Just Another Victim

I stand at the slightly ajar door of the rundown apartment, unsure of what to do. I decide that I should try to knock anyway, out of courtesy if nothing else. I slowly creep forward and rap my knuckles on the frame of the door so as not to push it open more than it already is.

“Hello..? Robert, are you in there?” I wait, listening for any type of response. There’s no noise coming from inside the apartment. Not even the rustle of someone moving to get out of bed or slip on a robe for the sake of decency.

I push the door open very softly, careful not to make a sound in case there’s anyone in here who’s not Robert.

It’s a good thing I did too.

The apartment is in shambles. The kitchen alone has broken glass and trash spewed all over the floor and counters. Almost all of the books have been knocked off the shelves in the living room. Nostalgic trinkets are scattered carelessly on the ground. A majority of them are shattered, their memories doomed to be forgotten.

Robert would never stand to have his precious things tossed around like that.

Someone else has been here.

I tiptoe through the chaos as quietly as possible.

‘Thank goodness for disgusting, sound-absorbing shag carpet.’

As I round the corner of Robert’s room, my blood runs cold.

Robert’s lifeless body is stretched across the bed, his limp arm hanging over the edge slightly, as if reaching towards the nightstand to his right. His eyes are open in an eternal, surprised stare at me.

Directly at me.

His midriff is drenched in crimson blood. A bullet hole lies in the center of the stain.

I subdue the urge to spray my own fluids everywhere.

Once I can calm my nerves, and my stomach, for long enough, I inch closer to his body.

,‘Who would have done this to Robert? And why?’ I think to myself.

I stood there in shock for a few minutes.

‘Maybe he was reaching for a weapon when he was shot? Or something he needed to protect..?’

I wander over to the nightstand and yank the drawer open. There’s a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, an empty change purse, and an ominous looking black notebook. I pick up and thumb through the crumpled, yellow pages of the small book.

13th of June, 1893

I found this journal today in the bag of a man I killed. I didn’t have to kill him, he was merely in my way. He was searching for the same treasure as I. I don’t think he would have been satisfied with sharing either. Hopefully, my journey does not end as his did.

February 11th, 1941

A fellow soldier gave me this book as he lay dying in our medical tent. He had only been shot in the shoulder, but the harsh, Germanic winter had made his recovery nearly impossible for modern medicine. I’m not sure why he chose to give it to me, or why he entrusted something so precious into my likely incapable hands. I can only hope to keep it safe and get it back to his family one day. When this devastating war is finally over.

September 20th, 2001

Hello, book that has traveled through the ages. I bought you for the price of $5 at an estate sale of a man who was murdered recently. He survived the most destructive war of the modern era only to be crushed under the weight of a collapsing skyscraper on September 11th. It’s tragic really.

How did I end up at this estate sale? He was a friend of a friend. His life’s belongings were auctioned off at meager prices compared to their value. Except, possibly, for you. I’m not sure just yet what value you hold…

In any case, at least the money was donated to multiple, well-meaning charities.

December 23rd, 2010

Dear Book,

I haven’t had anything of great importance to write about in the past nine years. Just business as usual.

But, earlier today I happened across something strange.

I was shoveling in my backyard to put in a new compost pile. Not even two feet down I heard a resonating ‘thunk’ and I knelt down closer to the ground to investigate further.

After I had brushed off as much dirt as I could I recognized the top of an almost comically accurate treasure chest. Even more ironic was that it contained actual, authentic Spanish gold. Tons of gold. So much gold that I couldn’t even lift it out of the hole by myself.

I summoned my neighbor Julio over via telephone, hoping maybe he could help me out. We had been pretty close friends for quite some time.

He seemed stunned by the sheer amount of money inside of the box. But, other than that, he didn’t ask any questions.

We spent the next hour trying to slowly heave-ho that sucker out of the ground. The pace of wiggling would probably have been described by onlookers as a “crawl”.

Once we had finally hauled it up, Julio declared that he was being called home for dinner by his wife. (Looking back on it now, I hadn’t heard anyone calling or noticed his cellphone ring or vibrate in notification.)

I thanked him, feverishly wiping sweat from my brow. Whether it was from the labor or the excitement I’m not quite sure.

I wonder just why that money was buried back there in the first place. How much is it? What mystery have I uncovered?

January 5th, 2011

So, Book, I finally had some time today to take a portion of the gold over to a pawn shop and discover it’s value. I could only fit about a quarter of it in the bag. The teller proclaimed that, accounting for the cost of today’s dollar and inflation, what I brought in was worth roughly $5,000.

I am going to deposit this into a bank immediately.

