Murder in the Locked Library

by Ellery Adams

At this, Randall released a single, humorless guffaw. “I hope they suffer! I’ve had to deal with those sheep for years. I’ve had to listen to their endless ailments and petty gossip. To all the details of their insignificant lives. I’ve been patient. So very patient! When I heard my bleating coworker telling her mother about the exhumed cookbook and the possibility that the driver of the earthmover might have scooped up an item belonging to the dead man, I knew Otto Frank had been found. A member of my family killed him. Did you know that, Guardian?” His voice was taunting. “My relative posed as one of Walter Steward’s Fins. Teague isn’t my true surname. I’m a Rackley. Recognize the name? My family was one of the food manufacturing firms behind the publication of Mrs. Tanner’s Everyday Receipts.”

  “So your relative put an arrow in Otto Frank’s back. How noble. How brave. How proud you must be,” Jane said with a sneer.

  Randall shook his fist. “I am proud. Otto, that inquisitive bastard, should have stayed in Germany.” Lowering his hand, Randall grinned. “Funny that he ended up doing me a good turn all these years later. Just by being discovered, Frank confirmed my sect’s theories that Walter Steward was a Guardian and that my ancestor, Reuben Rackley, wasn’t crazy.”

  This line resonated with Jane, for many of Walter Steward’s contemporaries had believed that he’d lost his mind when he’d dismantled his estate and moved it to a remote valley in western Virginia. But knowing that Randall also had an eccentric relative didn’t mean that Jane felt an iota of compassion for a man who’d stoop to kidnapping two little boys.

  “If Reuben was a Fin, then why did you spend years serving as a small-town pharmacist?” Butterworth asked. “Why don’t you already have all the answers?”

  “He posed as a Fin for a single night when Otto stayed at Storyton Hall,” Randall murmured. “Reuben incapacitated one of Walter’s servants, dressed in his livery, and approached Otto in the garden. The two men fought, but Otto was a scientist. He was no match for a Templar. Defeated, he turned to flee. That’s when Reuben shot him.”

  “Your esteemed relative clearly lived long enough to send a report of this event. It was his last report, I’d wager, before he was discovered by the real Fins.” Butterworth stared down at Randall. The pharmacist was the first to look away.

  Jane didn’t want to hear another word about bygone killings. She wanted to see her sons. To Butterworth, she said, “I’d like to get my boys and go home. Can you shoot him in the kneecap before we leave? Just in case there’s something he should be telling us now?”

  Butterworth knew that Jane was issuing a threat, not an order. Randall took her at her word, however, and his eyes widened in surprise.

  “Touch me and your sons die!” he hissed. He raised his hand, clearly intending to reach into his jacket pocket, but he never got the chance. Butterworth fired his pistol and the impact of the bullet caused Randall’s hand to flail outward away from his body.

  Randall howled in pain, and before Jane could even process what had happened, Butterworth had Randall’s face pressed against the floorboards.

  “Bind his wrists. Tightly.” With his knee dug between Randall’s shoulder blades, Butterworth held out a plastic wrist tie to Jane.

  Though a little repulsed by the rivulets of blood leaking from the center of Randall’s palm, Jane complied. Next, she searched his pockets and discovered two crucial items: Otto’s ring and a cell phone. After scooping her locket off the ground, she handed the locket and the ring to Butterworth. The butler, who’d just finished binding a handkerchief around Randall’s injured hand, nodded at Jane in approval.

  Randall’s phone was password protected, but the phone could also be accessed by touch identification, so Jane used her shirt to wipe the blood off Randall’s right thumb. She then pressed his thumb to the phone’s home button. Randall tried to foil her attempts by wiggling, but Butterworth threw his arms around the smaller man’s chest and held him in a fierce bear hug.

  Having gained access, Jane scrolled through the phone applications. There were no messages or recent calls and Jane didn’t know how to track Randall’s movements using his SIM card. Sterling or Sinclair could, however. She needed to turn the phone over to one of them.

  “We should go,” Jane said to Butterworth.

