The Key Holder

Russell Hembry liked keys because keys proved somebody had trusted him with something.

People certainly did not.

At 55, Russell stood 6’4” and weighed somewhere north of 340 pounds. His black work polo stretched over a belly that reached every destination several seconds before the rest of him. Wild gray hair surrounded his head like scorched insulation. He shaved when the itching became intolerable, usually every two or three weeks, leaving his face in a perpetual state between beard and neglect.

Customers at Summit Books in Cheyenne avoided standing too close to him.

Russell noticed.

He noticed attractive women becoming suddenly interested in their phones when he approached. He noticed children staring. He noticed coworkers offering breath mints. He noticed managers using words like presentation and professionalism.

Every humiliation went into storage.

Russell forgot nothing.

He had worked at Summit for 17 years. Employees half his age had become supervisors, assistant managers, managers, and district personnel while Russell remained a key holder.

But he had keys.

Keys meant authority.

Keys opened the receiving door, employee entrance, cash office, and storage rooms.

People needed Russell when something was locked.

That mattered.

At 10:48am on a Thursday morning, a stranger carrying a cardboard box approached the information desk.

"Manager around?"

Russell continued applying clearance stickers.

"What for?"

The stranger was perhaps 44, fit without looking obsessed with it, wearing jeans and a charcoal shirt embroidered with the logo of a small publishing company.

"I'm Callum Reeve. We're distributing promotional material for Julian Sayer's new novel."

Russell stopped.

Only for a fraction of a second.

Then he resumed stickering.

"Never heard of him."

Callum smiled uncertainly.

"Julian Sayer?"

"Is there another one?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then I haven't heard of that one either."

Callum opened the box.

Inside were posters, bookmarks, countertop displays, promotional cards, and advance-order sheets.

"He's sold around 30 million books. New novel comes out in October. He's touring for the release, so we're trying to build interest throughout the region."

"Congratulations."

"I'm just dropping these off."

"We don't accept unsolicited materials."

Callum glanced around at the enormous bookstore.

"They're publisher-authorized."

"Still unsolicited."

"Your manager?"

"Not here."

"Book buyer?"

"Not here."

"Could I leave a package for them?"

Russell sighed.

"One poster."

"I've got several hundred bookmarks."

"One poster."

"The bookmarks don't cost anything."

"Neither does herpes. Doesn't mean I want it."

Callum stared at him.

Russell smiled.

Callum removed one poster.

Russell took it without looking at the front and folded it twice.

"There's also a place downtown," Callum said. "Briar & Page?"

Russell's hands stopped.

"Alexandria closes alone on Thursdays."

Callum stared at him.

"I didn't ask when she closed."

Russell looked up.

His eyes were small beneath the gray chaos of his eyebrows.

"Small businesses keep strange hours."

Something cold crawled across Callum's shoulders.

"Thanks for your time."

"Anytime."

Callum walked toward the exit. He looked back once. Russell was still watching him.

               The bell above Briar & Page's door chimed. A woman emerged from behind a shelf carrying four hardcovers. "Please tell me whatever is in that box is for me."

Callum laughed. "Depends. Ever heard of Julian Sayer?"

Her mouth dropped open. "Get the fuck out."

Callum liked her immediately. She set the books down and hurried toward him. Alexandria Cade was 40, with long chestnut hair falling in loose waves over one shoulder, blue-gray eyes, and a face beautiful enough to make Callum briefly forget why he was holding a cardboard box. She wore fitted black jeans, boots, and a dark green sweater. Stunning was inadequate.

Then she started talking about books, and within five minutes her appearance became the least interesting thing about her. She knew Sayer's first novel had originally been released by a tiny press in Oregon. She knew which edition contained the deleted epilogue. She knew his third novel had been dedicated to his brother and could explain why.

"You actually read this stuff," Callum said.

Alexandria narrowed her eyes. "You say that like you've been somewhere traumatic."

"Summit Books."

"Ah."

"Giant guy. Russell."

"Ahhh."

Callum laughed. "He claimed he'd never heard of Sayer."

"Russell once told a customer he didn't know who Harlan Coben was."

"Seriously?"

"Unfortunately."

Callum remembered something. "He said you close alone on Thursdays."

Alexandria's smile disappeared. "He said what?"

