“You buried him?”
“Yes.”
She stared at him.
Then suddenly hit him.
Her fist struck his chest.
“You liar!”
Gideon let her hit him again.
“He didn't run!”
“No.”
“He didn't steal!”
“I don't think so.”
“You knew!”
“I only knew what he told me.”
“You waited six months!”
“I got delayed.”
“You waited six months!”
She hit him again.
Then the anger disappeared.
Her knees gave out.
Gideon caught her.
She sobbed against his coat.
People watched from storefronts.
For once, Dry Hollow did not look away.
Elsie cried until she could no longer breathe properly.
Then she pushed him away.
“What did he say?”
Gideon reached into his pocket.
He removed the brass token.
Number 47.
“He told me to find you.”
Elsie took it.
“What is this?”
“I hoped you knew.”
She stared at the token.
Then at the bank.
Her father had once taken her there.
There was a row of private deposit boxes beneath the floor.
Small metal compartments.
Each had a number.
Elsie's face changed.
“Forty-seven.”
Gideon followed her gaze.
“The bank?”
She nodded.
“My father had a box.”
And suddenly Thomas Rowan's final words made sense.
Ledger.
Forty-seven.
Whatever had gotten him killed was still inside the Dry Hollow Bank.
Box Forty-Seven
Getting inside the bank was easy.
Opening box forty-seven was not.
Elsie knew the layout because her father had once rented the box.
But after his disappearance, Harland Pike had ordered it sealed.
They could not simply walk in and ask to open it.
Gideon proposed waiting.
Elsie hated waiting.
“My father died because of whatever's inside.”
“Which is why we don't rush.”
“You sound old.”
“I am old.”
“You're forty.”
“Exactly.”
She rolled her eyes.
It was the first normal thing Gideon had seen her do.
For the next three days, they watched the bank.
Elsie stayed at Gideon's rented room in the hotel.
Gideon slept on the floor.
The hotel manager objected until Gideon asked whether he preferred a conversation with the territorial judge about a homeless minor sleeping beneath railway property.
The manager stopped objecting.
Each morning, they studied the bank.
Two clerks arrived at seven.
Harland Pike arrived at eight.
Sheriff Gannon visited near noon.
A guard locked the front doors at six.
At night, only one man stayed inside.
Old Ezra Bell.
Elsie knew him.
“He's not bad.”
“How do you know?”
“He gave me soup once.”
“That doesn't make him good.”
“It makes him better than most people here.”
Fair point.
On the fourth evening, Elsie approached Ezra.
He recognized her.
“Miss Rowan.”
“Mr. Bell.”
His eyes moved to Gideon.
“This your uncle?”
“No.”
“Guardian?”
“No.”
Gideon said, “Complicated.”
Ezra nodded as if life had taught him not to investigate complicated things.
Elsie held up the token.
Ezra's face changed.
“Where'd you get that?”
“My father.”
“You shouldn't have it.”
“Why?”
“Because Mr. Pike said—”
“My father is dead.”
Ezra stopped.
The words entered the old man's face slowly.
“Dead?”
Elsie nodded.
“Someone shot him.”
Ezra removed his spectacles.
“Lord.”
“You knew him.”
“Yes.”
“Then help me.”
Ezra looked toward the bank.
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“I have grandchildren.”
Gideon understood immediately.
Pike controlled more than money.
Elsie stepped closer.
“My father trusted you.”
Ezra's eyes filled with shame.
“I know.”
“Did he leave something in box forty-seven?”
Ezra hesitated.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I never saw it.”
“Can you open it?”
Another long silence.
Then Ezra whispered, “Tomorrow. Midnight.”
He walked away.
Gideon watched him.
“You trust him?”
Elsie said, “No.”
“Good.”
Midnight came.
They entered through the rear alley.
Ezra opened the door.
His hands shook.
“Quickly.”
He led them downstairs.
The vault was smaller than Gideon expected.
Rows of metal boxes lined the walls.
Ezra found forty-seven.
He inserted a master key.
Nothing.
“Second key,” he whispered.
Gideon frowned.
“Where is it?”
“Your father had it.”
Elsie suddenly remembered.
Her father had once given her a strange little iron key.
She had tied it to a string around the neck of her childhood doll.
The doll was still inside the boarded Rowan house.
They left the bank.
Reached the farm near one in the morning.
The house stood beneath moonlight.
Windows broken.
Door chained.
Gideon cut the chain.
Inside, dust covered everything.
The bank had taken most of the furniture.
But Elsie's room remained.
Her doll lay beneath the bed.
She grabbed it.
The little iron key was still around its neck.
For the first time that night, Gideon smiled.
“Your father trusted a thirteen-year-old more than most adults.”
“He trusted me when I was twelve.”
“Even worse.”
They returned.
Ezra was waiting.
The key fit.
Box forty-seven opened.
Inside was a black ledger.
A stack of deeds.
Three letters.
And a folded map.
Gideon opened the ledger.
Names filled the pages.
Payments.
Dates.
Amounts.
Initials.
Land parcels.
It did not take long to understand.
Harland Pike had been buying land through fraudulent loans.
Farmers signed documents for small amounts.
The bank later altered the records.
Interest doubled.
Payments vanished.
Foreclosures followed.
Anyone who challenged the bank was marked.
Some names had red crosses beside them.
Thomas Rowan was one.
Another name caught Gideon's attention.
Samuel Mercer.
The dead partner.
Ezra stared at it.
“He knew.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Mercer.”
“What happened?”
Ezra swallowed.
“They said his horse threw him.”
“But?”
“I saw the body.”
Gideon waited.
Ezra whispered, “He had rope marks around his wrists.”
Elsie looked sick.
Then footsteps sounded upstairs.
Ezra's face went white.
“No.”
The vault door slammed shut.
Someone locked it from the outside.
A man's voice came through the metal.
Sheriff Gannon.
“Should've left things buried.”
Elsie stared at Gideon.
Gideon calmly checked his revolver.
“That gun won't help.”