8. Doc #2
Grant’s plan survived because his mother continued it.
“She was protecting the pieces,” I say.
Mara’s eyes widen.
“By making sure no one person had all of them.”
Exactly what Grant had done.
Coordinates with me.
Names in the photograph.
Key with Mara.
And whatever he sent home?—
Hidden by his mother.
Sheriff Tate folds his arms.
“So where would she put the lockbox?”
Mara thinks.
“Not at her house. Hampton searched it.”
“Bank?” Wolf asks.
“She had a safe-deposit box.”
Tate reaches for his phone.
Mara shakes her head.
“I closed it after she died.”
“Was there a metal box inside?”
“No. Just documents, jewelry, Dad’s watch, and some savings bonds.”
“Storage unit?”
“She didn't have one.”
“Family property?”
Mara goes still.
I see the answer before she says it.
“What?”
“My father’s workshop.”
“Where?”
“Behind my parents’ old cabin.”
Sheriff Tate frowns.
“I thought they sold that place.”
“She did. After Dad died.”
“Then the box would be gone.”
“No.”
Mara shakes her head slowly.
“Dad built the workshop himself. When Mom sold the cabin, the new owner didn't want it. She had the entire building moved.”
“Moved where?”
Mara looks at Sheriff Tate.
“You should know.”
He looks genuinely confused.
Then his face changes.
“Oh, hell.”
“What?” I ask.
Tate looks toward the back of the tavern.
“The county bought it.”
Mara nods.
“After the flood destroyed the old search-and-rescue equipment shed.”
Wolf straightens.
“Where is it now?”
Sheriff Tate answers.
“Behind the sheriff’s department.”
Mara and I look at each other.
For fifteen years, Grant’s lockbox may have been sitting less than fifty yards from the office where his sister works.
Sheriff Tate reaches for his radio.
“No one goes near that building until my deputies secure it.”
Mara is already reaching for her holster.
I button my shirt.
She points at me.
“You're injured.”
“So are you.”
“My cut is smaller.”
“My gun is bigger.”
Her eyebrows rise.
“That is the stupidest argument you've made all night.”
“It worked.”
“It absolutely did not.”
Wolf starts laughing.
Sheriff Tate shakes his head.
“I swear Grant is somewhere enjoying this.”
The words stop me.
Not because they hurt.
Because for the first time in fifteen years, I hope he's right.
The sheriff’s department sits three blocks from the Last Stand.
We don't walk.
Tate insists we take vehicles.
Mara rides with him.
I ride with Wolf.
I don't like it.
Wolf notices.
“You know she's been a deputy longer than you've been back in town.”
“I know.”
“She carries a gun.”
“I noticed.”
“She can take care of herself.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you staring at Tate's SUV like you're planning to climb through the windshield?”
I look at him.
Wolf smiles.
“I've missed you, Doc.”
The words catch me off guard.
I look through the windshield again.
“I wasn't worth missing.”
“That's where you're wrong.”
I don't answer.
Wolf doesn't push.
Maybe that's why we survived each other all those years ago.
The sheriff’s department appears ahead.
Two patrol vehicles block the rear drive.
Portable lights illuminate an old wooden building standing behind the newer brick station.
Mara is out of Tate’s SUV before it stops moving.
I get out of Wolf’s truck.
The workshop is smaller than I expected. Weathered siding. Metal roof. One narrow window.
A deputy meets Tate.
“Building's clear.”
“Signs of entry?”
“No, sir.”
Mara walks toward the door.
I follow.
She looks over her shoulder.
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Pull me behind you.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
I hear Trigger's laugh in my head.
Mara opens the door.
The smell of sawdust and old wood reaches us.
Shelves line the walls. Search-and-rescue equipment occupies most of the room now—ropes, helmets, packs, emergency blankets.
But along the back wall stands an old workbench.
Mara stops.
“Dad's.”
She walks toward it slowly.
Her fingers move across scratches in the wood.
“I used to sit underneath this while he worked.”
I remain several feet behind her.
This isn't my memory.
It belongs to her.
She crouches.
Then freezes.
“What?”
Mara reaches beneath the workbench.
I hear metal scrape against wood.
She pulls out a small steel box.
My pulse stops.
“Is that Grant’s?”
She looks at the lock.
Then Mara turns the box around.
Two letters have been scratched into the bottom.
G.E.
Grant Ellis.
She looks at me.
“This is it.”
“Where's the key?”
“At my house.”
For several seconds, neither of us says anything.
We found it.
After fifteen years, we found Grant’s lockbox.
But we still can't open it.
Mara almost laughs.
“Grant would think this was funny.”
“He absolutely would.”
A deputy calls from outside.
“Sheriff!”
Something in his voice sends us both toward the door.
Tate is standing beside Mara’s patrol SUV.
A white envelope rests beneath the windshield wiper.
No one saw who put it there.
Mara pulls on gloves before touching it.
Her name is written across the front.
MARA ELLIS.
She opens the envelope.
One photograph slides into her hand.
It shows her house.
Taken tonight.
On the back are six words.
Mara reads them aloud.
“Bring the key or Doc dies.”
Every trace of humor leaves the night.
I look at the photograph.
Then at Mara.
Hampton isn't looking for the lockbox anymore.
He knows we found it.