Sitting on a Fortune

by Becki Willis

  A few more futile attempts and Madison stood back, surveying the side of the old structure. “Maybe this isn’t the right section of boards. Maybe I was… there.” She moved over two feet, spotting a board whose nails were missing or wallowed out. “Ah. I think this is the place.”

  Pup ran back into the interior of the barn, still whining and apparently running in circles again.

  “He must have his rabbit in there with him,” she murmured. She wedged a flat end of the crowbar between the boards and pushed. Nothing happened.

  Madison got a better grip on the iron handle, squared her shoulder, widened her stance, and pushed again. Pulled. Pushed and pulled, wiggling the bar back and forth. She heard a groan. Felt the wood shudder. Watched as a small opening appeared.

  “Come on, Pup. Here, boy. This way.” When the dog didn’t come to the call, she whistled. “Here, Pup. Monte is anxious to see you. Come on, boy.”

  The more she coaxed and pleaded, the more the dog barked and whined, but from a distance. He didn’t hurry to her the way he had to Genny.

  “Come on,” she groaned, more to herself than to him. “Don’t make me call in reinforcement. I could bring Genny or even Monte out here, but it would be much easier if you would just… Come on! Come on, boy! Let’s go.” She whistled again.

  The excited dog finally ran to her. Just as Madison wiggled one hand between the boards and touched her fingers to his fur, he pulled away. He raced back to the interior of the barn, clearly wanting her to follow.

  “I do not want to see your rabbit,” she informed the dog. “Or, worse, your rat. Come on, boy, please. Let’s go, boy!”

  When the dog clearly had other plans, Madison huffed out a tired breath. Wedging the pry bar just so to keep the boards splayed, Madison flattened her body against the grass so she could peer into the dark barn. She shone her flashlight into the interior but still couldn’t see much. She wiggled further, pushing her head inside. From this vantage point, she finally had an illuminated view.

  The first things she noticed were the rows of metal shelving lined neatly along the perimeters of the walls. One was a narrow cabinet, reminiscent of old school lockers. Locks and all.

  A sense of unease moved up Madison’s spine. She attributed it to the damp grass tickling her tummy and the small stone pressed into her thigh as she slithered closer. If the boards snapped together now, they would close on her neck. She shoved the tip of one shoulder forward.

  She moved her light along the shelves, seeing all manner of assortments. Some held boxes with unknown contents. Some held vases and urns. When the beam of light glinted off something metallic, her discomfort grew tenfold. One set of shelves held pots and pans of the household variety. The kind with copper-clad bottoms. The brand, she thought, that had Revere in its name.

  Paul Revere.

  “Someone broke in and took my best pots and pans!” Mr. Pruett’s fantastical claim rang in her ears. “This is a disgrace. A matter of national crisis. It has the earmarks of a conspiracy. Mark my words, there will be an investigation into this, and when the truth is revealed, it will rock this entire community!”

  She had thought it was all in his head. He was delusional, at worst. Sleepwalking, at best. However, there had been a sad lack of cookware at his house. That looked like a full set, there on the shelves. And the man who had traded the red chair—her chair, the one Tom Pruett bought at a yard sale—for a cabinet with a lock had called himself Paul Revere.

  It made sense, and yet, it didn’t. Why would his cookware be here, in Lamont Andrews’ old barn? Why would the locker be here? Had he staged his own theft and brought it here, thinking to make an insurance claim?

  Something light colored caught her eye. Pup danced around the lumpy object resting on the ground, barking and yipping, becoming more animated in his excitement. He darted back toward Madison, keeping just out of her reach, never slowing as he made a wide arc and raced back to his find.

  “I really don’t have time for this, Pup,” she groaned. “Come on, boy! Now! Let’s go!”

  The dog barked again. His teeth latched onto the light-colored blob and tugged. Madison couldn’t see it well enough to make out any details, other than it lay in the shadows between two sets of shelves. The dog growled and shook his head, teeth still latched on, growing more agitated by the moment.

