The librarian.

The Search

Desmond flipped his eyes open to discover Luna still clinging to him. Her long, sexy leg was flung carelessly across his thigh, and her arm was wrapped around his neck, dragging her body against his. Her head rested on his chest, close to his collarbone, and she breathed silently. Each breath brushed against Desmond’s neck in a gentle rhythm. He had never seen anyone so calm and peaceful. Her stance could be mistaken for Aurora in a fairy tale, or still, Mary in a biblical connotation.

He wondered what it might have been like for her, getting caught up in this pernicious position. Perhaps all this would have gone to the wind if he hadn’t been cocky and let her have her fill throughout the journey. Yet fate can be quite unorthodox at times—a single line dissecting into several patterns of possibilities. But here they were: seething foes of yesterday, now wrapped around each other like young palm fronds.

He pulled away from her ever so gently. The last thing he wanted was the awkwardness of an early morning offshoot. She mumbled his name sweetly, and he almost imagined her awakening. Philosophy holds that the words humans utter upon waking are often fragments of their consciousness—reflections of what the mind has been preoccupied with, or figments drawn from the realities it has absorbed and kept in memory.

Desmond couldn’t recall ever mentioning his name to her. It seemed Miss Peaceful, Placid Angel here had been doing her own research. He lifted her gently from the floor and placed her on the bed. She made a cooing sound and tugged at his arm sleepily. And she was once the fiercest Valkyrie… He drew the bedcover over her and turned toward the restroom.

-----

After cleaning himself up and placing a note on the nightstand that read, “Don’t leave. Breakfast’s in the fridge. Will send someone over,” Desmond found himself staring at Goldie’s entrance door. The grim-looking fella popped his head out before the third ring.

“Hey, Dessie!”

“Dessie?”

“Y’know… I’ve been working on a nickname for you. And that just sounds right. Like Goldie, short for Golding. Dessie, short for Desmond. What do you think?” Goldie couldn’t contain his own prattle. Desmond stared at him, and for a moment it felt like Goldie was about to earn a punch in the head.

“Remember the lady from last night’s party?”

“The who now?”

“The one you were playing the hero with.”

“Oh, yes… yes, I…”

“She’s at my place.”

“What?!”

“Was hoping you’d keep her company… as a good gesture, of course.” Desmond checked his watch. Luna could wake up anytime now.

“Are you kidding me?! Where else would I wanna be?” Goldie had this thrilled look on his face, like someone who had just discovered a map to Treasure Island.

“Good,” Desmond said, turning toward his car.

“That’s all?” Goldie called after him.

“Yeah. And don’t ever call me Dessie.”

“But it’s an adorable name.” Desmond stopped at his driver’s door to glare back at Goldie.

“Aye, Captain!” Goldie resolved, throwing his hand in the air while watching Desmond take off into traffic.

---

He kept his eyes fixed on the road, trying to note if there had been any changes since the episode of last night. Earlier, he had gone to check out the car he had stolen from his assailant, and somehow it was still in place. Driving through the same road where he had been attacked and almost skinned alive, he felt uncomfortably calm. Naturally, revisiting the location of the incident should have unnerved him, given the fallout and likely turbulence it could have caused. But there was no police car patrolling, no manhunt underway. Hell, there wasn’t even a crime scene tape to suggest anything had happened. It was as if all evidence, witnesses, and traces of last night’s situation had been wiped clean. Whoever Luna was involved with must be quite influential.

Talking about influence, Desmond glared at the security cameras mounted on the streetlight poles facing the mart where the showdown had happened. That must have caught something… Guess I’ll be making some stops today.

He pulled his car up in front of the Metro Central Police Department—the one place any recording from that surveillance footage could be accessed. Walking into the station felt like stepping into a place where time moved slower. The glass doors gave way to a stark lobby, with a counter at the center guarded by an officer in uniform. The air carried a faint mix of paper, coffee, and authority. The officer behind the counter gave him a forced smile.

“What did you say your purpose here was again?”

“My uncle! I think he got involved in some real nasty conflict yesterday. Dad’s not in the country and Mom’s in the hospital. I would love to see him, if you don’t mind,” Desmond stressed, hoping his hardened eyes would help plead his case.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lundy. But visitors are not permitted at this particular time of day… you’ll have to come back later.” The sultry man tried to placate him with fake discretion. Oh? You wanna play it the hard way?

