by Glenn Cooper
The Keepers of the Library
Glenn Cooper
Dedication
My thanks to Peter Denenberg,
who was my guide to the Yorkshire Dales and Mallerstang.
However, any errors I may have made are mine alone.
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
About the Author
By Glenn Cooper
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Isle of Wight, 1775
“Hold the lantern steady,” the old man told the girl.
The wind was howling and the pale moonlit clouds seemed to be moving across the sky at the speed of a three-master in a gale. Close by, the sea was loud and churning.
They were watching two rum-fueled laborers digging a hole through the frosty and hard January ground.
“Are you certain this is the right place?”
The girl said it was, but the old man could tell from her face that she didn’t know for sure.
He clutched his cloak to his throat, and said, “If it is not, I will have you back at the baron’s house tomorrow, and you will hear from me no more.”
Her teeth began to chatter.
One of the workmen tried to be helpful though his words were slurred from the drink the old man had given him. “There’s legends ’bout this place, Squire. Since I wuz a boy. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s something to wot the lass says.”
The old man answered, “If that is the case, why have you or your fellow islanders not investigated?”
“Scared,” the other laborer said. “Used to be a monastery here. There’s tales of ghosts of hooded monks prowling about at midnight, which it most likely is now. Have to be daft to come here.”
“Then why did you agree to come with us tonight?”
“No one’s offered to pay before, have they?” the first man said. “But if there’s something down there, you’re bloody well on your own.”
The old man eyed the tall ladder the men had carried to the site. He doubted he could manage with his gouty foot, but he also doubted they would discover anything at all. In that case, a cozy bed awaited him at the inn in Fishbourne.
The spadefuls of dirt grew into a pile.
“You’re not from these parts, are ye?” the second man said.
“No, I’m from across the sea, in Philadelphia.”
“Oh yeah?” the man asked. “When war comes, which side are you on then?”
The old man sighed. “I do not want a war. I hope there is no bloodshed, but if I must choose a side, then I will.”
The man persisted. “If you’re not for the king, then I’ll dig no more for you.”
The clink of iron against stone brought them all to attention and allowed the old man to evade a response.
“Is it a big ’un?” the other digger asked.
The scrape of a spade revealed that it was large.
“Expose it,” the old man said. “See if there’s an edge.”
In a while, the verdict was that they had found a good-sized flat stone abutting another one.
“Get your spade under it, man!” the old man exhorted. “See if you can shift it.”
The girl drew nearer and dangled her lantern, casting light and shadows on the bluestone. The old man saw her shutting her eyes tightly.
Was she praying?
The stone was levered a few inches into the air, and the girl was instructed to bring the light closer. The edge of the stone appeared to have been resting upon a stout beam. Underneath was pure blackness.
“Christ Almighty!” one of the workers said. “This was made by the hand of man.”
“Keep raising it!” the old man ordered. “But don’t let it fall in. Slide it to the side.”
They did that and left behind a hole large enough for a man to enter.
“Abigail,” the old man said. “Get on your belly and put the lantern into the hole. Tell me if you see anything.”
Without hesitation, she did as he asked, but the diggers began to back away. The old man swore at them, but he couldn’t see where they were going as he was obliged to hold her ankles for safety.
“Can you see anything, child?”
“There’s books!” she cried. “Lots of ’em. There’s a library down there, just as I said there’d be!”
She stood up. By the light of the lamp, the old man could see her face streaked with tears of relief.
“I suppose we’ll have to go down there, won’t we?” he said. “You men, fetch the ladder.”
But the laborers were already yards away, retreating at pace.
“Where are you going?” the old man cried into the wind.
“Like I said, you’re on your own, Squire,” was the reply. “We weren’t here tonight, and we won’t be coming back. This place is cursed. We should’ve turned you down flat.”
“What about the money?”
The voice was far away now. “Keep it.”
“Well, it’s just us, young lady.” The old man sighed. “Let’s investigate this library of yours, shall we?”
If the ladder had been only slightly shorter, their plans would have been thwarted. The man sent the girl down first as he thought she’d be agile enough to climb and hold both lanterns.
When her head disappeared, the old man grasped the end of the ladder.
The salty wind gusted fiercely and lashed his face.
Was some higher power furious at their intrusion?
The old man sucked up his apprehensions, turned his back to the hole, and found the top rung of the ladder with his gouty foot.
And with that, Benjamin Franklin took his first step down into the Library of Vectis.
Chapter 1
Panama City, Florida, 2026
The snoring, low and vibratory, was the first thing Will Piper heard on waking. For a moment, he thought someone had started the motors, for the guttural sound coming from the guest stateroom uncannily resembled the harsh rumble of the cruiser’s twin 454 Crusaders at idle. Those antique engines were irritable relics requiring constant fussing and coaxing to make them do what they were supposed to do.
