Chapter 12: The Safe

The Riders' fish fry was on Saturday night, and every light in the shop was off by nine.

Rafe parked his truck two streets over, and we walked the alley behind Route 9.

I had June's brass key in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

The baby was kicking steadily, and I put my palm on her to quiet her.

"If he's not at the fish fry," Rafe said, "he's inside."

"He's at the fish fry. He's cooking. He's cooked the catfish every year since his father died."

"You're sure."

"Boone would sooner miss a funeral than let someone else fry his fish."

I turned the key.

The back door opened on the smell of oil and cold concrete.

We crossed the shop floor in the dark.

My coffee mug was still on its shelf.

I stopped at the register, and Rafe stopped next to me.

Under the counter was a square steel hatch in the floor, painted gray, with a dial in the middle.

"I've mopped around this for fifteen years," I said.

"Do you know the combination?"

"No."

"Do you know what he would pick?"

I thought about it.

I tried my birthday, and the dial wouldn't give.

I tried Boone's, and it wouldn't give either.

Rafe knelt beside me, slowly, with a hand on the counter.

"His father used one number for everything," he said. "The lodge lock, the gun cabinet, the cash box."

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