“Pardon me, officer, but don’t you think that’s against the Corrections and Conditional Release Act, Section 71?”

The officer looked tortured. “Are you a…”

“Law student. Yes. And might I remind you of your duties and the regulations guiding their specifics?” Desmond eyed him judiciously.

“Fine… I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think you were…” He looked distressed, eyeing Desmond’s mask tenaciously. “You’ll have to submit an ID before I can let you in.”

After signing in, Desmond was directed to another officer who sat behind a pile of files—someone responsible for his clearance, he imagined. This one seemed more honest, less flustered.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have anyone by the name of Isaac in holding since yesterday,” the officer stated after going through a huge logbook on his desk.

“You’re saying you didn’t arrest some crook causing unrest on the street last night? He was in a dark suit and glasses, with his buddies. I believe they might be hurt—perhaps in a hospital.” Desmond pressed for clarity.

“No, sir. I’m not aware of anything like that. Perhaps you could provide additional information to help link to the picture you’re trying to create here,” the officer offered.

Desmond turned, studying the corridor lined with security cameras. “Can I see the security footage from Naple Street last night?”

“Excuse me…” The officer’s protest was cut short as Desmond grabbed his hand.

“Here’s the thing, officer. My mother is lying in the hospital with a BP over 130. The last thing she needs is the disturbance caused by the black sheep in the family.” He paused. “All I’m asking is just a momentary glance at the footage—to clear my doubt and put me at rest. The asshole is better anywhere but your dungeon.”

The officer gave him a long, agonizing look. “Fine,” he said simply. He stood from his desk and walked Desmond to a door marked Security. He knocked, and a uniformed officer opened it, looking disturbed.

“I need you to run last night’s surveillance record for this gentleman. He believes there was a gang war or something.”

The officer inside gave Desmond a doubtful look but invited him in while the other left. Inside, there were two computers on a desk and a stack of small files shelved in every corner of the room. The officer sat down, opened the DVR, and began running through different files. He clicked on the last one, and the screen displayed video files arranged by date and time. Scrolling down, he selected one. The footage played, showing the mart and the surrounding view. Everything seemed fine—road users moved along as usual, and nothing looked out of the ordinary.

“Forward it to 5:15,” Desmond said, ignoring the officer’s disgruntled look.

The officer pressed the fast-forward button, the timing racing ahead like a countdown. He stopped it at the requested mark and hit play. On the screen, Desmond suddenly pulled into view, still wearing his hooded long coat. He noticed the car parked outside but saw none of his assailants. The footage showed him entering the mart, just as a man in a parka hoodie came into frame. Desmond instinctively reached to press the forward button, but the officer launched at him.

“Hey! No touching!”

“Sorry… I just need to—” Something caught his eye. “Wait. Look at that.”

“What am I looking at?” the officer asked, staring at the video, still irritated.

“The timing. Can you rewind it?”

The officer did. “There’s nothing—” Suddenly, the timestamp skipped forward unnaturally.

“Oh,” the officer exclaimed, realizing it too. He replayed it again, and the same thing happened: the numbers jumped.

“Can you explain that?” Desmond asked, boring down at him.

“Uh… it could be a technical issue. Things like this happen. It has to do with the memory compartment, and such glitches are mostly in the aftermath. Thanks for pointing that out. I’ll have the maintenance officer look into it.”

---

Desmond drove toward school, leaving the station with no less than a sense of relief. He had been right after all. Whoever was after him wielded such power and influence they could bend the law to its knees. Memory compartment, my foot. He was never meant to come out of that mall — at least not from the CCTV recording. Whoever was hunting him had gone through a great deal of trouble to conceal their activities. Perhaps that was the only reason he was still driving free on the open road, without confrontation.

He steered into the parking lot and stepped out. Whoever was after him must have an insider at the school — that was probably how they knew when he had closed off last Friday. Pulling out his key card, he locked the car. Weekends were mostly quiet, with few students around since they were considered resting days. But Desmond had come searching for answers, and one way or another, he planned on finding them.

He entered the elevator bound for the library floor. Just as the doors were about to seal shut, a gentleman slipped inside. Desmond caught sight of a face he couldn’t quite place — pale, expressionless, lingering just beyond the threshold. For a moment he thought it was a trick of the glass, a distortion in the polished steel. But when the car began its slow ascent, the face remained, as though it had slipped in without moving a muscle.

