On the kitchen table, a laptop was open to a playlist, bluetooth speakers filtering Black Sabbath’s Planet Caravan through the small house behind the auto repair shop. The percussive tap-tap of Bill Ward’s unorthodox bongos timed up perfectly with Celeste’s knock. James, who was arm-deep in a fire resistant safe, didn’t hear it. He spent a moment longer pulling artifacts out of the box, then returned to the living room to dump them with the mystical items scattered on his coffee table and couch cushions.
He surveyed them from a standing position, took a deep breath, and ran his fingers into the hair at the crown of his skull.
A flash of yellow caught his attention. There was someone on his porch. He checked the time on his phone: just past 8:30. His part-timer would have closed the shop. James figured it was one of tomorrow’s customers, Maggie, an annoying woman with a lemon of an SUV. Must’ve gotten lost on her way to the key drop. He took a pull of his third beer and went to the door, thumb rubbing at his eye.