​The key for the door to vault eighteen had been missing for centuries. It was the last of the old vault rooms in the castle anyone had explored. The solid wood planks and steel reinforcements had made forcing the door impossible, and no one tried despite the legend that there was a fortune in treasure behind the door. A whispered legend of crown jewels his family had kept safe for the monarchy. 

A nobleman named Lord Jonathon Rice ordered the castle built upon his marriage to Lady Willmont sometime during the late sixteen hundreds. As the current Lord Rice, the Fifth Earl of Riceland, I inherited the castle decades ago. 

When I first inherited the estate, I eagerly explored the castle. A handyman had found a stash of keys buried behind debris and farm equipment in an old barn. After discovering some of the keys opened the vaults, I was confident I would find the long-lost treasure. As confident as I could be with no proof the treasure existed. 

Over the years, I had the vaults opened and explored, only to find wine or foodstuffs such as honey that were long past use. Among the finds were some valuable pieces of armor, but the vaults held nothing of real value for the most part. Although with only one vault left to explore, I gave up. The odds of that vault containing the legendary treasure were unlikely.

I concentrated on the repair and upkeep, which proved more expensive than I could afford. While the sheep herd and sale of raw wool helped some, lack of adequate funds forced me to put off much-needed repairs and cut staff. There was a real danger that I would have to sign the estate over to the government for back taxes or open the estate to the public for tours. 

Opening the estate to visitors wasn’t entirely a bad arrangement as doing so would provide the resources for restoration. Support from the government was available for upkeep and staff, at least concerning the public tours. However, it was an idea that I loathed. If I could, I wanted to keep Rice castle private as long as possible, but each year the prospects looked dimmer and dimmer.

So I fought back the debtors as best I could to try and find funds to keep the estate going. In my quest, I became obsessed with the possibility that perhaps the treasure the family legend spoke of was in vault eighteen, the only vault we couldn’t open. 

There were precisely three thousand seven hundred and fifty-seven books dating back to the seventeenth century in the library. A few were valuable enough that they were on loan to libraries and museums, but most were ordinary books from over the years. Each volume was removed from the shelves, cataloged, and inventoried in the search for the Vault Eighteen key but found no reference. 

I was aware that the likelihood of finding anything of value there was slim and none, but there was little to lose, so I created a plan to open the vault. After the door was open and if I found nothing, I would start the sale of the estate to the government. 

                                                                            ***
The night before we attempted to force the vault door, I went to the dark-paneled library and poured myself a drink from the small bar. As I wandered to my favorite leather chair next to the fireplace and began to sit, I noticed a small gap in a section of paneling that filled the space between the bookcases, one I had never noticed. I used the library as my office, and yet, as many hours as I had spent there, I never saw that crack. 

Tumbler in hand, I examined the crack in the paneling. The gap did not look fresh as if someone had recently tried to pry it open. The edges were aged as the other wood was from decades of exposure. 

Gently I placed a fingertip against the edge and pressed lightly. The panel seemed to move ever so slightly. What? Wiggling my finger into the crack, I pushed with a bit more effort. The panel slid open a bit more, and my skin prickled as I kept pressing, and a tall narrow opening revealed itself. I grabbed a torch from a cabinet and bent to examine the hole more closely. There were no tool marks to indicate someone cut the gap in the panel. It had to be original. 

There were several more of the panels in the frames of the shelves. I tested each, discovering they didn’t move. Only the one panel slid just enough to reveal a small hiding spot. 

I shined my flashlight into the hole and thought I saw a glint in the reflection that seemed to go back to the back wall of the shelves. Yes—there was something in there. A key? 

Poking around in my desk drawers, I found an old T-square ruler. I slid a chair next to the shelves and sat, where I would be at eye level with the gap. Light from the flashlight revealed there was something metallic in there. 

“Okay, here it goes.” I jiggled the ruler around and managed to get the crossed end over the object, and started gently easing it forward toward me. I dropped the torch as the object fell to the floor.

Key eighteen lay bathed in torchlight.

I sank back into the chair and stared at the floor, not moving. My eyes wandered from the key on the floor to the small compartment hidden in the bookcase. How no one had noticed the crack for all these years was a surprise.
 
I realized I wasn’t breathing and forced myself to inhale and exhale until my breathing and pulse returned to normal, and started to think again. I looked over the key in the light of my ancient desk lamp. Comparing it with the other keys, it was indeed one of the original keys from the collection. But this was the missing key.

It was late, but I couldn’t wait. Grabbing the torch, I hurried through the halls until I reached the door to the dungeon stairs. I paused, my heart pounding. All hinged on what was in that vault.

The catacombs were dank, and the narrow torch beam was swallowed in the darkness. I made my way to vault eighteen. The heavy wood and steel-clad door seemed more ominous than before. Holding my breath, I inserted the key. 

It wouldn’t budge. 

I tried and tried, but I couldn’t get the key to turn. After frustrating myself and fearful that I would break the key, I decided to wait for morning. I would call a locksmith to open the lock. I didn’t sleep well that night. 
 
                                                                            ***

At seven a.m. the following day, I called a locksmith from the nearest town, and he arrived by eight o’clock. He was angry at my insistence that he come immediately but happy for the extra money I paid him to get there. I was only hoping I wasn’t spending my dwindling funds on a lost cause.

