13-15

13 GHOSTS ii

 

I

t could have been a musical. Atticus strode down the street beneath his black umbrella, the pelting of the rain coming down like bullets bled through, over the music pounding through his headphones. It all rattled his eardrums, and lost in the ocean of puddles, he felt at ease with the world. There was a sway in his step, and his head was held high, he was oblivious to the storm overhead and the pedestrians staring as they passed. The mp3 player swung in the pocket of his long black coat, and stealing a glance downward, he cursed to himself – the bottom of his black, pinstriped pants were wet and creeping toward his knees.

By happenstance, he came across a long alleyway stretching between a pair of dark, rundown shops. He knew where it lead, cut between the derelict buildings and found himself standing upon the highway of the aqueduct that snaked through the city. Here it was exposed, but further down he would be covered and could dispose of the umbrella until he reached the opening by the coffeehouse.

Atticus gambolled down the stone stairs and turned down the aqueduct, the covered part was a couple hundred yards in the distance and he smirked. His feet pounded through the puddles, his pants were getting wetter but he didn’t care, before long he’d be fine, and as the music thundered in his ears, he watched the light show overhead. Lightning was forking betwixt the leaden clouds in time with the music, and Atticus watched all down the aqueduct, and once or twice looked to the high rising puddles and watched the most beautiful thing. The ripples in the water, mixed with the reflection of the jagged bolts of lightening were ethereal and set his mind to spin; he stood for a long moment, staring down upon a particularly large puddle and was transfixed.

It wasn’t until a volatile rumble of thunder shook him from the trance that he remembered where he was supposed to be. He shook the stupor, continued down the aqueduct and closed the umbrella upon entering the dark concrete pipe. Once inside the darkness he turned back and noticed that the rain had washed the debris and garbage of the city away. It all looked more grey than usual, more ominous and melancholy – foreboding, that was the word he was looking for and turning away from the din of the city, he let the waves of music carry him down the epic corridor of cement.

There was a light in the distance, if you could call it that, and it wasn’t God or the F-Train, it was the end of the cover and the return of the rain. Part of him cursed, part of him didn’t want to go back out in the rain, but another part, perhaps the childish part, wanted to run out into the downpour and jump in puddles. It was silly, he knew it, but still, a piece of Atticus was lost in the ether of twenty years back.

Before he stepped across the threshold, into the rain, he popped the umbrella open and lit a cigarette. His head was hung toward the ground, watching his feet transcend the water, the distance, and the music flooded his head, keeping the other thoughts and memories at bay. It worked as he walked back to the street, through another dark alleyway between an abandoned storefront and a glass high-rise toward the coffeehouse.

At the mouth of the alley, he turned toward the closed doors and looked through the candlelit darkness and saw Claudia sitting in the corner, a dark yet curious look upon her face as she sipped her tea and fingered through her book. Atticus took a deep breath and unplugged the headphones from his ear and powered down the mp3 player. It was all silent for a second before the outside din returned to his ears, and then it came loud and deafening, a roll of thunder that shook his bones.

He flinched and looked over his shoulder – this area of town was not as populated as home, or as the centre. Across the way, deep in the adjacent alley, he saw a pair of silhouettes moving down and come to a stop. They flickered and laughed to one another before pulling another silhouette from a pile of boxes – a man or woman – and they proceeded to accost the silhouette with brute force. A yelp pierced the near silence of the street, and Atticus watched them, oblivious. A cop rolled by, down the street, and did nothing to stop them. Atticus watched as whomever was beaten to death and left, otherwise untouched. It was not for money, or any other reason than entertainment.

Atticus felt a little disgusted and oblivious – he’d seen it before, but it never really took the edge off. He pulled the door of the coffeehouse open and stepped inside, away from the city, into the darkness and toward Claudia who put her book down at the tinkle of the bells over the door. She was smiling, and for some reason, this did not bode well in his mind. He took a seat across from her, hands in his lap.

“What?”

He asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

 

Together, Boidae and Liasis prised the heavy door open that lead to the tunnel proper – the tendons in the top of their hands flexed and shifted beneath the flesh like a fluid machine, and the flickering light of The Grotto burned the shadows into their hands. Boidae gave a grunt and the gateway finally opened; into the dark they stepped and pulled it closed in their wake. Even the dim light of The Grotto was brighter than this. The fading, flickering torches mounted in brackets along the walls cast barely a whisper of light, but they set forth, their eyes acclimating.

