Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

He wiped his face with a rag and pushed the lawn mower over to the cottage’s front porch, where Annabelle was standing. She slipped off her glasses.

“How’s it going, Oliver?”

He didn’t say anything for a few moments. “You look dressed to go somewhere.”

“Actually, that’s why I came by. To let you know of a change in plan. I have to leave town. My flight heads out in a couple hours. I won’t be back.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right,” she said, her tone more firm.

“Well, I can’t blame you; things are getting a little dangerous.”

Her gaze went to his face. “If you believe that’s why I’m bugging out, you’re not nearly as smart as I thought you were.”

He studied her for another moment. “Whoever’s after you must be pretty dangerous.”

“You strike me as a man who has his enemies too.”

“I don’t go looking to make mine. They just seem to find me.”

“I wish I could relate. I tend to make my enemies.”

“Are you going to tell the others?”

She shook her head. “I thought you could do it for me.”

“They’ll be disappointed. Especially Reuben. And I haven’t seen Milton this happy in years. And of course, Caleb won’t admit that he likes having you around, but he will pout for the longest time.”

“And how about you?” she said, her gaze downcast.

He used his boot to scrape the grass off the lawn mower’s wheels. “You certainly have some remarkable skills.”

“Speaking of, you caught me picking your pocket. That hadn’t happened since I was eight years old.” She looked at him questioningly.

“I’m sure you were a very precocious child,” he said.

She gave him a tiny smirk. “Anyway, it’s been fun. And you guys look out for yourselves. Like you said, enemies tend to find you.”

She turned to leave.

“Uh, Susan, if we do figure this all out, do you want us to contact you, let you know about Jonathan?”

She faced him. “I think I should let the past stay right where it is. In the past.”

“I just thought you’d like to know. Losing a spouse that way, you don’t really get over it.”

“You sound like you speak from experience?”

“My wife. It was a long time ago.”

“Had you two divorced?”

“No.”

“It wasn’t the same with me and Jonathan. He decided to end our marriage. I’m not sure why I even came here.”

“I see. Well, could I have the picture back, then?”

“What?” she said, appearing startled.

“The picture of Jonathan. I wanted to return it to his home.”

“Oh, I... I don’t have it with me.”

“Well, when you get to wherever you’re going, you can send it along.”

“You’re far too trusting, Oliver. There’s nothing to make me send it back to you.”

“That’s right. Nothing at all.”

She gazed at him curiously. “You’re one of the most unusual people I’ve ever met, and let me tell you that’s saying something.”

“You should get going, don’t want to miss your flight.”

She glanced around at the tombstones. “You’re surrounded by death here. Way too depressing. You really might want to think about getting another job.”

“You see death and sadness in these sunken patches of dirt, I see lives lived fully and the good deeds of past generations influencing the future ones.”

“That’s way too altruistic for me.”

“I thought that once too.”

“Good luck.” She turned to leave.

“If you ever need a friend, you know where to find me.”

Her shoulders tensed for an instant as he said this. Then she was gone.

Stone put the lawn mower away and sat on the porch gazing solemnly at his tombstones as a chilly wind started to sweep across.

Caleb rose and greeted the man as he came into the reading room.

“Can I help you?”

Roger Seagraves showed Caleb his library card, which anyone could obtain in the Madison Building across the street by showing a driver’s license or passport, fake or not. The name on the library card was William Foxworth, and the photo on the card matched the man. The same information had been loaded into the library’s computer system.

Seagraves glanced around at the tables where a few people sat. “I’m looking for a particular book.” Seagraves named the one he wanted.

“Fine. Do you have a particular interest in that era?”

“I have lots of interests,” Seagraves said. “That’s just one of them.” He studied Caleb for a moment as though thinking of what he wanted to say. Actually, the script had been carefully planned, and he had done his homework on Caleb Shaw. “I’m also a collector but a novice one, I’m afraid. I have a few recent purchases in English literature that I’d like someone to evaluate for me. I guess I should have had that done before I bought them, but as I said, I’m just starting out collecting. I came into some money a while back, and my mother worked at a library for years. I’ve always had an interest in books, but serious collecting is a whole other ball game, I’ve found.”

“It absolutely is. And it can be quite ruthless,” Caleb said, and then hastily added, “In a dignified way, of course. As it happens, one of my areas of expertise is eighteenth-century English literature.”

“Wow, that’s terrific,” Seagraves said. “My lucky day.”

“What are the books, Mr. Foxworth?”

“Please, call me Bill. A first-edition Defoe.”

“Robinson Crusoe? Moll Flanders?”

Seagraves said, “Moll Flanders.”

“Excellent. What else?”

“Goldsmith’s The Life of Richard Nash. And a Horace Walpole.”

“The Castle of Otranto, 1765?”

“That’s the one. It’s in pretty good shape, actually.”

“You don’t see many of those. I’d be glad to take a look at them for you. As you can imagine, there are many variations in editions. And some people buy books thinking they’re true first editions, but they turn out to be something else altogether. It even happens with some of the better dealers.” He added quickly, “Inadvertently, I’m sure.”

“I could bring them in the next time I’m here.”

“Well, I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Bill, because you’d have a hard time getting them past security unless prior arrangements have been made. They might think you stole the books from us, you see. You don’t want to be arrested.”

Seagraves paled. “Oh, right, I hadn’t thought of that. My God, the police. I’ve never even had a parking ticket.”

“Calm down, it’s okay.” Caleb added a little pompously, “The world of the rare book can be very, how shall I say, sophisticated, with a spice of danger. But if you are serious about collecting in the eighteenth century, you’ll need to make sure you have a number of authors represented. A few that come to mind are Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope; they’re regarded as the masters of the first half of the century. Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones, of course, David Hume, a Tobias Smollett, Edward Gibbon, Fanny Burney, Ann Radcliffe and Edmund Burke. It’s not an inexpensive hobby.”

“I’m finding that out,” Seagraves said glumly.

“Not like collecting bottle caps, is it?” Caleb laughed at his little joke. “Oh, and of course, you can’t forget the eight-hundred-pound gorilla of that era, and the master of the second half of the century, Mr. Samuel Johnson. It’s not an exhaustive list by any means, but a good start.”

“You certainly know your eighteenth-century lit.”

“I should, I have a PhD on the subject. As far as evaluating your books, we can always meet someplace. Just let me know.” He fished in his pocket and handed Seagraves a card with his office number on it. He clapped Seagraves enthusiastically on the back. “And now I’ll get your book.”