Book of Stolen Tales Read Online Free Page B

on his heel. He pulled out the coffee table drawer and removed the book in its golden covers. He paused before the door and said accusingly, “You’ve opened the book. That was a grave error. Have nothing more to do with it. Go back to your homeland or suffer the consequences.”
    The minute the door clicked shut my breathing and heart rate slowed and my sight cleared. The awful paralysis subsided. I clamped my hand to my neck but could feel no injury. I swallowed, incredulous, expecting my throat to be sticky with blood. My hand was clear. I scrambled to my feet and chased after him.
    The lobby door swung shut just as I made it down the back stairs. I pushed it open a crack. The night was misty and gray although the rain had lessened. Directly across from me a short, stocky man hurried down the street, dwarfed by an umbrella so large it hid his head and much of his torso. He looked like an umbrella with legs. The fog was so low I could barely make out the phone box at the next intersection.
    I spotted Alessio walking quickly down the sidewalk, one arm holding the golden covers tightly, the other swinging his cane. I stuck as close as possible to the buildings and followed him. As I gained on him, my view of his figure was partially blocked by the angle of the red phone box.
    I heard the door creak open. I took a chance and inched toward it. Through the small panes of glass I could see him pluck the receiver from its cradle and push the buttons to make the call. He spoke. I prayed he was contacting whoever was waiting in New York to do Evelyn harm and calling him off.
    He hung up. The red door cracked open and he stepped out. I stayed behind the phone box out of his direct line of sight. Cars whizzed past, spraying muddy water onto the sidewalk. He pulled his hat lower and after glancing around the street walked briskly away. I let him get about sixty feet distant before I began to follow him again and reached inside my jacket for my phone to hit 999 for the police.
    A car revved its engine behind me. As I turned around, its headlights momentarily blinded me. It mounted the curb. In one horrifying second, I saw it aiming straight for me. I threw myself against a door recessed into an alcove. The car flashed past and braked to a stop beside the old man. He got in and with a screech the car sped off. He was gone and the book with him.

Three

    F urious about the attack and still worried about Evelyn, I ran down the misty street to my hotel room. I threw back a healthy dose of Macallan to quell my shaking hands and got on the phone to report the theft to the police. Gian Alessio Abbattutis—I was already calling him Alessio in my mind—would be lost by now in the labyrinth of London streets. There was little hope they’d find him but I gave them a detailed description anyway. A twisted version. How could I explain letting him into my room and the strange paralysis that afflicted me? They’d never believe it. I told them he’d accosted me on the street. They said they’d log it in and instructed me to fax them a report. I’d have to show up in person at New Scotland Yard for an interview.
    Evelyn didn’t have voice mail. She complained she only got messages from what she called “the spam people,” so when I called her again the phone rang and rang. I cursed myself for not thinking to get a neighbor’s number in case of an emergency and tried to stave off the image of her lying on the floor, hurt and alone. The memory of the car accident last June and my brother’s death only months ago still haunted every one of my days. To think I might also lose Evelyn plunged me into despair.
    Chances were I was letting my fears get in the way of common sense. Alessio got what he came for. Nothing would be served by orchestrating an assault three thousand miles away. Still, I needed to make sure. My next call was to Corinne Carter, my only New York friend certain to be home. Except to