“Do you know the first Burrow past The Grotto?”

Liasis asked as he hoisted the axe upon his shoulder.

“No clue. The only thing I do know is that Fulguralis is at the end.”

Boidae’s words were curt. Somewhere in the darkness there was a scratching and his ears were pricked, listening. He tightened his grip around the handle and continued down the corridor.

“Do you know how far it is?”

Liasis continued, a subtle tremble of fear in his voice.

“Seriously, Liasis, shut up. I’m thinking.”

“You can’t talk and think at the same time?”

“Yeah, that I can do. It’s the talking, thinking and walking. And no, I don’t know how far. You can still turn back.”

His mind flashed back to his first trip to the Outer Rim. He was smaller then, considerably younger; his feet had to step twice for each of Jackdaw’s, and he was asking similar questions, but in hindsight, he’d been a child. His had been innocent curiosity, but Liasis could not be that innocent, he had to have some idea what lay outside The Grotto.

“No, I don’t want to turn out, brother. I ventured out on this trek with you, and I’m going to see it to the end. Hell, I want to see what’s outside The Grotto.”

“Then c’mon.”

Boidae said, looking over his shoulder, past his brother and to the entryway that was now out of sight, cloaked in the darkness. His brother’s face was cloaked in the shadow of the torchlight, and his vision shifted – he could see the fear stretched across the boys face. He looked younger now, in the dark; his features softer, rounder, and the wide eyes were darting all through the tunnel. Boidae wanted to laugh a little when it dawned on him how old the boy had to be. The city of The Grotto may have aged him, but he was still somewhere in his teens.

Boidae wasn’t sure if Liasis had been born before or after he’d left The Grotto for the Outer Rim. It was not in the nature of their people to care for their young. They were sent out young into the inner workings of The Grotto, and were raised by the community. Boidae had been sent out at four, and had fallen in with a group of boys who went to see the old witch Teiidae for teaching. It was the way of The Grotto, and Boidae had reaped the benefits.

It was when he crossed the threshold into what could be considered adulthood that he was sent to the Outer Rim with his mentor, Jackdaw. He had been taught for ten years by Teiidae when the letter from The Hierarchy arrived in her post. How they knew Boidae had been shacking up with the old woman, he had no clue, but they did, and he joined the call. He was sent to the Outer Rim, and had no clue what had happened in The Grotto since. His mother was dead, old Ctenomys was still alive. How it wall worked out, he didn’t know, and he began to wonder how his mother had died.

“Quid pro quo, how did mum die?”

“Oh man, you don’t want to know that.”

“Yes, I do. Jackdaw never told me, and I know you know.”

“Christ. Alright.

She was, man, are you sure you want to know this?”

“Damnit, yes; quit screwing me around. Just tell me.”

“Look, she was killed near the Centre. Not too far from where the two of you found me. it was brutal, man. Rumour is, remember the cat Teiidae killed? Well, I think she killed. I don’t know, but no one loses that much blood from the skull and wakes up, right? Right, well, rumour ‘round the campfire is that it was him. Made some advances, thought she was a corner girl, she didn’t reciprocate and he – it was vicious, man. I don’t even know the extent, but it was brutal.”

“I see.”

The fire flashed behind his eyes again, and he felt his blood begin to boil.

“Hey, that’s just rumour, man. Don’t hold it as gospel.”

Boidae had almost expounded in front of his brother, but now he had closed himself off again and continued down the deep corridor, lost in his own thoughts. The sea was growing deeper, and the more he focused on one thought, the more slipped through his fingers. It was all infuriating, and he continued down the path without speaking for a long while. The dancing torchlight played across his face and the rough hewn walls of the passage as he walked, the sound his feet echoed, even against clay, he was walking with a purpose and with a fire burning through his veins.

“Hey, Boidae, you alright, man?”

“What?”

He snapped, stopping to look at Liasis.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Let’s just get there …”

It was there that he turned down the corridor and shifted his gaze, and in the dark, he saw something formidable, solid and blocking their way. His mouth twitched.

“Looks like we’re almost there, Liasis.”

“Good. Maybe we can get some grub.”

“What?”

“Look brother, I haven’t eaten in a couple of days. The food is too expensive in The Grotto, and the only thing I have heard about the outer Burrows is that theirs is cheaper.”

“You’ve done lost your head, boy.”

