3

Experience had taught him to trust his instincts. When what he heard didn't match up with what he saw, then odds were there was something hinky going on. There had, of course, been times in his life when his suspicions had been unfounded or his sense of danger exaggerated, but those moments had been few and far between. Worse was when he blew off his paranoia only to learn later that his inattentiveness had allowed some preventable disaster to prevail. Thus, if nothing else, it behooved him to at least do a little checking on things that felt peculiar.

While he was out and about he decided he could purchase a couple of light bulbs and then, no, perhaps it would do him good to stop in the local photography shop. He eyed the latest camera models and special lenses for professionals or trick shots before asking if there had been any sightings of the red-haired McKenna, but no one seemed to know to whom he referred. He almost bypassed the new candy shop before backtracking and going inside to reminisce over pastel-colored shoe buttons dotting broad paper strips, shoelace licorice in red and black coils, the myriad shapes and colors of stained-glass ribbon candies, French burnt peanuts, Boston baked beans, cream-filled caramel slices, sugared jellied fruit slices, and solid colored and striped salt-water taffy in wax paper wrappers. He knew Mrs. Lang was fond of bonbons and so purchased a small sampler sporting assorted fillings. He had it wrapped nicely in pink paper featuring a lacy pattern of red floral silhouettes and tied with silver-colored cord. It had probably been years since anyone had bought bonbons for her.

Weariness from the day's exertions was beginning to saturate him body and mind, so he ate his pie from his fingers as he drove, resolving to rise early and seek a hearty breakfast somewhere. First, of course, he would drive by his father's house before he returned to the room he was renting from Mrs. Owen a few blocks away.

Henry parked more than a block away and walked down a side street so he could take a shortcut through backyards to his father's house. He hated thinking of it that way: the man had left it to him. When he had last lived there neighbors had been sparse and the closest road only hard-packed earth. Now homes were filling in a grid, popping up like cattails on the banks of a stream of hardened bitumen.

He pussyfooted around his own house from the rear, noting odd illumination within. A glance through a window confirmed there was someone inside and his jaw tightened in aggravation. He had left the machete embedded in the side of a sapling he'd cut down and went to fetch it. He would have preferred a sidearm, but his Webley break-top revolver was in his car, and he hoped to surprise the intruder before he absconded with anything.

Henry looked through another window so he could see what the burglar was doing. In the glow of a battery-powered flashlight he made out the distinctive features of Rory McKenna and recalled his oversized knuckles. The machete would be sufficient if the younger man was not carrying a firearm. Assuming McKenna was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, he would likely race out the front door if he felt threatened. Henry discovered it was not locked, so he gave it a gentle push inward. He ducked to the side as the hinges creaked, then waited. There was only silence within. Willing his breathing to slow, he strained his hearing until he detected the soft creaks of the living room floor announcing the arrival of someone unsuccessfully trying to move quietly about. There was another silence followed shortly by a soft exhalation of relief. His pulse quickened when he heard the front door being pushed shut, and then he jumped and spun, landing a kick near the knob that whipped the door open so fast that it indented the wall behind it. He lunged within as Rory turned and staggered backward, holding his right wrist as he fell.

"Bloody hell!" the red-head snarled, abandoning his wrist for his right knee. "What do you think you're doin'?"

"Catching a burglar," Henry told him, stepping around him to close the front door.

"Mary and Joseph! What's the matter with you, man?"

Glancing calmly over himself, Henry replied, "I seem to be in far better shape than you." He brandished the machete. "On your feet, Rory, or whatever your name is."

The younger man released his knee and reached back to push himself up, but winced when he tried to put pressure on his wrist. "If you don't believe me, then you won't believe me, so why should I say any different?"

"Get up."

"Little help?"

"No." Henry latched the door and moved across the room to a wooden chair. He carried it near the culprit and sat facing him. "What are you looking for?"

Sitting up, Rory bent his bruised knee, securing an arm about it. "Something of your father's."

"Then you know of him. And probably me."

"Oh, I know of you, Mr. Indiana Jones," he admitted. "But it looks like you've already sorted through most of this stuff. Did you move it? Sell it? Maybe gave it away?"

"That depends on what it is," answered Jones, feeling like a cat that had cornered a mouse but was not yet ready to eat it.

"He kept journals, did he not?"

Indy barked out a laugh. "He kept innumerable journals. Which one are you looking for?"

"Well," Rory said, looking a little perturbed as he hesitated, "I guess you might say that I'm looking for his dream journal."