The Collectors

He ever so slowly nudged the door open and peered out. The hallway was clear. The library looked normal. He saw no indication at all of a SWAT team lurking. Caleb waited another couple of minutes, but nothing happened. Unable to figure it out, he realized there was one thing he could no longer put off. He left early and drove as fast as he could to DeHaven’s house. Inside the vault, he made straight for the small safe behind the picture. He needed to see if the library’s mark was in the book. He punched in the code and swung the door open. Then his organs started shutting down again.

The Bay Psalm Book wasn’t there.

When they congregated at Stone’s place that night, they were joined by the newly freed Reuben. After they had all congratulated their friend, Stone wrote on a piece of paper that “I’d rather not discuss things here.” Then he jotted down a series of instructions while the others kept up a chatter of dialogue.

Thirty minutes later Milton and Caleb left the cottage. Twenty minutes after that, Reuben and Annabelle took their leave. An hour after dark the lights in Stone’s cottage went out, and thirty minutes after that, Stone was sliding on his belly through the high grass in the cemetery. He exited through a gap in the wrought-iron fencing where it dipped down into a hollow behind a large tombstone.

After a series of doglegs through some old sections of Georgetown, Stone reconvened with the others in an alley. He unlocked a wooden door that was revealed behind a Dumpster and motioned them all through. He locked the door behind them and turned on a small overhead light. There were no windows in the place, so the light didn’t matter. There were some rickety chairs and wooden crates, and the group collectively sat. Annabelle looked around the dank, dirty interior and joked, “You sure know how to show a lady a good time. Is this place available for parties?”

“Let’s hear your report,” Stone said.

She took a few minutes to fill everyone in on her and Caleb’s discovery. She passed the glasses and book over to Stone while Caleb remained uncharacteristically silent. Stone looked through the glasses and the book. “You’re right. It does look like a code.”

Annabelle said, “Who’d be putting codes in library books?”

Stone put the book and glasses down. Milton picked up the glasses, put them on and started reading through the book.

Reuben stroked his chin. “Does it tie into Behan’s murder? He dealt in the defense and intelligence industry. God knows there are spies all over those sectors.”

Stone nodded. “That would be a good guess, but I think it goes a bit deeper than that.” He explained what he and Milton had found out at the Federalist Club and from their talk with Dennis Warren.

“So this Albert Trent stuck at the intelligence committee,” Annabelle said. “What does that mean?”

Reuben spoke up. “It means he’d have access to secrets worth selling, I can tell you that. When I worked at DIA, we had briefings all the time with the Hill. The intelligence committee members and their staff all had to have top-secret clearances.”

“But spies are notorious for not telling Congress everything,” Milton said, looking up from the book. “Would Trent really know enough of value that he could sell?”

“Remember,” Stone said, “Trent was not always a staffer there. He’d once been at the CIA.”

“So he could have contacts there. Hell, maybe there, NSA, NIC, the whole alphabet,” Reuben commented. “He might have assembled a minimart for espionage.”

“But how do you get from a mole like Trent to secret codes in rare books?” Annabelle asked as she shifted her weight on the old chair she was sitting on and rubbed her tender thigh where she’d had to tear the tape off to get the book free.

“I don’t know,” Stone admitted. “We have to find out more about this Jewell English. If we could get her to crack, we could trace it back to the source. She must know the glasses are missing by now.”

“Get her to crack?” Reuben exclaimed. “Oliver, we can’t splay her out on a rack and smack her around until she talks.”

“But we can go to the FBI, show them the book and glasses, tell them our theories and let them take it from there,” Stone suggested.

“Now you’re talking,” Reuben said. “The more distance we put between us and them, whoever they are, the better.”

Stone looked over at Caleb, who hadn’t spoken one word and was sitting disconsolate in a corner.

“Caleb, what’s wrong?”

The pudgy librarian took a quick breath but didn’t make eye contact with any of them.

Annabelle, now concerned, said, “Caleb, I’m sorry if I was tough on you today. You actually did a good job.” She bit her lip as she finished the lie.

He shook his head. “It’s not that. You’re right, I’m totally inept when it comes to the stuff you do.”

“So what is it?” Stone asked again impatiently.

He took one long breath and looked up. “The police came to the library today. They gave me the keys to Jonathan’s house. The first thing I did was check on the collection.” He paused, glanced at Annabelle and leaned over and whispered into Stone’s ear. “The Psalm Book’s been stolen.”

Stone froze for an instant while Milton and Reuben stared at Caleb. “Not the book,” Milton asked, and Caleb nodded miserably.

Annabelle said, “Hey, if five’s a crowd, I can always leave. I’m not really that into books.”

“How could it have been taken?” Stone asked, putting up a hand to stop her from departing.

“I don’t know. You need pass codes to get into the vault and safe. And neither of them was forced.”

“Who else has the codes?” Reuben asked.