Free The Furies by Mark Alpert Page A

several seconds, and John started to think she wasn’t going to. But then Ariel leaned forward, moving as close as possible to him. “I chose you because of a news story I saw on the Internet. The story of what happened to you three years ago.”
    John’s throat tightened. He couldn’t say a word. So they drove silently out of Philadelphia, toward the green hills of Chester County.
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    Ariel’s directions led them to the entrance of Valley Forge National Historical Park. They passed a visitor’s center and a couple of parking lots, but luckily the place didn’t charge an entrance fee. John followed a road that looped through a wide field dotted with monuments. Along the side of the road he saw several wooden huts, which—according to the signs—were reconstructions of the shelters that General Washington’s army used during the Revolutionary War. John had never visited this park before, and he had to admit it was a pretty interesting place. But he couldn’t understand what they were doing here.
    He looked at Ariel in the rearview mirror. “You said we were going to pick up supplies?”
    She nodded. “We need cash, that’s the most important thing. And a few other essentials.”
    â€œWell, I don’t see any banks or cash machines here, do you?”
    â€œWe can’t go to a bank. Sullivan has spies who monitor the financial-transaction networks. He knows all my aliases and account numbers, so if I try to make a withdrawal he’ll see where we are. And by this point he probably knows all of your information, too.”
    Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact, but John was alarmed. “So what are we going to do?”
    â€œWe have other options. Our community has a long tradition of preparing for emergencies.” She pointed at the road up ahead. “Take the next right.”
    John turned onto Valley Creek Road and left the wide field behind. Soon he drove across a covered bridge that spanned a swiftly running stream. The creek flowed between two tree-covered hills that rose about three hundred feet above the road.
    â€œThe hill on the right is Mount Joy,” Ariel pointed out. “And the one on the left is Mount Misery. Washington camped here because of the hills, they protected his flank. We’re heading for Misery. Slow down, there’s the trailhead.”
    He pulled into a small parking area at the base of the hill. There were no other cars, but he saw a sign that said Mount Misery Trail. It was a narrow dirt path that climbed up the steep wooded hillside. John shut off the Kia’s engine, then turned around to face Ariel. “Okay, what now?”
    She opened her leather-bound notebook. “I’ll get the directions.” After flipping through the yellowed pages for several seconds, she rested her index finger on a line of bewildering symbols. “Here it is. Walk up the trail about a quarter mile, till you see an oak tree with the name Mary carved into the trunk. Then turn toward the creek and go twenty paces down the slope. Then look for a large gray stone that’s shaped like a teardrop. Lift the stone and start digging underneath.”
    â€œWhat is this, a treasure hunt?”
    Ariel smiled. “Yes, that’s exactly what it is. You’re going to dig up an iron box. The money will be inside. Plus, a few other items.”
    â€œDid you put it there?”
    â€œNo, someone else in our family is in charge of this cache. There are dozens like it all over the country. Every twenty years we dig up the boxes and add new currency to them. Otherwise the cash would get outdated.”
    John shook his head in disbelief. “Every twenty years? How long has your family been doing this?”
    â€œA long time. That’s why we put our caches in national parks. The land there will never be disturbed or developed. On private land, there’s always a chance the owner will excavate the