According to Their Deeds Read online

  ACCORDING TO

  THEIR DEEDS

  Books by

  Paul Robertson

  The Heir

  Road to Nowhere

  According to Their Deeds

  PAUL

  ROBERTSON

  ACCLAIMED AUTHOR OF THE HEIR

  ACCORDING TO

  THEIR DEEDS

  A NOVEL

  According to Their Deeds

  Copyright © 2009

  Paul Robertson

  Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Robertson, Paul, 1957–

  According to their deeds / Paul Robertson.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7642-0568-2 (pbk.)

  1. Antiquarian booksellers—Fiction. 2. Extortion—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Washington (D.C.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3618.03173A63 2009

  813'.6—dc22

  2008051060

  * * *

  I am dedicating this book to my father,

  Kenneth Robertson.

  Let me tell you about him.

  My earliest memory is of him reading. Even now, these many years later, it’s not hard to find a present for him. I get him books.

  His life is a demonstration of his values: God and family, education and responsibility, serving and living peacefully. My three brothers, my sister, and I can all tell you how wise, generous and accepting he is. He has been married fifty-three years (so far), has nineteen grandchildren (so far), and the tale of his great-grandchildren has only begun. He is a scientist and a teacher, he is respected by everyone who knows him, and he still reads more than I do.

  I know that God my Father is loving, dependable, and a strong foundation for my life. I know because my own father has been all those things for me. My father is dedicated to his Savior, and I learned that from him, too.

  So happy eightieth birthday, Dad.

  Here’s a book.

  Lisa, we made it through another one together.

  Thank you, love.

  Table of Contents

  Monday

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  Friday

  Saturday

  Sunday

  Monday

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  Friday

  Saturday

  Sunday

  Monday

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  Friday

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  . . . and books were opened . . . and the dead were judged

  from the things which were written in the books,

  according to their deeds . . .

  MONDAY

  MORNING

  Only one chair was empty.

  “Sixteen thousand. Do I see seventeen?”

  Charles slipped into the open seat. He paged through the catalog.

  “The bid is seventeen. Do I see eighteen? Thank you, eighteen thousand dollars. Nineteen?”

  A man beside him, in thick black-rimmed glasses, leaned over.

  “I figured you’d show up.”

  “Which lot are we on?” Charles asked.

  “Number sixty. The desk.”

  “Derek’s desk.”

  “Nineteen, thank you. Twenty?”

  “You knew him, right?” the man said.

  “Yes.”

  “Twenty. The bid is twenty thousand dollars. Do I see twenty-one?”

  Gold sconces on the pale blue walls pooled light on the white ceiling, and gold and crystal chandeliers showered light down on the fifty dark blue upholstered chairs. The carpet was even darker blue and very thick, a deep river, soaking up every sound but the auctioneer’s voice.

  The crowd was darkly upholstered as well.

  “Do I see twenty-two?”

  A wide young man in the front row lifted a wood paddle.

  “Twenty-two, thank you. Do I see twenty-three?”

  He did, somewhere else in the room.

  “Everything’s going high,” the man in the glasses said. “Too many out-of-towners. I just wanted to buy back what I sold the guy, but I haven’t won a bid yet.”

  “Who’s bidding right now, Norman?” Charles asked.

  “That guy with the frizzy hair, he looks like Einstein? He’s from a big New York showroom. And up front, in the brown suit, he’s from Houston. And that guy’s from L.A. Everybody else has dropped out.”

  “The bid is twenty-eight thousand. Do I see twenty-nine?”

  “Like I said, it’s all going high,” Norman said.

  “It’s a nice desk.”

  “Oh, yeah. Everything’s real nice, all of it. The guy had great taste. Too bad he’s gone, he was a great customer. But that desk, I’d have said twenty-six, twenty-eight for it, and we’re blowing through thirty without a hiccup. But I don’t do furniture, so what do I know.”

  Every sound of conversation sank into the carpet’s downward pull. Wooden paddles rose and fell, or waved like water lilies on bottomless currents.

  “I’m glad there was an empty seat,” Charles said. A dozen people were standing at the back wall.

  “A guy I knew was sitting there a minute ago.”

  “Oh—is it his chair?”

  “No, I think he left.”

  “Thirty-four. Do I see thirty-five? The bid is now thirty-four thousand. Any bid?”

  There seemed not to be. Mr. Einstein from New York, with his wild white hair and black mustache, had bid last and now stared straight and smugly forward.

  “Thirty-four thousand. Going once, twice—” The auctioneer’s eyes darted, reacting to some new movement deep in the room. “Thirty-five, thank you. The bid is now thirty-five thousand. Do I see thirty-six?”

  Heads turned and searched, but Mr. Einstein himself hardly reacted to this new unknown. He only raised his own paddle.

  “Thirty-six. Do I see thirty-seven?”

  He did, and everyone else did as well. A woman in a light gray suit and very improbable blond hair, standing against the back wall. She held her paddle out like a sword.