Boidae shook his head with a small chuckle, taking the first step toward the next Burrows entryway.

Each step brought them closer to the door. They were walking side by side as they approached it, and Boidae noticed an inscription engraved, just as there had been one upon the entry way of The Grotto. He wondered if they were deliberate, words of warning to visitors, to trespassers. He bit his lip and remembered something that Jackdaw had said to him, that there were other territories that did not take kindly to strangers, that the Village of Descensus, for example, were a brutal lot. That they would kill a stranger as soon as look at them. He wondered if this was the Village of Descensus.

Boidae approached the door first, up against it, and he brushed the inscription with the palm of his hand. The door was cold, metal. It was heavy and Boidae felt a knot tighten in the pit of his stomach as he read the missive.

Extra territorium jus dicenti impune non paretur.

 

“He who administers justice outside of his territory is disobeyed with impunity.”

Frowned with thought, he turned to his brother, his brow furrowed.

“What?”

Liasis asked.

“I don’t know. Just thinking back to something Jackdaw told me, trying to remember.

Trying to remember what it was that he said, exactly. What he told me the plate to Descensus would say. He’d heard tell of it, he’d been there, I think. I don’t know, but I can’t remember…

Damnit.”

Boidae examined the door closely, the intricate spirals and engravings, the risen bolts. It all looked forbidding, as though others would not be tolerated. He grumbled and leaned against the door, his forehead against the cold iron. He tried to listen, to hear, but nothing came.

“Hell.”

He pushed upon the door, but it did not budge. Did not move a hair, and with a thoughtful repose, he looked for a handle, something to pull it open, but there was nothing. No, this Burrow did not welcome visitors easily. His mouth twitched again, and he raises his fist to pound upon the door for admittance. There was no other way, there were no paths around this Burrow, they had to go through.

“The way out is through.”

He said to no one at all as he brought his closed fist down upon the door a handful of times.

 

14 GHOSTS II

 

W

hat Boidae did not expect, nor see, was the double hinges and the crease down the centre of the doors that screamed as they pulled open by a single man on the other side. His shock of white hair almost stood taller than he, and with a warm, pleasant face he ushered them inside the Burrow.

“Welcome to The Securus, you are from The Grotto, I assume?”

The small man said, looking up at the pair of them with a smile playing across his face. The man was beaming, and it caught both of the visitors off guard.

“We are.”

“Splendid!”

The man said, clapping his hands together.

“What brings you to Securus?”

“Well, we’ve been sent to Fulguralis. To find Mr Lapin.”

Liasis explained, almost excited. The mans demeanour had rubbed off upon him in the few seconds standing there, but Boidae had to admit, it was infectious. This whole area seemed to glow, and Boidae could not figure out why or how. There were no torches, no electricity, nothing to bring the light, but it was there, and undeniable. He looked over the low setting structures, and all around Securus. It was pretty, in a way that really struck Boidae’s fancy. To either side of the entrance were great golden statues that seemed to shimmer of people that looked very much like their greeter.

“Oh, I see. And who set you upon this quest?”

“The Magus?”

Again, Liasis answered.

“Ah yes, The Magus, of course. The head of your Hierarchy.

I’d watch out, doing with him, boys.”

“Pardon?”

“No, no. I don’t know the terms of your arrangement, and it’s not my place to speak ill of another elder, but yes, I’d be careful. You’ve struck a deal, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

Boidae finally spoke; his eyes glazed to stone, staring down at the little man, his shock of white hair swaying a little in the barely existent breeze.

“The only thing I will say then is, make sure… make sure, that he upholds his end to the bargain. Powerful Magus though he may be, he is also adept at sleight of hand, but no, no. you’re on your way to Fulguralis? You’ll be passing through Descensus, yes? Yes, of course. There’s no other way, and I reckon that’s why you’re armed. It’s the only place you’ll need those.”

The small man said.

“You’ll need a guide through Securus, are you planning on making any stops whilst you are here, sirs?”

“Well, my brother was hoping for some food, Sir.”

“Angustus, sirs. You may call me Angustus. But yes…”

He turned his head, and looked out over the small hovels around the Burrow.

“Tsaris!”

