The Portal 00 - Legacy of the Witch

job, naturally,” I said.
    She sniffed. I thought I’d made her angry. “She’s supposed to
be doing some proofreading and copyediting, that sort of thing. I believe he’s
writing a memoir?”
    “Oh, that temp,” I said as if I
knew. My gaze flew back to that stack of pages with a sharpened interest.
“Actually, we were going to call you and cancel that one anyway, so it all
worked out just fine.”
    “Oh?” The woman sounded surprised. “Did he…hire someone from
another agency?”
    “No, no, an old friend came in from out of town for an extended
visit, an English Lit professor, actually,” I said, thinking of my own English
Lit professor, Susan O’Shaughnessy, and how much I admired her snow-white
complexion, red curls and sharp mind. “So she offered to help. Thanks for
calling,” I said, not wanting to explain further or answer any more questions.
“You have a great day.”
    “You, too,” she said, and I hung up the phone.
    I clapped my hands together and turned my attention to the
stack of papers on the desk. A Soldier’s Story, by Sgt.
Harrison Brockson .
    I blinked. He was writing…his own story. What a perfect way to
get to know more about him! My eyes sped over the first few lines. It was indeed
a memoir. His experience in Iraq. My homeland. And maybe it would even include
the story of how he’d come to find my heirloom chest.
    I was dying to do just what he’d asked and read the manuscript,
but I was here for a reason. And reading this man’s book was not it.
    I had to find the witches’ box.
    Except I didn’t. Two hours later I’d searched the entire house,
and there was no miniature treasure chest to be found. No safe anywhere, no
mysterious hidden or locked rooms. I’d learned a little something about Sergeant
Harrison Brockson, though. He was a neat freak. The place was as spotless as if
no one really lived in it, like a model home or something. He was also a fitness
nut. One entire room was devoted to workout equipment, and none of it was used
to hang jackets from, like the solitary treadmill at my temporary apartment,
where all the roomies insisted on keeping the thing, and none of them ever set
foot on it.
    Harrison used his equipment. There
was a bathroom off the gym, with stacks of towels, and a minifridge full of
nothing but ice cubes, bottled water and Gatorade. His workout clothes had a
drawer all to themselves in his dresser, and he kept his running shoes in the
box they’d come in, in the closet, next to the fireproof security box—and no, I
couldn’t see what was inside that. But it wasn’t big enough to hold my treasure
chest.
    Okay, no luck, but I’d learned something about the man. He was
neat and athletic. And a war hero, if the medals and framed citations were
anything to go by. But not vain about it. They were all piled on closet shelves,
collecting his home’s only visible dust, not displayed on walls or in
cabinets.
    He had uniforms in his closet, freshly cleaned and still in the
dry cleaner’s plastic. Still on active duty, then?
    There were a few family photos, a couple with their three
little blond-haired, blue-eyed boys seemed to be his favorite subjects, as there
were several of those around. One of an older couple taken on their golden
anniversary—the man was in uniform. Had to be his parents. But not a single
photo of the fiancée from the antiques show on TV.
    Interesting.
    I wound up back in the office, staring at the stack of pages on
the desk. I’d intended to reclaim my ancient chest and be out of here by the
time he returned, but that hadn’t worked out. And if I was still here when he
got back, I supposed I ought to have read the thing, since that was ostensibly
what I had come here to do.
    Besides, I was burning with curiosity. So I sat down, kicked
off my shoes and began.
    And pretty soon I was turning the final page, and shaking my
head in awe and wondering if this man was really someone from whom I had the
nerve to steal. He’d written about his experiences the way I suspected a police
officer fills out his reports at the end of the day. Just giving facts without
embellishment—minimizing his own heroics, if anything. But he’d carried a
wounded comrade through heavy gunfire to a helicopter to get him to safety. He’d
breached the enemy line to rescue a young man who’d somehow become pinned down
on the other side. He’d run into a burning building to rescue an innocent
family.
    Nothing about how he’d felt. Nothing