The Collectors cc-2

by David Baldacci

  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.

  CHAPTER 61

  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.”

  “I would imagine not. Well, I’ll take a look at them, and if I can’t tell, which, without blowing my own horn too loudly, is doubtful, I can certainly put you in touch with someone who can.”

  “Mr. Shaw, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  “Please, call me Caleb.”

  Caleb grabbed a sandwich at a deli on Independence Avenue a block down from the Madison Building and then followed Seagraves to his office building.

  It was located in a brownstone, Seagraves said, but they’d have to enter from the alley. “They’re doing repairs on the lobby, and it’s a mess. But there’s an elevator we can ride from the basement right to my office.”

  As they walked down the alley, Seagraves kept a running conversation going about old books and his hopes of building an adequate collection.

  “It takes time,” Caleb said. “I have a part ownership interest in a rare book shop in Old Town Alexandria. You should drop by sometime.”

  “I’ll certainly do that.”

  Seagraves stopped at a door in the alley, unlocked it and ushered Caleb inside.
>
  He closed the door behind them. “The elevator’s just around the corner.”

  “Fine. I think—”

  Caleb didn’t finish what he was thinking as he slumped to the floor unconscious. Seagraves stood over him, holding the blackjack he’d earlier hidden in a crevice of the interior wall. He hadn’t lied. The brownstone’s lobby was being renovated—the entire building was, in fact—and had been recently shut down so construction work could begin in a week.

  Seagraves tied and gagged Caleb and then placed him in a box that sat open against one wall after taking off a ring from Caleb’s right middle finger. He nailed the lid of the box shut and made a call. Five minutes later a van pulled into the alley. With the driver’s help Seagraves lifted the box into the van. The men climbed in and the van pulled off.

  CHAPTER 62

  ANNABELLE HAD PICKED STONE up before the crack of dawn, and they’d driven out to Trent’s home and settled themselves down where they could see his driveway. They’d left Annabelle’s rental car for Reuben to use and taken his battered pickup truck for the surveillance. It fit in a lot better in horse country than her Chrysler Le Baron had the night before. Because she and Stone had been kidnapped, that car was still parked on a dirt road about five hundred yards from where they were. Annabelle had rented another car the previous night at Dulles Airport.

  Stone was looking through a pair of binoculars. It was dark, chilly and damp, and with the truck’s engine off, the interior quickly became very cold. Annabelle snuggled down in her coat. Stone seemed oblivious to the elements. They had only seen one other car pass by, its headlights cutting through the fog that hovered a few feet above the ground. Stone and Annabelle had ducked down in the truck’s cab until it had gone by. The sleepy driver was on his cell phone, gulping coffee and reading snatches of a newspaper draped across the steering wheel.

  An hour later, just as dawn was breaking, Stone tensed. “Okay, something’s coming.”

  A car had pulled out from Trent’s driveway. As it slowed to make the turn onto the road, Stone focused his binoculars on the driver’s side.

  “It’s Trent.”

  Annabelle looked around at the deserted area. “It might be a little obvious if we start tailing him.”

  “We’re going to have to chance it.”

  Luckily, another car pulled past them, a station wagon with a mom driving and three small kids in the backseat. Trent pulled ahead of the station wagon.

  Stone said, “Okay, that car’s our buffer. If he checks the mirror, he’ll see a family, nothing more. Hit it.”

  Annabelle put the truck in gear and pulled into line behind the second car.

  They made it to Route 7 twenty minutes later through a series of back roads. As they did so, a few other cars joined the procession, but Annabelle managed to keep behind the station wagon, which, in turn, was right behind Trent. When they reached Route 7, a main artery into Tyson’s Corner, Virginia, and Washington, D.C., the traffic picked up considerably. D.C. was an early-to-work sort of place, and major roads were routinely jammed as early as five-thirty.

  “Don’t lose him,” Stone said urgently.

  “I’ve got it covered.” She expertly maneuvered the truck through traffic, keeping Trent’s sedan within sight. It helped that it was getting light now.

  Stone glanced at her. “You seem to have tailed people before.”

  “Just like I told Milton when he asked me a similar question, beginner’s luck. So where do you think Trent’s headed?”

  “I hope to work.”

  Forty minutes later Stone was proved correct as Trent led them to Capitol Hill. As he turned into a restricted area, they had to break off surveillance, but they watched as an automatic security barrier lowered into the ground and a guard waved him in.

  Annabelle said, “If only that guard knew the guy’s a spy and a murderer.”

  “Well, we have to prove that he is; otherwise, he’s not. That’s the way it works in a democracy.”

  “Almost makes you wish we were fascists in this country, doesn’t it?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Stone said firmly.

  “So what now?”

  “Now we wait and watch.”

  Even before 9/11 undertaking surveillance near the Capitol was not easy going. Now it was nearly impossible unless one was nimble and tenacious. Annabelle continually had to move the truck, until they’d found a place close enough to see the exit Trent would have to come out of, and far enough away that the cops would not hassle them. Twice Stone had dashed across the street and bought them coffee and food. They listened to the radio and swapped a little bit more of their personal histories, along with large doses of conjecture on what their next move should be.

