Part 23: Offsite, Room 11

Previously in the Vines Inquiry— Frank and Harlow discussed the film reel that showed Frank’s parents’ ritual, decoding what they would go through that for. Ultimately, they landed on Who, not What. But, just as they were making progress, the librarian Blevin walked in…and saw the bloody film in full view.

“I can explain!”

Frank felt as ill as the time his mom had found pictures of shirtless celebrities he’d cut out of People’s Sexiest Man Alive issue, 2005 tucked under his bed. He’d played it off as ‘body inspiration,’ accidentally discovering Vision Boards in the process. 

“Oh good!” said Blevin, the librarian. “I’ve been wanting to talk to someone about the Tears for ages.” 

Harlow and Frank stood frozen, the gears in their minds turning as slow as the stuck projector. Meaning replaced Panic, a few more bricks clicking into place. Perhaps understanding, or merely resigned, Harlow extended her hand slowly towards Blevin and grabbed one of the coffees.

“Don’t even,” she said to Frank and his gall. “It’s gonna be a long night.” 

Harlow was trying to get signal on her phone. 

 “Are you texting Stella?” said Frank.

“No. Blevin, aka that crust-gunk that grows in septum piercing, seems to have all the info we need.” Harlow looked him up and down, eyes narrow. “I’m not gonna drag her back into all this.” 

“Just admit you don’t want to talk to her.”

“Oh, most definitely. Two things can be true, Francis.”

As if on cue, Harlow’s phone chimed with a text from her sister, Stella.

“Tristain?” said Frank.

“Barterer boyfriend.” Harlow scratched at her phone with numb fingers. “How the hell did she even get a message through? I don’t even has the SOS icon.”

Blevin, arms crossed and checking his watch every few seconds, looked back down into the library as the three of them stood by the front doors, hunched against the slice of cold air that came in through the seam.

Frank leaned in close, whispering. “Is this absolutely necessary?”

Blevin whipped his head towards his new friend, glaring. “Just because the Warrior-Queen of the Midnight Stone Halls is finally arriving to usher in the New World does not mean that I will shirk my librarian duties. People rely on knowledge. That’s one of the foundational pillars of the Inquiry.” 

Frank nodded along, glancing to either side to see if there was something to bludgeon himself with. “Uh huh, uh huh. It’s just, Blevin, when you say things like that, it does remind me we’re on a bit of a time crunch.” 

Blevin’s watch ticked to six and he sighed, releasing a tension that had been hiding in his eyebrows. He turned towards the library proper and bellowed. “Alright, everyone! Stamp your time cards!” 

Frank flinched, ducking as he scanned for movement within the library’s shadows.

Harlow, apparently having completed the ‘find something to bludgeon’ search, hefted the nearby bust of Sanderson Vines. 

“I’m just kidding,” said Blevin. “It’s just me. It started as a joke and then people started expecting it. I’m ‘people.’ And now, even though I know I’m the only one working, I guess my brain can’t tell the difference. Where can I lend my expertise?” 

“Oh, this is going to be… Well, it’s just going to be, isn’t it?” said Harlow. 

“It’s happening,” said Frank. “It is certainly happening.” 

“Occurring, even.” 

Blevin locked the front door—locked us in the library with him, Frank thought—and headed back down the stairs and towards the wall opposite the projector room. 

“We can get dinner soon, but I wanted to grab a few books so we wouldn’t have to make two trips. I was thinking McCroy’s? I know Lillian’s…”

“Careful,” said Harlow.

“Has better drinks…”

“Carry on.”

“But if we’re going to make any headway tonight, we should say no to the sauce for now.” 

Blevin led them to an unmarked door downstairs and opened it with three separate keys. Flipping on the lights, Frank saw a mid-sized room crowded with grey metal shelves. They were filled to capacity with books, boxes and a few items that Frank’s brain could only call ‘artifacts.’ Threads of lemon scent wafted through the otherwise clean air: no dust motes, no mildew. The floors shined in the overhead fluorescents

Next to the light switch, Blevin signed in below a dozen other entries on a clipboard labelled ‘Inquiry Storage—Offsite, Room 11.’ 

His was the only name there. 

“This room’s all your family’s branch,” he said. “Nowadays, that means most of the Inquiry. Far as I know. Since Richard, jr…” Frank’s jaw tightened as Blevin trailed off. He could feel the bone sweating under the pressure.

“Harlow, look at all this,” said Frank, turning away. “There could be passed down recipes, or maybe a family tree! A really odd parenting manual to explain their unique style. This could be it. A second chance at my dad’s office. Replace all the important stuff I shredded.” 

“What was shredded where?!” said Blevin.

“And then it’ll all be forgiven. They’ll finally believe me!”

Harlow nodded slow. “Right, right. Because they’d never think of a new tragedy to pin on you.” She put on a schwarmy, big-jawed affect and threw her scarf over one shoulder, hitting certain words like pinches to a misbehaving child’s rump. “Our one son died so we blame the other. Francis is bad and Dick is good even though his name is something we wish Francis wouldn’t touch.” 

“You’re right,” said Frank, his voice tipped high and putting the false in falsetto. “Better not to dredge up the past.” 

He sighed and answered with a rhetoric that had become so practiced over the years, he didn’t remember where he’d learned it anymore. Honest to gods (and demons), Frank had no idea he was the first one to tell himself the lie. 

“They didn’t really need a second kid. And then, Dick died. And they handled it as best they could. With the tools they had. Grandpa Rochester was no picnic. And, you know, sometimes parents just don’t like their child. Like, personality-wise. Who can fault them?” 

“Everyone,” said Harlow. “That’s one of the things you just have to deal with if you have a kid. Or at least pretend, like Momma does with Stella.” 

Frank chuckled through a peculiar dryness in his throat. A withering. He couldn’t tell anyone exactly where his vocal cords were, but it felt like they were threatening to snap off, fall into his stomach and burn away; ne’er to be used again. 

“Are you trying to make me feel bad?” Frank’s eyebrows knit closer together as he croaked, wary of another newfound enemy.

“I’m trying to help you see the truth.” Harlow looked around the room with him. “That even if there is something here that can explain everything to you. Frank, you’re not the…You’re the child. I just, I want you to get through this. You need to see it, really see it. So that you can eat through it. And then you get dessert.” 

“I think this is all part of it,” he said, quiet, one hand waving around the room that, by then, both of them had noticed was home to many odd-looking daggers. 

“Then let’s eat. I’ll start,” said Harlow. “I’m your best friend, Frank. I’m not gonna leave you with this.”

“And I’m your second best friend,” said Blevin. “Well, third. Cause there’s you, Harlow…I guess I could be lower down the chain. Do you have pets?”

Frank tapped his fingers together. “Did you count me as my own friend there, bud?”

Blevin rolled his eyes. “You gotta be your own best friend! At least first.” 

Harlow smirked and Frank swallowed hard, ignoring the insecurities that normally waited until just before he went to sleep to start yapping.

“Her Tears,” he said, in lieu of introspection. “That’s what they call the blizzard, right? We should focus on Her Tears.” 

Blevin trudged farther into the room, scanning the shelves and pulling down a mix of thick volumes and neatly-organized binders. Frank flipped through one and saw it was filled with collected single sheets and small, stapled-together pamphlets. The lattermost looked about the same size as a play bill. 

Demonic scrapbook, check.

“You mentioned it,” Frank continued. “My parents mentioned it last night. And also, I’ve hiked through it. What does it mean, and am I going to die?” 

Blevin looked back over one shoulder while he reached high on a shelf.

“Everyone is going to die, Frank,” he said, full-tooth smiling.