“Can you hold on to it for me?”

“I can.”

“And what will that cost me?”

“Won’t cost you a cent, until such a time you want to do something about it.”

“Like what?”

Morse shrugged. “If you wanted to sell it.”

“Then what would it cost?”

“Only the nominal fee for the transfer. Likely the new owner, the buyer, would pay. That’s how it works.”

“I don’t plan to sell.”

“Well then. I can just hold on to it for you. Or you can keep it yourself. It’s up to you. It’s yours.”

“But it would be better off you held on to it.” Not quite a question.

“It would be in a fireproof safe.”

“All right. And I don’t owe you anything?”

“No. Now. That’s it for the estate. No bank accounts, no loans, no liens. But, back in July he brought me this, asked me to hold it for you.” And reached into his vest and brought out an envelope. Handed it to Foster. He took it and looked at it. His name was on it, in his father’s fine loopy script.

“You know what this is?”

Morse said, “It was sealed when he gave it to me.” Not quite an answer.

“All right,” Foster said. “I owe you anything for this?”

“No,” said Morse. “Nothing.”

In the envelope was a hand-drawn map of the area of woods just behind the barn. Landmarks were indicated with circles and in each circle was a number. On the side of the map the numbers were repeated, each with a figure after it. At the bottom of the column was a total. There was no note, nothing else.

Foster took a spade from the barn and dug up the mason jars and coffee cans, all eleven of them. Some of the cans soft with age. He’d known they were out there, just had no idea there were so many of them. He carried them in armloads into the kitchen and took out the tied rolls of bills and flattened them out on the table in separate stacks. And sat and counted through it and then counted again. Then checked his father’s addition on the map. Off somewhat. Foster thought about that. It wasn’t like him. Counted the money one more time. A little more than fourteen thousand dollars. He divided the money into five-hundred-dollar stacks and rolled them and tied them with string. Then stacked them into a shoebox, the best thing he could find. The odd hundred and eighty-three he folded flat and put in his wallet. Then he took up the shoebox and walked around the house with it. Finally he put it down at the bottom of the woodbox and stacked kindling over it. Summertime, it seemed like a good place.