Just like me, Will always said.
He stared at the teak ceiling in the master stateroom before parting the curtains and popping the window. The flat bright haze was typical for January. It would burn off soon enough. If the forecast was right it was going to hit seventy. Not bad considering Washington was supposed to get another four inches of slop. He thought about his morning mission, a simple enough challenge, persuading Phillip to come along on a tuna run into the Gulf.
His pillow was warm. Nancy’s was cool and unused. He pulled it under his neck and closed his eyes. Phillip’s snoring wasn’t letting up, but even if it had, he knew he wasn’t going to get any more shut-eye. At sixty-four he’d lost the black, dreamless sleep
of youth, and though he missed it terribly, he was grateful that at least he’d firmly held on to his hair and his potency.
Young Phillip, on the other hand, was a finely tuned sleeping machine, a mattress Ferrari. It took almost nothing to tilt him into unconsciousness and Herculean maneuvers to rouse him out of it: thrust-open curtains, shoulder shaking, cajoling, the smell of bacon. And if the past week had taught Will anything, they’d be arguing before his son’s big feet hit the deck.
The boat gently bobbed and tugged at its lines in the shifting tide. The freshening wind pacified him as it always did. But suddenly the twin motors of the yacht in the next slip noisily started up. His mood turned sour, and he peevishly peeled back the duvet. Peace and quiet were off the menu.
Then he remembered that his neighbor was out of town. Who the hell was monkeying with Ben’s boat? He bounded topside to investigate.
His wardrobe varied little from day to day—swim trunks with or without a T-shirt, today without. On deck, he scratched his hairy chest like the big primate he was and squinted, adjusting his eyes to the daylight. His skin was bronzed and sunbaked, with an amusing swath of whiteness from waist to thighs. He still looked fit, with a flat enough stomach and large, bulky shoulders. Though he hadn’t jogged or worked out in years, he ran up and down keeping the old boat afloat, and that probably did the trick, but if genes had anything to do with it, he wouldn’t know. His old man had kicked off well before reaching his sixties.
Ben Patterson’s new Regal cruiser was purring in neutral, but no one was at the wheel, and the lines were still tied.
Will went portside, leaned over his railings, and called out, “Hello!”
Two blond heads and plenty of bare flesh emerged from the Regal’s salon. He quickly smoothed his sandy gray hair with a finger comb.
“Hi there!” one of the blondes called out. They were in their thirties, he reckoned, a good decade. They quickly introduced themselves. One was Ben’s sister, Margie from Cape Cod and the other one, Meagan, was her best friend. Meagan was a looker.
“What’s your name?” Meagan asked.
“I’m Will. You girls heading out?”
“You bet,” Margie said. “We couldn’t take the winter anymore. Ben’s a sweetheart to let us come down and use the boat for the week. Got to enjoy life while it lasts, that’s what everyone says. Want to come along?”
“Love to, but I can’t. My son’s asleep.”
“How old is he?”
“Fifteen and change.”
“Great age.”
“Think so?” Will asked. “I’d say the two of you are a great age.”
Meagan wagged her finger at him, the universal bad-boy sign. “Hey, you look familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen your picture somewhere.”
He shrugged. He didn’t want to go there but before he could change the subject she had her mobile in her hand. She pointed it in his direction and it lit up with matching images.
“Oh my God, Margie! He’s Will Piper. The Will Piper. The Library guy.”
“Guilty as charged,” he confessed.
“What’s going to happen next February?” Meagan asked as if he’d never heard the question before.
“Beats the hell out of me. Want help casting off?”
Phillip sat in the galley zombielike, staring at his mobile. Will couldn’t help seeing the faces of his inane friends emerging from the screen in 3-D, bantering to one another in an unintelligible Net patois. The English language had officially gone to hell. Then he recognized the snarky hatchet face of Phillip’s best friend, Andy, and made out the word “homework.”
Seizing the opening, Will interrupted, “You’ve got homework?”
Phillip hit the mute button and took a bite of toast. “An essay.”
“What kind of essay?”
“Just an essay.”
“When are you going to do it?”
“It’s almost done. Don’t sweat.”
Will grunted his approval. “It’s going to be a good day. I’d like you to come out with me.”
“Fishing?”
“Uh-huh.”
“No thanks.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not into killing harmless creatures.”
“We’ll do catch and release.”
“I’m not into harming harmless creatures.” He hooked his lip with his index finger and affected an expression of torment.
“Jesus, Phil.”
“I’m meeting some friends.”
“What friends?”
“Just some girls.”
“I didn’t know you knew kids down here.”
“Now you do.”
With that, Phillip took the mobile off mute and tuned his father out.
Girls, Will thought. Like father, like son.
