluctantly.
Herr Strauss took the money in his hand. Shelby realized his nails were painted black. They were long and pointy.
“Room three,” he motioned to the hallway.
“Alright,” she said. Slowly, Shelby walked to the room.
At the same time, Mrs. Huddleston placed Pride and Prejudice back on the shelf, snagging the romance novel, keeping it hidden from Mrs. Tinkleton’s prying eyes. She handed Herr Strauss a ten dollar bill, and walked away from the counter.
“Enjoy your read,” he responded with a grin.
Mrs. Huddleston waddled down the hall. She smiled at Shelby before entering room two. “Trust me, you’ll enjoy it.” Then, she disappeared.
Shelby sighed before opening the door, unsure of what to expect. The room was small, housing only a recliner and two pictures on the wall. It was dimly lit, and Shelby questioned why a reading room would be so dark. It didn’t matter, though. She wasn’t interested in reading.
She closed the door behind her, looking around once more. The recliner seemed comfortable. Sitting down, she pulled the handle, easing back the chair. She lay there a minute, unsure of what to do. The dark room made her sleepy.
Finally, Shelby held up the book.
She had read it before. It was a wonderful novel and a popular movie.
She flipped through the pages, skimming them. Shelby read a few words here, and a few words there, and noticed no pages were ripped out. She thought it odd, after what Strauss had said about censoring them.
Herr Strauss had found nothing to ‘protect his patrons’ from, she thought, shrugging her shoulders with a smile.
And she began reading. As she did, Shelby began falling—deeper and deeper into a world far different from her own.
The chime sounded.
Herr Strauss looked up from his book.
“Frau Huddleston,” he remembered. Strauss gently made his way to the hallway, and rapped at the door, jiggling the handle before opening it.
“It’s time,” he said in a soft voice.
With that done, he went back to the counter. A minute passed and Mrs. Huddleston returned from her reading time. A blissful look was upon her face. She was relaxed—this series was indeed a good one.
“I hope you enjoyed your time,” Strauss said pleasantly.
“I did, Herr Strauss. Amazing book!”
“I have a new shipment of titles coming in next week.”
“Great. I’ll stop by, same as always.”
“Wonderful,” he said, taking the book from her hands and placing it on a cart. He took special care to not invade her privacy, and did not look at the title. Whatever his patrons wanted to read was fine by him. He did not judge. He turned to say goodbye, accidently brushing against a pile of books. A few fell as he reached out to catch them.
“Here, let me help,” said Mrs. Huddleston, stepping close and securing the pile. “New shipment?”
“Thank you. Yes, I just got this in. I haven’t had time to go through them yet. It takes awhile, you know—going through all these books. Making them safe to read.”
“I’m sure it does.”
“Every once in awhile, I forget if I’ve checked a book or not. My memory is failing me, I admit. I’ll sometimes read one three or four times before placing them on the shelf. Can’t be too careful.”
“Ever forget to check one?”
“Oh, heavens no,” Strauss replied. “At least, I don’t think so.” He took a moment, staring absentmindedly into the distance, as if trying to remember something.
Mrs. Huddleston helped him stack the books. After doing so, she turned to leave, then she remembered. “Herr Strauss?”
“Yes, Frau Huddleston?”
“That young woman—Shelby.”
“Eh?” he replied.
“She went into reading room three,” reminded the woman. “I was just curious if she enjoyed her experience.”
It took a few more moments for the man to remember. “Oh, my!” he exclaimed. “I forgot.” He dropped the remaining books on the counter and scurried down the hallway. “My mind tends to forget things,” he mumbled.
“How long has she been in there?” Mrs. Huddleston asked, rushing after him.
Strauss looked at his watch. “Eleven minutes. Much too long for a new patron,” he said glumly.
“I’m sure she’s quite alright,” said Mrs. Huddleston, following Strauss to the door.
A light tap.
A jiggle of the door handle.
He cracked the door, saying, “Frau McClain, your time is up . . .”
He looked inside.
The scene was horrific.
Shelby McClain had been ripped apart. Appendages were flung haphazardly around the room. Blood soiled the recliner. It was smeared on the walls, and pooled on the floor. Hardly anything was left of the poor woman.
Mrs. Huddleston peered past Strauss, and gasped.
Her screams filled the store.
Strauss took a step in, leaned down, and picked up the tattered book Shelby had been reading.
“Jurassic Park?” he asked, flipping through the pages.
“I do not remember checking it,” he added, still flipping.
“I like the classics, you know,” he muttered.
“I only buy the modern stories for my patrons. I must have forgotten this one,” said Herr Günter von Strauss, muttering like a confused old man, scratching his head.
“I must have forgotten.”
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