Page 30 of Breaking the Code

I pull up to the house and a package catches my eye. It’s leaning against the front door. The bright white bubble mailer bounces off the black metal door like a spotlight in the dark o’ night. Packages, especially mysterious ones like this one, freak me out. I dinnae ken what the fuck I did in this life or a previous one, but every time I receive a package like this, something bad happens.

Opening the car door, I make my way to the house. I eyeball the thick padded envelope for several minutes, studying it from every angle. I turn and flip it in my hands. It’s thick and heavy. The weight o’ it is ominous in more ways than one when I notice there’s no address or shipping label.

“Oh! Hey, Carl.”

I turn toward the clipped British voice. The elderly woman from next door makes her way toward me. She’s the sweet, nosy sort. She introduced herself to me when I moved in. I’ve tried to avoid her, but I’m beginning to believe she never sleeps because nae matter the time o’ day I come in or leave, she’s always awake.

And she always makes her way over to talk.

When I dinnae say anything, she continues, “Someone dropped that off in one of those brown trucks several hours ago. I’ve been keeping an eye out so the stoop stealers don’t snatch it.”

Porch Pirates, Stoop Stealers. Same difference, I guess, but in the few interactions I’ve had with Bridget, she regularly buggers up phrases.

I look back at the package in my hands. No one knows I live here. I don’t get mail. All the services are paid online, yet somehow I’m receiving mail at a house I’ve rented under an alias.

“Thank you,” I mumble, trying and probably failing to cover up the brogue. “Have a nice night.”

I open the door, closing and locking it firmly behind me. When I look out the window, Bridget is slowly making her way back to her house. Sighing, I watch her until she disappears behind her own door before I head into the depths o’ the house.

In the kitchen, I drop the package onto the counter. I pull out a glass and a bottle o’ scotch. I fill the glass, taking it and the envelope back to the sitting room. Once there, I settle into my chair and finally; I tear open the plastic.

That was two days ago. For two days, I have weighed the information, pouring through it over and over. Information that could hopefully lead me to my sister. It could also lead me into a trap.

As the afternoon wanes, I stare out o’ the window. Iffn it weren’t for Maeve, I’d have nae problem taking the chance. But Maeve is out there. She needs me to be cautious, to be diligent, to protect.

All things I failed to be for Simon.

I turn back to the mess o’ papers and photographs. Rubbing my forehead, I pick up one packet o’ paper and flip through it. It’s a list o’ names. People who, according to the package, have overthrown the Order o’ Death after blowing the Order to bits.

It’s been several months, but I remember that night clearly. Standing in the trees, watching the men and the tiny slip o’ a girl go in and out. Then two dark, hooded figures racing across the clearing moments before the explosion knocked me off my feet.

I can still see the lot o’ them standing in that glen watching the Order burn, taking with it what I assumed was my last link to Maeve. Iffn what I hold in my hands is true, I cannae ignore it. I tuck all the documents back inside the envelope.

Looking at the clock, I grab my keys, narrowly avoiding Bridget as I head out to the car. I wave as I drive off, heading into the city instead o’ the small, sleepy little town near my rental.

My size, look, and accent make being incognito damn near impossible, so I pull into the largest, busiest bank I come to. Pulling the tie from the bun on the back o’ my head, I shake out my hair, letting the long top cascade over the shaved sides so hair covers the runes tattooed there. Luckily, I’ve nae shaved for several days and the growth o’ new hair helps to camouflage the ink Simon tried to talk me out o’ getting.

Inside the bank, I approach a teller. They, like most everyone, look up, then up again, and yet again at me. The teller’s eyes, like everyone’s when they first meet me, round in surprise. Nearly seven feet tall and over half as wide, I know I’m imposing.

Smiling, I say softly, “I’d like a safe deposit box.”

The man struggles for a moment before he walks me through the process. When he gets me to the secure room, he asks, “Is there anything else?”

“I would like a second key for my solicitor,” I reply.

“Umm…”

I stare at him, clenching my jaw and making the muscles pop as I stand up straight, dwarfing the man.

“Let me see what I can do,” the man gulps before scurrying out.

He returns moments later with another key and more paperwork.

“You’ll have to fill out this paperwork so the additional party can access the box.”

I fill the paperwork out and hand it back to him before leaving. Thoughts o’ what I might find tonight and, as always, o’ Simon, Maeve, and my parents and grandparents fill the drive back to the house.

I pull in at home and cut the engine. A glance at Bridget’s house reveals the telltale flutter o’ the curtains. I stride toward her house, but the door opens before I can knock.

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