Callum repeated it. She looked toward the front window. "Does he know you?" Callum asked.

"He comes in sometimes."

"Here?"

"Never buys anything."

"Does he bother you?"

Alexandria hesitated. "He stares."

"At you?"

"At women generally. Me specifically."

"Have you told anyone?"

"About a creepy guy staring at me? I'm a woman who owns a store open to the public. I'd need a fucking spreadsheet."

She smiled, but Callum did not. "Be careful tonight."

"Are you always this protective of people you've known for four minutes?"

"Only bookstore owners."

"Good save." She smiled again. "So. Show me what you've got."

Callum gave her nearly everything. Posters. Bookmarks. Counter displays. Advance-order cards. Alexandria handled them like Christmas presents. When Callum mentioned the possibility of an author appearance, she grabbed his forearm. "Here?"

"Possibly."

"I will name my firstborn after you."

"You have children?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then that's not much of an offer."

"I'll name a houseplant after you."

"Better."

They laughed. Twenty-five minutes later, Callum was still there. They talked about books, Wyoming winters, terrible coffee, and why Callum had left corporate marketing to work with authors. When he finally picked up his empty box, Alexandria walked him to the door. "You know," she said, "you could've left this stuff and been gone 24 minutes ago."

"I know."

"Terrible salesman."

"Apparently."

She handed him her business card. "My email's on there."

Callum glanced at it. "And your phone number."

"For business."

"Of course."

"Strictly."

"Naturally."

Their eyes held. Callum smiled. "Goodbye, Alexandria."

"Alex."

"What?"

"People I like call me Alex."

Callum felt something tighten pleasantly in his chest, and maybe in other regions of his body. He would neither confirm nor deny.

"Drive safe, Alex." Halfway to Laramie, he realized he was still smiling.

               Four months later, the line outside Briar & Page wrapped around the block. Julian Sayer signed 512 books. Readers came from Colorado, Nebraska, Casper, and as far north as Sheridan. Alexandria moved through the crowd like electricity, organizing lines, recommending books, laughing with customers, and somehow remembering names. Callum watched her from beside the signing table. "You staring at me?" she asked while passing.

"Professional observation."

"Of course."

"Strictly."

"Naturally." She disappeared into the crowd smiling. The Wyoming Tribune Eagle ran the story the following morning.

Russell's manager slapped the newspaper onto the information desk. "Tell me you didn't do this." Russell stared at the photograph. Sayer stood beside Alexandria. Callum was behind them.

"Do what?"

"We were offered this promotion."

"Some guy wanted to dump garbage on the counter."

"His company says they offered us a full promotional package." Russell shrugged. His manager lowered his voice. "That little store sold more than 500 copies yesterday."

"Good for them."

"We could've had that event."

"Maybe."

"Luck walked through our front door carrying a fucking box, Russell, and you couldn't be bothered to open it." Two employees heard. So did a customer. Russell felt every eye. His manager pointed toward the break room. "Take lunch."

Russell folded the newspaper. "Anything else?"

"Just go."

Russell carried the paper with him. He ate a ham sandwich while staring at Alexandria's photograph. Then he carefully cut her out.

               Eleven days later, Alexandria disappeared. Her purse remained beneath the counter. Her car was behind Briar & Page. A shipment sat half-unpacked on the floor. Police found her phone shattered in the alley. Callum drove from Denver the moment he heard. He told detectives about Russell. Especially the sentence. Alexandria closes alone on Thursdays. It had been Thursday. Police questioned Russell. He said he barely knew her. His vehicle was clean. His coworkers confirmed he had worked until 8:00pm the night Alexandria vanished. There was nothing connecting him to her disappearance.

Callum sat awake in his hotel room staring at the newspaper article. Something was wrong. Then he remembered the poster. Russell had claimed he had never heard of Julian Sayer. Yet he had folded the poster without looking at it. Perfectly. Author and title concealed inside. As though he knew exactly what he was refusing to see.

               Alexandria awakened in darkness. Her head throbbed. She reached outward. Concrete. She turned. More concrete. She stood and touched every wall. The room was perhaps seven square feet. A light snapped on overhead. Alexandria screamed. She was at the bottom of a concrete pit. Nine feet above her, Russell looked down through a square opening.

