• • •

Caleb arrived at work early to find Kevin Philips, the acting director, opening the doors to the reading room. They chitchatted a bit about Jonathan and ongoing projects at the library. Caleb asked Philips if he’d known about the new fire suppressant system going in, but Philips said he hadn’t. “I’m not sure they even kept Jonathan apprised of that information,” Philips told him. “I doubt he knew what gas was being used.”

“You can say that again,” Caleb whispered under his breath.

After Philips had left and before anyone else arrived, Caleb rummaged in his desk and withdrew a small screwdriver and a penlight. With his back to the surveillance camera he slipped these into his pocket and went inside the vault. Quickly making his way to the top floor, he stopped next to the air vent, his gaze averted from the spot where his friend had died. He used the screwdriver to open the vent, noting with satisfaction that the screws came out very easily, as though someone had removed the covering recently. He set the vent down next to the shelf column and shone his light inside the opening. At first he didn’t see anything unusual, but when he swung his light around a third time, he saw it: a small screw hole in the rear wall of the duct. That could have been used to suspend a camera. He held the vent cover back up and eyeballed it. Judging from the position of the screw and the bent grille, the camera would’ve had a clear field of vision of the room.

Caleb screwed the vent cover back on and left the vault. He called Stone and reported what he’d found. He was just settling down to work when someone came in.

“Hello, Monty. What’ve you got there?”

Monty Chambers, the library’s top book conservator, was standing by the front desk, carrying several items. He still had on his green work apron, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up.

“The Doctrina and the Constable’s Pocket–Book,” he said succinctly.

“You’ve been busy. I didn’t even know the Doctrina was out for preservation work.” The Doctrina breve had been written by Juan de Zumárraga, the first bishop of Mexico. It dated from 1544 and had the distinction of being the oldest complete book in the Western Hemisphere that has survived the centuries. The Constable dated from 1710.

“Kevin Philips ordered it,” Chambers replied. “Three months back. The Constable too. Minor stuff, I just had a backlog. You in the vault? Or me?”

“What? Oh, I’ll take them. Thanks.” Caleb carefully accepted the wrapped books from his colleague and set them on his desk. He tried not to think about the fact that between the Doctrina and the Constable he was in possession of a small fortune’s worth of history.

“I’ll get to your Faulkner soon,” Chambers muttered. “Might take some time. Water damage, tricky.”

“Right, that’s perfectly fine. Thank you.” As Chambers turned to leave, Caleb said, “Uh, Monty.”

Chambers turned back around, looking a little impatient. “Yeah?”

“Have you checked our copy of the Psalm Book recently?” Caleb had had a horrible thought while in the vault, and taking the rare books from Chambers had forced this nightmarish theory to take the form of an awkward question.

Chambers looked suspicious. “The Psalm Book? What for? Anything wrong?”

“Oh, no, no. I just mean, well, I haven’t seen it in some time. Years, in fact.”

“Well, neither have I. You don’t just walk in and check out the Psalm Book. It’s in the national treasures section, for God’s sake.”

Caleb nodded. He had authority to look at virtually any book in the vaults, but the Psalm Book and some others were designated as “national treasures,” the library’s most important category of possessions. These works were numbered and housed in a special section of the vaults. In the event of war or natural catastrophe they would be whisked away to designated secure locations. Hopefully, there would be people left to enjoy them.

Chambers continued, with uncharacteristic loquaciousness, “I told them a long time ago we should repair the cover and redo the support stitches and reinforce the spine — all reversible, of course — but they never acted on it. Don’t know why not. But if they don’t do something, the Psalm Book won’t hold up much longer. Why don’t you tell them that?”

“I will. Thanks, Monty.” After Chambers had left, Caleb wondered what to do. If the library’s copy of the Psalm Book was missing? My God, it couldn’t be. He hadn’t seen the book in, what was it, three years at least. It certainly resembled the one he had found in Jonathan’s collection. Six of the eleven existing Psalm Books were incomplete and in various stages of disrepair. Jonathan’s edition had been complete, though in a run–down condition, similar to the library’s. The only way to tell for sure was to take a look at the Psalm Book the library had. Kevin Philips would probably allow him to do that. He’d make up some excuse, maybe relaying what Monty had just told him. Yes, that would do it.

He put the books Chambers had brought him back in the vaults after signing them back in on the system. Then he called Philips. Though sounding a bit puzzled, Philips authorized Caleb to check the Psalm Book. For security purposes, and to preclude anyone from later accusing him of damaging the book, Caleb brought another library staffer with him. After examining the book he could confirm that what Chambers had said was true, the book did need preservation work. However, he could not tell if it was the book he’d remembered seeing three years ago. It looked like it. But then it also looked like the one in Jonathan’s collection. If Jonathan had somehow taken the library’s Psalm Book and substituted a forgery, the book Caleb had looked at three years ago wouldn’t have been the real one anyway.

Wait a minute. How stupid. The library used a secret coding in its rare books on the exact same page to verify their ownership. He turned to that certain page and scanned down it. The symbol was there! He breathed a sigh of relief that was short–lived. It could’ve been forged too; particularly by someone like Jonathan. And did the Psalm Book in Jonathan’s collection have such a symbol as well? He would have to check. If it did, it would prove that Jonathan had stolen it from the library. Then what did Caleb do? He cursed the day he’d been appointed the man’s literary executor. I thought you liked me, Jonathan.

He spent the rest of the afternoon working on several scholars’ requests, a major collector’s inquiry, handling a pair of international phone calls from universities in England and Switzerland and helping patrons of the reading room.

Jewell English and Norman Janklow were both there today. Though of the same age and both avid book collectors, they never spoke to each other; indeed, they avoided one another entirely. Caleb knew how the feud had started; it was one of the most painful moments of his professional life. English had expressed her enthusiasm about Beadle’s Dime Novels to Janklow one day. The old man’s response had been a little unexpected, to say the least. Caleb clearly recalled Janklow’s words. “Beadles are idiotic rubbish, candy wrappers for the bottom–feeding mindless masses, and poor candy wrappers at that.”

Understandably, Jewell English had not taken this crushing rebuke to her life’s passion very well. And the old woman was not about to take it lying down. Well aware of Janklow’s favorite author, she’d told the old boy that Hemingway was at best a second–rate bum of a writer who used simplistic language because that’s all he knew. And the fact that he’d won a Nobel Prize for churning out that crap invalidated forever more the award in her mind. To add insult to injury, she also said that Hemingway wasn’t worthy to lick F. Scott Fitzgerald’s patent–leather shoes, and — Caleb cringed when he recalled it — she’d intimated that manly hunter and fisherman Ernest Hemingway preferred men over the ladies, the younger the better.