Free Upon A Pale Horse by Russell Blake Page B

before shaking the feeling off and plodding forward. He looked at the mortgage – three hundred and six thousand owed. Jeffrey scanned the room again with appreciation. Keith had been an astute property buyer. He would have estimated based on the building and the neighborhood that the place was worth at least half a mil, even in the worst economy since the Great Depression. So old Keith had some equity built in, no question – the only one being, how much. That would be a subject for a real estate agent.
    He opened the brokerage statements and did a quick tally. Another almost two hundred thousand in holdings as of the last summary. Jeffrey wasn’t sure how much Keith earned per year, but it couldn’t have been enough to sock away that sort of nest egg. But he recalled his brother telling him that he was doing well in the market, mostly with options on commodities like gold and silver. He just hadn’t hinted at how well, obviously. That was ten times the money Jeffrey would have guessed he’d accumulated.
    Jeffrey turned on the lights as dusk arrived and continued his investigation, Papa Chubby crooning the blues from the stereo as he moved from the office and into the master bedroom closet, where there was a safe bolted to the floor. He’d need to get that opened by a locksmith, but he didn’t have the heart right then, and decided to leave it for his return. Whatever was in it could wait. It wasn’t like he didn’t have all the time in the world.
    When his stomach rumbled, he checked the time and was surprised to see that it was already nine o’clock. Hours had raced by, and he’d been completely oblivious to their passage. Jeffrey sped up his inventory, and after another ten minutes returned to the living room, ready to call it a night. He powered the stereo down and did one final slow turn around the room.
    His eye caught the shape of the Fender guitar his brother had pawned, and he stepped over to it before looking behind the couch – the natural place for a case to be stashed. Sure enough, a battered old rectangular case was wedged behind it along with the others. He freed the Fender’s and popped it open, sliding the guitar home, nestled safely in the orange interior. He reached over and retrieved the paperwork he’d found and placed it inside next to the instrument then closed the latches as he felt in his pants pocket for the house keys.
    Jeffrey toted the garbage and the case out into the hall, then flipped off the light and locked the door, his project completed, at least for the moment. His chest was tight with grief as he walked slowly to the garbage chute and dropped the bag into the abyss, a part of his brother going down the slide with it. He knew it made no sense, but the feeling was undeniable, and his vision blurred as he made his way to the elevator that would take him back to the lobby, away from the shadows that seemed redolent with Keith, his essence in every nook, every object. It seemed sacrilegious to have gone through his things, like raiding a cursed tomb, but Jeffrey understood the necessity. The world kept on turning, even if Keith was no longer a part of it.
    The thought depressed him more than he could have described, and when he exited the building, carrying his brother’s final legacy, his shoulders were hunched and he looked beaten, his steps uncertain and heavy on the cold concrete sidewalk.
    The watchers exchanged glances and then the passenger got out of the car, determined not to lose him this time. He leaned forward and whispered to the driver.
    “What’s he got there?”
    “Guitar. His brother had a bunch of them. Probably a keepsake. We’ve already been through everything with a fine-toothed comb. It’s all clean, so it doesn’t matter.”
    “All right. He’s probably going to get another cab, so stay close. I’ll call for you when he does. My money’s on him returning to the hotel and getting wasted again.”
    “I won’t take that bet,” the driver said,