Page 100 of The Chain House

“So you knew him?”

“Did I ever,” said Mosby. “His family lived in one of the upstairs apartments next door to my shop. Every time he ran away, which was often, he’d come to my store. After the third time, I learned that he couldn’t read, and that broke my heart, so I taught him. He caught on quickly—the boy was bright—and instantly to the books he would go, whether he was running away that day or not. I’d find him hiding in my aisles. Reading under stairwells. Under tables. Atop the tables. Behind my desk. We’d discuss every book when he was finished, and oftentimes I’d have to coax him out the door at closing time.” At this point Mosby grew noticeably sad, his eyes filled with moisture. “The poor child was terrified of his home. He was abused, I knew that, and I called Protective Services more than once, but there the boy remained, until … that horrible face wound …”

“How did he get it?” Jennifer asked.

“I don’t know for sure,” he said, “but the first time I saw the wound, poorly tended to, I might add, and even more crudely stitched, I’m afraid, I was convinced, along with the massive cut, that it had involved burns as well. As if he’d been struck with something searingly hot.” He sighed, wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry. After your call, I did spend a minute scouring my news feed. The bookstore is on Twitter, if you can believe that, or X, or whatever it’s called now, and I saw the sketch you did. It’s the same scar. It’s the same boy, now a man, now Justice Minks, now Oliver Crown. And back then he’d become whatever protagonist, or even occasionally the antagonist, of whatever book he was reading.” He turned to Jennifer. “I could see it in the eyes—you’re quite the artist, Ms. Daley. So detailed it brought memories of Luther back with screaming vengeance. I’d always wondered what had become of him. I feared what had become of him. Of poor Luther Wright.”

“And now we know,” Carl said.

Mosby nodded. “I never dreamed he’d become this, if it is as they say.”

Jennifer said, “We need your help finding him. He has the governor’s wife. And we think he has something planned after Batise’s execution.”

“Yes, I’ve quickly caught myself up on the situation.” He patted the top book of the stack Carl now held. “I’ve saved these for over thirty years, should Luther ever come back. These books were his favorites. He returned to them often, as you can see, by how worn they are.”

After a quick perusal, Jennifer saw that Carl held a mix of paperbacks and hardcovers, as well as larger art-type books, or perhaps photography, and the pile had been stacked like a pyramid, largest books on the bottom, up to the small paperback of what she now realized was The Grapes of Wrath, and beneath that, stories from Edgar Allan Poe.

Mosby saw her looking at the top book, The Grapes of Wrath. “He went for a time convinced he was Tom Joad. Didn’t matter that Luther was a boy and Tom Joad was a man.” He shook his head sadly. “Even at that young age, he understood deeply the dynamic themes of that novel, and often ranted about that vast divide between the wealthy landowners and those who worked their land.” He said to Carl, “Let me get you a box for those.”

As they followed him back to the kitchen, Jennifer asked, “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Over thirty years ago,” he said. “At least. It was not long after the wound on his face. Finally, by then it seemed Social Services had had enough, and into the system he went. I never heard from him again.”

As Carl placed the books inside the box Mosby handed him, Jennifer asked, “When did you move across the street to this … house?”

“Seven years ago,” Mosby said. “It had always been a dream, to turn this house into a bookstore. I live up on the third floor. I have many wealthy customers … but seven years ago, I received a very large anonymous donation for the bookstore, and I used it to purchase this house.”

“And you don’t know who it came from?” Jennifer asked.

“No, not really, although I could make a few guesses, and I’ve often wondered if it wasn’t one particularly loyal book club, a group of women who all have money.”

Carl and Jennifer shared a look.

Mosby said, “What am I missing?”

Jennifer said, “What if the anonymous donor was Luther?”

Mosby laughed, like that was ridiculous, and then his face changed to, perhaps, belief in the possibility.

Jennifer said, “If he was the secret mule between Batise and the publisher for the Mallard Malone novels, he could be worth millions of dollars, if not more.”

Carl added, “The timing of it would coincide with an initial payment.”

“Yes,” Mosby said, still in obvious disbelief. “An advance for that first book. Dear God. Luther …”

“He’s not Luther anymore,” Jennifer said, before jumping at the sound of broken glass and rapidly fired bullets at the front of the bookstore.

CHAPTER52

Before

LELAND MOSBY TOOK the paperback copy of The Grapes of Wrath back from the boy and placed it atop a nearby stack.

“You seem to have taken to the book, Luther,” said Mr. Mosby. “Although it does sadden me that a boy your age should find empathy with the lifelong conflict between the powerful and the powerless.” He patted the boy’s head, careful not to stare at the angry scar running across Luther’s face, the crude stitches as angry as the boy’s eyes in the flickering candlelight. “How about something a touch lighter for your next read?”

The boy’s expression didn’t change. “What is wrath?”

As a man of words, Mr. Mosby, in any other moment, would not have hesitated in his answer, but the question, coming from the boy, now, gave him an anxious pause, if for no other reason than the fear of why he’d asked it. “Well,” said Mr. Mosby. “It is an anger so great that it may express itself in an intense … desire to severely punish someone.” The boy nodded, knowingly, almost, if not satisfied with something. Mr. Mosby didn’t trust the lack of a look in the boy’s glassy eyes, and said, “But I think what you’re feeling, Luther, is anger, pure and simple. Mixed in with a bit of fear and confusion.”