CHAPTER 61
THE NEXT MORNING THE LI-brary was in an uproar. Norman Janklow’s murder, so soon after DeHaven’s death, had sent shock waves the length and breadth of the Jefferson Building. When Caleb arrived for work, the police and FBI were already interrogating everyone. Caleb did his best to answer the questions with short answers. It didn’t help that the same two homicide detectives who’d given him back the keys to DeHaven’s house were also there. He sensed that they were keeping a very close eye on him. Had someone spotted him at Jewell’s house? Had they found his prints there? And Reuben had been released in time to commit the murder. Did they suspect him as well? There was no way to tell.
Next his thoughts turned to the Beadle that Annabelle had taken. He had brought it with him today. It had been relatively easy, though Caleb was still a nervous wreck. The guards didn’t check bags going in, only coming out, and only visitors had their bags run through the X-ray machine. Still, the presence of the police only added to his tension. He breathed a sigh of relief after he’d safely run the gauntlet of authority and put the book away in his desk.
When a conservator showed up with some repaired books to be returned to the vault, Caleb volunteered to do it. This would give him the perfect opportunity to reshelve the Beadle. He put the dime novel in the stack with the others and went into the vault. He put away the repaired tomes and then headed to the section where the Beadles were kept. However, when he started to slide the book onto the shelf, he noticed that the tape Annabelle had used to secure it to her thigh had torn a corner of the cover when she pulled it off.
“Great, you’d have thought she could have been a little more careful, considering she stole the damn book in the first place,” he muttered to himself. He’d have to take the Beadle to conservation. He left the vault, filled out the necessary paperwork and had the conservation request inputted on the computer system. Then he walked through the tunnels to the Madison Building, barely glancing at the room where the gas cylinder that had killed Jonathan DeHaven once lurked. Reaching the conservation department, he presented the book to Rachel Jeffries, a woman who did very thorough work and performed it promptly.
After chatting briefly with her about the latest awful news, Caleb returned to the reading room and sat at his desk. He looked around the space, so beautiful, so perfect for contemplation, so very empty right now after the deaths of two men associated with it.
He jerked when the door opened and Kevin Philips came in, looking gaunt and stricken. The two men spoke for a few minutes. Philips told Caleb he was thinking of resigning. “It’s too much for my nerves,” he explained. “I’ve lost ten pounds since Jonathan died. And with his neighbor being murdered and now with Janklow’s death, the police don’t think Jonathan’s death was innocent.”
“Well, they could be right.”
“What do you think is going on, Caleb? I mean, this is a library. This stuff isn’t supposed to happen to us.”
“I wish I could tell you, Kevin.”
Later Caleb spoke with Milton, who’d been keeping his eyes and ears glued to the media outlets. He reported that there was much speculation about Janklow’s death, but no official cause had been reported. Jewell English’s home had been rented by her two years earlier. The only connection between the woman and the dead man was their regular visits to the reading room. English was now missing. Inquiries into her background had come to a dead end. She apparently wasn’t who she appeared to be. Perhaps Janklow wasn’t either.
Big surprise there, Caleb thought as he hung up with Milton. Every time the door to the reading room opened, Caleb would tense. The place, so long a haven of peace and genteelness, was now like a recurrent nightmare. He just wanted to get out of its suffocating depths. Suffocating! God, that was an unfortunate choice of words. Yet he stayed because it was his job, and while he was often weak and impulsive in other aspects of his life, he was serious about his work. There were, not surprisingly, no patrons in the reading room today. At least this would give Caleb time to catch up on some tasks. However, that was not to be. Suddenly realizing that he was famished, Caleb decided to run out and get a sandwich.
“Mr. Foxworth?” Caleb said as the tall, good-looking man approached him out on the street in front of the Jefferson Building.
Seagraves nodded and smiled. “Please—Bill, remember? I was coming by to see you today.” Actually, Seagraves had been waiting for Caleb to come outside.
“I’m just going to get a sandwich. I’m sure someone else can help you find a book in the reading room.”