He examined the lock and the key, cleaning out the door lock of dirt and debris from years of nonuse. He filed rough edges from the key and liberally oiled both. He handed me the key, and I inserted it in the lock. 

I wiggled the key, feeling the pressure in my fingertips. I held my breath as the resistance gave way and, with a metallic click, the door unlocked.

I thanked the locksmith and dismissed him. I was going to see what was in that chamber without other prying eyes.

Alone, it took all of my might to swing the door, with its rusted hinges, open. The smell of three-hundred-year-old stale air hit me, and I gagged. Stepping back to let the room air out, I swung the flashlight around the interior. 

I waited for a few minutes then stepped into the room. The smell of centuries-old stale air was oppressive, but I could breathe. The room was larger than the other vaults had been, and there were no windows in the room—the only light coming from my torch.

Centuries of family lore hinted at a treasure worth a fortune. Stories told of a valuable find by Lord Jonathon Rice during the seventeen hundreds. Now three hundred years later, I was standing in vault eighteen to discover if the legend was real.

There was only one thing in the chamber—a table in the center of the room with a wooden casket sitting on top.

It dawned on me to take pictures, so I pulled my mobile from my pocket and took a flash photo. The amount of dust settled on the casket obscured the top, and I brushed it away only to sneeze and gag for a few minutes until I could get my breath. Once the dust settled a bit, I took more photos. 
 
The box’s lid contained a burled wood inlay and a pattern in what shone like gold-embedded wood. I recognized that pattern as I had seen it many times before in the house. It was the family coat of arms. 

Running my fingers along the top, I realized there were no latches. I tried to raise the cover, but it was too tight. I searched my pocket for the small knife I always carried, and I slid it around the seam until the lid loosened. 

My heart pounded in my chest, my fingers trembling as I touched the lid. I was about to see if the stories of the family hiding a set of crown jewels were true. What if there was a second set? Was the original Lord Rice charged with keeping a reserve set of jewels, a way of keeping them safe from those who would overthrow a king? Or was the legend a fairy tale like Peter Pan or St. Nicholas?

I had my answer when I lifted the lid. The narrow beam of light from my torch shone on a large purple velvet bag, drawn shut with a gold cord—a wax seal with the royal crest securing the cord’s knot. 

***
I rushed upstairs carrying the casket and yelled for my wife. Lady Dinah came running into the library. 

“What is going on?”

“I found the key to vault eighteen. I couldn’t get the lock open last night, so I called a locksmith and,” he removed the cover, “look.”

She peered into the box, and the color drained from her face. “Oh my, that is the royal crest. You found that in the vault?”

“Yes.” My wife breathed quietly as I gently lifted it from the box. Someone slid the box out from under the bag as I lifted it.

“I think so, hon.” I could barely breathe as I set it down. 

“We shouldn’t open it. You should call James. He will know what to do.”

I agreed and placed the call to James Marsan, our attorney, who decided it was best to have someone from the government present. They arrived at three in the afternoon. 

My wife and I escorted our attorney and three representatives from the government and the Queen to the library, where the box sat on the stately family library table. 

As soon as the Queen’s representative saw the royal crest on the wax seal, he smiled. “We have known that in the seventeen hundreds, the then monarch commissioned a duplicate set of the crown jewels, St. Edward’s Crown and the Sovereign's Orb, out of fear that if the monarchy were overthrown, the rightful heir would be king or queen by possessing these crown jewels. It may have been a foolish thought, but if that velvet bag contains those two items, it would be the greatest find in English history.”

After documenting the bag, the crown’s representative instructed me to cut through the cord, leaving the wax seal intact. Carefully, I pulled the bag away from the contents. 

Before us sat the duplicate crown and orb, the Crown Jewels. 

To say that our lives changed forever at that moment is an understatement. Due to public interest, the government placed the estate on the historical places registry and funded all renovations. As the true Crown Jewels were secure, safely tucked in the Tower of London, these jewels were on display for all to see—for a fee, of course. 
To my surprise, I found that I have enjoyed escorting strangers through the estate, especially to my favorite stops, the library and vault eighteen. However, I found my deepest satisfaction when the visitors entered the parlor where the jewels are displayed. As they viewed the crown and orb for the first time, their eyes widened in awe— just as mine did.
Thank goodness, I found that key. 

Footsteps echoed around me. My footsteps.

It crossed my mind someone might have followed me, but it couldn’t have been. My dark-colored sedan blended in with the rest of the cars on the road. And in the dark, it could look like either a dark blue or black or if the light hit it exactly right, even a purple of some sort. 

I tucked my badge safely away in the glove box of the car. If once cared to read the ID that went with it, it would say, Lew Ayres, Detective First Class, the shield was gold. 

She came down the tunnel from the opposite direction that I came in. I knew she’d taken the same pains I had to throw off a tail. 

“You good?”

“Yeah, they don’t suspect a thing.” Detective Linda Malone reported.

“They think you’re an eccentric art collector from out west somewhere and looking to buy a rare painting and don’t much care where you get it.”

“They have it?”

“Yes. and they’re prepared to sell it to you for a million dollars cash.”

“You’re sure it’s real?”

