He undid all the leather straps carefully and pulled them free. Then he opened the box, looked in, and sniffed. Although he could tell that it wasn't truly ancient, it didn't seem new either.

He reached into the box gingerly and pulled out some tightly wrapped parchment scrolls. These, he set aside. He reached in again. This time, he produced a small crucifix, with a terribly agonized Christ carved upon it. Warren stared at the object. He set it to one side and plunged his hand into the box yet again. Out came, of all things, a modern manila envelope! Although he was intrigued, he put that too aside for the time being.

There was one more object in the leather box.

Warren reached in for the fourth and final time, and pulled out a rather heavy bundle wrapped in an old and weather-worn fabric: as he drew it out, something clinked. Warren carefully unwrapped the cloth, revealing seven thin stilettos, very sharp, but obviously very old. They were ivory-handled, each handle carved into the form of Christ on the cross.

By this time, Warren's curiosity was overwhelming. He picked up the manila envelope and slit it open, sliding out a fairly thick pile of papers. Fascinating, he thought, as he examined it. The handwriting looks like Carl Bugenhagen's.

And then he sat down to read.

***

With the boys home during mid-term, the Thorns were having a rare family evening, watching an especially exciting Western in their den.

On the screen, a tall man walked down the only street of a dusty cattle town, hands loosely at his sides, inches from his pearl-handled guns.

He didn't see the blunt snout of the Winchester protruding from the third-floor window of the hotel, or the fluttering of the sash at the second-floor window of the supposedly empty feed store across the street.

Then the Winchester barked, and the man flopped over, then multiplied, went fuzzy, and skidded off the screen and onto the wall.

'Shoot the projectionist!' shouted Damien.

Mark stuck his head out of the small aperture in the wall behind Damien and shouted back, 'Drop dead!' Then he turned back earnestly to try to fix the projector.

Ordinarily, the butler ran the projection machine when the Thorns watched movies at home, but Mark had pleaded to be taught how to run it, and his father had agreed. Here he was on his first time out, with just his father and mother and Damien watching, and he had screwed up the movie right at the best part.