Book of Stolen Tales Read Online Free Page A

head.”
    â€œQuite right. Staters are very old but not scarce, so they don’t command a high price. Your coins came from a remote corner at the intersection of Turkey and Persia, predating staters by at least two hundred years. Your coins may be the only examples left in the world. Very rare and probably priceless.”
    For some reason he was trying to ingratiate himself with me, to what end, I had no idea. Nothing would be gained by debating currency. “Evelyn would never have let you take them. I’m asking you again. Have you harmed her?”
    My remark was greeted with strange, shuddering laughter. “The coins were removed when she was out. I imagine she doesn’t even know they are gone. Do not forget. You have stolen my book from me. So we are equal, are we not?”
    Once again the bizarre sensation overwhelmed me, strongly enough this time to affect my speech. I gave myself a shake and that seemed to dispel it. “I won the book at an auction legitimately. If you have an issue about ownership it’s a problem for Sherrods, not me.”
    â€œNo, it is a problem for you,” he said in a menacing tone.
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    He crossed his legs and rested his right hand on top of his cane. “Your brother, Samuel, is dead, I am told. And now the only family you have is the lady you mentioned, your old housekeeper Evelyn, who raised you—is that not so? She is in a wheelchair most of the time. Quite fragile, I understand, suffering greatly from soreness of the joints.”
    I went to grab the lapels of his coat and shake the truth out of him but felt the sudden assault of another bout of weakness. My actions had no impact and he pushed me away easily. He appeared to be on some kind of mission, determined to have his say. He was well spoken enough although a pedantic quality affected his speech, as if he’d memorized the lines beforehand. “If you care for this lady you will hear me out.”
    â€œGo ahead,” I said, still trying to get my breath back. “You’re not getting out of here.”
    He scowled at me. “I know her days are spent in predictable ways. She arises early. Goes in her wheelchair across the street to the café. Only she doesn’t like coffee; it keeps her awake at night. So she takes her special mint tea with her and they give her hot water for it. She could make it at home but she is stuck in her little apartment too much as it is. She buys a muffin or a roll to go with it. She likes to get out, talk to people. At around four in the afternoon she visits her neighbor, an immigrant like herself, who lives a few floors down. They drink tea together and play poker. They bet only pennies because neither has much money. Friendly games, not serious. Her hands hurt so much she can’t shuffle the cards anymore. But she trusts her companion to do it.”
    I listened with lurching panic. He knew every detail about her life and the implications were obvious. He’d hurt her if I didn’t hand over the book. I tried to reach for my phone but found my hand had frozen. A shadow around the man appeared to darken—or was it my own vision blurring? Something was terribly wrong with me. I could utter only incomprehensible sounds.
    As if completely unaware of the physical crisis overtaking me, he pulled a round timepiece from his pocket, checked it, swept his hat off the floor and placed it on his head. Then he advanced toward me, locking his penetrating gaze on me as if he could direct the full force of his will through his eyes.
    I summoned every ounce of my own energy and failed to move even my baby finger.
    He raised his cane and pressed the tip into my neck. He was a slight man but it felt as though the weight of a bull bore down upon me. I felt my skin split and the wooden stock puncture my throat as easily as a stiletto spearing jello.
    Then, in one swift motion he flipped the cane back and spun