The Collectors

“Caleb!” the voice said again urgently.

“What? Who? Dear God!” He spun frantically around trying to see who was calling his name, his feet slipping and sliding on the damp concrete. He became so dizzy, he was almost sick to his stomach.

“It’s me, Milton.”

Caleb froze in a half-squat, his hands clamped to his thighs as he desperately tried to keep from heaving his dinner into the fragrant roses. “Milton?”

“Yes!”

“Where are you?” he hissed.

“I’m still in the car. I’m speaking to you through the wire. It has communication capability as well as being a surveillance device.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me that?”

“I did. I guess you forgot. I know you’re under pressure.”

“You can hear me clearly?” Caleb said between gritted teeth.

“Oh, yes, very clear.”

The language that erupted from the staid librarian would have caused the filthiest rap singer in the world to concede his lewd speech title to Mr. Caleb Shaw.

There was a long pause after this explosion. Finally, a stunned Milton said, “I can tell you’re a little upset.”

“Yep!” Caleb took a deep breath and willed his food to remain in his belly. He slowly stood erect and stretched out his back even as his poor heart continued to race. If he keeled over with a coronary right now, Caleb swore he’d come back and haunt the little techno-geek every second of every day.

“Okay, she’s not answering. I just knocked on the door, and it swung open. What would you suggest I do?”

“I’d leave right now,” Milton answered automatically.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Caleb started to back down the steps, afraid to turn around lest something leap out at him from the house. Then he stopped. What if she was lying on the bathroom floor with a broken hip or had suffered a heart attack? The thing was, despite the evidence, part of Caleb could not believe that the same sweet lady who was such an enthusiastic lover of books could be wrapped up in the spy business. Or if she was, maybe she was simply an innocent dupe.

“Caleb? Have you left yet?”

“No,” he snapped. “I’m thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“About whether I should go in and check on her.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

He hesitated. Milton did have a Taser gun. If Jewell were a spy and came at them with a meat cleaver, they could take the old crone down, hard.

“No, Milton, just stay put. I’m sure it’s nothing.” Caleb pushed open the door and went in. The living room was empty, as was the small kitchen. There was a frying pan on the stove with bits of onion and what looked like ground beef; this matched the aroma in the air. There was one plate, a cup and a fork in the sink, all dirty. On the way back through the living room he picked up a heavy brass candleholder as a weapon and moved slowly down the hallway. He reached the bathroom first and looked in. The toilet seat was down, the shower curtain open, and no bloody body was lying in the tub. He didn’t check the medicine cabinet primarily because he didn’t want to see how absolutely terrified he looked in the mirror.

The first bedroom was empty, the small closet full of towels and bedsheets.

There was only one room left. He hoisted the candleholder above his head and nudged the door open with his foot. It was dark inside, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. His breath left him in a rush. There was a lump under the bedcover.

He whispered, “There’s someone in the bed. The covers are over her face.”

“Is she dead?” Milton asked.

“I don’t know, but why would she be asleep with the covers over her face?”

“Should I call the police?”

“Just hang on a sec.”

There was a small closet in the room, its door partially open. Caleb stood to one side, his candleholder at the ready. He again used his foot to push the door open and then jumped back. A short rack of clothes hung there without a murderer in sight.

He turned back to the bed, his heart beating so fast, he wondered if he should have Milton call an ambulance for him. He looked down at his shaky hands. “Okay, okay, a dead body can’t hurt you.” Still, he didn’t want to see her, not like that. He suddenly realized something. If they had killed her, he was partly responsible, for taking her glasses and exposing the old woman. This somber thought depressed but also calmed him somewhat.

“I’m sorry, Jewell, even if you were a spy,” he mumbled solemnly.

He gripped the top of the bedcover and jerked it down.