March 15th, 2011

Someone ransacked my house today. Whether they knew about the money or not, I’m no longer safe there…

I don’t think the money is as safe as it should be either. Sitting in a bank vault where people would expect it to be.

I am going to move the both of us. I will only reveal the location to myself and possibly my dearest friend.

I feel like these are the types of people who shoot first and ask questions later.

I wonder if there is more money to be found. But, how did they find out about mine..?

April, 20th, 2011

LZOO 13%!?870? 4v3, 5747!0? 6% ELZ

The final entry—the one laden with gibberish— is from roughly a week ago. I guess whoever was looking for the money thought it moved with Robert. I wonder if they even bothered to ask him where it was.

I wonder if he ever discovered who they were. Or why that money was so important to them.

And when he said he would share it with his dearest friend… Who was that? Robert was never the social butterfly type. He preferred to keep to himself and his conspiracies and codes.

Codes…

The location is in code! I flip back to the last entry.

“It’s not gibberish!” I exclaim with glee. Far too much happiness for being in the same room as the body of one of my friends.

It’s a very simple code, but difficult to interpret if you don’t know exactly what to look for. We created it when we were 10 years old to send messages to each other without outsiders (ie: parents) being able to decipher them. Since we were so young, a lot of the decoding back and forth just makes sense. But for some of it, we had to get pretty creative.

The entry now reads: 1200 Lexington Ave, Station Bx 312.

The train station? He put the money in a lockbox at the train station?

To be fair, this was less obvious than a bank. But, I can’t imagine it would be safer if the people looking for it did discover its whereabouts. But, those locks were pretty unbreakable and unpickable.

Which would be a problem… Unless Robert hid a key around here somewhere.

I went back to looking through the nightstand. Nothing.

Then the closet.

On top of the door.

Under the bed.

Where would Robert keep important things like that? For all of his paranoia, I doubt it would be in an obvious place where people would suspect important things to be.

Besides, other than that, the most valuable thing in this room to him was that little notebook.

Of course! Everything is kind of obvious once you knew who Robert was.

I open the notebook again and turn to almost the very back. True to his nature, Robert had cut a rectangle into the pages, deep enough to house the missing key.

I wonder for a brief moment if I should call the authorities to report Robert's death.

'Not just yet.'

____________________________________________________________________________

After juggling way too many subway transfers, I finally stand outside of the Lexington Ave Station. There are crowds of people bustling about. I glance at my watch. It reads 5 ‘o’ clock. Rush hour. Perfect. No one will really notice me walking in or out.

I had brought a large duffle bag with me just in case. I wasn’t sure what form the money would be in, or if Robert had ever found more of it.

I dash inside and begin searching for the lockbox that Robert had mentioned, number 312.

Once I finally find it---there are way too many boxes here---opening it is easy. Laying inside is $20,000 in bundled hundreds. I hurriedly start piling the cash into the oversized duffle bag before someone notices just how much money I'm hauling out.

At the bottom of the huge pile of money sits a tiny piece of paper. I pick it up and flip it over. It's a fairly accurate topographic map of the city with mountains and rivers of the surrounding area. There's a dotted line indicating a path to follow and a stereotypical 'X' marking the spot.

'Maybe Robert didn't find the rest of the treasure, but he certainly found the means to get there'.

I set that on top of the money, zip the bag up, and try to walk as quickly, but as casually, as possible out of the station.

As soon as I'm outside, I breathe in the fresh air of a breath I didn't know I had been holding.

I pull out the book and quickly jot down all I can think to write in this blissful moment.

April 27th, 2011

Hi, Book. So, today I suddenly became $20,000 richer.

I gaze awestruck at the sky and the city. I feel happier than I've ever been. Happy to be on an adventure, happy to be alive despite the grief over my friend's death.

It only lasts for a second.

One minute I'm standing, enjoying the warm breeze on my face. Then I'm flying through the air. Landing hard on the asphalt as multiple cracks resonate in the street and searing pain vibrates through my body. And there's a feeling of something sickly wet leaking out of my body, somewhere far away from my consciousness.

"Oh my god! That guy just got hit by a bus! Somebody call 911!" I hear some random pedestrian scream in the background. A woman, I think.

There's a sound of footsteps coming closer. I wonder vaguely if I've been discovered and if whoever was looking for the money has come to claim their prize.

"Sir, are you okay?" a concerned voice asks.

I have a sudden flash of realization. I reach out to grab the man's arm more quickly than I thought was possible.

I stare sternly, straight into his light blue eyes. "Don't…"

"Don't what?"

"Don't...Write…"

Everything fades to black.