Jewell English had answered Caleb’s phone call and seemed delighted that he’d found her glasses. Tonight would be fine regardless of the late hour, she’d said. “I don’t sleep much,” she confided to Caleb on the phone. “But I might be in my nightgown,” she added in a girlish voice.
“That’s nice,” he’d answered dully.
As he walked toward her home, he took note of the other houses. They were all aged tiny brick ranches with cookie-cutter yards and darkened interiors. A cat snuck across one lawn, startling him. He took several deep breaths and muttered, “She’s just an old lady who lost her glasses. Just an old lady who lost her glasses. Just an old lady who could be a spy with henchmen waiting to slit my throat.” He glanced back at the car. He couldn’t see Milton but assumed his sidekick was busily snapping photos of a suspicious-looking robin lurking on a tree branch.
The lights were on in Jewell’s home. He could see lace curtains in the windows and through the big living room glass, knickknacks and bric-a-brac positioned on the painted fireplace mantel. There was no car in the rusty carport. He assumed she’d either quit driving or her ride was in the repair shop. Her lawn was neatly cut, and two columns of rosebushes guarded the front of her house. He rang the bell and waited. No one came. He rang it again. No footsteps reached his ears. He glanced around. The street was empty, quiet. Maybe too quiet, as they say in the movies; right before you’re shot, stabbed or eaten.
He’d called her a little over an hour ago. What could have happened in the interim? He’d heard the bell buzz, but maybe she couldn’t hear it. He knocked on the door, hard. “Jewell?” He said her name again, louder. From somewhere a dog started barking, and he jumped. It wasn’t from inside the house, though, probably a neighbor’s mutt. He knocked again, harder, and the door swung open.
He turned, poised to run. You never ever went into a house when the door just opened like that. The next sound nearly pushed his heart into defib.
“Caleb?”
He shrieked and grabbed the handrail on the front stoop to avoid pitching over into the bushes in his fright.
“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.
A dead man stared up at him. It was Norman Janklow, the Hemingway lover and Jewell English’s nemesis in the Rare Books reading room.
CHAPTER 57
ALBERT TRENT LIVED IN AN OLD house with a broad front porch set far back from a rural road in western Fairfax County.
“Must be a hike for him to get into D.C. every day from here,” Stone noted as he eyeballed the place with a pair of binoculars from behind a copse of towering river birch. Annabelle, dressed in black jeans, dark tennis shoes and a black hooded jacket, crouched next to him. Stone carried a small knapsack.
“Does it look occupied?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No lights that I can see from here, but the garage is closed, so we can’t tell if there’s a car in there.”
“A guy in the intelligence field probably has an alarm system.”
Stone nodded. “I would be stunned if he didn’t. We’ll disable that first, before we go inside.”
“You know how to do that?”
“As I once told Reuben when he asked me that, the library is open to everyone.”
There wasn’t another house within their line of sight, but they still approached the rear of the house to avoid being seen. This required crawling on their bellies, then their knees, and finally crab-walkin
g down a gentle slope twenty yards from the house. They halted here and Stone took another reconnoiter. The home had a walk-out basement with a pressure-treated deck on one end. The back was as dark as the front. With no streetlights and just a dash of ambient light, Stone’s night binoculars were working optimally. Through the green haze of the coated optics he could see everything he needed to.