Then, if it still wouldnât openâand it probably wouldnâtâheâd use the crowbar. But first . . . you never knew until you tried . . .
He grasped the lid and it came up in a squall of dirty hinges. Later he would surmise that someone had bought this trunk secondhand, probably getting a good deal because the key was lost, but for now he only stared. He was unaware of the blister on one palm, or the ache in his back and thighs, or the sweat trickling down his dirt-streaked face. He wasnât thinking of his mother, his father, or his sister. He wasnât thinking of the arkie-barkies, either, at least not then.
The trunk had been lined with clear plastic to protect against moisture. Beneath it he could see piles of what looked like notebooks. He used the side of his palm as a windshield wiper and cleared a crescent of fine droplets from the plastic. They were notebooks, all right, nice ones with what almost had to be real leather covers. It looked like a hundred at least. But that wasnât all. There were also envelopes like the ones his mom brought home when she cashed a check. Pete pulled away the plastic and stared into the half-filled trunk. The envelopes had GRANITE STATE BANK and â Your Hometown Friend! â printed on them. Later he would notice certain differences between these envelopes and the ones his mom got at Corn Bank and Trustâno email address, and nothing about using your ATM card for withdrawalsâbut for now he only stared. His heart was beating so hard he saw black dots pulsing in front of his eyes, and he wondered if he was going to faint.
Bullshit you are, only girls do that.
Maybe, but he felt decidedly woozy, and realized part of the problem was that since opening the trunk he had forgotten to breathe. He inhaled deeply, whooshed it out, and inhaled again. All the way down to his toes, it felt like. His head cleared, but his heart was whamming harder than ever and his hands were shaking.
Those bank envelopes will be empty. You know that, donât you? People find buried money in books and movies, but not in real life.
Only they didnât look empty. They looked stuffed .
Pete started to reach for one, then gasped when he heard rustling on the other side of the stream. He whirled around and saw two squirrels there, probably thinking the weeklong thaw meant spring had arrived, making merry in the dead leaves. They raced up a tree, tails twitching.
Pete turned back to the trunk and grabbed one of the bank envelopes. The flap wasnât sealed. He flipped it up with a fingerthat felt numb, even though the temperature now had to be riding right around forty. He squeezed the envelope open and looked inside.
Money.
Twenties and fifties.
âHoly Jesus God Christ in heaven,â Pete Saubers whispered.
He pulled out the sheaf of bills and tried to count, but at first his hands were shaking too badly and he dropped some. They fluttered in the grass, and before he scrambled them up, his overheated brain assured him that Ulysses Grant had actually winked at him from one of the bills.
He counted. Four hundred dollars. Four hundred in this one envelope, and there were dozens of them.
He stuffed the bills back into the envelopeânot an easy job, because now his hands were shaking worse than Grampa Fredâs in the last year or two of his life. He flipped the envelope into the trunk and looked around, eyes wide and bulging. Traffic sounds that had always seemed faint and far and unimportant in this overgrown stretch of ground now sounded close and threatening. This was not Treasure Island; this was a city of over a million people, many now out of work, and they would love to have what was in this trunk.
Think, Pete Saubers told himself. Think, for Godâs sake. This is the most important thing thatâs ever happened to you, maybe the most important thing that ever will happen to you, so think hard and think right.
What came
He grasped the lid and it came up in a squall of dirty hinges. Later he would surmise that someone had bought this trunk secondhand, probably getting a good deal because the key was lost, but for now he only stared. He was unaware of the blister on one palm, or the ache in his back and thighs, or the sweat trickling down his dirt-streaked face. He wasnât thinking of his mother, his father, or his sister. He wasnât thinking of the arkie-barkies, either, at least not then.
The trunk had been lined with clear plastic to protect against moisture. Beneath it he could see piles of what looked like notebooks. He used the side of his palm as a windshield wiper and cleared a crescent of fine droplets from the plastic. They were notebooks, all right, nice ones with what almost had to be real leather covers. It looked like a hundred at least. But that wasnât all. There were also envelopes like the ones his mom brought home when she cashed a check. Pete pulled away the plastic and stared into the half-filled trunk. The envelopes had GRANITE STATE BANK and â Your Hometown Friend! â printed on them. Later he would notice certain differences between these envelopes and the ones his mom got at Corn Bank and Trustâno email address, and nothing about using your ATM card for withdrawalsâbut for now he only stared. His heart was beating so hard he saw black dots pulsing in front of his eyes, and he wondered if he was going to faint.
Bullshit you are, only girls do that.
Maybe, but he felt decidedly woozy, and realized part of the problem was that since opening the trunk he had forgotten to breathe. He inhaled deeply, whooshed it out, and inhaled again. All the way down to his toes, it felt like. His head cleared, but his heart was whamming harder than ever and his hands were shaking.
Those bank envelopes will be empty. You know that, donât you? People find buried money in books and movies, but not in real life.
Only they didnât look empty. They looked stuffed .
Pete started to reach for one, then gasped when he heard rustling on the other side of the stream. He whirled around and saw two squirrels there, probably thinking the weeklong thaw meant spring had arrived, making merry in the dead leaves. They raced up a tree, tails twitching.
Pete turned back to the trunk and grabbed one of the bank envelopes. The flap wasnât sealed. He flipped it up with a fingerthat felt numb, even though the temperature now had to be riding right around forty. He squeezed the envelope open and looked inside.
Money.
Twenties and fifties.
âHoly Jesus God Christ in heaven,â Pete Saubers whispered.
He pulled out the sheaf of bills and tried to count, but at first his hands were shaking too badly and he dropped some. They fluttered in the grass, and before he scrambled them up, his overheated brain assured him that Ulysses Grant had actually winked at him from one of the bills.
He counted. Four hundred dollars. Four hundred in this one envelope, and there were dozens of them.
He stuffed the bills back into the envelopeânot an easy job, because now his hands were shaking worse than Grampa Fredâs in the last year or two of his life. He flipped the envelope into the trunk and looked around, eyes wide and bulging. Traffic sounds that had always seemed faint and far and unimportant in this overgrown stretch of ground now sounded close and threatening. This was not Treasure Island; this was a city of over a million people, many now out of work, and they would love to have what was in this trunk.
Think, Pete Saubers told himself. Think, for Godâs sake. This is the most important thing thatâs ever happened to you, maybe the most important thing that ever will happen to you, so think hard and think right.
What came
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