Suspenseful Tales Part 4

But he was gone. Granddad had willed his property to Steven's mother. And Steven's mother had charged her sons with maintaining Granddad's home until she found a renter or one of them decided to move in. At any rate, their maintenance was to begin in the garage.

Steven heard Craig roving around outdoors, chatting non-stop on his cell phone. Clearly, Craig was not pressed to help him.

"Whatever," Steven said. He began sorting through a pile of items near him: an old clock/radio, floor tiles that looked like giant slices of old cheese, a milk crate full of screws and bolts, a wooden tool box secured with a s.h.i.+ny ' padlock . . .

Perhaps it was the apparent newness of the padlock that caught his attention. He dropped to his knees to take a closer look at the weathered red box, which served as the foundation for the junk pile.

He grasped the lock, tugged. It was clasped tight.

He chewed his lip. Why would Granddad put a new lock on an old tool chest? Granddad had been a purposeful man and never did anything without a good reason.

Steven went inside the house. In the kitchen, beside the refrigerator, a cork pegboard hung on the wall, and enough keys to please a jailer dangled from the hooks. He scooped the smaller keys into his hands and returned to the garage.

His brother was pacing around the driveway, yapping like an auctioneer.

Steven removed the articles from the top of the toolbox. A strange but familiar design was carved in the center of the wooden lid, outlined in black: a circle the size of a half-dollar, and within the circle, a series of tiny hieroglyphic characters.

Granddad had used to wear a silver pendant around his neck that bore the same inscrutable symbols. Whenever Steven had asked him what the characters meant. Granddad tfould answer, "It's from Africa," which only increased Steven's confusion and curiosity--and only convinced Craig that Granddad was just a weird old man.

But it was certainly weird to find the identical design emblazoned on a toolbox. Steven looked at the keys in his hand. He tried them in the padlock.

The third one worked.

When Steven raised the lid, the hinges creaked, reminding him of an old door in a haunted house.

Come on. Don't let your imagination run away with you. There's probably nothing but junk in here.

A light blue, velvety sheet concealed the contents. Slowly, he pulled away the fabric.

He didn't know what he had been expecting. If not junk, maybe a stash of gold coins. What he found, instead, were books. All hardbacks with dark covers, they were stacked in neat columns, perhaps twenty books in total. They had the look of age, of old, forgotten cla.s.sics that littered garages, attics, and bas.e.m.e.nts across the world.

A different man might have closed the box in disgust, but Steven had been an English major at Illinois State and occasionally took a stab at writing mystery stories (and, less often, poems for women that he liked).

He plucked a book out of the chest. He examined the cover.

"Invisible Man," by Ralph Ellison. Okay, he'd read this one in high school. He opened the book.

"Whoa," he said.

A signature in black ink was scrawled across the t.i.tle page: Ralph Ellison, May 2, 1952.

Steven checked the copyright page. This book was a first edition.

"Well." The air seemed to have been sucked out of his lungs. He wasn't an expert collector, but he estimated that this edition had to be worth a thousand dollars, at least.

He carefully set aside the volume, and looked at a few of the other books.

"Native Son," by Richard Wright. "Their Eyes Were Watching G.o.d," by Zora Neale Hurston. "Harlem Shadows," by Claude McKay. "Narrative of Frederick Dougla.s.s," by Dougla.s.s himself. "Poems on Various Subjects," by Phillis Wheatley. All of them appeared to be authentic first editions, in mint condition. All of them were autographed and dated at the time of publication.

Wheatley's book went back to 1773.

"Impossible," Steven said, breathing hard. His thoughts seemed to have derailed like a train on greased tracks.

Outside, birds chirped and dogs barked, normal neighborhood sounds on a weekend afternoon.

Rational thought, when it returned to Steven, exploded back into his consciousness. Where had these books come from? How had Granddad come to own them? Why had he kept them in here? He was afraid to think of the monetary value of these volumes, sitting here as if they were worthless pulp fiction paperbacks, not national treasures. What if someone stole them?