“Yes, they say it is. I can’t question it too much, or they’ll get suspicious. But from what I’ve seen of it, it’s real, or an excellent fake.”

“Good. Set up the meeting.”

“They want to meet you at the Westberry Park south side. They’ll be contacting you tomorrow. Here.” She handed me a paper with the name and address of the park on it.
“OK. I’ll get over there early and check it out.”

“Just don’t get spotted.”

“I know.”

 She turned, headed back where she came from and disappeared.

 I watched her leave, then retraced my steps carefully to stay in the shadows once I was on the street again.
 
My experience last month with the prevention of the theft of several million dollars’ worth of bearer bonds and the potential hostile takeover of a small company gave me some creds and got me selected for this case.

The mission this time was to retrieve a stolen painting and return it to the museum. The thieves didn’t expect anyone would discover the painting missing until they set up the exhibit opening . However, alert security spotted it was missing from storage. The artwork needed to be back at the museum in less than a week for the opening. 

​

 
The museum had two security systems. The public one that everyone saw and heard. And the covert system that no one saw or heard. It was that system that alerted them to the theft of the painting.

The thieves disabled the primary system quickly and gained entry and exit through a secure back entrance. With the ongoing renovation in that part of the building, some cameras were out of service. Perfect set up to get in and out without detection. Almost.

Routine review of the covert security back up system revealed the theft, and the police notified. Art dealers and traders received emails alerting them to the robbery. However, 

Certain other parties found out about the theft. Those that dealt in art that was of questionable provenance. These people didn’t ask questions and rarely got their hands dirty. But in this case, the notoriety of the piece would make it extremely hard to sell, and anyone remotely connected to its sale or theft in any way would have catastrophic consequences to the dealer. At the least, they would end up in prison or, at the worst, dead. Risk versus reward mattered. However, the prize was often too great to pass up.

Detective Linda Malone was the star of the art recovery squad and had spent many months undercover in the “gray market” of art. Her knowledge of art and its players had helped her make several high-profile busts in recent years. When she got word of the theft, she put the word out that she had a buyer for it. 

It didn’t take long for the thieves to contact her. 

We met at the station to coordinate my cover story as a buyer and made sure the details would stand up if they checked me out.

All of this had happened quickly with the museum exhibit scheduled to open the next week and the painting its main attraction and draw. If it weren’t there, it would be an embarrassment to the museum. But more importantly, a theft would ruin the museum’s credibility, and the insurance payout would be astronomical. The recovery of the painting quickly was essential. 

It seemed the thieves were in a hurry to get rid of the painting. Once Linda contacted them, she made the deal.

​

The early morning sun was just breaking over the trees when I arrived the next morning—staying in the shadows. I waited. They had picked a good place as there was no cover to provide proper protection. Linda and I would be in the middle of the park in the open.

The phone call an hour ago told me to be at Westberry Park on the south side just beyond the public restrooms and to bring the money in a large leather messenger bag. It was a heavy bag—a million dollars in small bills. 

I was already there when my cell phone rang, having gotten the location from Linda the night before. The calling number was unlisted, and probably from a burner phone, tracing it was useless. I went through the motions of claiming I had to get the money ready, but I was already near the meeting spot. 

I had cover, but he was too far away to do much good if it went south. I wore two bugs. One they could find and hopefully find and one they wouldn’t. I also carried two guns, hoping for the same find one, not the other. I hoped not to have to use them.

A couple came from the far side of the clearing. The woman was pushing a baby carriage, one of the old ones with the big wheels and a full basket for the wee little one to ride in safety. Also perfect for carrying a million-dollar painting and a million dollars in cash.

 I recognized Linda. The man with her, I didn’t know. I glanced at my watch just before I stepped into the clearing. They were right on time. Always a good sign. I like my criminals' punctual.

Carrying my bag, I strolled into the clearing. I was wearing one of my best suits, and the Panama hat I wore was of the highest quality. I had to look the part of a wealthy art collector.

“Malone?” I asked as we met.

“Yeah, I’m Malone.”

“You have a painting?”

“You have the cash?”

 I held up the bag. “Right here a million dollars. That painting better be real.”

“Oh, it is, I assure you.”

Glancing around, he flipped the blanket back on the carriage. Lying flat in the bottom of the carriage was the painting. 

“How do I know you are telling me the truth that it's real?”

“It's real, all right. I just got it from the museum.”  He reached under the painting and pulled out a duffle bag all folded up. Snapping it open. “Put the money in here.” 

  I heaved the messenger bag up on the side of the carriage. Opening it, I pulled stacks of bills from inside and tossed into the duffle bag.

 “Now, the painting.” I reached for it.

“No, not yet.”

“The deal was I give you money. You give me the painting.”

“You’ll get it when I’m sure the money’s not traceable. Malone will call you. Where to pick up the painting.”

“Hold it. That’s not our deal. I want the picture now!”

“You’ll get when I’m ready.”

 I pulled my gun. At this range, his head would end up all over the nice green grass. I leveled my pistol at him. “You're ready now.” 

“I don’t think so. See that man over there?” He pointed off to the side. 

“If I don’t walk out of here with the money and the picture, he’ll kill her.”

