by Ellery Adams
When she did read them, she was so overcome by terror that she had to lean against the rough wall to keep herself from crumpling to the ground.
Sinclair had written only two lines. The first was innocuous enough. All it said was Meet me in the Henry James.
The second line, however, was a dagger. It plunged between Jane’s ribs and stuck fast in the center of her heart. It was a dagger made of five words. Five words that wrenched a high-pitched keen from Jane’s throat.
She flung open the door and started running for the library. The five words echoed inside her head. Over and over again, they shouted:
The twins have been taken.
Chapter Seventeen
Sinclair was waiting for her just inside the library doors. Jane looked past him to where her great-aunt and great-uncle stood in the center of the book-lined room. Clad in dressing gowns, they were clinging to each other and exchanging frightened murmurs.
“What happened and where are my sons?” Jane’s words tumbled out in such a rush that they were barely comprehensible.
“They snuck out of the apartment,” Aunt Octavia replied through quivering lips. “They asked permission to call down to the kitchens for ice cream, and of course, we said yes. We always have a dessert tray delivered when they stay over. Always!” She began to wail, but tried to stifle the noise by burying her face in her husband’s faithful shoulder.
Jane walked toward them with her arms outstretched in desperation. “Someone tell me what’s going on!”
“We must have dozed off,” Uncle Aloysius said. His eyes were hollow and his voice was haunted with guilt. “We didn’t hear the bell signaling the arrival of the delivery. Nor did we hear the twins open the door. Something on the television stirred us, and by the time we were fully alert, the twins were already gone and the door to our apartment was ajar. When we called down to the kitchens . . .” He stopped and began again. “We were told that Wade had left with the ice cream twenty minutes earlier.”
Sinclair stepped forward and took Jane’s arm. He grasped it firmly, preparing to support her weight if necessary. “Wade never made it to the apartment. He was attacked as he exited the staff elevator. He was struck on the back of the head, stripped of his uniform, and left unconscious in the staff stairwell. Mr. Sterling was able to revive him with smelling salts. Unfortunately, Wade never saw his attacker. He was blindsided.”
Jane’s mind struggled to piece together the scenario. “So Wade’s attacker dressed in his uniform, rang the apartment bell, and then what?” She glanced from Sinclair to her great-uncle and back. “He just grabbed the boys?”
“After spinning them a yarn about having dropped their ice cream, he probably implored them to come down to the kitchens where he could serve them a new treat,” Sinclair said. “He must have preyed on their kindness and begged them not to say anything, else he’d be in hot water. Your sons, who understand what it’s like to be in trouble, would want to spare him that unpleasantness. They’d have followed him without reservation. After all, he was wearing the Storyton uniform. Even if they didn’t recognize him, he wasn’t a stranger. He was a staff member. He was supposed to be safe.”
A strange sound rose in Jane’s throat—something between a growl and a sob. “No one leaves Storyton Hall tonight until my sons are found! Do you hear me! No one! Have Sterling shut and lock the main gates!”
Sinclair shook his head. His gaze was filled with regret. “It’s too late for that. Locals have already left for home and guests have retired to their rooms.”
“Then we’ll rouse them!” Jane cried. “Pull the fire alarm! Get everyone out on the great lawn. They can stand there until dawn while we search this place from cellar to attic. I don’t care about their comfort! I don’t care about anything but finding my boys!”
“I know, my dear, I know,” Sinclair said soothingly. “Nothing is more important, which is why Mr. Lachlan, Mr. Sterling, and Mr. Butterworth are already trying to track them through our video surveillance.”
Jane shook herself free from Sterling’s grip and shouted, “That never works! I don’t know why we bother with these cameras. They fail us every time. Every time!” She heard her voice rising—heard the hysteria in every syllable, but she couldn’t stop it. Especially not when she imagined the twins in a dark place, hunched together, with their wrists tied and their mouths gagged. The image made her sick and furious at the same time. These emotions were overwhelming her ability to think clearly. She didn’t want to stand here and think, anyway. She wanted to act. She wanted to throw open doors, scan closets, rip apart large packing crates, and peer inside the trunks of cars. Her boys, stowed like luggage, were awaiting rescue. By their mother. And what was she doing? She was standing in a library, talking.