His voice rang throughout the Burrow and from the lowest setting hovel came what appeared to be a girl; her long dark hair bounced as she walked, with a skip in her step. As she approached the congregation on the steps of Securus, she brushed one of the tall golden statues with her hand and continued to the men who stood almost twofold her height. The deep black wells of her eyes stared back at them, and the smile stretched up well past her eyes. Boidae and Liasis could not help but grin at the small girl, whose voice was high and melodic, like a song radiating from their bones.

“Yes Sir?”

The little sprite said, looking from the giants down to Angustus.

“Tsaris, my dear, could you escort these men into the District and on their way toward Descensus?”

“Oh, they’re going to –

Yes, Sir, assuredly, Sir. I’ll take them through Securus, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

“Thank you, Tsaris.

And good day to you, sirs.”

The small man returned to his post at the doors, and the sprite turned on her heel and skipped down the stone steps. Boidae and Liasis followed her through the stretch of huts and into the market. It was set up much like The Grotto, but cleaner, more streamlined.

 

Atticus sat across from Claudia in the cramped booth, his leg restless and fingers drumming on the countertop. His eyes shifted from Claudia as she slipped her book into her purse, to the buildings outside, to a rather large man at a table with an entire pie and a cup of coffee. He shifted his gaze back to Claudia and parted his lips for a long second before he found his voice again.

“Could you get your next cuppa to go, love?”

He asked, the twitch in his leg shook the entire table.

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know, just wanting to go for a walk, right.”

Atticus shifted his body around and gazed upon the rest of the occupants and the pair of waitresses. There was something unfamiliar here, something foreboding in the pit of his stomach that tightened as he perused the benign faces.

His mind was still locked on the atrocity exhibition outside, in the dark, dank alley. His mind twitched and shuddered, and he found his eyes locked on a pair of silhouettes against the blue of the mirrored glass. They were stretched, elongated, and they shivered as a gust of wind tore across the city – over the reflected shadows heads, lightning forked between the clouds, and he tried to remember the last time it rained.

“Haley, can I get one to go?

You want anything, Atticus?”

“What? Oh yeah, sure. Coffee: black as hell and sweet as sin.”

His eyes returned to the mirrored building outside, his head cocked to the side and he stared, transfixed by the beauty. There was something in watching the thunderclouds roll over the sky in great waves. Heavy and soft at the same time, solid but gaseous – it was rare when it stormed, but when Gaia brought the rain, she brought it in great epic torrents. Lightning split the sky like a sheet, and the thunder that poured through shook the glass and rattled veins against bones, but Atticus did not hear it, he felt it in the very core of his body, shocking his heart to skip a beat like an organic defibrillator.

Somewhere in the distance, off to the side and far away, he saw something shudder out of focus and move, but it was too far off to be a threat. Until it nudged him and pulled his view back from the outside world to his own body – Claudia looked annoyed as she shook her recycled-paper cup. She nodded with her head and they rose. Through the coffeehouse eyes were drawn toward them; a short petite woman in all white followed by a tall, lanky man in all black. They looked as though they were negatives of one another.

The cherry hued wood of the coffeehouse, heavily lacquered, flickered in the guttered candles and played across the sunken faces as they approached the door. A hundred eyes followed them, silent and curious, a little anxious. The eyes were afraid to sweat, afraid that those two would be able to smell their fear; little pinpricks of pupils shook in their sockets, and the two opened the door with one last glance at them before they stepped out into the street, under the nub of an awning outside the heavy front doors of the coffeehouse.

“Did you bring an...”

“No, I’m just magick, I can stay dry in the rain by sheer will.”

Atticus grumbled with a slow smile as he untucked the umbrella from inside the folds of his coat. It rattled open under the nub of the awning and Claudia curled herself under his arm to be covered. He felt the warmth of her body press through his coat, the cup of tea head in the hand against his stomach. The first step was taken out into the rain; his foot stumbled along the dip in the road as it contoured to the sidewalk. The water rushed inside his shoes and he felt his socks slosh with the next step; his feet would be black when he got home.

            “Where do you want to go?”

        Claudia asked; her chin brushed his chest as she looked up to him.

“I don’t know, I was thinking the aqueduct, and maybe out toward the river, or the park.”

“Okay.”

She said, taking a sip of her coffee as he turned them down the alley.

In his peripheral, Atticus saw a pair of men leaned against the brick wall of the coffeehouse, feet hidden from view by a bag of garbage. He knew them, their builds, and he dare not make eye contact. Like wild, feral dogs – you never make eye contact, and with each step down the alley, he found it harder and harder.

“Hey sprite!”