Off to the side was a man holding a gun on a woman. He stood behind her, using her as a shield. One arm pressed across her chest, the other holding a gun barrel against the side of her head. 

“Look, all I want is my painting. I don’t want anyone hurt.”

“Drop the gun, and I walk out, and you’ll get it.”

 I had no choice. I had to lower my gun. Linda and the man backed slowly out of the clearing. I glanced back, and the man was gone. The woman sat in a puddle in the middle of the glade between the trees.

 “Shit! Shit!!” I said more to myself than the man on the other end of the bug.

Officers who were backing me up swamped the park. Two officers attended to the hostage and called an ambulance. She was all right but shaken up badly. She’d been out for her morning walk when he appeared from nowhere and forced her to the clearing. As quickly as he’d appeared, he disappeared. They found no traces of him. We’d all seen him, but it was too late when we did.

I spent the rest of the morning at the station talking to brass and explaining how we not only didn’t have the picture but a million of the taxpayer’s dollars. I kept wishing my phone would ring with Linda on the other end, telling me where to pick up the picture.

The phone never rang.

​

I kept my phone plugged in for fear of the battery going down and my not getting the call. About one p.m., the phone rang. It was Linda. 

“Strong. The picture in a locker at the bus station.”

She’d used my cover name, and she sounded stressed, too stressed. She was a pro, and she didn’t faze easily. She was in trouble. 

“What’s the locker number?”

“478. North side of the building.”

“Where's the key?”

“You’ll find it.” She hung up.

 I called my boss over. Telling him what she'd just told me. He grabbed his phone. “I’ll send someone over to get it.”

“No, I’m going. If they’re watching the locker and don’t see me, who knows what they’ll do.” He agreed. I'd have a tail on me just in case. I wasn’t crazy about the tail, but it made sense and was cover for me.

It didn't take me long to get over to the bus station, but I didn’t go right in. I stayed in the car for a few minutes watching the interior as best I could through the glass doors. The second gunman had been too far away for me to identify again. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I loosened the gun in the shoulder holster before I got out of the car. Glancing around, I spotted the tail. He was sitting across the parking lot from me. I made no indication that I saw him. I usually button the top button on my suit coat, but now I left it open as it would make it that much easier to get my gun out if needed. Standing just inside the lobby, I looked around. 

Everyone seemed to belong there. There were several people at the counters buying tickets and even more waiting near one of the doors leading to the buses. I was looking for anyone who was trying to look like they were supposed to be here. Working too hard at it, that is. 

There were two alcoves with lockers on either side of the main lobby. I resisted the impulse to hurry to lockers. I didn't even have a key for 478. So instead, I sat down on a bench near the north set of lockers. 

Linda had said I’d find the key. But where? The only place to hide a key would be the restrooms. So, I went in. After doing what one does in a public restroom, I stalled at the sink while the other guy that was there left. It took me a few minutes, but I found the key to 478, shoved down behind a toilet. I barely got it without having to get on my knees. The floor here wasn’t something I wanted to see that close.

 Outside the men’s room, I took my time and looked around again. No one seemed to be paying attention to me. I noticed the backup sitting on a bench reading a paper not far from the locker. He was too close to suit me. But I couldn’t do anything to attract attention to either of us.


478 was a top row locker. I opened the locker and found a note inside. I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and pretended to blow my nose in case someone was watching. With the handkerchief in my hand, I carefully picked it up. I resisted the temptation to look at it now. I folded it into the material of the handkerchief and walked out the door.

This was not a good sign. They were playing games with us now. 

Back in the car, I started breathing again. I hadn’t realized how tense I was until I was outside. I remembered feeling like everyone was looking at me. A few seconds later, my backup came out the same door. He didn't even look at me, going straight to his car.

Back at the office, I opened the handkerchief with my bosses and other top brass watching. The note said, “So Long Sucker.” Finding Jamie Roundhouse’s prints on the note were enough to give us a place to start. We spent the rest of the afternoon tracking him down. He had disappeared from his usual haunts, and no one had seen him in several days.

​

 I also set up another meeting in the subway tunnel with Linda. 

Again, the eerie feeling of being watched followed me into the subway tunnel. 
In the daytime, it looked just as forgotten and forlorn as it had in the early morning hours. As this was a little-used branch of the system, it was relatively safe to meet here.

“What happened this morning?”

“I don’t know. I didn't know anything about the guy with the gun. Never saw him before.”

“Roundhouse. Where is he?”

“He disappeared as soon as we got out of the park. I was afraid he’d shoot me as soon as we got clear. He didn't.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I know.”

“I’d have shot you. You’re a liability. You know who he is.”

“This is great. We lost a 2-million-dollar painting and another million in cash in the space of 12 hours.”

“I know. Here.”

 I took the paper.

‘It’s a list of the fences I contacted about the painting. Maybe he’ll call one of them.”

 I glanced at the list. Recognizing a few of the names from the list we’d gotten in from the museum. 

​

What I neglected to tell Linda or any of the officers involved with the handoff of the money was that it was fake. Counterfeit. Particularly good counterfeit, but counterfeit, nevertheless. Only a couple of the top brass knew about the switch. No one below me knew. As far as they knew, it was real.