Its features were oddly plain — neither young nor old, neither smiling nor frowning — yet that blankness was what made it unsettling. The eyes, dark and unblinking, weren’t fixed on Desmond but through him, measuring something deeper than his outline. Seems I’ve found myself a stalker after all.

The silence stretched endlessly. Desmond moved closer to the floor buttons and pressed 6. The stranger seemed to notice. It was as if he were waiting for Desmond to alight. Then, with a sharp smile, he broke the quiet.

“Heading for the restroom?” he asked with a groovy voice.

Desmond only stared. We’ll find out soon enough.

The elevator chimed, and Desmond stepped out calmly. He had no reason to use a restroom, except for the CCTV camera that watched directly over that hallway. He hoped, for both their sakes, his shadow would take the bait.

“What are the odds?” the groovy voice called after him

Oh, the odds? I’ll show you those pretty soon.

He walked straight toward the faucets lined opposite the toilet stalls. Desmond leaned over the washbasin, running cold water across his palms. He raised his head toward the mirror, though his eyes weren’t on his reflection. They were fixed on the figure behind him — the same strange man who had trailed him from the elevator. Desmond adjusted his collar, buying time, letting silence stretch until the fellow made his move.

The man slipped past and pushed open a stall door. Desmond’s jaw tightened. He waited a heartbeat, then turned off the tap with deliberate calm. The squeak of the handle echoed too loudly in the tiled restroom.

He walked to the stall, placed his hand on the door, and shoved it open before the lock could click. The stranger barely had time to look up. Desmond was already inside, fists driving forward — sharp, merciless. Each blow landed with a clarity that drowned out the man’s half-formed protests.

“You’ve been following me,” Desmond muttered through clenched teeth, pinning him against the stall wall. “Asking questions. Watching. That ends here.”

The man’s silence spoke louder than any denial. Desmond’s breathing was harsh now, his knuckles raw, but his eyes were steady. For the first time since stepping into the elevator, he no longer felt like the hunted.

“Not one for talking?” He grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it back, forcing the arm into a lock. With a sharp shove of his shoulder, he drove the stalker forward until the man bent low, cheek nearly scraping the cold partition. The stranger grunted, breath hissing between his teeth as the pressure threatened to tear the joint apart.

Desmond leaned in close, voice low and steady. “You’ve been tailing me since the elevator. You think I didn’t notice?”

The man struggled, but Desmond tightened the hold, grinding the arm higher until his knees buckled. The mirror outside reflected only a sliver of the scene — two shadows locked in silence, one forcing the other to listen.

“Why?” Desmond pressed, weight keeping him pinned. “Who sent you? Or are you just too curious for your own good?”

The stalker’s only answer was a strained groan, his free hand clawing helplessly at the tiles.

“Answer me!” Desmond barked. Torture had never been his end game, but he was running out of options.

“You’re so dead,” the immobilized stalker grunted.

“Well… some earlier than others.” Desmond twisted the arm harder, making him whimper in fear.

“You messed with the wrong dude, okay!” the groovy voice finally blurted. “I was sent here to spy on you and give feedback on your activities.”

“Some pawn you are.” Desmond eased the pressure slightly. “I need a name.”

“What?” The man tried turning his head, but Desmond only wrenched the arm higher, pain shooting through his elbow. His body jerked in a violent spasm.

“Albert!” he screamed.

“Albert who?”

“Albert Rodriguez! You find him, he’ll lead you to who you seek. Please, for God’s sake, just let me go!” the stalker groaned, drained.

That’s more like it. Desmond didn’t loosen his grip. With a sharp pull, he wrenched the man backward, pivoting on his heel. The motion swung him off balance, feet skidding on the tiles.

In one fluid movement, Desmond hurled him around. The stranger’s shoulder slammed against the stall’s edge, then his head cracked against the floor with a sickening thud. The sound echoed through the restroom — dull, final.

The man’s limbs jerked once, a brief spasm, then went slack. His chest still rose and fell, but his eyes rolled back, consciousness spilling away.

Desmond straightened, breath steady though his knuckles throbbed. He looked down at the crumpled figure — no longer a shadow stalking him, just a body lying still on the cold tiles.

There was still a lot to do, and time was not on his side. First, he needed to pay dear Albert a visit… but before that, he needed the whole picture.

Time to interrogate the witch.

---