Jane was about to issue a command when Aunt Octavia suddenly pulled away from her husband’s comforting embrace. Her mouth was stretched into a long oval of horror and, as Jane watched in confusion, Aunt Octavia’s arm slowly rose into the air. Her index finger pointed in a straight line to the book cradle on Sinclair’s desk.
The tableau on the desk was all wrong. First, the bin that had held Mrs. Tanner’s Everyday Receipts was missing its lid. Second, the book displayed on the cradle had been placed carelessly. No blocks had been tucked under its delicate spine and its deteriorated cover had support only from the cradle. It wasn’t enough, and fresh rents had appeared along the length of its gutter.
What was most out of place, however, was the bright white piece of paper resting on top of the splayed book pages.
“It’s a note.” Jane’s whisper was almost inaudible.
She flew across the room.
Sinclair warned her not to touch anything, but Jane didn’t need to pick up the note to read it. It had been typed in all caps using Helvetica, a typeface Professor Piech had mentioned several times in his workshop.
GUARDIAN.
DROP YOUR KEY AND THE EXACT LOCATION OF STORYTON’S SECRET LIBRARY IN THE POSTAL BOX OUTSIDE THE PICKLED PIG BY MIDNIGHT. COMPLY, OR YOU WILL NEVER SEE YOUR SONS AGAIN. COME ALONE, OR YOU WILL NEVER SEE YOUR SONS AGAIN. TRY TO DECEIVE ME, AND YOU WILL NEVER SEE YOUR SONS AGAIN.
Jane checked her watch and then swung around to face Sinclair. “We don’t have much time! Call Sterling. Tell him to pull a car to the main doors and leave the motor running. Aunt Octavia, send Ned to your apartments for the key to that miniature carriage clock. He’s our fastest runner.”
Sinclair and Aunt Octavia jumped into action, and as Jane yanked open desk drawers in search of paper and an envelope, Uncle Aloysius sank into a nearby reading chair.
“You intend to switch the keys in your locket, I see. That should convince him, this devil posing as a human being,” her great-uncle said heatedly. “But I don’t see how you can fool anyone who knows as much as he obviously knows. If he detects so much as a whiff of trickery, then—”
“He must not be given the chance.” Jane cut off her great-uncle before he could finish his grim prediction. Storyton Hall had other secrets besides its library. There was an underground passageway—long-since collapsed— from the main house to the hunting lodge. There were secret panels in nearly every library and reading room. And of course, there was the space between the conference room walls. A space that could be accessed only through a broom cupboard.
The killer can’t know where that narrow corridor leads, Jane thought. For all he knows, there’s a set of stairs at the end of that corridor descending into a basement chamber. Uncle Aloysius is right. The man who has my boys knows far too much about Storyton Hall, but he doesn’t have all the answers. If he had, he wouldn’t be forced to trade my sons for the final pieces of information.
The tip of Jane’s pen hovered over the paper. Was she taking too great a risk? Was she voluntarily putting her sons’ lives into the hands of a madman?
She shot a lightning-quick glance at Sinclair. He’d finished sending his text and was now reading what was undoubtedly another urgent message. Sensing her ga
ze on him, he met her eyes. She found everything she hoped to find in his unblinking stare: strength, courage, loyalty, determination, and an unwavering love. He would sacrifice himself for Jane or her sons if necessary. Not because he’d pledged his life to them. Because he’d pledged his heart. The twins’ lives were not in the hands of a madman. Their fate rested in the capable hands of the four men who adored them. And a mother who wouldn’t hesitate to kill for them.
Jane began to write.
“He’ll be watching that post office box,” she said to the Fins as they gathered on the front steps minutes later. “Even if you left ahead of me and looped around, you might be spotted. We can’t take the chance.”
