Free Life Expectancy by Dean Koontz Page A

start."
        At 11 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 back rail 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 Glacage 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 date.
        She said, "The reason I mentioned the nail file in my purse is because it's a metal file, sharp enough at one end to be a weapon."
        "Oh." I felt inane, and I couldn't blame my dunderheadedness entirely on her stupidity-inducing good looks. "He took your purse," I noted.
        "Maybe I can get it back."
        Her handbag stood on the table where he sat reading old issues of the Snow County Gazette.
        The next time he left the room, we could stand as erect as a chair on our backs would allow and hobble in tandem and as fast as possible toward her purse. The