Chapter 49 - The Contents of the Vault
The dockworker hesitated, his eyes flicking to the wide, black bores of Julian’s Ithaca. Men who sell their muscle for night work are rarely eager to die for a share of an unverified treasure.
"Drop the tools," I ordered. "Both of you. Step back against the western wall, hands on your heads, or this tomb becomes yours permanently."
The two men exchanged a single glance. With heavy, metallic clatters, they let their pickaxes and crowbars fall into the mud. They backed away slowly, their boots splashing in the puddles, until their shoulders hit the damp granite blocks of the wall.
"Tyler," I said, my voice cutting through the damp chill. "Hand me the box."
"No!" Tyler shrieked, backing toward the rear exit that led out to the cemetery ravine. "It's mine! Grandfather promised Dad, and Dad promised me! You’ve hoarded everything for eighty years! You sit in that mansion like a spider while the rest of us beg for scraps!"
"You were given every advantage an honest boy could pray for," I said, my heart heavy with contempt. "You were given an Ivy League education, an unearned salary, and a home. You repaid it with mockery, forgery, and betrayal. Give me the box, or Julian will take it from your corpse."
Julian took a heavy, deliberate step forward, the shotgun resting comfortably against his shoulder.
Panic overtook Tyler's senses. With a desperate sob, he smashed the tin box against the edge of the marble sarcophagus. The rusted lead seal broke open with a sickening snap. Documents, yellowed and fragile as dried leaves, spilled out into his muddy hands.
He scrambled through them, searching frantically for the gold foil seal and the surveyor's ribbon. But as his lantern beam swept over the brittle parchment, his hands stopped shaking. His face twisted from frantic greed into total, hollow bewilderment.
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"What... what is this?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "This isn't the highway deed. These are... these are receipts. Mortgages. Foreclosure orders from 1932."
"Thomas was never rich on his own, Tyler," I said quietly, the final truth settling into the cold air between us. "Every acre he ever acquired was mortgaged three times over before we met. My father paid off those notes. What you hold in your hands are not deeds of wealth. They are the debts my family wiped away to keep him out of prison."
