Chapter 34 - The Fourth Avenue Cellar
The house on Fourth Avenue had been sold fifteen years ago to an elderly widow who tended marigolds along the crumbling brick walk. We pulled up to the curb in Luke’s SUV at eight-fifteen, the engine ticking in the quiet neighborhood.
"Stay in the car," I told Luke. "Corinne, come with me."
We walked up the path together. Mrs. Higgins answered the door on the second ring, her silver hair pinned in a neat bun, wiping flour on an apron.
"Grant?" she said, blinking behind thick glasses before a warm smile broke across her wrinkled face. "Gracious, boy. I haven't seen you since your father’s memorial service."
"I'm sorry to bother you so early, Mrs. Higgins," I said gently. "I know this sounds strange, but my father left some old surveying records behind when we sold the property. In the root cellar beneath the back porch. I need to check something in the foundation."
Mrs. Higgins didn't hesitate. She nodded, stepping aside. "Your father was a good man, Grant. Never caused a bit of fuss, even when those men from the county were coming around late at night, making threats."
I stopped in the hallway. "Men from the county?"
"Back in ninety-eight," she said, shaking her head. "Men in dark suits, driving those big black town cars. They used to park across the street for hours, watching his front door. Thomas told me once to keep my curtains drawn. Said people with too much money had forgotten how to live with the truth."
Corinne looked at me, her expression grim.
We walked through the kitchen and down the narrow wooden stairs into the damp, earth-scented gloom of the cellar. The walls were made of dry-stacked limestone, cool to the touch and smelling of aged limestone and winter squash.
I moved directly toward the western corner, where the foundation met the bedrock. There was a low ledge where my father had kept his jars of pickling salt and extra kerosene. Behind a loose slab of slate that looked like part of the wall, there was a shallow recess carved straight into the dirt.
My hands were covered in cobwebs as I pulled the slate free.
Inside sat the heavy green steel box. The brass padlock on it was rusted shut.
"Give me the crowbar from the car," I said over my shoulder.
Corinne didn't go back to the car. She reached into her handbag, pulled out a slender steel tension tool and a small pick, and knelt beside me in the dirt. Without a word, she slid the tools into the rusted tumbler.
Three seconds later, there was a sharp, metallic *click*.
I stared at her.
"When you spend your twenties trying to break into your father's past, you learn a few useful trades," she said, her voice dry.
I opened the heavy lid. Inside lay three rolled linen maps, sealed in wax-treated cardboard tubes, and a small, leather-bound surveyor’s journal stamped with the seal of the State of Tennessee, dated 1982.
I opened the journal to the last entry, dated September 14, 1984.
My father’s handwriting was steady, precise, and uncompromising:
*Completed field survey for Tract 42 at the request of Clara Keaton. Found three unauthorized lateral drill heads extending 1,400 feet into municipal water table beneath Cavern 4. Harrison Keaton offered $100,000 cash to alter township coordinates. Refused. Lodged duplicate master plat with State Comptroller’s field office in Memphis under seal #84-B. If this journal surfaces, Harrison has carried out his threat.*
Tucked inside the back cover was an official receipt from the State Comptroller's office, bearing a raised gold seal.
May you like
"It's not just a map," Corinne whispered, touching the paper. "It's a criminal referral that was never processed."
"Because Harrison bought the comptroller," I said, closing the book with a heavy snap. "Let's see him buy Judge Miller when this hits the bench."
