The sentry

51

Pike brought the bags home, but did not open them for three days. He put them in his bathtub the first night, figuring they would drain. The next day, he moved them to his bedroom at the foot of his bed.

He brought them downstairs on the third day, and opened them for the first time since they'd been out of the water. He slit the plastic wrappers and stacked the packs of cash on the floor. There were a few packs made up of fifties and twenties, but most of the four-inch-thick packs held only hundreds.

It took Pike four hours and thirty-five minutes to count the money, keeping track of how much was in each stack on a yellow legal pad. When he finished, Pike leaned against his couch and considered the miniature skyscraper city spread across his living room.

William Rainey had lied to the end, telling them he only had three hundred forty-two thousand.

If only you knew.

Pike counted six million, seven hundred, fifty-five thousand dollars.

Pike wondered how much remained hidden in other locations, but didn't much care one way or another. He stared at the money for a while, trying to figure out what to do with it, then turned on ESPN and watched the late-night sports.

Later, Pike turned out the lights and went up to bed. He didn't pick up the money. He left the stacks on his floor like the meaningless paper it was.