  So did Madison. “I’m not staying here forever, Pup,” she warned. “Here, boy. Let’s go home.” Her shrill whistle echoed in the empty cavern of the barn.

  She thought she had finally made progress. The brown and white dog started running her way, carrying something in his mouth. She kept up an encouraging call, coaxing him forward, but he suddenly stopped. He had dropped it. He nosed around on the floor, pushing something with his snout. Madison watched as the dog twisted and turned his head, managing to pick the something up with his teeth. That was when she realized he was bringing her a gift.

  “Please don’t be a mouse. Please don’t be a mouse.” By now, her head and both shoulders were inside the barn. There would be no hasty retreat if her gift were alive and wiggling.

  Instead of a mouse, Pup deposited a piece of material in her outstretched hand.

  Even in this light, she knew it was khaki.

  “Mr. Pruett?” she called. “Mr. Pruett, are you in here?”

  Pup barked and sprinted to the darkened cavity of the barn.

  Heart in her throat, Madison followed. She belly-crawled forward, pushing the hammer ahead with one hand, the flashlight with the other. She had stuffed the wire-cutters into one back pocket and her cell phone into the other. She felt the cutters snag now on a board and fall free.

  “Hope I don’t need those,” she grunted, twisting and wiggling her hips through the narrow opening. She doubted the crowbar would hold much longer. One more push and slide, and she would be inside.

  She fought down a sense of panic as she heard the crowbar tumble away and the boards snap back together. She looked back in time to see the slice of daylight shrink to a mere sliver. She started to turn back and retrieve the tool that laid on the other side, but a noise from inside the barn drew her attention. It sounded like a moan.

  “Mr. Pruett?” she called. Madison scrambled to her feet and dusted off her clothes. She scooped down to grab her flashlight and hammer, shining the light into the darkness. It bounced wildly off shelves and walls before zeroing in on the light-colored heap.

  Madison ran forward, calling his name. “Mr. Pruett, are you okay? Can you talk to me?” Pup danced at her feet, leading the way to his bounty.

  Tom Pruett sat slumped over on the floor, his body looking like a discarded rag doll. If not for the low moan rattling his chest, Madison might think him dead. His clothes were filthy and disheveled, his hair matted in all directions. For once, the man had some color. His skin was as ashen as ever, making the blood appear all the darker. There was a dried patch on his shoulder, some smeared down one pant legs and on his hands, but the worst was from a gash in his head.

  “Mr. Pruett! What happened to you?” Madison sank to her knees, trying to assess the worst of his injuries. She unfolded his body with gentle hands and patted at his cheeks. Was he even conscious?

  “Mr. Pruett! Can you hear me?” She spoke in a loud voice, hoping to penetrate the fog of his injury. “It’s Madison deCordova. I’m Genny’s friend. You know, Genny from New Beginnings? She’s been very worried about you.”

  The old man’s head moved. He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry and his voice hoarse. A few tries later, he managed a mumbled, “I’ll have my usual.”

  Grateful to know he was halfway coherent, Madison reached for her cell phone. She would call for help and have him out of here in no time. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled the pair of wire cutters from her pocket.

  “Oh no! That was my phone that fell out,” she realized. “Wait here,” she told the man, already on her feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  She ran to the back of the barn and pushed on the lo
ose board, but nothing happened. After several attempts she managed to move it a fraction of an inch, but the phone was still out of her reach. She needed the hammer.

  Madison dashed back to Mr. Pruett’s side and would have retrieved the hammer, but he was mumbling again. His moan was filled with pain.

  “Where do you hurt?” she asked, kneeling beside him again. “Is anything broken?”

  “Head.”

  Whether or not his head was broken was debatable, but that was beside the point. Madison ran her hands over his body, applying just enough pressure to detect trouble spots. He cried out when she touched his shoulder and his leg. Both places were near the dried pools of blood. His hands and fingers were bloody, but she saw no obvious injuries, other than raw knuckles. She suspected most of the blood was transfer from other places. The place on his head was the worst and needed medical attention.

  “I’m going to see if the door is unlocked. You stay right here.”