So now it was a waiting game. Eventually, it would show up in circulation. 
Not only was the money counterfeit but marked counterfeit. It was a waiting game. It would show up somewhere.

 A month later, it did.

A convenience store security video showed the man I’d met in the park passing the bogus money, and it didn't take long to Id him. Within a week, we arrested him and his gun-toting partner on the hill and recovered the painting.

I met Linda in the tunnel one last time.

“Why didn't you tell me the money was fake and marked?”

“I figured you figured it was marked. As for the fake money, I had to have everyone believe it was real. If they thought it was fake, they’d be less diligent. Besides, fooling everyone was half the fun.”

​

It was usual to see a red park bench. Much less under some trees next to a stream. 
But there it was.
The park appeared deserted. This was where they said to meet. I pulled the note from my pocket and glanced at it again, then shoved it back in my pocket.
Glancing around, I wandered near the grove of trees, sitting on the bench to wait. The heat from the sun was less intense in the shade covering the bench, and it made it more natural for me to sit here, pretending to read the newspaper.
I realized in my nervousness that I’d almost opened the paper upside down. I would have looked suspicious, not to mention stupid, if anyone had seen me. A glance at my watch told me it was time. I snuck a glance over the top of the paper every few seconds. I felt stupid, why not look the part?
 I spotted her right on time, coming from the other side of the clearing. She sat on the far end of the bench. She didn’t look at me. “You bring the money?”
“Yes... But...?”
“Show me.” 
I reached inside my jacket and pulled a large envelope stuffed full of money from the inside pocket. I held it up where she could see it. 
“Good.” 
“What am I buying for all of this cash?”
“Your freedom.”
“My freedom?”
She pulled a small DVD player from her purse, sliding it on the bench between us. “Play the video.”
I hadn’t seen one of these cheap DVD players in a long time. I hit the play button, and the seven-inch screen came to life.
On the screen was me. From the angle, I could tell the camera was up in the upper right corner of the room. There was a bookshelf on that wall. It would have been easy to hide a small camera in the books. I had disabled the security cameras when I opened the safe. But they were smart and had a second line of cameras as a failsafe. It worked. They now had me dead to rights. 
“Why not show it to the police?”
“We thought about it. But we have another job we want you to do instead.”
“What about the money?”
“That was just to get you here. Keep It. You have something more valuable than that.”
“Yeah, like what?” I turned and looked at her directly. If they dropped that video on the police, they’d have me in jail in no time flat. They had me pretty good. 
“Okay, what is it you want me to do?” 
She squirmed around to face me, taking the DVD player back and sliding it into her purse.
“There's another safe we need you to get into.”
“I’ll bite, what's so important?”
“Bearer Bonds. Worth a fortune.”
“Fortune to who, you or me?”
“To whoever can produce them in a week at the board meeting.”
And you want to produce them?”
“Yes. Will you do It?”
“I don’t see as I have any choice, do I?”
“No not really.” She handed me a large, plain brown envelope. It was letter size and stuffed as full as it could get. “The details are in here. We meet back here tomorrow at noon after you studied the plans and read the information here.”
 I took the envelope and shoved it into my jacket next to the money I didn't need.   Half an hour later I was in my office. Carefully opening the envelope, I kept it intact and carefully removed its contents. I then dusted the envelope for prints. As expected, mine was there along with hers. I was able to isolate the prints from the girl in the park. Scanning them into the computer, I ran them.
Sure enough, she had a record a yard long. From everything from extortion, blackmail, and even a few sex-related offenses. She was a real prize. In fact, when I checked, there were half a dozen felony warrants out for her. 
I made a phone call. “It worked. They bit,” I told the man on the other end.
I studied the plans and paperwork she gave me. It was a good plan, and the information was all right and up to date. Which told us she had an inside man somewhere. 
I did as she asked me to do and worked up a plan to steal the bonds from the safe. It would not be easy, and in fact, it was dangerous. They could kill me, never mind land in jail. I made a few more phone calls to finalize plans. 
The next day I showed up in the grove of trees with the red bench, again pretending to read the paper. She appeared out of nowhere and sat next to me. We didn't bother to pretend that we didn't know each other.
“Well?” Her first words when she sat down. 
She was wearing the same jacket, and I suspected there was a gun under it. I decided not to find out yet.
“Still working on it. A job like this takes time.”
“You don’t have the luxury of time. It needs to be done tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, they moved the board meeting up to tomorrow.”
I didn’t tell her I had them move it up.
 “Shit... Okay, I can do it, barely.”
She pulled the gun I was certain she had. “You stay with me until tonight.”
We walked together out of the park, pretending we were a couple, her gun hidden when we ran into people. A couple all right, a couple of thieves.
She led me to her car and pushed me into the back seat; she slid in after me. A man was driving, and he started the car the second she closed her door. No one said anything for the entire drive. Since they didn't bother to blindfold me or do anything to keep me from seeing where they were going, I figured it meant they didn't intend for me to come back again. The building we stopped at wasn’t far from the target.
At eight in the evening, along with the girl and her two henchmen companions, I put the plans I’d made into action. After one of her guys bypassed the security system, I jimmied the rear service door. We were in—but not all the way.
The next part was the dangerous part. We had to crawl through the ventilation shafts to the elevator access doors and make our way into the main vault, where the company stored the money and other important papers, and the bearer bonds.
Once we got past the hallway security systems without tripping anything, I still had to get into the vault itself. It took me an hour to get the vault open. Once inside, she went straight for the bonds. Not touching anything else, and there was a lot to touch. Currency was stacked like cordwood, while heavy-duty locks secured the cabinets in the file room of the vault. 
In less than ten minutes, we were out of the vault.
I heard a noise and knew what it was. Waiting until I got to the intersection of two corridors, I held up my hand for us to stop. And we waited. 
Within seconds, bright lights went on, and the doors in the halls opened as an armed swat team appeared out of nowhere. We all froze. Within minutes, officers took the girl and her gang into custody. 
Later in the interrogation room, I sat across from her. My badge hung from its chain around my neck. All she could do was swear and ask how. 
I told them the entire thing had been a setup. The owner of the company came to the police with information that someone was trying to take over his business. He just didn’t know who, but they had discovered the hidden camera. I broke into the office safe, aware of the hidden camera in the bookcase. We were waiting for someone to approach me about the theft in the office. 
I told her I had arranged for the board meeting to be moved ahead, thus forcing her hand. She played right into our plans. We captured her gang along with the money man, an insider who wanted the bonds for a buyout/takeover of the company.
As officers led her away, I thought about that peaceful red bench. It was an excellent place to meet a snitch.
 