He replaced the books in the chest. Bending down, he lifted the box. It was heavy, about fifty pounds, but he only needed to carry it inside the house, somewhere safe. His arm muscles straining, he hefted the chest out of the garage, climbed the short flight of steps in the breezeway, and shouldered his way through the door. He placed the box on the floor beside the kitchen table.

As he was about to flip up the cover and dig through the rest of the texts, Craig's footsteps clapped up the breezeway stairs. Quickly, Steven slid the books underneath the table.

"Hey, bro," Craig said. "I'm gonna pick up a six-pack and some rib tips. Want anything, like some spring water or something? Warm milk?" Craig chuckled; he found it amusing that Steven wasn't a drinker.

"I'm fine, thanks," Steven said. "I'm going to keep working in the garage. There's a lot of . . . stuff in there."

"Weird." Craig shook his head. "When you get old, I bet you're gonna be like Granddad. Fill a garage with junk and leave it to your family to clean it up when you kick the bucket. That was so G.o.dd.a.m.n inconsiderate."

"Yeah, the nerve of Granddad not to have cleaned up his garage before he pa.s.sed."

"He had to know that he'd die soon. s.h.i.+t, he was eighty-six, right? At that age, you start making preparations. Get your house in order. Know what I'm saying?"

Steven only looked at him. He had to restrain himself from launching himself at Craig and busting his disrespectful mouth.

"Anyway," Craig said. "I saw old Mr. Jackson across the street, watching me like a d.a.m.n vulture. You know how nosy he is, you might want to go talk to him before he rolls over here and you can't get rid of him. I don't feel like talking to him."

"Okay," Steven said. Craig's suggestion that he talk to Mr. Jackson was perhaps the smartest comment he'd made all day. Mr. Jackson had lived across the street from Granddad for thirty years, and the men had been close friends. Mr. Jackson might know the story behind the rare books.

Craig left the house and zoomed away in his Lincoln Navigator, cell phone once again pressed against his ear.

Steven crossed the street to talk to Mr. Jackson.

"It's gonna storm soon," Mr. Jackson said. A lean, mahogany-skinned man, he scanned the cloudy sky, perched in his wheelchair like a bird in a nest. He turned to Steven. "I ain't talked to you since Louis pa.s.sed. How're you holding up, young blood?"

"Fine, I guess." Sitting in a wicker chair on the veranda, Steven sipped at the lemonade that Mr. Jackson's daughter had brought for him. "We're cleaning Granddad's garage today. Granddad sure collected a lot of stuff." Steven watched Mr. Jackson closely for his response.

"Yep, he sure did." The old man stared in the distance. "Louis had a peculiar knack for finding antiques. h.e.l.l, sometimes we'd be on a fis.h.i.+ng trip, he'd see a sign for a rummage sale, and he just had to stop and check it out. He'd find the d.a.m.ndest things, Louis would."

"Like books," Steven said.

Mr. Jackson stared at him.

A current of understanding pa.s.sed between them, like electricity.

"Like books," Mr. Jackson said. "And other items."

Other items. Steven wondered if more amazing valuables awaited him in the garage, hidden under a heap of apparent junk.

"Granddad picked up all of those things at rummage sales?" Steven said.

"Sure. Rummage sales, flea markets, junkyards. Sometimes, I don't know where he got them. Things had a way of kinda falling into his hands." Mr. Jackson looked at his own wiry, weathered hands as if an ancient treasure might be found within his leathery palms. "Louis called it his mission."

"If it was his mission, why didn't he open an antique shop?" Steven said. "Instead of running that delivery business like he did?"

Mr. Jackson looked again at the darkening afternoon sky, paused. "Young blood, it might be my mission to go fis.h.i.+ng every week, but that don't mean I want to open a bait-and-tackle shop. Some things, you do out of love. Some things you do because you have a gift. And some things ain't supposed to be sold." He looked at Steven squarely. There was a warning in his black eyes. Mr. Jackson was in his late seventies, and both of his legs had been amputated due to his diabetes--but at that moment he was as forceful and forbidding as a spirit that guarded a cursed Egyptian tomb.