“I pulled up the water, sewer, and storm drain map of Storyton Village.” Sterling pointed to the Pickled Pig’s block. “That’s how he’ll collect the drop-off. This is no spur-of-the-moment plan. He’s been preparing for this. He probably went down this manhole, which is only a few feet from the postal box, and drilled an access hole up through the sidewalk. Because it’s under the box, people wouldn’t notice right away. As for the box itself, I’m sure he’s also cut an access panel into the bottom. It’ll only take him a few seconds to collect your envelope, Jane, and there’ll be no way to identify him.”
“I didn’t expect him to come out into the open,” Jane said. “I also don’t think he’ll bring the boys to the pickup. He has them elsewhere. And while he’s distracted by my delivery, you have to find them. That means figuring out who’s missing from the dinner dance. Enlist the Cover Girls to help you with the locals and the Robert Harley Society members to help with the conference attendees.” Suddenly remembering that there’d been a recent arrival to Storyton Hall, Jane looked at Sinclair. “Where’s Celia?”
“In her room with Otto’s diary,” he said. “She isn’t involved, Jane. She was with me tonight. That is, until your great-uncle called me.”
Jane had little time to consider the part Celia may or may not have played in the twin’s abduction. “But she hasn’t been in Storyton this whole time. She could have driven the car that struck Kyle. She could have procured the cyanide. She was conveniently available when a forensic anthropologist was needed. There she was, serving as a visiting professor in our neck of the woods. And if she believed our lie about the diary, maybe it’s because she wanted to believe it.” She turned to Butterworth. “We can’t afford courtesy. Speak with her. Find out the truth. I don’t care if you have to drag her to that room beneath the garage and chain her to a chair.”
Butterworth nodded to show that he understood and dashed back inside Storyton Hall. “The rest of you know what to do. I’ll draw out my drop as long as I can, but I don’t want to. Every minute that I stall means that my boys are somewhere, alone and scared. So find out who’s missing and call me the second you have a name.”
Jane didn’t wait for her Fins to reply. She knew they’d carry out her orders without delay and that her friends would leap to help the second they heard Fitz and Hem were missing.
Alone in the car, Jane allowed the emotions she’d been holding inside to burst free. “Fitz! Hem! My sweet boys!” Her rage and terror materialized as violent sobs and, for a bit, she was nearly blinded by tears.
Gradually, her anger overcame her fear and she began to fantasize about the things she wanted to do to the man who dared to touch her precious sons.
“The archery range is lovely after midnight,” she said to the dark night, her voice filled with quiet fury. “And I can always use extra target practice.”
As she approached Broken Arm Bend, she could almost hear her boys singing the latest version of the song. Her venom dissipated. She pictured Fitz and Hem running across the great lawn toward their house and remembered how their laughter had floated back to her like a bouquet of multicolored balloons. She saw her sons pause at the mailbox and wave at her before entering their home. She saw their shining eyes. Their gleeful smiles.
“Mama’s coming,” she whispered.
Storyton was cloaked in sleep. Jane looked at the darkened windows and thought of how the twins should have been abed long ago.
Where are you? she thought, her heart knotting in pain inside her chest.
When she passed Daily Bread Café, she felt a fresh surge of anger in addition to the pain.
“Where are you?” she hissed at the storefront. “You’re always leaving me! I hope you never come back!”
She hated Edwin Alcott at that moment. She hated his endless absences, his cryptic messages, and his knowledge of the parts of her life meant to be secret. For a second, and it was a second only, she wondered if Edwin was responsible for her current situation. Why would she suddenly receive a message about a false Fin from him hours before her sons were used as pawns in a game involving the world’s greatest treasure: knowledge?
“No,” Jane said to the empty road. “Edwin cares about my boys. I can see that whenever they’re together.”
Pulling into a parking space near the Pickled Pig, Jane got out of the car with the envelope clutched to her chest. Just across Main Street, the church she attended shone like a beacon in the moonlight. Its tall, steadfast spire calmed her and she walked toward the post office box with her head held high.
Though it was tempting to pause at the mailbox and examine its base for evidence supporting Sterling’s theory, Jane knew she had to let the vile creature who’d taken her sons believe he’d outwitted them. So without hesitation, she dropped the envelope in the box and returned to her car.
