Free The Secret Society of Demolition Writers by Marc Parent

but then stopped. He remembered that Robinette wanted to witness the opening of the safe.
    Brian stood up. His shirt was sticking to his back and perspiration had popped across his forehead. He took off the safety glasses and the mask and blew out his breath. He walked out of the study and found the main hallway and the stairs. It was a grand staircase that swept upward in a curve.
    “Mr. Robinette?” he called out.
    “What?” came the reply.
    “I’m ready to open the safe now.”
    Brian headed back to the study. He heard Robinette coming down the steps behind him. He got back into position next to the safe and picked up the mallet. Robinette came into the room.
    “Is it open?”
    “Not yet. I thought you wanted to be here. Do you want a set of earplugs? This metal on metal gets pretty loud.”
    “Can’t be louder than that drill. I don’t want earplugs.”
    “Suit yourself.”
    Brian started hammering the spike with the mallet, taking short strokes at first and then lengthening his arc when the gear refused to give. Each strike on the spike sent a sharp jolt through his body. Finally, after three full swings he felt the gear start to give. He went back to the shorter, more controlled swing and hit the spike five more times before the gear broke loose and he heard it clatter to the bottom of the safe.
    “Sounds like it’s empty,” he said to Robinette.
    “Just open it.”
    Brian reached down and gripped the handle and sharply pulled it down. It came easily. The safe was unlocked. He pulled it up and open, struggling with the weight of the steel door, and was immediately hit with the dead air that had been trapped inside for who knows how long. It was cold and heavy. It smelled like someone’s chilled breath.
    Robinette stepped forward and looked down. He saw that the safe was empty. Brian wasn’t looking at the contents or lack thereof. He was looking at the workmanship of the gears and the slide bolts on the inside of the door. It was a beautiful job, and Brian found himself admiring the craftsmanship behind it.
    “Empty,” Robinette said. “Figures.”
    Brian reached down into the safe to retrieve the free-wheel gear from the bottom. He withdrew it quickly. It had felt strange. It had felt like he was reaching into a refrigerator for a can of beer.
    “That thing must be insulated. It actually feels cold down there. Feel this.”
    He held up the gear. It was ice cold. But Robinette waved away the idea of touching it.
    “So much for the treasure of Sierra Madre,” he said. “All right. Get the door off it, and if you don’t mind and it won’t cost me too much more, do you have something you can clean that out with?”
    “I have a shop vac in my truck. It’s part of the service.”
    “Good. Do it. That dust is already affecting my sinuses. I can’t breathe. I’ll be upstairs when you’re finished.”
    After Robinette was gone Brian went to work on the door’s single hinge. In five minutes he lifted the heavy door out of its spot and carefully leaned it against one of the bookcases. He thought that it weighed more than forty pounds, even without a back plate.
    For a moment he studied the workmanship of the locking mechanism again. The nine—now eight—gears were clustered in an interlocking pattern that had to have been of original design. He really thought it was beautiful, like a painting that should be on display. Almost like a living organism. He was hoping that Robinette would let him take the door since he no longer wanted it.
    He gathered his tools and took them out to the truck. He came back in with his camera and the vacuum and as he reentered the study his eyes met those of a young girl who was standing by the opening in the floor. Brian had not replaced the plywood door yet.
    “Careful, honey, you don’t want to fall down in there. You might get hurt.”
    “Okay,” she said.
    She was dark haired and had a sweet face. Her eyes were dark and serious for such a young girl. She was