Later that morning, when Phillip shoved off, Will made sure to amble up to the marina office to spy on him. From the windows, he saw a yellow convertible pull up, and three pretty girls collected his only offspring. The kid was a tad gangly but he was a good-looking boy with his father’s big bones, tall for fifteen, with unruly sandy hair. Fortunately, he’d taken after his father on height. Nancy was pint-sized—until she got mad. Then she seemed to dwarf Will. Lately, he’d had enough long-distance blasts from her to be feeling reasonably small.
Will grabbed a pen from the front desk and with the instincts of a current father and a former FBI agent, he jotted down the convertible’s plate number. You never knew, you just never knew.
He reboarded Will Power, looked at his neighbor’s empty slip and sighed. He should have gone out with the ladies. The day stretched in front of him. Since fishing was off the table, what then? He’d been putting off an overhaul of his refrigeration system. Reluctantly, he decided that today was the day to get greasy.
Hours later he heard the Regal coming back in. He happily abandoned his tools, wiped his hands on a rag and emerged into the warmth of a fine afternoon. He figured the ladies were going to have problems docking the cruiser in reverse, and he wasn’t wrong. After two aborted attempts where Margie missed the pivot point around the piling, he volunteered to board and land it for them. He nailed it perfectly and tossed the lines to a pair of outstretched arms reddened from a day of exposure.
“Our knight in shining armor,” Meagan said. “Want a drink?”
“Let me grab a shirt.”
Aboard Will Power he pulled a polo shirt out of his dresser and started talking to himself, unaware of the irony of his little speech given the name of the boat. “Have some goddamned self-control, for Christ sakes, Will. Try not to be a complete idiot, okay? Can you go do that? Do you think?”
When his head popped through the collar he found himself staring at a picture of Nancy at the FBI swearing-in ceremony in Washington, which elevated her to Executive Assistant Director for the Criminal and Cyber Branch. She looked good that day, very happy. He’d almost ruined the affair by acting so miserably, mooning about having to live in Washington. They’d worked through that, made an accommodation. Now, if he wasn’t careful, he’d screw things up.
Will relaxed in a deck chair on the Regal and guzzled a beer. He was careful about his drinking and it was early in the day, but he felt entitled to a slice of good time. Except for her fleeting visit to Panama City lasting all of three days at Christmas, he hadn’t seen Nancy for the better part of two months. And Phillip’s forced school vacation with Dad hadn’t exactly been as much fun as a barrel of monkeys.
The sunburned ladies had a full cooler, lots of snacks, and an unlimited supply of chirpy conversation. They fussed over him, and Meagan especially, kept feeding him beers and stoking his ego: his boat was cool. He had a great tan. He was in really good shape (for a man of his age). He was the first celebrity she’d ever met up close.
“So when did you get your boat?” Margie asked.
“About fifteen years ago. I traded a bus for it.”
“A bus?”
“It’s a long story,” Will answered.
“However long that is.”
“Hopefully more than thirteen months,” Meagan said.
“Hopefully.”
An hour passed, and Margie nodded off from sun and beer. Meagan asked if he’d join them for dinner. Will texted his son and quickly got an answer. Phillip was otherwise occupied.
“I’m in.”
“I’ll let her sleep,” Meagan said. “I’m going to make some pasta. Do you know how to use Ben’s stove?”
Belowdecks, the boat rocked pleasantly in the afternoon wind. Will turned the propane valve and fired up the burner then lounged on the settee while Meagan chopped and cooked. He stared hypnotically at the clingy bikini fabric covering her firm bottom. Searching for spices, she happened upon a bottle of scotch in one of the cupboards. “I love this stuff,” she purred. “Mental note to self. Replace bottle before we leave. Want some?”
He knew Ben’s brand. It was Johnnie Walker Black, his best friend and his worst enemy. He sighed. “I’m on the wagon.”
“You’ve had three beers!”
“The whiskey wagon.”
“Alcohol is alcohol.”
“Oh no it’s not.”
“What’s the worst that can happen? We won’t let you fall into the water. Besides, I’m a nurse. I can handle anything.”
“My wife could call.”
“That’s what voice mail is for, honey.”
The first generous sip conveyed the familiarity of a homecoming. It was dark and tonal, awakening his palate and tingling his throat. Seconds later, he felt it in his head, a rush of numbing pleasure. Hello, Johnnie, he thought, where’ve you been, pal?
While she sautéed, he finished one glass and started another.
When the sauce was simmering she joined him on the settee, poured a second for herself, and turned serious.
“I know I treat it like a joke most of the time, but I’m scared. No one seems to have any answers. What’s really going to happen on February 9, 2027?”
“I don’t have any special insights,” he answered. “It’s not like I’m sitting on inside information.”