  The butler hauled Randall to his feet. “Walk on, sir. If you resist, I will shoot your left hand. I do not make idle threats, but if you’d care to test me, I should warn you that I am fresh out of handkerchiefs.”

  As soon as Randall began moving, Jane hurried toward the stairs.

  “Your sons are dead, Guardian.” Randall’s voice struck Jane like a hammer. “Your efforts are pointless.”

  Jane refused to reply or to allow her steps to falter. She descended the stairs and flipped on the lights in the hallway, making it easier to continue to the next staircase. She didn’t notice a single detail about her surroundings. Her mind was fixed on Randall’s horrible claim.

  What kind of monster could say such a thing? He’s lived among us for years, pretending to care about Storyton’s residents, when all he really wanted was to steal from our secret library. He’s a thief, a murderer, and a child abductor. A monster among us.

  When they reached the ground floor, Jane stopped and turned to face Butterworth. Anger radiated off her body, but her voice was icy. “Since Randall went through the trouble to prepare a special welcome for us, I don’t think we should leave until we see it.”

  Butterworth immediately understood her meaning. He pushed Randall toward the door leading to the basement. Next, he pulled a key ring from Randall’s pocket and unlocked the door.

  For the first time since their arrival, Randall looked scared.

  “If you do this, you’ll never discover where your beloved Edwin is being held captive,” he said, watching as Butterworth took out his lock-picking kit.

  Jane sent a quick text message to Sterling. After telling him their location and what they planned to do, she pocketed the phone and stared at Randall. “As if I’d believe a word from your lying mouth. You’re a mixture of flesh, blood, and deceit.”

  “If you don’t rescue Alcott, no one will,” Randall said. “He’s not overseas, no matter what his postcards led you to believe. There are others who can write like him and secure those postmarks. Suffice it to say, he never made his flight. He’s surprisingly close.”

  This information, which sounded legitimate, was too much for Jane to take in. Her mind was already a maelstrom of thoughts centered on finding her boys. There was no room for the possibility of another loss. It was too much. She felt as if she were coming apart—unraveling like a ball of string.

  “Mr. Alcott knows how to extricate himself from difficult positions,” Butterworth said. “We have complete confidence in his ability to do so in this instance as well.”

  Randall laughed. “The last time, he was imprisoned by an angry sheik. That’s a walk in the park compared to his current situation.”

  Butterworth finished with the lock. Ignoring Randall, he arched a brow at Jane. “Do you wish to continue?”

  Jane hesitated. It was Randall’s modus operandi of deceit that led her to what was undoubtedly a rash—bordering on crazy—decision. But it was obvious that Randall wanted to avoid the basement. Why else would he attempt to bargain with her again? And why would he use Edwin instead of her sons to sway her? Because the trap was a deterrent—a way of dissuading her from searching the basement for her boys. She felt this in her bones.

  “Yes,” she replied. “My boys are down there.”

  Butterworth put one hand on the knob while trying to position Randall so that he’d face whatever was on the other side of the door, but Randall twisted with sudden violence and bolted straight for Jane.

  Jane’s reaction was a result of her martial arts training. She released a guttural shout and hit Randall with a flying front kick that landed in the center of his chest. He reeled backward into Butterworth’s arms.

  Butterworth wrenched the basement d
oor open and pushed Randall forward into the void.

  “Wait!” Randall shrieked, teetering wildly on the top step. The fear in his voice filled the stairwell. “If I fall, I’ll trigger the explosives! If I die, your sons die!”

  Butterworth yanked Randall out of the doorway while sweeping his leg under Randall’s feet. Randall landed hard on his back, his head bouncing off the floor with a resounding thud.

  “Coward,” Butterworth said with disgust. After tying Randall’s ankles together, he felt for Randall’s pulse. “He’s alive, but unconscious.”

  Though Jane was tempted to deliver a swift kick to Randall’s ribs, she had more important things to do.

  “Boys! It’s Mom!” she shouted down into the black abyss at the bottom of the stairs. “Butterworth and Sterling are here too! We’re coming to get you!” She listened for any sound to indicate her boys were alert and responsive, but what she heard renewed her terror. With all the talking and commotion, she hadn’t heard the ticking before.

