Free Life Expectancy by Dean Koontz

say something to comfort her, in response to the desperation I’d glimpsed in her eyes. Wit failed me, and I could only say, “You smell like lemons.”
    “I’ve spent the day making homemade lemon marmalade. I intended to have the first of it tonight, on toasted English muffins.”
    “I’ll brew a pot of bittersweet hot chocolate with a dash of cinnamon,” I told her. “That and your marmalade muffins will be the perfect thing to celebrate.”
    Clearly she appreciated my confident assertion of our survival, but her eyes were no less troubled.
    Checking his wristwatch, the maniac said, “This has taken too much time. I’ve got a lot of research to do before the explosions start.”

9
----

    A ll our yesterdays neatly shelved, time catalogued in drawers: News grows brittle and yellow under the library, in catacombs of paper.
    The killer had learned that the
Snow County Gazette
had for more than a century stored their dead issues here in the subbasement, two stories under the town square. They called it a “priceless archive of local history.” Preserved for the ages in the
Gazette
morgue were the details of Girl Scout bake sales, school-board elections, and zoning battles over the intent of Sugar Time Donuts to expand the size of its operation.
    Every issue from 1950 forward could be viewed on microfiche. When your research led you to earlier dates, you were supposed to fill out a requisition form for hard copies of the
Gazette;
a staff member would oversee your perusal of the newspaper.
    If you were a person who shot librarians for no reason, standard procedures were of no concern to you. The maniac prowled the archives and took what he wanted to a study table. He handled the yellowing newsprint with no more consideration for its preservation than he would have shown for the most current edition of
USA Today
.
    He had parked Lorrie Lynn Hicks and me in a pair of chairs at the farther end of the enormous room in which he worked. We were not close enough to see what articles in the
Gazette
interested him.
    We sat under a barrel-vaulted ceiling, under a double row of inverted torchieres that cast a dusty light acceptable only to those scholars who had lived in a time when electricity was new and the memory of oil lamps still fresh from childhood.
    With another set of handcuffs, our captor had linked our wrist shackles to a backrail of one of the chairs on which we were perched.
    Because not all the archives were contained in this one room, he paid repeated visits to an adjacent chamber, leaving us alone at times. His absences afforded us no chance to escape. Chained together and dragging a chair, we could move neither quickly nor quietly.
    “I’ve got a nail file in my purse,” Lorrie whispered.
    I glanced down at her cuffed hand next to mine. A strong but graceful hand. Elegant fingers. “Your nails look fine,” I assured her.
    “Are you serious?”
    “Absolutely. I like the shade of your polish. Looks like candied cherries.”
    “It’s called
Glaçage de Framboise.
”
    “Then it’s misnamed. It’s not a shade of any raspberries I’ve ever worked with.”
    “You work with raspberries?”
    “I’m a baker, going to be a pastry chef.”
    She sounded slightly disappointed. “You look more dangerous than a pastry chef.”
    “Well, I’m biggish for my size.”
    “Is that what it is?”
    “And bakers tend to have strong hands.”
    “No,” she said, “it’s your eyes. There’s something dangerous about your eyes.”
    This was adolescent wish fulfillment of the purest kind: being told by a beautiful woman that you have dangerous eyes.
    She said, “They’re direct, a nice shade of blue—but then there’s something lunatic about them.”
    Lunatic eyes are dangerous eyes, all right, but not
romantic
dangerous. James Bond has dangerous eyes. Charles Manson has lunatic eyes. Charles Manson, Osama bin Laden, Wile E. Coyote. Women stand in line for James Bond, but Wile E. Coyote can’t get a