​


​

It had been decades since he’d been back to the old town. Catching up with old friends and seeing the folks he knew as a kid had been fun. But he was really here for another reason. 
He had to go back to the cabin. Part of him hoped it was still standing. And a bigger part of him hoped it had long ago collapsed on itself, burying their secrets with it. A bunch of kids, they were what they were, at the time had found the old cabin and used it as a clubhouse of sorts for years. Keeping their secrets from the world. And their parents. 
It was the third night in town when he had a chance to sneak away unnoticed. Leaving his car by the road he took his flashlight and found the old stone path that had led to the cabin. At one time he was sure it had been a really nice place, but even back then it had been a wreck. The years had been as kind as they could be to a dilapidated house. It was still standing. In the moonlight, he made out the shape of the old building. Closing his eyes he could hear his friends calling him, and in his mind, he replayed the last summer. The games they played and towards the late summer, before they went to high school, they had discovered girls. They had all taken turns bringing girls up here. But things got out of hand. And stuff happened. And Becky, Becky Lane her name was, disappeared the next day.
Of course, he knew what had happened, and had sworn to secrecy under penalty of death. The look on her face as she fell and hit her head, and rolled to the floor still haunted him every night when he went to sleep.
They had panicked and hid her in the floor of the cabin and never returned.
That fall into winter all everyone talked about was the disappearance of Becky. 
But they never said a word. No one searched the cabin, in fact, they never even searched the woods where the cabin was. Which surprised him. It was a well-known spot for the local kids to play. But for some reason it was assumed that she’d never go there, it just wasn’t “like her” to go into the woods, she was too much of a homebody and “Goody Two Shoes” to actually go outside and play in the woods. While no one said it specifically, that was what they all thought. He, of course, knew better.
Pushing his way through the brush that had overgrown the path, he found the door. The moon was shining just like it had that night. Breathing hard, he closed his eyes as he touched the old door. He felt his heart racing and the lump in his stomach was almost enough to make him throw up. Swallowing hard, he took a few deep breaths. 
He pushed the door open. It almost fell off the hinges as it opened inward. The stale musty air hit him but he blocked out the smell and stood in the doorway. Shining his flashlight around the room, he thought how much smaller it was than he remembered it being. The posters once on the wall were either lying on the floor or hanging by a thread. In the far corner was “The Stash” as they called it. The stack of dirty magazines that was almost two feet tall. Now a pile of wet and soggy glossy pictures whose colors and pictures had long ago run into each other and become unreadable. He spotted the table leaning against the wall, its legs broken. Broken that night when Becky fell against it. She hit the wall so hard it knocked the old rifle that had hung on the wall since long before they had started using it as a clubhouse. The barrel had landed squarely on her head, and that coupled with the fall had been enough to render her unconscious. They felt for her pulse as best they knew how, and there was none. She was dead. 
They panicked. No one wanted to admit to bringing her up there. Then the whole thing would come out, all the girls they’d brought up, and the books and pictures and other stuff they had up there.
So they buried her under the floorboards of the shed. And they left. 
And never came back.
Until now. He had to know if she was still there. For his own peace of mind, to know she was still buried in the shed. 
It took a few minutes in the dark to remember exactly where they had buried her.
But he found it. Pawing through the dirt with an old loose board, he found nothing. No bones, no clothes. Nothing. 
“Looking for me?”
He literally peed his pants at the sound of the voice behind him. Standing up, he turned back to the door.
The voice had been quiet and steady. But he recognized it.
Becky stood in the doorway holding a shotgun. The shotgun. 
“I thought...”
She interrupted. “Thought I was dead?” 
“Yeah, we all did.”
“I know. You didn't notice that you didn’t see Frank around town when you got here?”
“Yeah, I wondered about that but just thought since he was older and on his own, he left town so no one would ask. I wasn’t sure he was still around.”
“He is, he is under the floor over there. He came back that night looking for me after you ran. I think he realized that I wasn’t dead or wanted to make certain I was. By then I had decided what I wanted to do and he could ruin it for me.” She moved the barrel of the shotgun ever so slightly to indicate the far corner of the room. He glanced at it, and then back to her.
“You killed him?”
“Yes. He egged you into trying it on with me that night. You could have said no, it wasn’t right, but you let him push you. And when I fell, I hit hard and the old gun fell down. It damned near did kill me, but I woke up after you left. Dug my way out of the floor just before he showed up. I killed him, buried him, and disappeared. Yeah, let the whole damned city think I was dead. While I hid out and watched everyone chasing in circles trying to find me. I saw my parents. I spied on them. Even snuck into the house, and heard them when no one was around. They were glad I was gone. Oh, they put on the front and made out how they missed me and wanted me back. But I knew better. So I stayed gone.
I changed my name and went to a new town, invented some kind of bullshit story, and they believed it. And the next thing I knew I was adopted and living on the good side of town. It has been great all these years. So I guess I should thank you for almost killing me while trying to get into my pants.” 
“How did you know I was here?”
“I’ve been watching you since you got into town. I hoped you would come out here to make sure my body’s still here. Saves me having to move you afterward.”
“Look, I’m really sorry, we didn't mean nothing by anything we did, we were just kids.”
“That might have worked then, but not now. It’s too late, far too late for me. I’ve already gone down this road, and I’m going to finish it.”
With that, the shotgun flashed. He never heard it go off.


