“I was in the basement.”
“Why were you in the basement?”
“I went to watch that money.”
“How did you know it was down there?”
“You did not take it away in your car.”
“Why did you go to watch it?”
“That man following, that was bad. He wanted the money.”
“What man?” Dorothy asked.
“We saw someone on the way to New York,” Charles said. “So you were in the basement. Just waiting?”
“I was waiting. And then the door opened.”
“The front door?”
“That door opened and I heard walking up there, then walking on the stairs down.”
“What about the door?”
“He tried to open but I had it locked already. But he unlocked it.”
“He had a key?” Charles asked.
“That lock, it is too easy,” Angelo said.
“What happened when he opened the door?”
“That door didn’t open.”
“The chair,” Charles said. “You had it against the door?”
“That man pushed, but I held it closed and the chair held it.”
Charles stopped. Dorothy was hardly breathing and her face was white.
“It’s all right,” Charles said. “Angelo is sitting right here with us. Whatever he tells us, he made it through.”
“It’s terrible,” she said.
“But it’s over. Go ahead, Angelo. Did he ever get the door open?”
“No, it didn’t open. Then he went back up the stairs. Then the light went off.”
“He turned off the electricity.”
“I locked the door again if he would come back. Then I waited and then I smelled fire.”
“Did you go up to see?” Charles asked.
“I looked up the stairs, but it was all fire.”
“Could you have gotten out?”
“That man, he might be waiting for me to come out.”
“So you went back down.”
“He would get that money if I went out.”
“The money isn’t as important to me as you are, Angelo!” Charles shook his head. “You could have died down there.”
“I think it was a very big fire,” Angelo said. “You say that room doesn’t burn in fires. Then the smoke came.”
“Maybe it was the better thing to do. You probably wouldn’t have gotten through it. John Borchard didn’t.”
“That man did the fire?”
“That’s what the police say. He didn’t get out, Angelo. He died right above you.”
“He was not a good man. I said be careful.”
“Yes, you did. We both had to be careful.”
Angelo’s perils had taken Dorothy’s thoughts from her own. “I think that’s enough,” she said. “Come into the kitchen, both of you. We need to eat. We’ll have a long day. We need to get back over there to get the books out. I’ll call Morgan and Alice.”
“You get something for Angelo,” Charles said. “Tell Morgan to meet me at the store in twenty minutes, and tell Alice to bring boxes. Have her buy a couple hundred somewhere. And lots of packing.”
“Don’t you want anything?” she said. “You must be starving.”
“I need to think what it means. Angelo, are you sure you had the door locked in the basement?”
“It was locked.”
“But he still got it open?”
“That man, he must be good on locks.”
Charles stared out the window. The sun had gone. In just a few minutes, clouds had covered it.
In just a few minutes more a car had arrived, loudly. Its door slammed and the doorbell rang, while a voice called through the window.
“Mr. Beale? Are you in there?”
Charles jumped to the door. “Congresswoman. Come in. Dorothy, Karen Liu is here.”
“I just heard,” Karen Liu said. Charles had barely gotten her seated. “My staff got a call that John Borchard was killed in a fire. Then they said it was in a bookstore in Alexandria. Oh, Mr. Beale! I drove right over. The street was closed. I called and found out where you lived.”
“You found us,” Charles said.
“I have some coffee,” Dorothy said.
“Yes, please. What happened? What was he doing?”
“I don’t know for sure. The police think he was trying to burn down the building and he didn’t get out in time.”
“That’s horrible! Mr. Beale, you know how I felt about him, but I never wanted anything like this! Did he…?” Suddenly her momentum stalled. She started again, much slower. “What was he doing?”
“It had to do with Derek,” Charles said. “He thought I had Derek’s papers.”
“And he burned down a whole building to get them? Oh, Mr. Beale! I can’t believe it. He could have killed people.” She stopped again. “He killed himself.” She lurched forward. “Do you think he did it on purpose?”
“I don’t know,” Charles said. “No, he wouldn’t. Not like that.”
“What about your books?”
“The showroom was destroyed. The basement may be salvageable.”
“Oh my. Oh, Mr. Beale. If there is anything I can do, anything, I will. Anything.”
Dorothy handed her a coffee cup and she took it without noticing.
“We’re only getting started,” Charles said. “I need to go back and look. I need to get the books out as quickly as I can. Congresswoman-”
“Please call me Karen. You already have, once.”
“Karen. Would you stay with Dorothy and Angelo?”
“I’ll go with you,” Dorothy said.
“No, you stay and get some rest. There won’t be a lot to do yet. I’ll take a flashlight.” He went up the stairs to the bedroom and took a flashlight from the nightstand. Then he opened the John Locke and took one paper from the card box.
He looked into the kitchen. “Angelo, I’m leaving. Take care of Dorothy for me.”
“Take care how?”
“If she needs anything.” He turned back to Dorothy. “Goodbye, dear.”
Charles stepped out onto the brick sidewalk that he walked so many times, and so many others had walked before him. He looked for a moment at the old townhouse and the lace curtains in the windows.
Then he chose a quick pace, down two blocks, over one block, past the firemen carrying away barricades and people clotting the way. He squeezed through.
In the full light, the ruin of the building was entire and terrible, but only pitiable, not profound as it had been in the night. Charles stood and pitied it. The face was intact but charred with great black stains leaking upward from the blank holes of the windows. Just from the way it stood, it was obvious that it was hollow and dead inside.
There was one sign of life, a man in a hard hat coming out of what had been the doorway, and Charles hurried toward him.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m Charles Beale. I own the building. Are you inspecting it?”
“Yeah. Good morning. They said you want to get books out of the basement?”
“Yes, very quickly. May I get them?”
“Okay, look, Mr. Beale,” the man said. “This place isn’t safe. But how much did you say the books are worth?”
“About ten million dollars.”
He nodded. “I’m going to let you in. It’s not going to fall in today, I don’t think, but you’re doing this at your own risk. I’m giving you one day.”
“Thank you. I’ll go down now and look.”
He walked in and stopped. There could never have been anything like books in such a place. There were no shelves, no counter, nothing to make it a room. There was only black, enough to suck the light out of air. There was no ceiling. He looked straight up to where the office had been and it was only more of the same black, lightless space.
He walked down the stairs. The splintered door was the first thing visible, and he pushed it aside with his foot. The water was mostly gone. He turned his light onto the walls.
The books stared back at him and their thoughts were unknowable, whether it was relief or reproach or resignation. He took a volume from a shelf and gently opened it. The cover was strong and straight and the pages were dry. Now, as they went on, Mr. Great-heart drew his sword, with intent to make a way for the pilgrims in spite of the lions. Then there appeared one that, it seems, had taken upon him to back the lions; and he said to the pilgrims’ guide, What is the cause of your coming hither? Now the name of that man was Grim, or Bloody-man because of his slaying of pilgrims; and he was of the race of the giants. MR. GREAT-HEART: Then said the pilgrims’ guide, These women and children are going on pilgrimage, and this is the way they must go; and go it they shall, in spite of thee and the lions. GRIM: This is not their way, neither shall they go therein. I am come forth to withstand them, and to that end will back the lions.