  “Locked,” he mumbled, but she stood and tried anyway. She rattled the massive old doors, watching as the entire wall swayed and gave just a bit beneath the onslaught. The locks held steady.

  Madison walked along the wall, looking for a weak board. She banged and rattled, pounding her fist against rotted areas and kicking here and there. The walls shuddered, but nothing gave way. They were locked inside.

  Had Mr. Pruett locked himself inside (either accidentally or on purpose) or had someone secreted him away and locked the door?

  The answer didn’t take much thought. His car wasn’t outside. It was at his house. The same house someone ransacked.

  Someone had brought him here, and they had left him here, knowing he was injured and in need of medical treatment.

  “Who did this to you, Mr. Pruett?” she asked as she turned away and retraced her steps to his side. “Who hurt you and left you in this place? Was it Lamont Andrews?”

  His only answer was a moan.

  A quick survey of the barn revealed a jug of water, a stack of disposable paper goods, and a few food items. Madison grabbed the half-full jug and carried it to him. She poured some into a cup and insisted he drink, helping hold the cup to his parched lips. Trails of liquid dribbled across his dirt-streaked face to leave muddy tracks. If she managed to get as much in him as on him, it would save him from dehydration. After he drank his fill, she dampened a paper towel she found and worked on cleaning his head wound.

  He could offer little information to her steady barrage of questions. How had he gotten here? How long had he been here? What was the last thing he remembered? Who had been here with him? Did it hurt when she did this? What about when she pressed here?

  And what was that terrible racket?

  “Door,” he mumbled feebly. “Opening door.”

  Thirty

  The chains around the door rattled and fell, banging against the wooden barn door with a noisy clatter. Years of moisture and neglect made the door swell and warp; it no longer aligned with the slightly listing doorframe. Opening the door required a yank and a tug. It, too, was a noisy process. Massive hinges, rusted and worn over time, creaked and groaned in protest. The door scraped against the ground and rubbed aggressively against wood.

  There was no sneaking into the barn via the front door.

  As the door opened and a large rectangle of light filled the space, Madison felt the older man cower in fear. All she saw was a looming body, silhouetted against the harsh glare of sunlight.

  Belatedly, Madison dove for her flashlight, but it was too late. She had exposed her presence and there no time to look for cover. Two thousand lumens of brilliance lit up the dark barn, radiating from a hand-held lantern.

  Madison pulled herself to her feet. If she had to face Lamont Andrews’ wrath, she would do it standing up to the man.

  “Well, well, well. What have we here?”

  The voice wasn’t right for the black man. In fact, this voice sounded distinctly feminine.

  Rough, but feminine.

  Was it the woman from Granny Bert’s sprinkler? The unseen driver behind darkened windows? Could this woman be Lamont’s girlfriend? His accomplice in crime?

  On the off chance she was none of the above, Madison motioned to the man cowering on the ground beside her, his body once again curled into itself. “We need your help. This man is hurt. He has a nasty gash on his head.”

  The woman stepped forward, allowing the door to bang shut behind her. The chains rattled again, and the wall shook. It was a heavy door.

  “He’ll be okay,” the woman said with confidence. “I have everything under control.”

  Hearing her calm reassurance, Madison felt a rush of relief. She had no idea who the woman was or why she was here, but she would help! “Oh, thank you,” Madison said with gratitude. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Really.” It hardly sounded like a question. It sounded… unbelieving. More than skeptical. Not quite surprised. It sounded sarcastic, but for the life of her, Madison couldn’t imagine why.

  “Of—Of course. You’ll help us, won’t you? Mr. Pruett needs medical care.”

  “He definitely needs help,” the woman agreed.

  As the woman stepped closer, Madison caught the familiar stench of smoke. Funky ash. Smoldering wires. Melted tar. Charred remnants of patchouli. Madison turned her head to sneeze, her gaze falling upon the forgotten hammer. She wasn’t sure why, but instinct urged her to hide the potential weapon. As her senses went on high alert, her foot edged the tool beneath the nearby shelf.