  “Come away from the door,” Butterworth said. “Mr. Sterling is working on the cellar window. It’s barred, but Mr. Lachlan brought blowtorches from our garage. It was clever of you to text your intentions to the other Fins.”

  “I’m going outside.” Jane pointed at Randall’s inert body. “Keep an eye on him. If he tries anything, shoot him. He was willing to sacrifice my sons.”

  Butterworth shook his head. “Randall Rackley is not the head of the snake. There will be more of his kind sniffing at our door. We should question him.”

  “Even incarcerated, he’ll tell his sect everything he knows about us. What better reason to silence him?” Jane didn’t subscribe to violence as a means to an end, but this man had threatened her children. Her emotions were displacing rational thought.

  Outside, she saw the starburst sparks of blowtorch flames illuminating the night. Sterling and Lachlan crouched in front of a horizontal basement window. The glass had been knocked inward and two of the bars were already removed. One more, and Jane could slip through the opening.

  “Did you hear anything from inside?” Jane asked Sterling.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  Jane willed his torch flame to work faster.

  Please, Lord. Let my sons be here, she prayed. Please let them be okay.

  Lachlan had barely pulled the last bar away from its frame when Jane was on her belly, wriggling through the window.

  “Wait.” Sterling grabbed her. “You need to check for trip wires.”

  Jane felt like a fool. She was in such a hurry to save her sons that she could have killed them just as surely as if she’d shoved Randall down the basement stairs.

  “Yes. You’re right,” she said, accepting the proffered flashlight.

  The beam revealed an empty space.

  “I see nothing. There’s nothing here,” she whispered, trying to fight the rising despair.

  Sterling touched her shoulder. “Put that in your pocket and we’ll lower you down. Stay close to the wall. When you get to the bottom, move slowly.”

  Jane gave a hand to each of her Fins. They lowered her as far as they could, but she had to let go and fall several feet before landing on the cold, concrete floor.

  Pulling out her flashlight, she asked Sterling for his supply of glow sticks. He cracked them and dropped them down. Jane hurled a stick in every direction. Through a nimbus of spectral green light, she saw the bottom of the staircase and another door on the far side of the room.

  Hugging the wall opposite the staircase, Jane moved toward the door. She continued to sweep her flashlight beam back and forth, but she still saw nothing. The space was completely empty. It was filled with only a damp darkness.

  Jane reached the door, looked at it, and then returned to stand below the window.

  “Will the blowtorch work on a padlock?” she called up to Sterling.

  “Yes,” he said, and passed it down to her. A pair of goggles hung from the top. “Be patient. It could take several minutes. Was that all? Just the padlock?”

  Jane frowned. “No. There’s a second lock requiring a key.”

  “Burn that too,” Sterling said. “Keep the flame directed on the keyhole. Once it’s melted, it’ll be too hot to touch, so pry the lock mechanism off with your knife.”

  Jane ran back to the door and fired up the torch. She was relieved when the brass on the padlock started to bubble, but it was agony waiting for it to melt. To distract herself, she began to talk to the boys as if they were standing right beside her.

  “They don’t teach you lock melting in science class,” she said, and went on to share a story about the time her lab partner fainted when she was told to dissect a frog.

  “I think it was the smell of the formaldehyde,” Jane said just as the bottom half of the padlock separated from the top and fell to the ground with a satisfying clink. Turning her attention to the second lock, Jane continued her story. “Sally—that’s the girl—wasn’t the only student to faint. One of the biggest and toughest football players keeled right over before ever touching his scalpel.”

  Jane kept talking. The sound of her voice resonating throughout the empty basement was oddly reassuring.

  “How’s it coming?” Sterling called down to her.

  “Almost done!” she shouted back as the metal surrounding the keyhole bubbled and sank inward. She unfolded her knife and pried it out. Next, she twisted the locking mechanism using the point of her knife.

  At last, she had the door open. The beam of her flashlight landed on a world map marked with Templar crosses. To the right was a map of the United States marked with more crosses. Jane noticed that one of the crosses was in a neighboring state before she moved her beam to the darker shadows underneath the maps. The light fell upon two motionless figures on a sofa.

