Quicksilver

by Dean Koontz

We uncovered a manhole-like cover, the bolted-down lid of a sump-pump pit. I viewed this as a disappointment, but Bridget was pleased. “It appears to be bolted in place, but it isn’t. They always want to get at a stash quickly if need be.” From among the items we’d moved out of the way, she retrieved a crowbar that had seemed like just more junk but that had in fact been left among the trash for exactly the purpose to which she put it. As she inserted the pry blade under the rim of the cast-iron cover, I said, “I can do that.” “So can I,” she said cheerily, and quickly levered the heavy lid out of the hole and to one side. In the pit was a thick mass of white fabric, which she pulled out and put to one side. “Fireproofing.” The sump pump had been removed and the pit expanded. The walls were of mortared firebrick. She directed the beam of the flashlight into the depository, revealing three duffel bags. After getting on my knees, I reached into the hole and withdrew one of the large canvas sacks. It was very heavy. Bridget zippered open the duffel and withdrew tight rolls of currency. “Hundreds and twenties. At least three hundred thousand.” “Drug money,” I said. “Dirty money.” “So we steal it and do good with it. Your nuns would approve.” “I’m not so sure. Why is it here, so much money, three bags?” “These gangs make hundreds of millions a year. Maybe they can use some banks in the third world, but they don’t really trust any institution that would deal with them. Anyway, i...