One called, the voice was disembodied. Atticus cursed to himself and dare not move his gaze, or make any notice of acknowledgment, and evidently, Claudia was trying to take the same tact.

“Yeah, sprite. Ditch the loser, we’ll so ya a good time.”

“Yeah, a good time.”

The other disembodied voice spoke, slower and more timid than the first.

“Ignore them.”

Atticus whispered, but before it was out of his lips, he felt an open fist push against his shoulder and the arm around his back slip away and inside her coat. It tightened into a fist; he felt the knuckles pressing against his hipbone. His heart ruptured inside his chest and he felt all cognizant thought drain out – or was that piss running down his leg?

The open hand pushed against him again. The smell of booze was at his ear, wrapping around his throat. A loud, sloppy cackle rent the silent air.

“C’mon sugar, a good time. Had by all.”

“Good time. Good time.”

The slurred, stupid voice said, and Atticus felt her shift, and drop the cup into his hand. He cursed in his head and held his breath.

From inside her coat, her hand twitched and flew across his chest, the breeze was still, the rain silent against the umbrella, and he could hear the fine, oiled mechanics of the straight razor as it opened in a bright flash – it caught a brilliant flash of lightning overhead. It gleamed in the stormy half-light, and watched rain roll in fat, slow droplets down, and a bead of the man’s blood seep down the blade toward the hilt, toward the sleek onyx handle. There was a shade of stainless steel that did not match the rest, from where she had cut into the creature in the sewers, his father had once told him, no matter how stainless it was, blood would forever contaminate a blade to some degree, and it was there, just a hair lighter.

Claudia’s eyes flickered and burned with the flames of hell, and Atticus saw the pinprick pupils of fear in the man’s eyes as he backed away and grabbed the collar of his compatriot’s coat. They retreated back to the mouth of the alley; their eyes never left the two who stood, now turned toward them. A low hiss escaped Claudia’s throat, and for a second, Atticus could have sworn he saw cackles raised.

She stood away from him now, in the rain, and watched their would-be attackers move on, toward the heart of the city. They both listened as the slow steps turned to an outright run once they were out of sight; the splash of puddles rang through the silent air until the patter of rain on the umbrella returned with a wicked crash of thunder in the distance that cracked like a whip.

Their feet carried them the rest of the way toward the alley and down to the aqueduct. A few yards toward the centre of town, the tube greeted them and traffic rumbled overhead. They paused for a moment as Atticus closed the umbrella and turned to her, with the cup of coffee back in her hand. She sipped and looked him up and down, as though she were an owner of a pawn shop, apprising a specimen of jewellery.

“Two things,

A, that was bloody brilliant.

And two, why’d you call me, ‘eh? Why’d you want to meet?”

“Technically speaking, that’s three things. As far as A, you’re welcome, and the others, I wanted to know just what happened on the night you retrieved the parcel.”

 

15 ghosts II

 

I

t was dark; the man in the moon was nowhere to be found. The sky was clearer then than it was now. Atticus stood in his apartment and watched the sky. Thin, vaporous clouds dotted the inky black expanse of space, and with even the smallest of telescopes, Atticus was sure he’d have been able to see the Milky Way. Stars glittered like diamonds and the heat rising from the street through the open window came in waves and crashed over him, stippling sweat upon his brow.

He looked around and saw the cat, Mama-ji swishing her tale in the darkness – no lights were on in the apartment, only the ambient glow of the orange streetlights. His hands and feet were cold, clammy, and the knot in his stomach tightened as seconds ticked silently away upon his watch. Nerves rattled and blood pressure on the rise, he began to wonder why the hell he had agreed to this. His cell phone exploded like an atom bomb and he felt his heart stop for a second; a tightness in his chest that could not be explained in any language he knew, for a split second, he thought he was dying.

There was melody found in the detonation and he turned from the window to see the display burning like a brushfire in the darkness, vibrating toward the edge of the table. The tightness in his chest unwound, and he reached over the couch and pulled the phone into his hand by the tips of his fingers. The melody continued until he flipped it open and pressed the green button.

The voice on the other end told him it was time. He knew it was time, and he hung the phone up, stuffing it into his pocket. The cat intertwined itself around his feet with a soft purr, and nudging it away; he returned to the window and stepped out onto the fire escape. It was in his best interests to avoid being seen and as he scrambled down the fire escape, he watched the bolts as they shook in the brick and his stomach sunk a little.