"Morning."

Her stomach tightened. "Russell."

He smiled. "You remember me."

"Hard not to." His smile weakened. Alexandria saw it. Words hurt him. Good. "Where am I?"

"Home."

"Your home?"

"You ask too many questions."

"That's because you're boring."

Russell disappeared. The light went out. Alexandria sat against the wall. She was terrified. So terrified her teeth chattered. But terror was information. She forced herself to breathe. Think. Concrete walls. Concrete floor. Metal drain. Bucket. Thin mattress. Then her fingers touched grooves. She traced them. Letters.

NORA

Another.

BETH

Another.

PLEASE

Her hand recoiled. There were hundreds of scratches. Some were tally marks. One group reached 63. Another ended at 41. Near the floor someone had scratched:

HE LIKES WHEN YOU BEG

Alexandria vomited.

               Russell fed her twice daily. Sometimes sandwiches. Sometimes canned meat dumped directly into a plastic bowl. He lowered water in a bottle tied to a cord. There was no toilet. Only the bucket. The smell thickened each day. On the third night, Russell lowered himself onto a chair above the opening and listened while Alexandria tried not to cry. "You stink," he said.

"Come closer and check."

He laughed. "I like you."

"I'd rather you didn't."

On the fourth day, he lowered a book. Julian Sayer's first novel. "Tell me what's good about it."

Alexandria looked upward. "Go fuck yourself."

The bottle of water did not come that evening. The next morning Russell lowered another book. "Why does he deserve it?"

"Deserve what?"

"All of it."

Alexandria finally understood.

"You wanted to be a writer."

Silence. Then Russell leaned over the opening. "I am a writer." Alexandria laughed. It was dangerous. She did it anyway. Russell's face changed. "I wrote nine novels."

"And nobody wanted them."

"Publishers wanted garbage."

"And apparently you provided it."

Russell disappeared. A moment later something came hurtling into the pit. A hardcover struck Alexandria above the eyebrow. Skin split. Blood ran down her cheek. Russell breathed heavily overhead. "You think you're better than me because men want to fuck you."

Alexandria wiped blood from her eye. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know everything." He began reciting. Her address. Her birthday. Where she bought groceries. Her gym. Her mother's name. What time she usually woke. What nights she washed her hair. Alexandria stopped breathing. Russell smiled. "I've watched you sleep." Then the light went out.

               Callum found the connection 2 days later. A literary forum archived from 2009. A user named RHembry55 had posted hundreds of times about Julian Sayer. At first admiringly. Then obsessively. Then hatefully. Sayer's first publisher had rejected Russell Hembry's manuscript 17 years earlier. Russell had blamed Sayer. Then his editor. Then agents. Then publishers. Then bookstores. Then readers. Eventually everyone except Russell.

Callum sent everything to the detective. This time, they listened. But Russell's registered address was a condominium. No basement. Callum stared at county property records until nearly midnight. Then he found another Hembry. Russell's mother. Deceased six years. A farmhouse 12 miles west of Cheyenne. Ownership had never transferred. Callum called the detective. Then he grabbed his coat.

               Alexandria spent seven days studying the pit. Russell had made one mistake. The drain. Its grate was fastened by two corroded screws. Alexandria worked them loose with the metal clip from her bra. Beneath the grate was a narrow maintenance channel. Too small. She tried anyway. Her hand would not pass the narrowest section. Unless she made it smaller. Alexandria stared at her left thumb. Her entire body began shaking. She wrapped her right hand around it. Bent. Pain shot through her wrist. Again. Nothing. She bit the mattress.

Then bent it backward with everything she had.

The joint tore free with a wet pop. White light exploded behind her eyes. Her scream disappeared into the mattress. Alexandria nearly fainted. She waited. Then flattened the ruined hand and forced it through. Skin peeled from her knuckles. Blood lubricated the concrete. Wrist. Forearm. Shoulder. She exhaled until her ribs compressed. Concrete scraped skin from her breasts, stomach, and back. For several seconds she became stuck. Panic erupted. She pushed harder. Something tore along her hip. Warm blood ran down her leg. Then she dropped into darkness.

