The Jake Helman Files Personal Demons Read Online Free PDF

customers who prowled the disorganized stacks of books. Robby frowned. He disapproved of security guards who did not wear uniforms. Where was their pride? The man did not ask him to check his briefcase in at the counter. Good thing; if he had, Robby would have left the store, which would have caused complications.
    Navigating the cluttered space, he noted the intense expressions on the faces of the people hunting for rare books. He did not care for the smell that the books gave off; he preferred new things. He wandered the aisles until he located the tome he sought:
The Devil and Daniel Webster
, by Stephen Vincent Benét. He did not remove the volume from its space on the crowded shelf, but looked several shelves below it. In the shadowy recess on the bottom shelf rested a black briefcase identical to the one in his hand. He looked around, making sure that no one was observing him, then switched the briefcases.
    As he hurried to the exit, a deep voice made him recoil: “Check your bag?”
    Robby turned to the security guard and blinked. “Excuse me?”
    The guard leaned forward on his stool, and Robby saw that he had a lazy right eye. “I need to check your bag.”
    Robby swallowed. “There’s nothing in it.” He held the briefcase out to the guard and shook it. “See? It’s empty.”
    The guard hopped off his stool. Standing a foot shorter than Robby, he puffed out his chest. “Just open the bag, okay, Chief?”
    Robby’s mouth turned to cotton and he felt the eyes of the browsers in the store on him. For an instant, he became Marc Gorman again, surrounded by bullies at the playground of his grade school, and he felt himself turning red.
    My name is Robby
.
    “You want me to call the cops?”
    Staring into the guard’s eyes, Robby hesitated. The Chinese cop he had seen across the street could respond to a 911 call in seconds. Bowing his head, he rotated the briefcase in his arms and thumbed its combination dials. He prayed that the Widow had set the right combination. If she hadn’t, this situation would become even more embarrassing. The tabs snapped open and he raised the lid.
    The guard peered down into the case, and Robby held his breath. “I thought you said it was empty?” The guard reached in and removed an oxygen mask with a deflated vinyl bag attached to it.
    Robby heard someone snicker behind him, and he felt as he had in the corridors of Red Hill High School when girls had whispered behind his back.
    Those are Marc Gorman’s memories. Concentrate!
    The guard turned the mask over in his hands. “What’s this?”
    “An oxygen mask,” Robby said. “My job issued one to every person in the company in case of an attack on our building.”
    Shaking his head, the guard returned the mask to its compartment. “Don’t see what good a mouthful of air is gonna do if a building falls on your ass.”
    “I hear you.” Robby closed the briefcase.
    The guard resumed his post and Robby exited the store. Outside, he imagined what the guard’s reaction would be if he also stopped whoever left the bookstore with Robby’s original briefcase.

    Marc hurried into the cool lobby of his building, his fingers twitching. Sweat soaked his armpits and trickled down his back, and he just wanted to get into his apartment and change his clothes. Why had that guard singled him out? He disliked being noticed. Wiping his brow on the back of one hand, he unlocked his mailbox and took out his mail. Other than the bills, the envelopes had been addressed to “Dear Friend,” “NAME or Resident,” or simply “Occupant.”
    Moving up the wide stairway, he came to an abrupt stop. An old woman gripping the railing in one arthritic claw and a cane in the other descended the stairs: Mrs. Callister, who lived on the third floor. He had seen her several times before and she had always failed to acknowledge his presence. For a moment, he feared she might speak to him, but she passed without comment, her breathing dry and