  “Thirty-eight?”

  Charles paged through his catalog. Lot Sixty, Cherry Pedestal Desk, Philadelphia, 1876. Other people were flipping pages as well.

  “Not much of a description,” Norman said. “Is there something special?”

  “It’s historic. Derek was proud of it.”

  “Oh, wait, that’s where they found him, right? On top of it?”

  Charles didn’t answer. The bidding advanced, a conflict of deliberate and formal violence.

  “Because that could be worth a premium,” Norman said. “They’d clean it up, right? They wouldn’t sell it with blood all over it. But you’ve got to be careful cleaning those old finishes. You can take them right off. I think it was a lot of blood, too.”

  “Do I see fifty? Fifty, thank you. Fifty-two?”

  The formal quiet and the auctioneer’s drone stretched a pla
cid surface across the room. All that could be seen was slow and purposeful, apparently calm. But a tension was growing between the two bidders, like monsters beneath the surface sensing each other and edging into battle.

  “Fifty-two. Do I see fifty-four?”

  He did immediately.

  “Fifty-four. The bid is fifty-four thousand dollars. Do I see fifty-six?”

  “Fifty-six. Do I see fifty-eight?”

  “Somebody’s going to hit their limit,” Norman said. “Fifty-eight grand! That’s twice what it’s worth.”

  “Do I see sixty?”

  The blond woman’s impudence was finally getting to the man from New York. He waved his paddle defiantly. It was, in the depths, a first ripping by sharp teeth; anger had been provoked.

  “Thank you. The bid is sixty thousand. Do I see sixty-five? Sixty-five, thank you.”

  “Do you know who she is?” Charles said.

  “I’ve never seen her.”

  “Sev-en-ty-five.” Mr. Einstein had spoken it aloud, each syllable a separate word.

  “Seventy-five. Do I see eighty?”

  The woman’s paddle jerked.

  “Eighty. The bid is eighty thousand. Do I see eighty-five?”

  “One hun-dred,” Einstein said. The room gasped, every person, at the three distinct syllables.

  “One hundred thousand dollars. Do I see one hundred five?”

  Without hesitation, the woman thrust her paddle straight up, and through.

  The man set his paddle under his chair.

  It was over, suddenly. A leviathan had been vanquished and now sank away into ultimate deeps.

  “One hundred five thousand. Do I see one hundred ten?”

  “Not likely,” Norman said. He would have been too loud, but the carpet sucked his voice right out of the air. “A hundred five, that had to hurt.”

  The victor had wounds to nurse, but the battle was past.

  “One hundred five. Any other bid? Going once, twice.” A pause. “Sold. Lot sixty sold for one hundred five thousand dollars. Next will be lot sixty-one, a Tiffany lamp. Bidding will open at fifteen hundred. Do I see fifteen hundred?”

  “What was that?” Norman said. “Fifty was way over the line! A hundred grand? Now that was crazy!”

  Ripples of conversation troubled the surface but that was all; the deeps were now still.

  “There must be a reason,” Charles murmured. The room was filled with murmuring.

  “I’d like to know what reason. Twenty-five thousand for the desk and eighty thousand for the reason.”

  “Thirty-two hundred. Any other bid? Going once, twice, sold. Lot sixty-one for three thousand two hundred dollars. Next will be lot sixty-two, a marble table. Bidding will open at three thousand. Do I see three thousand?”

  “So we’re back to normal,” Norman said. “Thirty-two hundred’s high, but just a little. I guess when people fly in from up northeast and from the coast, they don’t want to go home empty-handed.”

  “It’s a large collection,” Charles said. “It would pull people in from all over.”

  “I wish they’d stayed back where they came from. But if it’s even just the dealers he bought stuff from, it could be this many people. The guy bought all over the place. All I wanted to do was buy back the stuff I sold him.”

  “Yes. I think you mentioned that.”

  “But it’s all going too high. I’m not going to spend more on a lamp than I can sell it for. At least that blond lady is gone.”

  She was.

  “I do wonder who she was,” Charles said.

  “Just as long as she’s not here to bid on anything I want. Not that I’m getting anything anyway. A hundred grand for a desk! It’s crazy.”

  “I wonder what Derek would have thought,” Charles said.

  Norman pointed at the next catalog page. “I bet that’s the lot you’re after.”

  “Yes.”

  “Number sixty-four. You got here just in time.”

  “Going once, twice, sold. Lot sixty-two for five thousand six hundred dollars. Next will be lot sixty-three, two Windsor chairs. Bidding will open at five thousand. Do I see five thousand?”

  “Those are nice,” Norman said. “I don’t do furniture, but those are nice. From Vermont, 1920, all handmade. The real things. It must have taken a long time to pull all this stuff together.”

  “A lifetime.”

  “And poof, here it’s all gone in three hours. Kind of funny, you know?”

  The auctioneer’s voice stabbed the air, slicing and cutting, on and on, relentlessly.