  Milton had phoned Stone on a cell phone he’d loaned his friend. He had little to report. The police were being very tight-lipped about things, and consequently, the media kept running the same information over and over. Stone put the phone away and settled back in his seat, took a sip of coffee and glanced at his partner. “I’m surprised you’re not complaining about the monotony. Stakeouts aren’t easy.”

  “The gold always comes to patient people.”

  Stone looked around. “I’m assuming Trent will be working a full day, but we can’t chance that.”

  “Isn’t the Library of Congress around here somewhere?”

  Stone pointed up ahead. “A block that way is the Jefferson Building, where Caleb works. I wonder how he’s getting on. I’m sure the police were there today.”

  “Why don’t you call him?” she suggested.

  Stone phoned his friend’s cell but Caleb didn’t answer. He called the reading room next. A woman picked up and Stone asked for Caleb.

  “He left a while ago to get some lunch.”

  “Did he say how long he’d be gone?”

  The woman said, “Can I ask what this is in reference to?”

  Stone clicked off and sat back.

  “Anything wrong?” Annabelle asked.

  “I don’t think so. Caleb just went off to get some lunch.”

  Stone’s phone rang. He recognized the number on the screen. “It’s Caleb.” He put the phone up to his ear. “Caleb, where are you?”

  Stone stiffened. A minute later he put the phone down.

  “What’s up?” Annabelle asked. “What did Caleb say?”

  “It wasn’t Caleb. It was the people who are holding Caleb.”

  “What!”

  “He’s been kidnapped.”

  “My God, what do they want? And why are they calling you?”

  “They got the number from Milton. They want to meet to discuss things. Any sign of the police, they kill him.”

  “What do they mean they want to meet?”

  “They want you, me, Milton and Reuben to come.”

  “So they can kill us?”

  “Yes, so they can kill us. But if we don’t go, they’ll kill Caleb.”

  “How do we know he’s not already dead?”

  “At ten o’clock tonight they said they’d call and let him talk to us. That’s when they’ll tell us where and when the meeting is.”

  Annabelle drummed her fingers on the worn steering wheel. “So what do we do?”

  Stone studied the Capitol dome in the distance. “You play poker?”

  “I don’t like to gamble,” she answered with a straight face.

  “Well, Caleb’s their full house. So we need at least that or better to be able to play this hand. And I know where to get the cards we need.” However, Stone knew that his plan would test the limits of friendship to the max. Yet he had no choice. He punched in the number, which he knew by heart.

  “Alex, this is Oliver. I need your help. Badly.”

  Alex Ford sat forward in his chair at the Secret Service’s Washington Field Office.

  “What’s going on, Oliver?”

  “It’s a long story, but you need to hear it all.”

  When Stone finished, Ford sat back and let out a long brea
th. “Damn.”

  “Can you help us?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I’ve got a plan.”

  “I hope you do. It sounds like we don’t have much time to pull this together.”

  Albert Trent left Capitol Hill that evening and drove home. Leaving Route 7, he followed the meandering back roads to his isolated neighborhood. He slowed as he approached the last turn before his driveway. A pickup truck had run off the road and hit something. An ambulance and a utility truck were there along with a police car. A uniformed cop was standing in the middle of the road. Trent drove cautiously ahead until the policeman stepped forward with his hand up. Trent rolled down his window and the cop leaned in.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to turn around, sir. That truck skidded off the road and hit an aboveground natural gas pressure regulator and caused a major surge in the pipes. Damn lucky he didn’t blow himself and the neighborhood sky-high.”

  “But I live right around the bend. And I don’t have gas in my house.”

  “Okay, I’ll need to see some ID with your address on it.”

  Trent dug into his jacket pocket and handed the officer his driver’s license. The cop hit it with his flashlight and then handed it back.

  “All right, Mr. Trent.”

  “How soon will they fix it?”

  “That’s a question for the gas company. Oh, one more thing.”

  He reached his other hand in the window and sprayed something from a small canister directly into Trent’s face. The man coughed once and slumped over in his seat.

  On cue, out of the ambulance stepped Stone, Milton and Reuben. With the cop’s help Reuben lifted Trent out of the car and into another car that pulled forward, Annabelle at the wheel. Alex Ford emerged from the ambulance and handed Stone a leather canvas knapsack. “You need me to show you how to use it again?”

  Stone shook his head. “I’ve got it. Alex, I know this is a stretch for you, and I really appreciate it. I didn’t know where else to turn.”

  “Oliver, we’ll get Caleb back. And if this is the spy ring that people have been whispering about and we can bust it, you guys all deserve medals. When you get the call, let us know the details. I’ve got multiagency support on this. Just so you know, I didn’t have to beg for volunteers on this one because a lot of guys are itching to nail these bastards.”