The Safe Man: A Ghost Story

real killer, right?”

“That’s right. It’s the one where they kill a whole family to get to the fortune in the safe. Only there isn’t any fortune. Every one of those workers who was in here went out and told who knows who about the safe I’ve got in here. I started having dreams. Me with a gun to my head, being told to open up a safe I don’t know how to open. I know these guys. I write about them. I know what they’re capable of. I’ve got a daughter. I want that safe open. I don’t even want a safe. I don’t have anything to put in it.”

Brian had never read one of Paul Robinette’s novels, but he knew before he ever saw the house that he was successful. He’d seen stories about him in the local papers and national magazines. He’d seen a couple of the bad movies based on the books. Robinette wrote crime novels that were bestsellers, though Brian didn’t think there had been a new book in the stores in a long while. Brian was willing to accept him as an amateur expert on the criminal mind. But he didn’t think that qualified Robinette as an expert on the character of painters and electricians and floor refinishers.

“Well, Mr. Robinette, whatever the reason, I will get it open for you.”

“Good. Then after you get it open, can you get it out of here?”

“The whole safe?”

“That’s what we’re talking about, isn’t it?”

Brian looked down at the edges of the safe. The steel framing went under the flooring. He was pretty sure the houses out on the island were built on fill—the coral and shells dredged up to dig the barge channel leading to the phosphate plant.

“You’ve got no basement here, right?” he said. “No way under the house?”

“No, no way.”

“Then it looks like I’d have to tear up the floor. It goes over the lip of the box. This wood is so old you’d never match it. But I guess you could keep it covered with the rug.”

“No, I don’t want to tear up the floor. I’ve spent enough on the floor. What about the door? Can you just take it off? I could leave it with just the plywood on top, cover it back up with the rug.”

“Once I get it open I can take it off if you want. But why? You might as well just leave it unlocked.”

“Three words: In Cold Blood. Things could go wrong. I want the door taken off. Go get your tools.”

“Yes, sir.”

Brian started out of the room.

“Excuse me. Are you being sarcastic?” Robinette asked.

Brain stopped and looked at him.

“Uh, no sir. I’m just going to get my tools. By the way, it’s going to get really loud in here when I start drilling and hammering. It might last a while, too—depending on the thickness of the front plate.”

“Beautiful. I’ll work in the upstairs study.”

In the van Brian looked through all his manuals and catalogs for a listing on Le Seuil or anything close to it. He found nothing. He called Barney Feldstein, who worked in San Francisco and was the most knowledgeable box man he knew, and even Barney had never heard of the maker. He put Brian on hold and checked the archives of the Box Man website. When he came back on, he had nada.

What Brian wished was that he could talk to his old man about it. If anybody knew the safe maker, it would be him. But that was impossible. It took a request from a lawyer to set up a phone call, and a letter was useless. He needed advice right now. Resigned to the idea that he would go in blind, he gathered his tools and went back into the house. Robinette was still in the study. He was gathering some files from the desk to take with him upstairs.

“I couldn’t find anything in the manuals and I called a guy who’s been doing this longer than anybody I know in the business,” Brian said. “He never heard of this safe company either. So I’ll do my best, but it’s looking like a double drill.”

“Explain to me why you have to drill it twice,” Robinette said impatiently.

“I’ve got to pop out what they call the free wheel. It’s the locking gear. To do that I have to drill through the front plate so I can hit it with a spike. With most safes, I know where the free wheel is. I have design manuals. I can look it up. I then come through with the drill, pop the gear, and open the safe. With this one, I’m going in blind. I’ll take an educated guess but most likely I’ll miss. I’ll then snake it with a camera, find the right spot, and drill it again.”

“You’re sure you’re not just taking advantage of me here?”

“What?”

“How do I know this isn’t some kind of scam designed to get the double dip? Or the double drill, as the case may be.”

Brian was thinking that he ought to pick up his tools and just walk out, leaving the arrogant writer with his unopened safe. You open it, asshole. But he needed the money—Laura was planning to take the option of extending her maternity leave by four unpaid weeks. Besides, he was curious about the safe. He’d have something to post on the website after he got it open.

“Look,” he said to Robinette. “If you want to go out to the van and look in the manuals and try to find this, be my guest.”

Robinette waved off the suggestion.

“No, never mind. Just get it done. Come to the bottom of the stairs and call for me when you are about to open it. I want to be here to see what that old fool Blankenship put in there.”

“Arthur Blankenship? This was his house?”

“Yes, that’s right. Did you do work for him?”

“No, I just knew of him. He owned the plant. His father dug the channel.”

“Yes, that’s right. The Blankenships made this city what it is today. I’ll be upstairs.”

He left the room, carrying his files with him. Brian shook his head. He hated working for assholes but it was part of the job. He turned and looked down at the safe. Every job was a little mystery. He wondered when the black steel door was last opened. He wondered what Arthur Blankenship had put in there.

The first thing Brian did was strap on his kneepads. He then got down on the floor and contemplated the spacing between the combo dial and the handle. He took a piece of white chalk out of his toolbox and marked an X on the door about three inches to the right of the dial on a direct line to the handle. He knew he’d at least be close.

He set the tripod up over the X and hooked the lock-down chain to the safe’s handle. He fitted a half-inch bit into the drill, mounted it on the tripod, and plugged it into a nearby wall socket. He was ready to go. From the toolbox he took out the gloves, safety glasses, and breathing mask, and put them on. Last, he pressed foam plugs into his ears.

The first drill bit lasted twenty-five minutes before shattering. He guessed he had gone in only a quarter inch at that point. He let the drill cool for a few minutes while he drank a bottle of water he got out of the toolbox. He then locked a new bit into place.

The second bit completed the penetration. Brian pulled the drill out and checked the hole. It appeared that the front plate was three-quarters of an inch thick. He unlocked the tripod and moved it out of the way. The drill hole was still smoking and hot. Brian leaned down and blew away the steel shavings that had accumulated around it.

He got the camera scope out of the toolbox, plugged it in, and turned it on. He manipulated the snakelike camera extension, bending it into a curving L shape. He then fed it into the drill hole, keeping his eyes on the small black-and-white video display screen.

Almost immediately Brian saw movement inside the safe. A whitish gray blur moved across the three-inch- wide screen. He froze for a moment. What was that?

He moved the camera in an exaggerated sweep but saw nothing else. Was it smoke? Had he really seen something? He wondered if the camera movement had simply blurred a reflection of the camera’s light off one of the gears or the underside of the faceplate.

The video display had no playback function. It did not record. Brian could not go back to check the movement again. He felt a small tremble go up his spine and neck. He stared at the display for a few more moments and then started moving the scope again. He knew there couldn’t have been movement. It had to have been a reflection or a