"It's a big garage," Steven said, hoping to lighten the mood. "It'll take me a while to go through everything."

"That it will. Louis had been collecting for a very long time. All of his life."

Distantly, thunder grumbled. Ghostly fingers of lightning plucked at the horizon.

"How old was Granddad?" Steven said. "According to what he said, he would've been eighty-six when he died, but there was always a rumor in my family that Granddad was older."

"What makes you think I'd know?" Mr. Jackson seemed more amused than annoyed.

Steven shrugged. "You and Granddad were buddies. I thought you might have an idea."

Mr. Jackson appeared to be mulling over an answer when the front door of his house opened, and his daughter, Anne, appeared, saying that her father needed to come inside before the rain started. Anne smiled at Steven, then she grasped the handles of Mr. Jackson's wheelchair and began to roll him inside. Before Mr. Jackson disappeared inside his home, he winked at Steven and said: "Every man has a secret, young blood. Your granddad wasn't no exception."

As rain hammered on the roof and thunder shook the walls, Steven explored the garage with the fervor of an archaeologist combing through a dig. He found, secreted throughout the garage, several more boxes and chests of various sizes, color, and make. Usually concealed beneath ordinary heaps of junk, swaddled within cobwebs and filmed with dust, the boxes were constructed of steel or wood, all of them secured with padlocks. Strangely, all of the locks could be opened with the same key that he'd used earlier to uncover the books. But the strangest fact of all was that each box bore the same, enigmatic hieroglyphic design on the lid.

Clouds of dust swirled around him, but Steven ignored the filth and dug up the artifacts with trembling hands. In one box, he found a collection of pristine-condition letters addressed to various people he'd never heard of; the only name he recognized on each was the name of the author, Paul Robeson.

In another, Steven discovered a beautiful, vibrantly colored quilt that depicted a scene that, at first guess, came from a Biblical story: a bearded man feeding fish to a line of people. A label attached to the underside of the lid said, in what Steven recognized as Granddad's handwriting: Harriet Powers quilt, 1887.

Another contained vinyl records in their original jackets: recordings by Dizzy Gillespie, Louis Armstrong, and Josephine Baker. The respective artist had signed each alb.u.m.

Still another had a piece of sculpture in excellent condition: it portrayed a man and a woman embracing, and broken chains lying at their feet. The label read: Edmonia Lewis, 1881.

Yet another, long box was lined with cool velvet, and full of gold pieces: coins, necklaces, rings, and other ornaments. There was even an item that appeared to be a staff, crafted of gold. A label attached to the underside of the box's lid said: Musa reign, Sudan, circa 1320. Musa, Steven recalled from his African history cla.s.ses, was the best-known ruler of ancient Sudan, renowned for his wealth.

Sweat poured from Steven's brow and into his eyes. He wiped away the perspiration with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of dirt in its place.

You didn't find treasures like these at rummage sales, in junkyards, or at flea markets. Not these days. Steven refused to believe such a thing.

He thought about the hieroglyphics engraved on the boxes and on the silver pendant that Granddad had worn. He thought about the perfect condition of the artifacts in a less-than-ideal storage environment. He thought about the family rumor that Granddad was much older than he claimed to be.

Every man has a secret, young blood. Your granddad wasn't no exception.

Who was Granddad--really?

Steven could not draw a rational conclusion. Every theory--that Granddad was hundreds of years old, that he lived through the centuries randomly collecting valuables, that he preserved the artifacts using African magic--was utterly crazy. Steven was a logical man, an ordinary man, a high school English teacher who might not live the flashy life of his attorney brother, but who compensated with his loyalty, dependability, and common sense. Common sense, most of all, would help him arrive at a sensible solution to this mystery.

"Hey, what the h.e.l.l are you doing?" Startled, Steven shot to his feet--and in his haste, his legs b.u.mped the open chest in front of him, knocking the box sideways and spilling coins on the floor. Steven half-turned to see Craig staring at him, then he spun to set the box upright. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the coins, too, praying under his breath that Craig a.s.sumed he was only picking up more junk.