“Well, I was actually wondering if you’d like to see my books.”
“What?”
“My collection. It’s in my office. It’s only a few blocks from here. I’m a lobbyist, specializing in the oil industry. It pays to be close to Capitol Hill in my business.”
“I’m sure it does.”
“Do you think you could spare a few minutes? I know it’s a lot to ask.”
“All right. Mind if I get a sandwich on the way? I haven’t had lunch.”
“Not at all. I also wanted to tell you that I have on a five-day inspection period works by Ann Radcliffe and Henry Fielding.”
“Excellent. Which books?”
“Radcliffe’s The Romance of the Forest and Fielding’s The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews.”
“Very good choices, Bill. Radcliffe was a genius at Gothic mystery. People think horror writers today are on the edge? They should try reading Radcliffe. Her stuff will still scare the pants off you. Joseph Andrews is a fine parody of Richardson’s Pamela. Fielding’s ironic in that he was a true poet at heart whose greatest fame was as a novelist and playwright. It’s said that his most popular play, Tom Thumb, made Jonathan Swift laugh for only the second time in his life.” Caleb chuckled. “I’m not sure what the first was, though I have a few theories.”
“Fascinating,” Seagraves said as they walked down the street. “The thing is the dealer in Philly where I got the books says that they’re first editions, and his letter makes the usual claims about typical points and other indicia, but I really need an expert opinion. These books aren’t cheap.”
“I would imagine not. Well, I’ll take a look at them, and if I can’t tell, which, without blowing my own horn too loudly, is doubtful, I can certainly put you in touch with someone who can.”
“Mr. Shaw, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“Please, call me Caleb.”
Caleb grabbed a sandwich at a deli on Independence Avenue a bloc
k down from the Madison Building and then followed Seagraves to his office building.
It was located in a brownstone, Seagraves said, but they’d have to enter from the alley. “They’re doing repairs on the lobby, and it’s a mess. But there’s an elevator we can ride from the basement right to my office.”
As they walked down the alley, Seagraves kept a running conversation going about old books and his hopes of building an adequate collection.
“It takes time,” Caleb said. “I have a part ownership interest in a rare book shop in Old Town Alexandria. You should drop by sometime.”
“I’ll certainly do that.”
Seagraves stopped at a door in the alley, unlocked it and ushered Caleb inside.
He closed the door behind them. “The elevator’s just around the corner.”
“Fine. I think—”
Caleb didn’t finish what he was thinking as he slumped to the floor unconscious. Seagraves stood over him, holding the blackjack he’d earlier hidden in a crevice of the interior wall. He hadn’t lied. The brownstone’s lobby was being renovated—the entire building was, in fact—and had been recently shut down so construction work could begin in a week.
Seagraves tied and gagged Caleb and then placed him in a box that sat open against one wall after taking off a ring from Caleb’s right middle finger. He nailed the lid of the box shut and made a call. Five minutes later a van pulled into the alley. With the driver’s help Seagraves lifted the box into the van. The men climbed in and the van pulled off.
CHAPTER 62
ANNABELLE HAD PICKED STONE up before the crack of dawn, and they’d driven out to Trent’s home and settled themselves down where they could see his driveway. They’d left Annabelle’s rental car for Reuben to use and taken his battered pickup truck for the surveillance. It fit in a lot better in horse country than her Chrysler Le Baron had the night before. Because she and Stone had been kidnapped, that car was still parked on a dirt road about five hundred yards from where they were. Annabelle had rented another car the previous night at Dulles Airport.
Stone was looking through a pair of binoculars. It was dark, chilly and damp, and with the truck’s engine off, the interior quickly became very cold. Annabelle snuggled down in her coat. Stone seemed oblivious to the elements. They had only seen one other car pass by, its headlights cutting through the fog that hovered a few feet above the ground. Stone and Annabelle had ducked down in the truck’s cab until it had gone by. The sleepy driver was on his cell phone, gulping coffee and reading snatches of a newspaper draped across the steering wheel.
An hour later, just as dawn was breaking, Stone tensed. “Okay,