Chapter 5 - The Red Lockbox
The heavy barn door thudded shut as Cal dropped the interior wooden crossbeam, locking them inside the dim, stifling heat of the center aisle. Dust motes drifted through shafts of sunlight piercing the rotting roof boards. Goliath paced restlessly in the adjacent exterior pen, his hooves pounding the dirt with rhythmic, menacing force.
""You need an ambulance, Nora,"" Cal urged, hovering near her as she leaned hard against the tool bench. ""You’re pale as chalk. You might have internal bleeding.""
""I have cracked ribs and fifty minutes,"" she hissed, wiping away the cold sweat beading across her upper lip. ""Where did my dad keep the spare bolt cutters?""
Cal pointed silently toward the rusted iron pegboard behind the grain bins. Nora dragged the long-handled cutters off their hooks, their weight pulling fiercely on her bruised torso. She staggered into the dark tack room—a cramped, windowless alcove smelling of neat's-foot oil, moldy leather, and cedar shavings. In the far corner, bolted directly to the timber foundation, sat the heavy iron lockbox her father had brought home from the rail yards in the late seventies.
The padlock was brand-new brass, gleaming brightly against the pitted, oxidized iron of the chest. Someone had replaced the old lock within the last forty-eight hours.
May you like
""Cal, hold the lower jaw,"" Nora demanded, fitting the hardened steel jaws of the bolt cutters around the shackle.
With a breathless heave, they both threw their weight onto the handles. The brass popped with a sharp crack that echoed off the low ceiling. Nora flipped the heavy lid open. Inside lay no cash, no deed titles, and no will. Resting on an oilskin cloth was an old brass surveyor’s compass, a cracked glass jar filled with dark, iridescent black liquid, and a faded land survey map marked with a red circle directly over their seasonal dry creek.