  “And his wife doesn’t want it.” Norman said. “It’s her selling it off, right?”

  “I believe so.”

  “She’s making a bundle. Especially after that desk! I wonder if she knew he was worth so much? His stuff, anyway. Did you get the list?”

  “The catalog?” Charles asked, with it in his hand. “This?”

  “No, the list from the police.”

  “I don’t know of any list from the police.”

  “It’s the stuff that got stolen, you know, that night he got killed.”

  “Any other bid? Going once, twice, sold. Lot sixty-three for thirteen thousand dollars.”

  “They want dealers to be looking for it,” Norman said.

  “No, I didn’t get that list.”

  “Next will be lot sixty-four, a set of thirteen antique books. Bidding will open at ten thousand. Do I see ten thousand?”

  “This is you, right?”

  Charles nodded.

  “Good luck,” Norman said.

  “Thanks.”

  “I guess no books got stolen.”

  “Ten thousand, thank you. Do I see eleven?”

  Norman kept talking. “So that’s why they didn’t give you the list. Police and FBI, too. They’re all looking.”

  Charles had his own paddle in his lap. He watched the bids increase.

  “How much will it go for?” Norman said.

  “Twenty-three, twenty-four for the set, maybe twenty-five.”

  “Remember, it’s all going high. You sold them all to him in the first place?”

  “Fifteen thousand. Do I see sixteen? Thank you, sixteen thousand.”

  “Yes. A book at a time, over the last six years.”

  Charles leaned forward, watching the different bidders.

  “Do you know everyone bidding?” Norman said.

  “So far.”

  “From around here?”

  “No. Briary Roberts in New York. Jacob Leatherman himself from San Francisco.”

  “The old guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know he was coming?”

  “We had dinner last night.”

  His eyes were on the contest. The other bidders took turns, pushing the price up.

  “Twenty thousand. Do I see twenty-one?”

  Charles lifted his paddle. Now he was joined in the battle himself.

  “Twenty-one thousand.” For a moment, he owned the bid. “Do I see twenty-two?” And then he did not. “Twenty-two, thank you. Do I see twenty-three?”

  Suddenly the bidding intensified with quick jabs from Jacob Leather-man, and then New York again.

  “Twenty-five? Thank you. Do I see twenty-six?”

  Jacob Leatherman’s paddle quivered in the air.

  “Twenty-six. Do I see twenty-seven?”

  Charles signaled, quickly.

  “Twenty-seven thousand. Do I see twenty-eight?”

  Jacob was frowning from across the room, but his paddle was on the floor.

  “Any other bid? The bid is twenty-seven thousand. Going once, twice, sold. Lot sixty-four sold for twenty-seven thousand dollars.”

  “But I thought you said it was only worth twenty-four,” Norman said.

  “Sentiment.”

  “Next will be lot sixty-five, a wood inlay chess set. Bidding will open at two thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t do books,” Norman said, “so what do I kn
ow. Oh, I sold this chess set. I’m just trying to get back what I sold him.”

  Charles stood and took a deep breath and moved toward the door.

  Charles stepped out from the building into very bright sunlight.

  It took a moment to adjust.

  Traffic was heavy. On the sidewalk, a dozen people were scattered over the length of the block. The gray stone and mirrored windows of the office building across the street were very bright.

  A cardboard box was in front of him, tight in both hands.

  He turned south toward Pennsylvania Avenue, three blocks away. The faces he passed were stern and silent against the world, or talking on cell phones, alive, animated, in other worlds. Charles stopped at the first corner.

  He was being followed.

  Across the street a young man had stayed even with him. He was in torn jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, and he had stopped on his opposite corner. A well-dressed woman, passing him, instinctively drew back, and hurried past.

  Charles waited.

  Abruptly the man sprang from the curb and sprinted, dodging cars. His eyes were on the box in Charles’s hands. A car squealed but the young man, lithe and quick, was already across.

  Charles waited. The predator came to a halt, inches away.

  “Hey, boss,” he said, in a low voice.

  “Don’t cause a wreck, Angelo.”

  He shrugged. “You got that?”

  “Twenty-seven thousand.”

  “For a little box.” His accent was urban Hispanic and so were his black hair and shadowy face.

  “You take it,” Charles said.

  “Back to the shop?”

  Charles handed him the box.

  “Take it to the shop. I’ll be right there.”

  “Okay, boss, I’ll take it, it’s not any problem.”

  “Be careful.”

  “You are worrying for me, boss, or you are worrying for that box?”

  “The box isn’t going to do anything foolish.”

  Angelo smiled, a tiger showing its teeth. “I am smarter than that little box.”

  “Try to be.”

  With no other words he turned away, only walking but very quickly. Charles continued on his own way to a Metro station, and descended into the ground.

  “King Street. Next stop Eisenhower Avenue.” The doors whirred and Charles was on the platform, looking out at the streets of Alexandria. The escalator took him down to them.