He dropped to his knees and shone his flashlight under the sofa. I looked at my watch. The terminal window had passed.
“Uncle Farrell, we have to go.”
“I’m not going.”
“We’re going to get caught.”
“I’m not walking out on half a million dollars!”
I pushed myself up, and somehow my belt buckle caught under the edge of the desk. It got stuck there, so when I stood, it pulled up, and the top of the desk hitched about half an inch. My buckle slipped free and the desktop smacked back down.
From across the room, Uncle Farrell was still on his knees, staring at me. “Well, I’ll be jiggered,” he whispered.
6
“It’s heavy,” I told him. “Take that side.” I had cleared everything off, putting it all on the bookshelves behind me.
“Jeez Louise, I guess it is heavy.” He puffed out his cheeks as we lifted. “Quick now, Alfred. I got to get downstairs to meet the cops. You stay up here till they’re gone.”
That made me nervous. I didn’t want to be alone in the dark, but I couldn’t think of any way around it.
The desktop was hinged on the front side, like the lid to the biggest music box ever made. Uncle Farrell took a deep breath as we both leaned over to peer inside.
“Holy nut-buckets!” he breathed. “Wouldn’t you know?”
Inside the hidden cavity was a silver keyboard, like the pad of an ATM or calculator, built into the desk itself.
“There’s a code,” I said. “You punch in a code and that opens something.”
“What’s the code?” he asked. He looked like he was about to cry.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Well, of course you don’t know, Alfred! I wasn’t asking the question because I thought you knew!” He looked at his watch and chewed on his big bottom lip.
“Okay, Al, this is okay,” he said in that false-positive tone adults sometimes take with kids. “I’ll get on downstairs to meet the cops and you stay up here.”
“Stay up here and what?”
“Break the code.”
He gave me an encouraging pat on the back and headed for the door.
“Uncle Farrell!” I called after him, but he ignored me. I heard the elevator bell go ding, and then there was the loudest silence I had ever heard.
I stared at the pad. The PIN was probably Mr. Samson’s birthday, or the year he founded the company, or maybe just some random number that had nothing to do with anything. Since I didn’t know any of those numbers, I just started punching digits at random. Nothing happened, and it occurred to me I could punch numbers from now until doomsday and nothing might work.
I gave up, lowered myself back into the chair, and looked at my watch. What if the cops demanded to see the suite and he was leading them up here right now? Part of the plan should have included walkie-talkies.
Being nervous and bored at the same time is an odd combination; I couldn’t sit still, so I leaned forward and peered into the interior of the secret compartment. A little voice inside my head whispered “telephone,” then whispered it again, “telephone,” and I wondered why my little voice was whispering “telephone” like that.
Then it hit me. “Letters,” I whispered.
Mr. Samson’s phone sat on the floor beside the desk. I picked it up and set it on my lap. Like most phones, each key had three letters that corresponded to each number, like ABC was the number 2.
So I started punching in some numbers.
7-2-6-7-6-6 = SAMSON. Nothing. 2-3-7-6-2-7-3 = BERNARD. Nothing. What was the name of the dog in the picture? I punched in 9-6-5-3 (WOLF) on a hunch.
Nothing happened.
I sighed and looked at my watch. Uncle Farrell had been gone for five minutes. He had said being smart didn’t matter so much, but right then it sure would have helped. More out of desperation than anything else, I punched in the first thing that popped into my head: 2-5-3-7-3-3.
From beneath my feet came a whining sound, like a motor revving up, and the floor began to shake. I pushed back from the desk with a little yelp as the desk itself began to rise, like an invisible magician was levitating it.
A huge silver metal pole rose slowly from the carpeting, until the top of the desk was about two inches from the ceiling.
The pole had an opening on the side facing me, and inside the hollow space, hung on two silver spikes, blade facing down, was the sword.
I had brought the picture, just to make sure I got the right sword, but I didn’t need the picture to know this was the one. In the bluish glow from the city lights outside the window, it seemed to shimmer, like the surface of a lake on a cloudy day.
I took a deep breath and grasped the sword handle. It practically flew out of the column; I didn’t expect it to feel so light. I thought it would weigh a ton, but it felt no heavier than a ballpoint pen. It sounds funny, but right away it felt like a part of me, a five-foot extension of my right arm. Grinning like a kid playing pirate, I swung it around a few times. It hissed as it cut the empty air. I held it up to the streetlights, turning it so the ambient light glittered off the edges.
I ran my left thumb along the blade. Immediately, a thin line of blood began to seep out of the wound. I hadn’t even felt it. The blood brought me to my senses, though. I stuffed the sword into the duffel bag. Then I stuck my thumb in my mouth: I didn’t want to drip my DNA all over Mr. Samson’s office during my getaway.
I trotted to the door and stopped—what if the cops demanded to see Mr. Samson’s office for some reason? Should I hide somewhere till Uncle Farrell came back up? I hesitated in the doorway, hugging the duffel against my chest while I sucked nervously on my thumb, the taste of blood in my mouth. I didn’t know how to lower the desk, so I left it and stepped out into the hallway.
I closed the door, checked the lock, and headed straight for the elevator to wait for Uncle Farrell.
I leaned against the wall, my heart still pounding hard, sweat trickling down the middle of my back and my chest. The duffel bag felt very heavy all of a sudden. I pulled my thumb out of my mouth. The bleeding had stopped, but my thumb tingled, like it had fallen asleep. I panicked for a second, thinking maybe the blade was poisoned and I would die in this semidark hallway.
Then I heard the elevator coming. It must have taken a long time for Uncle Farrell to get rid of the cops, I thought as I pushed myself away from the wall. I still felt a little dizzy, but the duffel didn’t feel as heavy.
The doors slid open and I was saying, “What took so long, Uncle Farrell?” when two big brown shapes stepped out. I backed down the hall, toward the emergency exit door that opened onto the stairwell. Two big men dressed in flowing brown robes, like monks, stepped out of the elevator, their hoods pulled low to cover their faces.