Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

Annabelle Conroy ? He’d never even known Paddy had a kid. Yet now it started to make sense. Paddy Conroy’s little girl had been in his casino, in his office, played him like a fool and screwed him out of far more than her old man ever had.

Okay, Annabelle, I did your mama, now it’s your turn.

He cracked his knuckles, turned back around and looked at bloody-mouthed Tony lying there on the bed weeping, a hand over his privates.

“What else?” he said. “Everything. And you get to keep breathing.”

And Tony told him, finishing up with Annabelle’s instructions on keeping a low profile and not spending his money all in one place.

Bagger said, “Well, you should’ve listened to the woman.” He snapped his fingers. “Okay, guys, get to it. We don’t have all day.”

One of the men opened a black case he’d brought with him. Inside were four baseball bats. He handed three to the other men and kept one for himself.

As they raised the bats overhead, Tony shrieked. “But you said if I told you, you’d let me live. You said so.”

Bagger shrugged. “That’s right. And after the boys finish with you, you’ll still be alive. Barely. Jerry Bagger is a man of his word.”

As he walked out, he heard the first blow land, breaking Tony’s right knee. Bagger started whistling, closed the door to muffle the screams and went downstairs for a cup of coffee.

The next morning the library 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.”