Hell's Corner

CHAPTER 13

Annabelle Conroy rode the elevator up to the second floor, stepped off, turned and entered the Rare Book Reading Room in the Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress. She surveyed the large room and spotted Caleb Shaw at his desk in the back. She caught his eye and he quickly came forward.

“Annabelle, what are you doing here?”

“Can you take a break? I’ve got Reuben and Harry Finn out front. We want to talk.”

“About what?”

“What do you think? Oliver. Those guys took him from the hospital and we haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

“If anyone can take care of himself it’s Oliver.”

“But he might need our help.”

“All right, give me a minute.”

As they rode down in the elevator Caleb said, “This has been quite an exciting day for me.”

“Why’s that?”

“We just got in an F. Scott. And not just any F. Scott. The F. Scott.”

“The F. Scott what?” asked Annabelle.

Caleb gazed at her in horror. “F. Scott Fitzgerald. One of the greatest American writers of all time.” He sputtered, “My God, Annabelle, where have you been all these years?”

“Nowhere near a library, I guess.”

“The book is The Great Gatsby, arguably his greatest achievement, and certainly his most well-known work. And it’s not just any Great Gatsby, of which we have several. It’s a first edition, first state, of course. But it has the very rare, scarcely obtainable dust jacket cover.” Annabelle looked at him blankly. “You know, the one with the haunting pair of female eyes? It is one of the most uniquely famous covers in classic literature. You see, the cover was actually conceived before Fitzgerald finished writing the book. He loved it so much he wrote a scene in the novel that included that image.”

“Very interesting,” said Annabelle politely, but her tone actually showed little interest. She had once shared a van with Caleb for nearly two days, during which he had regaled her nearly nonstop with literary scuttlebutt. She had never really recovered from the onslaught.

They got off the elevator and walked toward the exit.

Caleb continued, “And that’s not the best part. The best part is that it’s Zelda’s copy. The provenance is absolutely certain.”

“Who’s Zelda?”

“Who’s Zelda?” sputtered Caleb again. “His wife, of course. Scott and Zelda. A more tragic couple you would be hard pressed to find. She died in an asylum and Fitzgerald drank himself to death. He inscribed the book for her. What a coup for the library. A one of one,” he added. “We love those.”

“Totally unique?”

“Absolutely.”

“How much did you pay for it?”

Caleb looked taken aback. He blustered, “Well, I mean, that is not for public—”

“Come on, just an estimate.”

“It was well into the six figures, I’ll have to leave it at that,” he said, a bit pompously.

Annabelle now looked interested. “My grandmother left me her personal copy of Wuthering Heights. I wonder how much it might be worth. It’s in excellent condition.”

Caleb looked intrigued. “Wuthering Heights? First editions of those in pristine condition are rare. Where did she get it?”

“At a bookstore eight years ago. It’s a paperback, is that a problem?”

Caleb gazed stonily at her and said stiffly, “Funny.”

Outside they met up with Reuben and Harry Finn. Finn was a decades-younger version of Stone, lean and lethal. Unless he needed to move fast, he never seemed to even flinch, as though storing his energy for when a crisis occurred. Reuben had changed from his loading-dock uniform into his usual garb of jeans and a sweatshirt with moccasins on his feet. They sat on the broad steps leading into the library.

Annabelle said, “So what are we going to do?”

“What can we do?” said Reuben.

“Oliver may be in trouble,” she replied.

“Oliver is often in trouble,” responded Caleb.

“Those men who took him from the hospital,” began Annabelle.

Finn cut in. “NIC. Riley Weaver’s boys. Heard it from a buddy of mine. It was a catch and release. I doubt Oliver gave them what they wanted.”

“Then he is in trouble,” said Annabelle. “And we have to help him.”

“Why don’t we wait for him to ask for that help?” said Caleb.

“Why?” Annabelle shot back.

“Because every time I help him I get in trouble here,” he said, looking back at the enormous library building. “I’m actually on probation, a positively horrendous situation for someone of my age and level of experience.”

“No one’s asking you to risk your job, Caleb. But I did find something out. In fact, it’s why I wanted to meet with all of you today.”

“What did you find out?” asked Reuben.

“That Oliver was leaving to go somewhere.”

“How do you know that?”

“I found a packed bag in his cottage. Along with several books written in what I think is Russian.”

“You mean you broke in his cottage and found it,” said Caleb heatedly. “You have absolutely no respect for property rights, Annabelle Conroy. None. It’s outrageous. It really is.”

She slipped a book from her pocket and showed it to the librarian.

“Yes, it is Russian,” said Caleb as he glanced at the title. He looked more closely at the title. “It’s a book on Russian politics, but it’s decades old. Why in the world would he be taking that with him?”

“Maybe he was going to Russia and he needed to bone up on his language skills,” suggested Finn. “One way to do that is read the language.”

“Why would Oliver be going to Russia?” asked Reuben. “Wait a minute, how would he even get there? He doesn’t have a passport. He doesn’t have any ID at all. Not to mention money for the trip.”

“There could only be one way he could go,” said Annabelle.

“You mean on behalf of the U.S. government?” replied Finn.

“Yes.”

“On behalf of the government!” exclaimed Caleb. “He doesn’t work for the government. At least not anymore.”

“Maybe that status has changed,” said Annabelle. “I mean, they offered the man the Medal of Honor.”

Reuben mused, “Oliver going back inside. After all these years, I can’t believe it.”

“And after all they did to him,” added Finn quietly.

“Why would he do that?” asked Caleb. “If there’s one thing we know about Oliver, it’s that he really doesn’t trust the government.”

“Maybe he really didn’t have a choice,” said Finn.

“But it’s not like he’s twenty anymore,” retorted Annabelle. “He was almost killed last night. If he goes to Russia, he may never come back.”

Reuben said, “He may be older but he’s also wiser. I wouldn’t discount how much he has left in the tank.”

“He almost died in that prison in Divine, Reuben,” she reminded him. “And Milton did die,” she added with brutal frankness.

Reuben, who’d been very close to Milton Farb, glanced down at his hands. “Maybe we’re all too old for this shit anymore.”

Finn said, “So how do you want to play this with Oliver? We all know he won’t ask for our help. Not after what happened in Divine.”

Caleb said, “That’s right. He’ll do nothing that puts us in any danger.”

“Then maybe we don’t wait for him to ask for our help,” said Annabelle. “Maybe we just become proactive.”

“Meaning what exactly?” asked Reuben. “Not spy on him?”

“No, but we can show a united front and tell him what we think.”

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” Reuben said.

Annabelle stood. “Fine. If you guys want to wait for his death notice, great. I’m not.” She turned and walked off.

“Annabelle!” Reuben called after her.

She never turned around.

“She’s very stubborn,” grumbled Caleb. “Like most women. It’s probably why I never got married.”

Reuben glowered at him. “Oh, I think there were a few other reasons for that, Caleb.”