Halfway down the final ladder, he jumped and landed with the scratching of his soles against the asphalt. The streetlamps drained him of all colour and as he moved to the mouth of the alley, he looked up, over his shoulder, at the fire escape. It still hung to the building, and he set off down the empty sidewalk. Debris was littered across the street and shifted with the warm breeze; a white plastic shopping bag caught the wind like a parachute and sailed down the sidewalk to tangle in his feet. The next step dislodged it, and he was on his way. The knot in his stomach loosened and moved to his throat.

It had been plotted and planned with a number of different scenarios; none were easy, and he didn’t expect it to be. He was going into a highly secured building with a potential resident, his informant had told him the man was out, and would be for the remainder of the evening, but it didn’t always work like that. No, he shook his head and looked down to the cracks in the sidewalk; it didn’t always work like that.

In his pocket were a pick set to get through the door, and a pair of side cuts to disable the alarm. Once he was inside, it would be easy for the police to realise what it was, but that was the plan. Retrieving the parcel was going to be easy – he had, had a meeting with the man the week before under guise of employment that went awry. This was where he was thankful he had a forgettable face, at least for tonight, he did not want to be remembered. He had made no indication toward the parcel, but nonetheless, it was in his nature to be safe, and sound.

He saw the parcel, on the desk in Library where they met. That would be easy, and inside the five minutes he had allotted, it would be easy to pick up a few other things to make it look like a proper burglary, and that would send the police to the other side of town. He had gotten the idea from a book somewhere, and it suited the night’s events well enough. Confident though he may have been; Atticus was still nervous as hell. Anything could go wrong, and holding his breath he slipped the phone from his pocket. He was approaching the final leg of the journey and could see the manse towering over the old brownstones.

“Still gone?”

“Sure thing, brother.”

A raspy voice answered and without anything else, the phone was closed and returned to his pocket.

Atticus approached the building, the knot tightened in his throat and he looked over his shoulder to the rooftop across the way. His man was there, and no one else was in sight.

Easy.

He told himself.

Easy as a two dollar…

He stopped in mid-sentence and looked at the locks on the double doors. Glancing to either side, Atticus knelt and slipped the picks from the pocket of his jeans. Inside three minutes, he heard the lock click open and he stood, readying himself. He had seventy-three seconds to disarm the security. His stomach tightened and he held the side cuts in his hand.

Now or never.

The door pushed open and the electronic chime of the alarm echoed through the house as the door closed. The panel was on the wall, next to the door. It was flashing a number of lights in the darkness, and he jerked it from the drywall. It hung like a desecrated corpse, and with a small flashlight, Atticus examined the wiring.

No, not the red wire, surely not the red wire…

Atticus clipped the red wire and the house was silent, all he could hear was the wind increase outside and rattle the glass.

Library’s on the third floor. Go. Now.

A guttural voice rang in his head and he bolted for the third floor. Across the hall and up the stairs, he knocked things over and listened with his ears pricked. He was the only soul in the house, and it was his playground. Inside the Library, he found the ornate silver box and pushed it into his coat. The next stop was the bedroom, and he hoped it was only across the hall. It wasn’t, but it was a hollow room, each wall lined with guns.

Smash and grab.

Atticus realised he should’ve brought a duffle or something, anything to make this look like a proper burglary. He cursed himself and smashed a couple high panes of glass to retrieve a couple pistols.

Gangbangers would want the pistols, things they could conceal. When it came to guns, they didn’t want money, didn’t know or care what some of these were worth.

The glass lay on the floor like shattered diamonds as he left the room and returned to the Library, to the desk. The treasure trove was there, in the bottom right hand drawer, and as he gazed upon it with a luscious gleam in his eye, he wondered why he’d wasted time going to the other room. In the drawer was a cashbox; Atticus snickered and tugged at the lid, it was unlocked, and inside lay a couple thousand dollars and a small handful of precious gems.

Easy.

He told himself and vacated the Library once more, the chair on its side and the drawer left open. Each step he took down the hall brought destruction – vases, paintings, everything. He wanted it to look messy, like a pair of vandals came in. The second floor proved easy to dismantle, and the ground floor was empty, save for a small table. For good measure, he pulled the drawer out and emptied the contents onto the floor.

Smash and grab.

He told himself as he looked back over his handiwork at the door, and stepped out into the balmy night air.