Rupert Blackwell was dead. His obituary was brief, void of any relatives except a deceased sister. Few in Shanty Town knew he'd ever existed, but he was about to affect Lance Fenway's life beyond anything the young lawyer could ever have imagined. 

Sitting on the edge of his rumpled bed, Lance ran his fingers through his hair. He was exhausted but exhilarated at the same time. Today, $25,000 would be deposited in his bank account; three times more money than he'd made since he'd passed the bar exam almost four years ago,  

Life didn't come easy for the struggling attorney, but he'd persevered until he could put Attorney at Law on his office door. Living in Shanty Town, he represented clients for petty theft, prostitution, and battery, and often his services were pro bono. Rupert Blackwell's death was his ticket to easier living, or so he thought.  

Lance shuffled across his small living room into the even smaller kitchen. His usual routine was to set up his Keurig the night before, so he only needed to push a button in the mornings. He wasn't an early riser by choice. 

The sink overflowed with unwashed dishes, another task he failed to do routinely until his cupboard was empty. He took a red mug from the sink, peered inside, and wrinkled his nose at the dark ring at the bottom of the cup. He turned the water faucet on and rinsed the cup. Satisfied, he placed it on the coffeemaker and pushed start. In seconds, he inhaled the pungent aroma of freshly brewed coffee. 

With his cup in hand, Lance shoved a stack of unopened mail, mainly bills, across the table before sitting. His thoughts wandered back to the day he'd met Rupert Blackwell. 

***************** 

The mansion sat far back on the lot, behind iron gates, out of sight of prying eyes. Its days of grandeur were gone. Broken shutters, peeling paint, and overgrown bushes left Lance with a knot in his stomach as his hopes dissipated. Rupert's street address said money, but the deteriorated house begged to differ. 

He'd turned to flee the premises when the front door opened. An impeccably dressed man called out to him. "Please, sir, you've come this far, don't go. Mr. Blackwell is a very sick man and requests only a moment of your time." 

Lance hesitated before he turned and walked toward the open door. The man led him into the parlor, which now served as a hospital room.

Machines whined, buzzed, and pumped unknown fluids through the body of the man lying in the room. The attorney looked around for the man who'd brought him to the room. He was gone.  

The body spoke. "I'm not dead, Mr. Fenway. Soon, but not yet." He coughed and then continued, "Come closer, please." 

It was the furthest thought from Lance's mind, but he gulped and did as asked. "Your —" Lance wasn't sure what to call the man who'd answered the door. "Your man said you required my services. He wasn't clear on what you needed when he called me." 

Rupert coughed; this time, it lasted longer. Lance shivered at the horrible sounds as Rupert's frail body shook like bones rattling. "Satan has been with me for many years." 

Lance's eyes rolled as he glanced toward the door he'd entered. "Satan?" Again, he wanted to run, but his feet would not move. 

A low chuckle, which sounded like a growl, arose from the bed. “Diablo Santana Garcias. Satan for short." Rupert suffered through another coughing spasm. His breathing was ragged. 

Like magic, Satan appeared in the doorway. A smile flickered across his face when Lance moved closer to Rupert. "Sir, allow me to speak with Mr. Fenway. You're tiring yourself." 

Rupert nodded. "You're a good man, Satan."

Satan responded, "Thank you, sir." Then, he turned to Lance and spoke, "I'm afraid my fire and brimstone aren't allowed in the house, so you are safe to come with me." 

Rupert growled, "Be nice, Satan." And to Lance, he added, 'He'll make it worth your while, son. I promise." 

With trepidation, Lance followed Satan, still not satisfied he was safe inside the creepy old mansion. 

Satan wasted no time in explaining what Mr. Blackwell required Lance to do. Upon his death, the bank officer would summon Lance, and he would receive a key to a safe deposit box. Then, for the sum of $25,000, he was to deliver the contents to the name and address he would find inside the box. Simple! 

*************** 

Until yesterday when the bank called, Lance had waited. Now, in a few hours, the promised retainer would be in his account, and he would deliver a package to someone. Fini! 

After finishing his coffee, he dressed, grabbed his briefcase, and rushed down the street to the bank. He was early, so he found himself pacing anxiously outside the door. 

A woman unlocked the door at nine o'clock sharp, allowing Lance and a few other customers to enter the bank lobby. The others hurried toward the teller windows, but Lance needed directions to the deposit boxes. 

"I'm Attorney Lance Fenway. A bank officer called and asked me to come in today. I am to retrieve the contents of a safe deposit box belonging to Mr. Blackwell. He was — is a client of mine." 

"Of course, Mr. Fenway. I'll show you to the vault where the boxes are kept. Someone will be there to help you." 

Lance kept in step with the woman as she walked toward the back of the building. She motioned him to step through a vault door and into a large room. Stacks of locked boxes lined the walls, some large, some small. 

"Wait here, please. Miss Trainor will be right with you. She'll need to get Mr. Blackwell's personal key from one of our bank officers. You can have a seat right over there." 

Lance glanced around the room as he awaited the return of Miss Trainor, the woman who would help him solve the mystery. He was deep in thought when she approached from a different direction, catching him off guard. 

"Good morning, Mr. Fenway." Laughter twinkled in her eyes, but a simple smile touched her lips. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." 

"Oh, it's nothing. My fault for daydreaming, I guess." Lance shrugged his shoulders. He felt a little intimidated by her tailored suit and gold jewelry.  

"Well, shall we get you situated, and I'll bring you Mr. Blackwell's box? I am sure you have plenty to do today besides hanging out in a bank vault." She smiled at the lawyer. "I love mysteries. We'd all heard about the box, and I can't tell you how many times the other tellers and I found ourselves discussing what might be inside. You're probably eager to know if you're anything like us." Miss Trainer showed Lance into a small cubicle. "I'll be right back with our mysterious box." 

She returned with the large box in hand, setting it on the table in front of Lance. She spoke aloud. "It's certainly heavy." Lance nodded but didn't add to the conversation, so she inserted the keys and unlocked it. Neither spoke, just stared at the box. 

Finally, Miss Trainor broke the silence. "I'll step outside so you can open the box. Did you have something for the contents? Because —" 

Lance opened his briefcase and lifted out a bag. "I brought something." 

"Oh, oh, okay. I was going to offer to get something if you needed my help." Her eyes drifted to the box again. "I better let you get at it, huh?" 

"Yeah, I might as well get started. I have no idea what needs to be done with whatever is inside." 

"It's like playing that board game, Clue, I think. You know whodunit, and you're about to find the missing parts." Miss Trainor could not contain her curiosity. "I know it's not my business, but I wonder what it is." 

"Me too! But I should open it alone, since that's what Mr. Blackwell instructed me to do." 

"Oh, sure." She turned to leave, adding, "I'll be right outside if you need anything." She left the cubicle, leaving the door ajar. 

Lance inhaled, filling his lungs, and then exhaled. He gripped the side of the box and lifted the lid. A loud gasp exploded from his mouth. His eyes bulged in disbelief. He reacted as if it was a rattlesnake, slamming it shut. His entire body was trembling. 

Lance fell back in his chair, muttering, "Oh, merciful heaven. What have I gotten myself into now?"