Old Bones - Douglas Preston Page 0,4

it?” the man called again. “Come down!”

Silence.

“We’re waiting for ya!”

He held his breath.

“Hey, asshole, if you don’t come right down, we’re going to come up and drag your ass out!”

He heard a muffled thump, then another, as they tried to push open the trapdoor. But with at least two hundred pounds of junk sitting on top, it wasn’t going to move. He listened, his apprehension turning to amusement as he heard the men trying to shoulder the door open. They resorted to more pounding. “Okay, pal, we’re calling the cops!”

You do that, thought Benton. It would take at least half an hour for the police to arrive, maybe more. He might as well use the time to complete his search.

With no more need for quiet, he began tearing open chests, rummaging through old clothes and blankets, pulling out ancient toys and 1940s-era comic books, crumbling board games and old schoolbooks. He pawed through a wormy set of National Geographics, old copies of Life and Stag and Saturday Evening Post and Boy’s Own magazines, along with bundles of newspapers going back almost to Gold Rush days. As he worked, the pounding and threats continued from below, and then the voices went back down the stairs. He saw, from the belfry window, the men coming out into the yard, one apparently trying to get reception for his cell phone.

Benton continued his search, moving rapidly but methodically from one corner of the small attic to the other. It was discouraging, just a lot of rotting junk without even a hint of what he was looking for. Maybe it wasn’t here after all.

And then, at the bottom of a seaman’s chest, under a pile of quilts, he found a metal box. Even before he opened it, he knew this must be it. The box was locked, but a rusted metal rod, slipped through the lock’s loop, leveraged it off. He opened the lid, hands trembling with anticipation. Within lay a bundle of letters tightly bound with string, and tucked next to it was an old journal covered in dark green canvas, much soiled. He slipped out the journal and, holding it with the utmost care, eased it open.

There, on the front page, written in a precise feminine hand, was a brief legend.

He could hardly breathe. This treasure, so sought after, a holy grail of pioneer American history, actually existed. As his limbs trembled with mingled surprise and jubilation, he realized that he hadn’t dared hope it might be true, or that he would be lucky enough to find it. Even as he searched, he’d never really believed it was there. And yet here he was, and he was holding it in his hands.

By pure force of will he overcame his impulse to read on. There would be time for that later, but now he had to get the hell out.

He put the diary back in the box and slipped it into his backpack. He went again to the window. Three of the workmen were still outside, and one, now standing on a broken plinth that had formerly held a statue, was talking vociferously into his phone. The jackass really was calling the cops.

Benton quickly moved the chests off the trapdoor and listened. Where was the fourth? Waiting for him? But he heard nothing and finally yanked up the trapdoor. Nobody. The staircase was empty. He descended the stairs as quietly as possible toward the bookcase door, which was standing open. Creeping past it, he looked one way, then the other. The corridor was empty.

He headed down the hall. Suddenly, the fourth workman burst around a corner, ambushing him.

“There you are, you bastard!” the man roared, swinging his fist into his gut.

Benton, taken by surprise, was knocked to the floor, writhing in pain, trying to suck in air and get his breath back.

“He’s here!” the man yelled triumphantly. “I got him!”

He turned to face Benton, who was struggling to rise, and gave him a hard kick in the ribs. The violence—and the man’s unnecessary gleefulness in employing it—enraged Benton. His backpack had come off when he hit the floor and now he seized it, surging up and swinging it around, the iron box inside whacking the worker upside the head. The man staggered backward, then fell heavily to the floor.

“I’ll kill you!” the man screamed, scrabbling up to his feet. But Benton was already running like hell, backpack in hand. He flew down the stairs, ran toward the back of the mansion, vaulted through an