​
​

​Looking down over the street, I tried to block the noise filtering through the old windows. The sound of the taxis blowing their horns and people yelling at each other, along with the distant sirens echoing through the streets made me numb to the silence that was filling the apartment.
       Closing the blinds on the window of the Brownstone apartment five floors above the fray, I turned and looked at him.
“So we’re really going to do it, eh?”
“I don’t know. I hate it but I think we have to do it.”
“Okey, let's get this done.” We closed up the apartment and locked the door behind us.  
  The hallways of the old Brownstone had long seen better days. The once glorious wallpaper was now varying shades of a crappy brown color with spots that had once been a pattern of some sort. That's was where wallpaper remained on the walls. Most of it had been worn off by decades of people rubbing against as they moved about their lives in the building.
The few people we met in the halls were more interested in minding their own business then wondering what we were carrying in the big sack between us. 
Taking the back stairs we made our way to the basement. The furnace was a throwback to the old days when the place was heated by a big boiler that fed hot air through the vent system in the building. The closer to the lower floors you were the warmer you were in the winter as the hot air cooled as it made its way up the vents to the higher floors. These days the vents were used mostly as a garbage dump by the tenants who knew it existed and every so often the building maintenance guy would burn what trash he could in the furnace. Most of the younger folks didn't bother and their garbage lay in the halls attracting rats and other critters waiting for someone else to pick it up.
To my surprise, the air was better down here than in the halls upstairs. Maybe because the stench of trash and other obscene smells wasn’t as bad. At any rate, I could breathe better. Which helped me a lot as there was still a dirty, smelly job to do.
We said a silent prayer between us as we stood before the furnace and shoved the remains of one Lee J. Roswell into the fire.
We knew he wouldn’t be missed. If he was, it wouldn’t be for long. 
I had done a thorough investigation of him. I knew everything there was to know about the man. From the place he was born, who his first girlfriend was and what became of her, his three wives and all his kids, to how he had really made his money. I knew why we found him hiding in a dump of an apartment in the middle of New York City and I knew who had been looking for him. The five other people we had made disappear had also been studied and planned out to the last detail. Contingency plans made in case things went wrong. Fortunately for us, each had gone off exactly as planned. The entire process took six months and involved traveling to several other countries where if we were caught, we were on our own. We were down to our final two.
  Stoking the fire, we made sure anything identifiable was burned to a crisp. The smell of burnt flesh was something I never got used too. I still hated it. It was almost worse than the actual killing of the victim. 
 Once it was done we wiped the entire furnace down with damp cloths as well as the doors and walls we may have touched. 
An hour later we were well out of the neighborhood. 
  There was a small flurry of activity when he was discovered missing. As expected, no one had a clue as to who the old man really was, and he was quickly forgotten about.
A week later another old man disappeared. Again, a small hornet's nest appeared but was s quickly dispelled when it was clear he as a drunk who’d gone off a bender and didn’t make it back.
Six months later my partner and I sat in a law office in Washington. 
“Here’s your cash. You two did a great job.  Both in finding them, and eliminating them.  The world is a better place without them.”
 My partner and I had been charged by the US Attorney General to find and eliminate half a dozen wanted criminals that the government couldn’t touch for one reason or another. Only two had been in the states, the rest had been in places that US law couldn’t touch officially. So they paid us very generously to make them disappear.
As the Attorney General said, things that needed doing.

