Bill of Rights clung tenaciously to the inside of the door. How the masking tape had made it through the heat that built up in the attic during these many summers, she had no idea, but, somehow, it had stood the test of time. As had the dark, gleaming weapons standing like soldiers before her-soldiers the government had banned. She grimaced at the memory of the pleasant young clerk at the Jiffy store who'd been shot to death during that robbery last week. Bet he was glad no one is allowed to have guns anymore.
The rifles and handguns her father had collected over the years were all there-to serve and protect,” Daddy always said. The two AR 15's from the Vietnam era stood ready and waiting alongside the 20-gauge Remington double-barreled shotgun Daddy had bought her for bird hunting. She reached out to touch the cold steel of the old Winchester rifle her great great grandfather had used in the Spanish-American War. It would be worth its weight in gold if people were still allowed to collect and sell weapons. There was the M-1 carbine from World War II; the 12-gauge Browning shotgun that Daddy preferred for dove shooting; and the Remington .243 Grandpa Hart gave to Daddy on his sixteenth birthday for his “first ever” deer hunt. Her father had killed a six-point with it and, even though it wasn't a “trophy” buck, he was prouder of that deer than of any he'd shot since. If the police had discovered the Freedom Safe during their search this afternoon, they'd have confiscated and destroyed not only the firearms, but the memories that lingered within them. And I'd be under arrest .
Cassie pulled the letter from her pocket. “Look to the second right for direction.” She studied the Bill of Rights attached to the door, but it revealed nothing she didn't already know by heart. She looked at the letter again-second right” was not capitalized. Second right . On the top shelf, red, yellow, and green boxes of ammunition were stacked on top of one another in neat rows. Cassie took the second box from the top at the far right, surprised that it was not at all heavy like a box full of bullets should be.
"Bingo,” she said aloud. Her fingers trembled as she removed the cardboard lid and took out the key and handwritten note. “Hank Charles. Independence Bank. Tallahassee, Florida. #371.” It looked like the key to a safe deposit box. But who was Hank Charles? An alias her father had used to rent it? No. He'd have had to present identification to the bank. She pondered the note for a long moment. It was like an address. Hank Charles was his contact at the bank.
Cassie's breathing grew shallower and faster as she considered her next move, aware that the minute she boarded a plane to Tallahassee, her life would be in danger. No longer would she be just the bereaved daughter of a threat. She would be the threat.
August 4
-
The morning dawned as bleak and gloomy as Cassie's mood. She had awakened early, despite being up most of the night searching through her father's computer. It was a wasted effort. The burglars had deleted everything from the hard drive except the programs themselves, and there wasn't a floppy disk to be found anywhere. Now, as she sat cross-legged on the floor of the study boxing up what photos and certificates hadn't been destroyed, she wondered why the intruders had spent so much energy on them. After all, they were just memorabilia.
The photo of herself and her parents at the airport the day they departed Hong Kong lay at her feet, and she picked it up. Mother's large brown eyes looked across the years at her, and the furrow between her dark eyebrows belied the smile on her lips. Daddy was smiling, too, as was the Governor who had come to see them off, but neither looked very happy. The only one who seemed genuinely happy was her-a gangly kid who couldn't wait to come back to American stores and real McDonald's hamburgers. A cadre of police officers formed a tight line in the background, and Cassie
The rifles and handguns her father had collected over the years were all there-to serve and protect,” Daddy always said. The two AR 15's from the Vietnam era stood ready and waiting alongside the 20-gauge Remington double-barreled shotgun Daddy had bought her for bird hunting. She reached out to touch the cold steel of the old Winchester rifle her great great grandfather had used in the Spanish-American War. It would be worth its weight in gold if people were still allowed to collect and sell weapons. There was the M-1 carbine from World War II; the 12-gauge Browning shotgun that Daddy preferred for dove shooting; and the Remington .243 Grandpa Hart gave to Daddy on his sixteenth birthday for his “first ever” deer hunt. Her father had killed a six-point with it and, even though it wasn't a “trophy” buck, he was prouder of that deer than of any he'd shot since. If the police had discovered the Freedom Safe during their search this afternoon, they'd have confiscated and destroyed not only the firearms, but the memories that lingered within them. And I'd be under arrest .
Cassie pulled the letter from her pocket. “Look to the second right for direction.” She studied the Bill of Rights attached to the door, but it revealed nothing she didn't already know by heart. She looked at the letter again-second right” was not capitalized. Second right . On the top shelf, red, yellow, and green boxes of ammunition were stacked on top of one another in neat rows. Cassie took the second box from the top at the far right, surprised that it was not at all heavy like a box full of bullets should be.
"Bingo,” she said aloud. Her fingers trembled as she removed the cardboard lid and took out the key and handwritten note. “Hank Charles. Independence Bank. Tallahassee, Florida. #371.” It looked like the key to a safe deposit box. But who was Hank Charles? An alias her father had used to rent it? No. He'd have had to present identification to the bank. She pondered the note for a long moment. It was like an address. Hank Charles was his contact at the bank.
Cassie's breathing grew shallower and faster as she considered her next move, aware that the minute she boarded a plane to Tallahassee, her life would be in danger. No longer would she be just the bereaved daughter of a threat. She would be the threat.
August 4
-
The morning dawned as bleak and gloomy as Cassie's mood. She had awakened early, despite being up most of the night searching through her father's computer. It was a wasted effort. The burglars had deleted everything from the hard drive except the programs themselves, and there wasn't a floppy disk to be found anywhere. Now, as she sat cross-legged on the floor of the study boxing up what photos and certificates hadn't been destroyed, she wondered why the intruders had spent so much energy on them. After all, they were just memorabilia.
The photo of herself and her parents at the airport the day they departed Hong Kong lay at her feet, and she picked it up. Mother's large brown eyes looked across the years at her, and the furrow between her dark eyebrows belied the smile on her lips. Daddy was smiling, too, as was the Governor who had come to see them off, but neither looked very happy. The only one who seemed genuinely happy was her-a gangly kid who couldn't wait to come back to American stores and real McDonald's hamburgers. A cadre of police officers formed a tight line in the background, and Cassie
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