Page 99 of The Chain House

Agent Givens said, “Now why do you all look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”

Before the governor could answer, the warden’s secretary opened the door, poked his head inside the room, and said, “Governor Hawthorne … he’s on the phone. Oliver Crown.”

CHAPTER51

LELAND MOSBY’S USED bookstore was larger than she’d thought, and Jennifer was surprised she’d never been here before.

But then again, the store—which appeared to take up two floors of a three-story residence—was outside the city limits in small-town Lagrange, which was closer to Twisted Tree than Louisville.

Carl followed the PARKING IN THE BACK sign to the lot behind the store and turned the truck’s engine off. “You okay?”

Jennifer nodded, eager to get out but giving it a minute for her tears to dry. She hadn’t intended to grow emotional calling Trevor Harper; she’d spoken to him before, and she’d taken his class for an entire semester, but the abruptness of her emotions had come out of nowhere. But now that the repressed anger had come out, she fought the urge to call him back and apologize for ending her call so abruptly. Even though she’d known who he was since they’d left his house hours ago with the Raven comics in tow, the I know you from somewhere feeling she’d had now for months had hit her full force.

Holding the copy of The Lord of the Flies she’d taken from her childhood bedroom had prompted the phone call while in transit from her parents’ house to Mosby’s bookstore. Holding it again had reminded her of her time in that closet, when she’d had it concealed under her shirt, tucked halfway into the waistline of her pants. The Raven is a liar, she’d thought before making the call, vaguely remembering writing it now, but recalling with clarity why she’d written it. Because he’d promised to come back, and he never did. He’d taken Sam and never came back for the rest of them. But she felt better now for having said it, and getting some of the anger out of her system.

On their way around the building toward the front of the store, Carl showed Jennifer his phone and she said, “What am I looking at?”

He pocketed his phone. “According to the Spider Web, there’s been fifteen other fires reported across the country just since this morning.”

“Fires happen all the time, Carl, everywhere,” Jennifer said, looking up at the pitched roof of the three-story Victorian home that Mosby had converted into a bookstore. Lights shone through the windows of the first two floors, which made her wonder if Mosby lived on the third. “I’m sure there’s never not a fire always going on, somewhere in the country.”

Carl sidled up beside her, matching her pace as she closed in on the tall front door that looked like something out of Victorian England. “Every one of these fires was set at the home of a millionaire.”

“I’m listening,” she said, bounding up the wide concrete steps.

“That’s all I got right now,” he said. “But it’s something, right?”

“Yeah,” she said, and then under her breath, “something to follow.” Without knocking, she opened the door and stepped inside the foyer, which held thousands of books, some on dark, wooden floor-to-ceiling shelves, but in every nook, cranny, and gap stood stacks of used books, hardcovers and paper alike, some of the stacks multiple rows deep, which made her wonder if the foyer was this packed what might the rest of the store look like. And as she called out Mr. Mosby’s name and moved slowly down the narrow, book-choked hallway, she saw that in every room she passed that she was right. Books by the thousands, on wall shelves, books stacked on the floor and on tables, big and small, and some highlighted and propped on scattered column-like pedestals. “Mr. Mosby?”

Carl took it all in with equal amazement, and said softly, “Now this is the fuck, right?”

“Yeah,” she said. And then, “Mr. Mosby?”

She didn’t like the feeling she was getting, and the anxiety increased with every step taken without a response—she’d spoken to the man on the phone only a few minutes ago and he’d said the door would be open. Which it had been. But she’d taken that to mean he’d be here. He’d be expecting them, if not waiting eagerly for their arrival. Mentioning the name Luther Wright earlier had changed his tune in an instant.

“You think he fled?” Carl asked.

“Why would he flee?”

“I don’t know,” he said, ducking his head in to investigate another room as they turned down the octagonal hallway leading through the first-floor maze. Even the kitchen was full of books. The countertops were barely visible under the sheer number of volumes stacked atop them. An overflowing bookshelf stood where the oven should have been, and another where the refrigerator would have gone. “It’s obvious he knew Luther Wright. And I would guess,” he said, pausing as they turned another corner, his anxiety evident in how quickly he was breathing, “that anyone who knew Luther, and can remember his face, might be in more danger now than they’d been before your sketch hit the news.”

“Thanks,” Jennifer said.

“Just saying.”

“I know,” she said, but also knowing he was right, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d brought trouble to Mr. Mosby’s doorstep by reaching out to him. “But from what I could gather, it sounded like Luther loved Mr. Mosby.”

“Desperate times,” Carl said.

They jumped when a voice emerged from a shadowed hallway behind them, like an echo from a labyrinth. “There you are.”

Jennifer turned to find who she assumed was Leland Mosby. She didn’t know why she assumed by his deep, theatrical voice over the phone that he’d be tall, but she certainly hadn’t expected him to be so short, like Trevor Harper short, and maybe even smaller.

In his arms he held a stack of a dozen books. His hair and beard were summer-cloud white, his skin the color of mahogany, and his smile broad and welcoming. He stepped farther out of the shadows, reached his right leg behind him to kick closed a door that Jennifer briefly saw led to a steep set of basement stairs. “Mice down there,” said Mosby, breathing heavily, every bit of eighty years old, maybe older. “Gotta keep the door closed. The mice love books even more than my loyal customers, except my customers don’t eat them.” He handed the stack of books to Carl and wiped his hands of dust Jennifer couldn’t see, because while the entire bookstore looked cluttered, it was noticeably clean. He offered his hand to Jennifer. “Leland Mosby, at your service.” And then he nodded kindly to Carl, who had no free hand to shake.

His grip was much stronger than Jennifer would have imagined. As much as she’d instantly loved this magical place, this labyrinthine house of books, and even more so now wanted to get to know the man who owned it, she didn’t have time to dawdle. She showed him the copy of The Lord of the Flies and said, “This came from your store, maybe decades ago.”

“Ah, yes, back when my store was inside that little hovel across the street,” he said. “It’s a nice breakfast joint now, the biscuits and gravy are divine.” He watched them both. “But I gather we’re not here to discuss food, but Luther Wright.” He shook his head sadly. “That poor, lost soul. Oh, Luther …”