Now came the hardest part. The waiting.
Jane had to wait for word from the Fins. They clearly hadn’t had time to figure out which missing guest was behind this scheme, but she didn’t think it would take long to find the man. After all, he would have left the Great Gatsby soon after the first dance, if not before, in order to execute his plan to grab the twins.
Jane drove back to Storyton Hall as quickly as she dared. On the way, she tried to decipher the kidnapper’s motive.
“It’s never been about the cookbook,” she said to herself. “It must come down to Otto Frank. He was murdered at Storyton Hall. Shot in the back by an archer. Then, he was hastily buried. But why?”
Suddenly, she remembered the arrowhead. Celia had first noticed it after she’d taken X-rays of Otto’s bones. But she’d extracted the arrowhead from the shoulder bone later on, hadn’t she? Jane had meant to ask if there were markings on the arrowhead—anything that might identify its owner. However, she’d been distracted by other events and hadn’t gotten to it. Now, the question seemed crucial because Jane was sure that Otto’s death, the premeditated murders of Bart and Kyle, and the kidnapping of her sons had occurred for the same reason.
Someone was on quest to find Storyton’s secret library.
Jane parked the car by the loading dock and rushed into Storyton Hall using the terrace entrance. Her phone was already pressed to her ear.
“Sinclair? Where are you?”
“I’m with Celia Wallace and Mr. Butterworth in the Henry James Library. We’re using tonight’s seating chart to track down the guests. Mr. Lachlan and Mr. Sterling teamed up with Ms. Alcott and Ms. Doyle. They’ve begun a room-by-room search. The rest of the staff has been dispersed to cover the public rooms and the grounds.”
Even though Sinclair couldn’t see the gesture, Jane shook her head. “He won’t have them this close. To find the boys, we must learn the kidnapper’s identity.” Jane passed staff members as she trotted down the hall. They shot her glances of sympathy before continuing on their way. “Ask Celia if there were any markings on the arrowhead removed from Otto Frank’s shoulder bone.”
By the time she reached the door to the Henry James Library, Sinclair was waiting for her in the hallway. Pulling her close, he whispered, “Otto Frank’s killer was a Templar. After seeing the engraving on the arrowhead—it’s barely noticeable, but I have no doubt of its meaning—I can tell you that the doctor’s murderer was no Fin.”
“Didn’t Ce
lia notice the marks?” Jane asked.
“Yes, but not many would recognize this symbol—especially since it’s not a traditional Templar cross. It resembles a fine crosshair or reticle and is very faint and imprecisely done.”
Jane struggled to make sense of this new information. “Why would a Templar kill Otto? To gain possession of the cookbook?”
“I assume so. The killer must have tracked the doctor to Storyton and killed him here. Edwin would understand this Templar’s motives better than the rest of us.” Sinclair squeezed Jane’s shoulder. “Since he’s not here, it’s up to us to solve this riddle. What do you think? Is the man holding your sons also a Templar? Is this why he infiltrated Storyton Hall?”
Beware of false Fin. Edwin’s message surfaced in Jane’s mind.
“Look what he’s done in the hopes of discovering our secret library,” she whispered. “So yes, I think he’s a Templar. But he’s not like Edwin. Edwin wouldn’t commit murder or kidnap children to obtain rare materials. Besides, he swore that the mission of his faction is to make broken books whole and to return stolen material to its rightful owners—no matter how long ago the theft occurred. Edwin has proved himself to me, Sinclair. He’s already returned several pages that have been missing from our Gutenberg Bible for decades. And we have no idea what retrieving those pages cost him.”
“I believe in Mr. Alcott.” Sinclair released his hold on Jane’s shoulder. “However, that’s how his faction operates. We know the Templars splintered into multiple sects and we can never track them all. There are dozens of secret societies who claim the Templar Brotherhood as their foundation.”
Jane thrust out her hands in frustration. “Right now, we need only find out which male guest is a Templar. Who has the intelligence to pull off multiple crimes under our noses? Who can move about without raising any . . .” She trailed off.
“Suspicion,” Sinclair finished for her.