Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

trying to hold on to their small child. As his eyes adjusted to the low light in the shop, Malcom looked around for Alfred. With so many customers, surely he must be there, but Malcom didn’t see him.
    Malcom continued to walk through the shop, eventually pausing in front of a display of lanterns that looked similar to the one he had bought. Suddenly, a strange feeling came over him. He turned, then jumped. Alfred was standing right behind him. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
    “Sorry.”
    But before Malcom could say anything else, Alfred slid off to help the French-Canadian couple, who looked like they had finally made a decision. The young couple, obviously frustrated by their active toddler, hurried out. A moment later, the man in tweed also left.
    From his position beside the lanterns, Malcom thought about Alfred’s quirky behavior during the run, his visit to the Inn, his interest in the quilt and the letter, his sudden departure, and then the flowers with an apology. None of it made sense. Now, as he watched Alfred’s frustration mount as he dealt with the French-Canadian couple, he began to wonder if he had made a mistake in coming down to visit him. Maybe he should have just let things rest.
    Not wanting to seem too obvious, Malcom wandered off into another room and picked up an old telescope. He didn’t hear the couple leave; nor did he hear Alfred come up behind him once again.
    “There’s a really interesting story behind that telescope, you know.”
    His voice, so close behind, startled Malcom and he jumped. For the briefest of moments, some very dark thoughts passed through his head. “Is there.” Malcom said, more as a statement than a question.
    “Yes, but I’m sure that’s not why you’re here.”
    “True enough. I wanted to talk to you about your offer for the quilt and the letter and those flowers you sent to Polly.”
    “I thought so. I only sent the flowers because I couldn’t think of any other way to tell her how sorry I was for the way I left on that day when she showed me the quilt and the letter. I had noticed the flower gardens around the Inn, so I guessed that she would appreciate flowers. That’s all.” He sounded sincere, but something still bothered Malcom.
    “You didn’t have to do that.”
    “I know.”
    “So, Alfred, just to be clear, the quilt and the letter are not for sale. However, I am curious why you are so interested in them.”
    Alfred hesitated before answering. At first, it seemed like he was still trying to sound contrite, and he apologized again for the way he had behaved. Then he began talking rapidly, and Malcom had a hard time keeping up with the narrative. He talked about his family, their misfortunes, the information that would prove what he now knew, and how Polly had explained it all so clearly in her book.
    At that point, Malcom had to interrupt him. “Stop. Alfred, are you telling me that you think Polly’s book is the story of your family’s misfortunes? And that you need the quilt to prove how they were wronged?”
    Alfred stopped. His eyes, distorted by his thick glasses, seemed even blacker and more intense than before as he stared right into Malcom’s face and said in a loud whisper, “Yes, that is exactly what I am saying, and I need the quilt and letter to prove it.”
    Malcom stared back at Alfred. There was definitely something wrong with him. He didn’t know what exactly, but his manner and intensity had become unsettling. “Alfred, listen to me. Polly’s book, it’s a work of fiction. She made it all up. It’s a novel.”
    “So you say,” he said firmly.
    “Alfred, it is. Whatever you think you are seeing in it is all in your imagination.”
    “What about the quilt? And the letter.” he said sharply.
    “It’s a quilt that we found in the attic along with the letter. She used them as the basis for her story, but again, she made it all up.”
    “No! It’s true. I need that quilt and letter. I need it to prove …” His voice trailed off as if he suddenly realized that he was shouting.
    The intensity of Alfred’s outburst caught Malcom by surprise. Mustering as much force as he could, Malcom said, “Alfred. I’m going to leave now and I want you to stay away from Polly and the Inn. I repeat. Her book is fiction. The quilt has no secret message in it and neither the quilt or letter are for sale.”
    He brushed past Alfred and headed for the door. Alfred followed silently and stayed close behind, as if