Two more palm trees came crashing down on the beach as the computer finished final preparations for automatic shutdown. The automated weather station had triggered a shutdown when the rains and winds had hit certain marks.
The solar panels and a small wind turbine, that generated power that ran the inverters and batteries that ran the station, began to shake on their foundations as the winds and rains picked up.
Meanwhile, deep inside the stone and concrete building, an automated computer had been monitoring communications on the tiny island of Leetown, a private island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The waves began to crash against the outside of the building. Within minutes the tiny island was covered in twenty feet of water which crashed over and through everything. While most of the smaller less well-built buildings lay flat in a matter of minutes, the old stone-and-block building didn’t completely submit to the water. It remained standing.
However, the ancient mortar-and-cement casing did partially give way to the intense weight and pressure of the water as it swept across the small island. Water found its way into every little nook and cranny that had an opening at all, forcing blocks and stones to shift and let in more water. When it was done, three feet of water made itself home throughout the tiny building. Computers and electronics were waterlogged and fried.
Several weeks later, Cole Webber made his way back to the tiny island.
In the weeks following the storm, he had made a financial killing off the data siphoned off the internet and private networks he had been tapping into for several months. The cost to set up the substation had been high. But the need for secrecy was higher. This particular island had been chosen because of its location to the main backbone of the internet running under the ocean and to the nearest land-based server center—thus allowing him direct access to the main trunk traffic of the internet and the ability to piggyback on others who were spying on the internet. Also because it was so far out in the middle of nowhere, it would never occur to them that anyone would set up a hardware system to tap into the servers.
The usefulness of the substation was now past. He had what he needed from it, and with the storm destroying everything, he thought it was time to come in and rip everything out.
As he expected, the island was a total washout. By now most of the water had subsided and found its way back to the ocean. However, there were still pockets where several feet of water sat and the bugs were making themselves at home.
The solar panels and inverters and all of the external hardware that had run the small computer station were in ruins outside the building.
Pushing the door open, he was greeted with water up to his knees. The water came gushing out of the door around his legs. Using his flashlight he looked around inside the small building.
There on the far wall, mounted high, was a single monitor, its cords dangling against the wall. To his surprise, a single light was flashing. The screen had a small blinking oblong dot in the upper left corner. Cole recognized it instantly as a DOS prompt.
Stepping into the room, now covered with slime and mud, he saw computer components lying all over the tables and floor. He approached the one screen still working.
And the built-in speaker spoke to him.
“Hello, Cole, we’ve been waiting for you.”

​The fire had long ago burned out. There was nothing left but ashes. 
I turned toward the door, forgetting about the lone chair in the room, and tripped, sprawling across the floor. I got up slowly, right knee stinging, but kicked the chair out of my way. The grating sound it made as it scraped across the wooden floor was satisfying. Damned chair. 
I grimaced as I gave the chair a wide berth and walked to the door. I turned the old worn knob, its luster long gone. Hell, the door and knob, even the chair was older than me. In another time I had sat in the chair reading by candlelight and the glow from the fireplace. Music from a long-ago era had filled the room. Now the room was only the remains of a life I had known decades ago. 
Returning to my grandfather’s dilapidated homestead had been a mistake. As I walked into the entry hall, memories crept into my mind. Grandma baking cookies. Grandpa playing cards. The hours I spent with him learning to hunt and fish. His old shotgun still sat leaning in the corner next to the entry door. I picked it up, cracking open the double barrel and the breach. Sure enough, it was loaded. The brass ends of the shells were now corroded from years of sitting in the gun untouched and uncleaned. He would have been appalled. Grandpa never let anything get dirty, least of all his guns. I put it back. 
I pushed open the front door and exited the house. The porch once held a hanging swing where I’d spent many an hour listening to him tell tall tales while we drank lemonade. It was now barely recognizable, lying on the rotted deck in a broken heap. The once beautiful lawn he’d kept was now a sea of overgrown weeds and hay, dotted with the occasional flower that managed to eke out an existence in the tall grass and weeds. 
Plowing my way through the weeds I found his old truck. After a bit of a struggle, I pried the door open. The interior was covered in dust and junk. The tools he’d used last were still sitting on the passenger side of the bench seat. He’d died in this truck—heart attack hit him, and he was gone. Grandma died a month later from a broken heart. I shuddered, the memories were becoming overwhelming. Slamming the door shut again, I spun so fast I was dizzy, but I had to get back to my car and away from this place. 
“Robert!! Wake up!! You were dreaming again.” 
I blinked from the glare of the sun streaming through the window and sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
She sat on the edge of the bed. “You dreamed about the farm again?” 
I nodded. “Yes. this time I made it to the truck.” 
“But you didn’t see the box?” 
“No, I didn’t see the box. I don’t know where grandpa hid the money.” I threw the covers back and got out of bed. “All I have are these nightmares from the damn drugs. They aren’t helping me remember what happened all those years ago.”
“You told me there was a box of money. You saw him hide it.”
“I was sixteen years old when he died. I thought I knew where he hid it but when we searched the place it wasn’t there. I just can’t remember where it was. Damn it, Charlene, it’s been nearly twenty years.”
“But baby, no one’s been there since your grandparents died but us. We’ve gone over and over the place. The only way we’re gonna find out where he hid the box is for you to remember.”
“All the damned drugs you’re shoving down my throat are giving me a headache and flashbacks to things I don’t want to remember.”
“But baby, it’s a lot of money.” 
Those baby blue eyes of hers were misty as she gazed at me.
“Okay, I’ll keep taking the drugs until we find the money.”