Omaha, Nebraska

Gibson pulled out the shoe box from under his bed. He turned up the volume on his boom box to sing along with his favorite track of this CD, Stray Cats Strutting. He was trying to keep his mind on something, anything other than the game that was getting ready to begin in the next half hour.

He had the house to himself. After dinner his mom had gone off to her poetry class. His annoying little brother, Tyler had escaped to one of his friend’s to shoot off leftover firecrackers. Though he wouldn’t tattle to their mom, Gibson knew that’s what Tyler was up to. He had seen him sneak a whole box of matches from the kitchen junk drawer while their mom scooped up spaghetti from the pot on the stove and onto their plates.

Yep, whole house to himself, all the peace and quiet he normally would beg for, but tonight he wished he had something, anything, to distract him. He was hoping the music and his collection might do just that.

He set the box on his desk, next to his computer, trying to ignore the computer screen and still catching himself glancing at it again and again as if expecting it to flash with an instant message any minute. Maybe he expected to get caught for talking to Timmy about the game. Caught and punished. Admitting he had seen Monsignor O’Sullivan’s dead body felt like he was also admitting the guilt that came along with it. He was guilty. He shouldn’t just be caught, he should be punished. And yet, the computer screen remained the same.

He started taking each item out of the box, carefully setting them one by one on the desk. Then he took out the can of Brasso metal polish, the soft cloth and box of Q-tips he used to clean them. It wasn’t quite as elaborate as Sister Kate’s collection, but hey, he had to start somewhere.

So far he owned three medallions, two coins and one eight-inch silver crucifix. The message from the guy on eBay that he had bought the crucifix from said it had been adhered to a knight’s shield during the Crusades, that he had drawings and sketches that showed similar ones and that this one had the black welding spots on the back.

Gibson wasn’t sure he believed him, but he got the medallion for less than he expected to pay, and even if it wasn’t from a knight’s shield, it was pretty cool. It was definitely old. He spent almost three days cleaning the tarnish from all the intricate grooves. If he didn’t know it was a crucifix, Gibson would have guessed it was a dagger of some kind. Maybe he’d take it in to show Sister Kate. Yeah, maybe he’d take his entire small collection in to show her. He liked that idea.

He looked around his room, trying to remember where he had thrown his backpack. He dragged it with him everywhere, lacing it onto the handles of his bike or throwing it over his shoulder. It was a reflex action, like putting on one of his baseball caps. But he hardly ever looked in it, stuffing things in the side pockets like his keys and spare change. It probably needed to be cleaned out. He found it by the door to his closet where he had also kicked off his tennis shoes. And yeah, the backpack was bulging. He’d never fit his collection in there even if he put it all in a smaller box.

He threw the backpack on his bed, unzipped the main compartment as well as all the side pockets. He started digging everything out, separating the trash and shaking his head at the stupid stuff he couldn’t believe he still had in there. The bulge in the main compartment was something he didn’t recognize. Definitely something he didn’t own. He didn’t know where it’d come from. Who the hell put it in his backpack?

Gibson pulled out a brown leather portfolio, tossed it onto his bed and stared at it. How did the frickin’ thing get into his backpack?