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books that had just come back from the conservation department, he headed up the stairs to the vaults that stretched over the reading room. It was here that an early collection of American medical books was kept. And on the mezzanine level just above, a large array of children’s books were housed. He stopped to affectionately pat the head of a small bust of a man that had sat on a small table in a corner for as long as anyone could remember.
    A moment later Jonathan DeHaven collapsed into a chair and commenced dying. It was not a pleasant or painless death, as evidenced by the convulsions and silent screams as life was squeezed from his body. By the time it was over a mere thirty seconds later he was stretched out on the floor a full twenty feet from where he’d started. He seemed to stare at a collection of stories that had girls in tea dresses and sun hats on the covers.
    He died without knowing what had killed him. His body had not betrayed him; he was in perfect health. No one had done him blunt injury, and no poison had touched his lips; he was, in fact, completely alone.
    And yet dead Jonathan DeHaven was.
    About twenty-five miles away Roger Seagraves’ phone rang at his home. It was the weather report: sunny and clear for the foreseeable future. Seagraves finished his breakfast, grabbed his briefcase and headed to work. He loved it when the day started on a positive note.

CHAPTER 6
    C ALEB S HAW ENTERED THE Rare Books reading room and strolled to his desk against the wall at the back, where he deposited his knapsack and bike helmet. He took a moment to undo the strap around his ankle that kept chain grease off his pant leg, and then settled down in his chair. He had a lot to do this morning. The previous day a prominent American scholar had requested over six hundred books to prepare a complex bibliography, and it was Caleb’s job as a research specialist to gather them together. He’d already looked the works up in the library’s directory; now came the laborious task of plucking them off the shelves.
    He smoothed down his rumpled gray hair and loosened his belt a bit. Caleb had a slightly built frame, but as of late he’d experienced an uncomfortable weight gain around his waist. He hoped that riding his bike to work would adequately address this problem. He avoided anything approaching a sensible diet, immensely enjoying his wine and rich food. Caleb was also proud of the fact that he’d never seen the inside of a gym after his graduation from high school.
    He walked to the vault entrance, placed his card over the security pad and pulled the door open. Caleb was a little surprised not to have seen Jonathan DeHaven when he came in. The man was always here before anyone else, and the door to the reading room
had
been unlocked. Yet Caleb assumed the director was either in his office or perhaps in the vaults.
    “Jonathan?” he called out, but received no answer. He glanced at the list in his hand. This task would easily take him the entire day, if not longer. He grabbed a book cart from against one of the walls and set about his work, methodically going through each of the vaults containing books he needed. A half hour later he came back out of the vault to get another list he needed as a woman he worked with entered the reading room.
    He exchanged pleasantries with her and went back into the vault. It was very cool inside, and he remembered that yesterday he’d left his sweater on the vault’s fourth floor. He was about to take the elevator up when he gazed down at his middle-age spread and decided on the stairs instead, actually running up the last few steps. He passed by the medical collection, took another flight of steps up and reached the mezzanine. He strode across the main walkway to the place where he’d left his sweater.
    When he saw the body of Jonathan DeHaven lying on the floor, Caleb Shaw gasped once, choked and then fainted.
    The tall, wiry man walked out of the plain cottage and into the