The Codex Read Online Free PDF Page B

hard, exert yourselves—because you’re the sons of Maxwell Broadbent. Because someday, without lifting a goddamn finger, you’ll be rich.
    He rose again, restless with energy. Look, I know it’s mostly my fault. I’ve catered to your whims, bought you everything you wanted, sent you to all the best private schools, dragged you around Europe. I felt guilty about the divorces and all that. I wasn’t born to be a married man, I guess. But what have I done? I’ve raised three kids who, instead of living splendid lives, are waiting for their inheritance. Great Expectations redux.
    “Bullshit,” said Vernon angrily.
    Philip, you’re an assistant professor of art history at a junior college on Long Island. Tom? A horse vet in Utah. And Vernon? Well, I don’t even know what you’re doing now, probably living in some ashram somewhere, giving your money to a fraudulent guru.
    “Not true!” said Vernon. “Not true! Go to hell!”
    Tom could say nothing. He felt a nauseous tightening somewhere in his gut.
    And on top of that, the father went on, you three don’t get along. You never learned to cooperate, to be brothers. I started to think: What have I done? What have I done? What kind of father have I been? Have I taught my sons independence? Have I taught them the value of work? Have I taught them self-reliance? Have I taught them to take care of each other?
    He paused and fairly shouted out, No!
    After all this, after everything, the schools, Europe, the fishing and camping trips, I’ve raised three quasi-failures. Christ, it’s my fault that it ended up this way, but there it is. And then I found out I was dying, and that put me in a panic. How was I going to fix things?
    He paused, turned. He was breathing hard now, and his face was flushed.
    Nothing like having death poke his stinking mug into your face to make you think about things. I had to figure out what to do with my collection. I sure as hell wasn’t going to give it to a museum or some university for a bunch of tweedy-dums to gloat over. And I wasn’t going to let some scummy auction house or dealer get rich from all my hard work, break it up and disperse it to the four corners after I’d spent a lifetime assembling it. Absolutely not.
    He mopped his brow, wadded up the handkerchief in a fist, and gestured at the camera with it.
    I had always planned to leave it to you. But when it came down to it, I realized it would be the very worst thing I could do to you. No way was I going to hand over to you half a billion dollars that you hadn’t earned.
    He went back behind the desk, eased his enormous frame into the chair, and took another cigar from a leather box.
    Look at me, still smoking. Too late now.
    He clipped the end, lit it. The cloud of smoke confused the automatic focus on the camera, and it went blurry, shifting back and forth, trying to find its focus. When the smoke drifted leftward out of the frame, Maxwell Broadbent’s square, handsome face leapt back into focus.
    And then it came to me. It was brilliant. All my life I’d been excavating tombs and dealing in grave goods. I knew all the tricks for hiding tombs, every booby trap, everything. I suddenly realized that I, too, could take it with me. And then I could do something for you that would really be a legacy.
    He paused, clasped his hands, and leaned forward.
    You’re going to earn this money. I’ve arranged to bury myself and my collection in a tomb somewhere in the world. I challenge you to find me. If you do, you can rob my tomb and have it all. That’s my challenge to you, my three sons.
    He inhaled, tried to smile.
    I warn you: It’s going to be difficult and dangerous. Nothing in life worth doing is easy. And here’s the kicker: You’ll never succeed unless you cooperate.
    He brought his massive fist down on the desk.
    That’s it in a nutshell. I didn’t do much for you in life, but by God I’m going to fix that with my death.
    He got up again and walked over to the camera.