earth. Rathboneknelt over it—it was about the size of a picnic esky—and wrenched the lid open.
Buried treasure?
Winter and I stared on, riveted. I was barely breathing as I watched him shuffle on his knees to the black briefcase. He looked at his left palm before running his thumbs over the twin number locks that clasped the bag shut. He must have written the code on his hand. The bag opened and he began lifting its contents out and transferring them to the chest.
‘Cash!’ Winter whispered. ‘Wads of cash! Thousands and thousands of dollars!’
‘Why would he bury money in his backyard?’
‘Because he doesn’t want anyone to know about it. He doesn’t want the bank or the taxman to know about it, and he doesn’t want anyone knowing how he got it!’
Silently I drew out my camera. Winter reached into her embroidered shoulder bag and pulled out her camera, too.
‘Don’t forget to switch off the flash,’ I reminded her.
‘Cal, we’re gonna need it,’ she said, as she squinted through the viewfinder.
She was right. It was too dark.
‘OK, let’s both take photos on the count of three, then run for our lives. Cool?’
‘Let’s do it!’
I zoomed in as far as possible.
‘One,’ I counted. In the tiny window, the figure of Sheldrake Rathbone, solicitor, stooped as he transferred the last of the wads of cash from the briefcase into the chest. ‘Two … three!’
The night lit up with two camera flashes, one slightly later than the other, and then we were off, racing and tripping through the garden. I wrenched Boges’s bike out from behind the bush and jumped on. Winter ran around in front and hitched herself up on the handlebars.
‘Let’s go!’ she urged.
I pedalled like crazy, the bike flying down the footpath, carrying both of us. Winter’s hair flapped wildly in front of me. She gripped the handlebars and risked an awkward twist around to give me a victorious grin.
12 OCTOBER
81 days to go …
we busted rathbone big time! at winter’s now.
Safely back at Winter’s place we checked what we’d caught on camera. In my shot, Rathbone was stooped over in the act of putting something into the chest, but when I enlarged the picture, it was clear what he had in his hand—a very fat wad of fifty-dollar notes. Winter’s shot, a second later than mine, had caught Rathbone’s white face as he looked up, shocked and drained in the sudden flash of brilliant light.
When Winter enlarged her shot, it was clear that the dirt-covered wooden chest he’d unearthed already had a lot of cash packed in it.
‘We got him! We got him!’ we yelled, hugging each other and jigging around the tiny kitchen. We bumped into the couch and fell over backwards. Winter fell on top of me, but quickly jumped up.
She kissed her camera. We both knew that these photos meant we’d have the Piers Ormond will in our hands in no time.
u caught him doing what?! can’t wait to find out! i’ll call in on my way 2 school.
‘Man, these are awesome! You have him red-handed . Where do you think he got all that cash?’
‘Probably fleecing some poor old lady’s trust fund,’ I said, picturing a kind, elderly client of his, someone like Melba Snipe. ‘All that matters,’ I added, ‘is that he’s hiding money in a chest in his garden. It’s gotta be dirty money. Honest people don’t bank like that.’
‘ Dirty money,’ Boges laughed. He pulled out his laptop. ‘So let’s send him one of them already—I think the one that shows his face will freak him out the most. I’ll use one of my anonymous email addresses. We still have his email address from when he made contact on your blog ages ago. Do you have the camera cord for this?’ he asked, picking up Winter’s camera.
Winter fumbled through her desk drawer. ‘Here it is,’ she said, passing it to Boges.
‘Just keep it anonymous for now,’ I said. ‘Let’s make him nice and paranoid. I don’t think he hasa clue who was behind his
Buried treasure?
Winter and I stared on, riveted. I was barely breathing as I watched him shuffle on his knees to the black briefcase. He looked at his left palm before running his thumbs over the twin number locks that clasped the bag shut. He must have written the code on his hand. The bag opened and he began lifting its contents out and transferring them to the chest.
‘Cash!’ Winter whispered. ‘Wads of cash! Thousands and thousands of dollars!’
‘Why would he bury money in his backyard?’
‘Because he doesn’t want anyone to know about it. He doesn’t want the bank or the taxman to know about it, and he doesn’t want anyone knowing how he got it!’
Silently I drew out my camera. Winter reached into her embroidered shoulder bag and pulled out her camera, too.
‘Don’t forget to switch off the flash,’ I reminded her.
‘Cal, we’re gonna need it,’ she said, as she squinted through the viewfinder.
She was right. It was too dark.
‘OK, let’s both take photos on the count of three, then run for our lives. Cool?’
‘Let’s do it!’
I zoomed in as far as possible.
‘One,’ I counted. In the tiny window, the figure of Sheldrake Rathbone, solicitor, stooped as he transferred the last of the wads of cash from the briefcase into the chest. ‘Two … three!’
The night lit up with two camera flashes, one slightly later than the other, and then we were off, racing and tripping through the garden. I wrenched Boges’s bike out from behind the bush and jumped on. Winter ran around in front and hitched herself up on the handlebars.
‘Let’s go!’ she urged.
I pedalled like crazy, the bike flying down the footpath, carrying both of us. Winter’s hair flapped wildly in front of me. She gripped the handlebars and risked an awkward twist around to give me a victorious grin.
12 OCTOBER
81 days to go …
we busted rathbone big time! at winter’s now.
Safely back at Winter’s place we checked what we’d caught on camera. In my shot, Rathbone was stooped over in the act of putting something into the chest, but when I enlarged the picture, it was clear what he had in his hand—a very fat wad of fifty-dollar notes. Winter’s shot, a second later than mine, had caught Rathbone’s white face as he looked up, shocked and drained in the sudden flash of brilliant light.
When Winter enlarged her shot, it was clear that the dirt-covered wooden chest he’d unearthed already had a lot of cash packed in it.
‘We got him! We got him!’ we yelled, hugging each other and jigging around the tiny kitchen. We bumped into the couch and fell over backwards. Winter fell on top of me, but quickly jumped up.
She kissed her camera. We both knew that these photos meant we’d have the Piers Ormond will in our hands in no time.
u caught him doing what?! can’t wait to find out! i’ll call in on my way 2 school.
‘Man, these are awesome! You have him red-handed . Where do you think he got all that cash?’
‘Probably fleecing some poor old lady’s trust fund,’ I said, picturing a kind, elderly client of his, someone like Melba Snipe. ‘All that matters,’ I added, ‘is that he’s hiding money in a chest in his garden. It’s gotta be dirty money. Honest people don’t bank like that.’
‘ Dirty money,’ Boges laughed. He pulled out his laptop. ‘So let’s send him one of them already—I think the one that shows his face will freak him out the most. I’ll use one of my anonymous email addresses. We still have his email address from when he made contact on your blog ages ago. Do you have the camera cord for this?’ he asked, picking up Winter’s camera.
Winter fumbled through her desk drawer. ‘Here it is,’ she said, passing it to Boges.
‘Just keep it anonymous for now,’ I said. ‘Let’s make him nice and paranoid. I don’t think he hasa clue who was behind his