  Madison’s earlier relief melted into wariness. Beside her, Pup growled and backed up, the hair on his back as stiff and ridged at Madison’s nerves.

  The unknown woman reached into her pocket and pulled out some dog treats, tossing them into the darkness. The dog hesitated before hunger and curiosity lured him beyond the circle of light.

  “Who are you?” Madison asked, trying to hide her growing apprehension. “You’ll help us, won’t you? You’ll get this man the help he needs.”

  “No one can get him the help he needs!” the woman spat. “That fool is beyond help.”

  “Could you at least help me get him to my car? I can take him from there.”

  “Princess, you ain’t goin’ nowhere. And neither is the old man.”

  It was the word princess. Warning signs went off in her head. Big, yellow, cautionary signs, written all in caps. They flashed in Madison’s head, alerting her to danger.

  Gerald and Paul Adams called her a princess. Both men vowed war against “Her Highness.”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “You never do. None of you Hamiltons and Cessnas ever understand! You go about your pampered lives, lording your greatness over the rest of us lowly peasants, looking down your noses at us. You think you’re better than us!” she accused.

  The angry tirade came out of nowhere. Madison had no time for comment.

  “When I needed a loan, just enough to get my business up and running, who do you think turned me down? Joe Glenn Cessna, that’s who! It wasn’t enough to get turned down by a loan officer; the bank president had to swing the ax.” The woman’s voice was bitter as she recounted the many sins of Madison’s family.

  “Who refused to give me store credit? Jubal and Lerlene Hamilton, that’s who. When I wanted to look at houses, who showed me the sorriest, saddest houses on the block? Larry Cessna, the local real estate mogul. Who refused to date me back in high school, even though I was good enough for a few cheap thrills under the bleachers? Bobby Joe Hamilton. It’s been that way my whole life. It’s always been that way. Just because Rose Hamilton wormed her way into the Big House and stole it from the Ford family, it don’t make her better than them!”

  Madison groaned aloud. Would this ridiculous vendetta never end? “Seriously?” she muttered. “This again?”

  “It may seem petty to you,” the woman allowed. “You sit in your princess tower and look down over the town. You and your hotshot husband. You’ve had everythi
ng given to you your entire life! You don’t know what it’s been like for me. I worked for the old woman for a while, cleaning floors at the Big House. She treated me like the dirt she tracked in. But I showed her. I married into the Ford family. An Adams, heir to the throne. Until your grandmother stole it from us!”

  As the woman lowered the lantern, Madison finally saw her face. “You’re Hank and Virgie’s daughter-in-law,” she realized aloud. “You were married to Gerald. I saw you at the party Saturday night.”

  “That’s right. And you’re Bertha Hamilton Cessna’s little princess. You’re the woman who put my boy behind bars. You ruined his eyes!” she accused.

  Madison saw it differently. “I’m the woman your son and your ex-husband tried to kill,” she pointed out.

  “Too bad they didn’t succeed,” the woman spat.

  Her cold response drew a gasp from Madison. No one had ever said such a blatantly hateful thing to her. Blinking away the sting from the words, she tried reasoning with Paul Adams’ mother. “Look, Mrs. … I don’t even know your name. Do you still go by Adams?”

  “I don’t want no reminders of my time with that good-for-nothing man. The one good thing to come of it, my boy Paul, even turned sour. I go by my second husband’s name. Henry.”

  Madison had heard the name recently, but she couldn’t remember where. “Mrs. Henry,” she began again, “all of this is ancient history. It happened a hundred years ago. I can’t be held responsible for something my ancestors may or may not have done in the past. I wasn’t even born yet.”

  “Maybe not,” the woman snapped. “But you sure reap the rewards, when the rest of us are left to do without! My life could have been so different, if not for your family.”

  She was as small-minded as her ex-husband. She blamed the Hamilton and Cessna families for her plight in life, allowing bitterness to replace ambition. It was easier to blame others for what could have been than to work for what could be. She accused them of supremacy and intolerance, but she was the one prejudiced against anyone bearing those names. She was blinded by hatred.