Alexandria crawled through stagnant water, dead insects, and sludge until she found a rusted access panel. She kicked it. Once. Again. The third kick opened it. She crawled into a basement. Shelves surrounded her. Boxes. Clothing. Women's shoes. Driver's licenses. Bundles of hair tied with string. A jar containing human teeth. Alexandria covered her mouth. Photographs were organized in envelopes.

Nora.

Beth.

Others.

Women smiling at restaurants. Women entering cars. Women sleeping. Women who had never known Russell existed. Then Alexandria saw a wall. Her photographs covered half of it. Leaving work. Buying groceries. At the gym. Standing naked in her bedroom window. Sleeping. Her stomach convulsed. But the photographs beside hers made no sense.

Callum. Dozens of them. Callum leaving hotels. Callum driving. Callum eating alone. Callum outside Briar & Page. Callum standing beside her at the signing. Across the final photograph Russell had written:

HE COMES FOR HER.

Alexandria heard the upstairs door open. Russell called down. "Alexandria?" She understood. She had never been the destination. She was bait.

               Callum's headlights illuminated the farmhouse. He had called police. They were coming. He should have waited. He ran to the house. The front door stood open. "Alex!" Nothing. He stepped inside. The door slammed behind him. Russell hit him with a fireplace poker. Callum collapsed. Russell struck him again.

"You should've kept driving." Callum rolled as the third blow cracked the floorboards. Russell kicked him in the ribs. "You walked into my store." Another kick. "You brought him with you." Another. "You brought her." Callum tasted blood. Russell raised the poker. "She was supposed to watch."

Something struck Russell from behind. He staggered. Alexandria stood there holding a shovel. Her face was bloody. Her clothes were torn and covered in sewage. One hand hung grotesquely sideways. Russell stared. "You got out."

"Apparently."

He lunged. Alexandria swung. The shovel opened Russell's cheek to the teeth. Blood sprayed the wall. He screamed. Callum tackled him. All three crashed through the basement door. Russell caught the railing. Callum did not. He tumbled down the stairs. Alexandria swung again. Russell caught the shovel. He pulled her toward him. "You ungrateful bitch."

Alexandria smiled through bloody teeth. "You still haven't figured it out."

"What?"

"Nobody rejected you because of Julian Sayer." Russell's face trembled. "Nobody rejected you because of publishers." She leaned closer. "They rejected you because you fucking sucked."

Russell roared and charged. Alexandria stepped aside. His momentum carried him down the stairs. He landed hard but rose. Callum crawled backward. Russell reached for him. Then the old floor beneath Russell cracked. His leg plunged through. The boards collapsed. Russell fell into the concrete pit. His body struck the bottom with a sound like wet lumber breaking. He was still alive. Alexandria looked down. Russell's right femur protruded through his pants. One arm bent backward beneath him. His jaw hung crooked, several teeth scattered on the concrete. He looked up. "Help me." Alexandria stared at the man who had watched women die there. Behind her, sirens approached. Russell began sobbing. "Please."

Alexandria reached for the light switch. Russell's eyes widened. "Don't leave me." She switched it off. Darkness swallowed him. Police arrived four minutes later. Russell Hembry died before paramedics could lift him from the pit. Investigators recovered evidence belonging to six missing women. Five sets of remains were eventually located on the property. The sixth woman had never been reported missing. In a locked room behind the basement shelves, police found Russell's nine unpublished novels.

They also found another concrete chamber. Seven square feet. Fresh mattress. Clean bucket. Unopened bottles of water. A drain with new screws. And photographs covering one wall. Not women.

Callum.

Every photograph had been taken after Alexandria's kidnapping. Russell had never intended for Callum to rescue her. He intended for him to replace her.

Three months later, Briar & Page reopened. Alexandria's left thumb never regained full movement. Callum still had headaches when the weather changed. Neither complained much. One evening, Callum helped Alexandria close. She locked the front door. "You know," she said, "the first time you came in here, I thought you were trying to flirt with me."

"I was."

"You said it was business."

"I lied."

Alexandria smiled. "So, you had a secret."

"A small one."

She took his hand. Outside, snow began falling over Cheyenne. Inside, surrounded by thousands of books written by people who had endured rejection, failure, humiliation, and disappointment without deciding the world owed them blood, Alexandria turned off the lights. This time, she was not alone.