The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [100]
I look at my father. He’s looking at Serena. The word Prophet, plus a cave, where Mitchell Siegel supposedly found the Book of Truth. There’s no ignoring the coincidence. But even with that, it still means nothing.
“I don’t think that’s it,” my father says, trying hard to keep it calm. But he’s right. Just another dead end.
“What y’all working on, anyway?” Pink Glasses asks as she approaches the table, warming her hands around her cup of coffee.
“184 King Street. Mean anything important to you?” her husband asks.
“I know King Avenue,” she says.
“Nope. King Street.”
She shakes her head. “It’s funny, though—almost sounds like the vault.”
We all turn toward her. “What vault?” I ask.
“Our vault—for our rare book collection,” she begins.
“Y’know, I never thought of those,” her husband interrupts. “That’s not a bad—”
“Just let her say it!” my father insists. I shoot him a look to cool down.
“It’s not— These days, we’re on the Library of Congress system,” she explains, “but in the early 1900s, back before Dewey decimal was widely accepted, we used to file rare book collections under the names of big donors.”
“This was way before everyone wanted their name on a brass plaque,” her husband points out.
“Exactly. So when the Silver family donated all their correspondence with President Garfield, they got a whole section in the rare book room with call numbers 1.0.0 Silv . . . 1.0.1 Silv . . . 1.0.2 Silv. Paula and Mark Cook got 1.0.0 Cook. And I think—I could be wrong—but I think the Kingston family, when they donated the glass windows at the front of the building, got a section starting with 1.0.0 King.”
“So there very well could be a 1.8.4 King as a call number in your collection,” my father says.
“Only way to find is to seek,” her husband replies, pushing back from the table, heading behind the reference desk, and flicking on a computer terminal marked “Internal Catalog.” On our right, the turnstile again kuh-kuunks as the first library visitor—a bald man with Buddy Holly glasses—arrives.
“Morning, June. Morning, Mike,” he calls out, headed to the magazine section. Serena shoots me a look. Time is, most definitely, not on our side.
“Is there any way we can speed this up?” I ask.
Behind the desk, the husband is clicking at the keyboard and humming the theme to Jeopardy!
“Junebug, how is it possible to always be right?” he announces as a wide smile takes his face. “There most definitely is a King collection. And when you put in 1.8.4 as the call number . . .” He studies the screen. “Oh, that’s curious. . . .”
“What?” I blurt as the turnstile delivers yet another visitor.
“Back then, they used to keep such meticulous records for the rare books. Anyway, it was filed with the Kingston family because they had a spectacular Russian book collection. But when you look at the actual path of ownership . . .” He turns to us, and his gold cross sways from his neck. “According to these records, 1.8.4 King was a book donated by someone named Jerry Siegel.”
65
Where’sthevault? Isthebooktherenow? Canwegoseeit?” my dad, Serena, and I all ask simultaneously.
The husband and wife librarians look at each other. “Pretty important case you’re working on, huh?” the husband asks.
“Y’all are law enforcement?” the wife adds, suddenly excited. “Ooh, is this gonna be on the news?”
“Can we just see the book?” I plead.
“Sure, let me just—” The husband reads from the screen. “It’s a big one, too. Nearly six hundred pages.”
“What is it, Moby-Dick?” my father asks.
“No—but back to your Scripture—it is a Bible. A Hebrew one. Published 1875 by M. R. Romma. Says here ‘Russian.’ Poor condition. This book took a hell of a beating.”
“His father’s Bible,” I whisper to myself.
“You think this is it?” Serena asks, referring to Cain’s murder weapon.
“If it is—and he thought people were after it—maybe he donated it here to keep it safe,” I say as Serena nods.
“I’m confused,” says the wife librarian. “Why would someone be after a Bible?”
“We’re not exactly sure yet,” my father interrupts, doing his best to