Emmett looked at his brother for a moment. Then he looked at Duchess—poor, misguided, illiterate Duchess. Taking the last three strides, Emmett put his hands on the rifle, and yanked it from Duchess’s grip.
Duchess began talking a mile a minute about how he would never have pulled the trigger. Not against a Watson. Not in a million years. But over Duchess’s talking what Emmett heard was his brother saying a single word. Saying his name in the manner of a reminder.
—Emmett . . .
And Emmett understood. On the lawn of the county courthouse, Emmett had made the promise to his brother. A promise he intended to keep. So as Duchess rattled on about all the things he never would have done, Emmett counted to ten. And as he counted, he could feel the old heat subsiding, he could feel the anger seeping away, until he didn’t feel angry at all. Then raising the butt of the rifle, he hit Duchess in the face, giving it everything he had.
* * *
—I think you should look at this now, insisted Billy.
After Duchess had hit the ground, Billy had gone to the kitchen. When he returned a moment later, Emmett told him to sit on the staircase and not move a muscle. Then taking Duchess under the armpits, he began dragging him through the living room. His plan was to drag him out of the muck room, down the stoop, and across the lawn to the Studebaker so that he could drive him to the closest police station and dump him at their door. He hadn’t gotten more than two steps when Billy had spoken.
Looking up, Emmett could see that his brother was holding an envelope. Another letter from their father, Emmett thought with a touch of exasperation. Or another postcard from their mother. Or another map of America.
—I can look at it later, said Emmett.
—No, said Billy shaking his head. No. I think you should look at it now.
Dropping Duchess back on the floor, Emmett went over to his brother.
—It’s from Woolly, said Billy. To be opened in the event of his absence.
A little stunned, Emmett looked at the inscription on the envelope.
—He is absent, isn’t he? asked Billy.
Emmett hadn’t quite decided how or whether he should tell his brother about Woolly. But from the way Billy said absent, it seemed like he already knew.
—Yes, said Emmett. He is.
Sitting on the steps beside Billy, Emmett opened the envelope. Inside was a handwritten note on a piece of Wallace Wolcott’s stationery. Emmett didn’t know if this Wallace Wolcott was Woolly’s great-grandfather or his grandfather or his uncle. But it didn’t matter whose stationery it was.
Dated the 20th of June 1954 and addressed To Whom It May Concern, the letter stated that the undersigned, being of sound mind and body, left one third of his one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar trust fund to Mr. Emmett Watson, one third to Mr. Duchess Hewett, and one third to Mr. William Watson—to do with as they pleased. It was signed Most Sincereliest, Wallace Wolcott Martin.
As Emmett closed the letter, he realized that his brother had read it over his shoulder.
—Was Woolly sick? he asked. Like Dad?
—Yes, said Emmett. He was sick.
—I thought he might be when he gave me his uncle’s watch. Because it was a watch for handing down.
Billy thought for a moment.
—Is that why you told Duchess that Woolly wanted to be taken home?
—Yes, said Emmett. That’s what I meant.
—I think you were right about that, said Billy, nodding in agreement. But you were wrong about the money in the safe.
Without waiting for Emmett to respond, Billy got up and walked down the hallway. Reluctantly, Emmett followed his brother back into Mr. Wolcott’s office and over to the safe. By the bookshelves was a piece of furniture that looked like the first three steps of a staircase. Dragging it in front of the safe, Billy climbed the steps, rotated the four dials, turned the handle, and opened the door.
For a moment, Emmett was speechless.
—How do you know the combination, Billy? Did Woolly tell it to you?
—No. Woolly didn’t tell it to me. But he told me how his great-grandfather loved the Fourth of July more than any other holiday. So the first combination I tried was 1776. Then I tried 7476 because that’s one way of writing the Fourth of July. After that I tried 1732, the year that George Washington was born, but then I remembered that Woolly’s great-grandfather said that while Washington, Jefferson, and Adams had the vision to found the Republic, it was Mr. Lincoln who had the courage to perfect it. So I tried 1809, the year that President Lincoln was born, and 1865, the year that he died. That’s when I realized it must be 1119 because November 19 was the day of the Gettysburg Address. Here, he said, stepping down from the stairs, come take a look.