"What do you have there, man?" Craig hurried forward. In one hand, he clutched a half-filled bottle of Heineken. "Gold coins?"

Steven slammed the lid shut, but the contents hadn't escaped Craig's greedy gaze.

"It's only junk," Steven said. His hands were filled with coins; he slid them into his pockets. "Screws and washers, stuff like that."

"Don't lie to me. I saw money in there." Craig took a swig of the beer. "Open it up and lemme see."

"Seriously, Craig, it's only junk. That's all that's in this garage. Worthless junk."

"Open it, Steven." Craig's eyebrow twitched, a sure sign that he was getting angry. His grip tightened on the beer bottle. "Open it now."

Steven stared at his brother, who was older and had always been taller, wider, stronger. In the past, Steven had always wilted under Craig, had let Craig take his toys, his money, his candy. It was part of being the little brother. Big brother always got whatever he wanted and he got the leftovers.

But Steven was not going to budge. Not this time. The stakes were too high. He had stumbled upon an incredible store of amazingly valuable artifacts, and he would not let Craig plunder them to sell to the highest bidder. Granddad never would have wanted it that way. For a reason that Steven had yet to learn, these treasures had fallen into Granddad's hands, and he was certain that they were not meant for sale. He was willing to bet his life on it.

He drew in a breath and held his ground against Craig.

"No," Steven said.

"What?" His eyebrow twitching, Craig took a step backward. "You're not going to let me look in there?"

"You heard me, Craig. No."

Craig's shoulders drooped. He turned away as if to leave--and then he swung the Heineken bottle at Steven.

Steven was caught off guard. The bottle thwacked into his shoulder, driving a shard of pain down to his marrow and instantly numbing his arm. Craig seized him by the front of his s.h.i.+rt. Steven grabbed his arm, and they were suddenly in a wrestling match: grappling, pus.h.i.+ng, tugging, grunting, and cursing.

But it didn't take long for the big brother to a.s.sert his physical dominance. Craig had been a wrestler in college, and he'd remembered some of his techniques. He wrapped Steven in a painful headlock and twisted him up like a noodle. Steven's face was mashed against the floor, his nose sticking in an oil spot. Craig's knee slammed into his kidney; agony buckled through him, and he felt his lunch erupting up his throat in a hot, putrid rush.

Craig left him there on the floor, vomiting and gasping.

"Boy, you should know better than to show out with me," Craig said, getting to his feet and cleaning his hands on his jeans. "I only wanted to see what was in the d.a.m.n box. I know I saw some money."

Steven flopped onto his back as Craig walked toward the chest. He couldn't get up to continue the fight. The pain that had begun in his kidneys had spread like a throbbing cancer throughout his body. Sorry, Granddad. I tried.

"I wouldn't be surprised if Granddad had kept his life savings in here," Craig said. "A nutty old man like him would do something like that. Bad enough that he gave the house to Mama, and we both know she'll give it to you. I deserve my share, dammit!"

Craig put his hands on the lid. He raised it. And screamed.

Even from where Steven lay on the floor several feet away, he heard the sound issuing from the chest. It was louder than Craig's chilling scream, louder than the thunder and pounding rain.

The furious buzzing of a swarm of bees.

Steven never again wanted to witness an incident like what happened in those few, seemingly endless minutes after Craig opened the box: The dark ma.s.s of bees emerging like a shark's mouth from the depths of the chest, swallowing Craig whole. Craig howling and tearing out of the garage, blindly, b.u.mping into walls, falling over his grandfather's junk, finally escaping through the door but unable to evade the angry cloud of insects. Steven finally struggling to his feet and running outdoors into the rain to follow his brother. Craig fleeing down the sidewalk and into the street, directly into the path of an Oldsmobile, the impact of the automobile smas.h.i.+ng into Craig booming like thunder.

Sometime later, after the ambulance had rushed Craig to the hospital and loved ones had been called, Steven went back to the garage. He approached the chest full of gold that had spewed a swarm of bees onto his brother (amazingly, no bee stings were found on Craig's body when the paramedics arrived; and Steven never mentioned them.).