  “No!” Jane screamed, rushing forward. “Boys! Boys!”

  When she touched her sons—her hands moving from their cheeks to their hands, and finally, to their carotid pulses—some of her fear dissipated.

  Fitz and Hem were warm.

  They were alive.

  Jane had found them. Her sons were safe.

  They’d soon be back at Storyton Hall, tucked in their beds with the nightlight shining like a small crescent moon. Their mother would guard their sleep.

  Scanning her sons for signs of injury, Jane knew that she could punish one monster. Randall Rackley would suffer for what he’d done. For killing Bart and Kyle. For toying with her sons’ lives. Jane had to make an example of him. She had to be sure that history would never repeat itself—that no one would ever threaten her family again.

  “My sweet, sweet boys,” she whispered, drinking in the sight of her sons—the scattering of freckles on their noses, the sweep of their eyelashes, their tousled hair, their seashell ears. She kissed her boys on the forehead and prepared to lift them, one at a time.

  “Mommy’s got you,” she said, her heart singing in relief. “We’re going home.”

  Afterword

  Jane carried Hem to the window where he was gently lifted up and out of the basement by Sterling. Lachlan took Fitz. Finally, the men pulled Jane back through the narrow opening.

  “They’ve been sedated,” Lachlan said, examining Fitz’s eyes with a penlight. He looked at Jane. “They’re going to be okay.”

  Sterling scooped Hem off the ground. “Should we drive them straight to Doc Lydgate’s house?”

  “No,” Jane said. “I want them to wake up at home. I’ll ask the doc to come to us. He won’t mind.”

  “No, he won’t,” Sterling agreed. “He cares for these two. We all do.”

  Jane managed a grateful smile. Her throat had suddenly tightened, which was just as well, for she couldn’t think of anything to say. She was suddenly flooded by emotions. She felt immensely relieved, but there was plenty of residual anger coursing through her too.

  Glancing through the basement window, she wondered what to do about Randall. The eerie green glow provided no answer. Be
fore she could give the question further thought, Butterworth appeared.

  “I think you’ll need these.” He proffered a set of keys, his gaze sliding to the window. “Or perhaps not. Masters Fitzgerald and Hemingway? Are they . . . ?”

  “Alive,” Jane said. “The bastard sedated them and—wait. Is Randall still unconscious?”

  Butterworth frowned. “As I was conducting a thorough search of his person, which is how I found these keys hidden in his belt buckle, he was showing signs of coming around.”

  Jane didn’t want to deal with Randall. She wanted to be with her sons. Never did she resent her designation as Guardian more than now. Why should her duty to the secret library trump her role as a mother?

  She took a deep breath to calm herself. “We should take him back with us. He spoke of Edwin being held captive. Not abroad, but here, in the States. And we need to learn more about Randall’s warped faction.”

  “Agreed,” Butterworth said. “Go to your sons, Miss Jane. I’ll deal with Rackley.”

  The butler’s use of Randall’s surname illustrated his utter lack of respect for the man. It was his equivalent of spitting on another person’s shoe.

  Jane and Butterworth hadn’t taken more than two steps before the explosion came. There was a cannon fire boom, the glass from multiple windows shattered and shot outward, and the ground shook.

  Both Jane and Butterworth stumbled. Butterworth threw Jane to the ground and covered her body with his. A wave of heat rolled through the open basement window as a tongue of blinding flame burst into the night air.

  “The bomb!” Jane cried, wriggling out from beneath Butterworth. “Who triggered it?”

  Sterling, who’d materialized within seconds of the blast, helped Jane to her feet. “It was Randall,” he said, staring at the flames.

  Butterworth stood up. After dusting himself off, he looked at his fellow Fin. “Are you certain? He didn’t strike me as the suicidal type.”

  “He probably couldn’t risk being questioned,” said Sterling. “This was his version of a cyanide capsule.”

  For a few seconds, they silently watched as smoke poured through the basement and first-floor windows. The fire was gaining momentum. Jane could hear the telltale chewing sounds of burning wood and there was an acrid stench in the air. A chemical odor that Jane couldn’t place.