FROM THE BACK COVER: "There's no history of ownership, no provenance, nothing?" Kristy asks."Not verifiably, no," Parker says. "Because, first of all, the thing is as old as dirt, according to my mom, and written records don't go back as far as dirt. And second, the man who threatened her said he has a letter from her confessing to everybody but God that she stole it from a museum.""Your mom stole the thing? From a museum?""Of course not. She didn't write any confession letter either. I'm pretty sure." Parker had seen and held the mysterious old box a few times when he was a kid. It's made of dark, dense wood, olive or acacia, maybe rosewood. A perfect square, exactly seven inches to each side, about the size of a Bose speaker. Carved into its six surfaces are faded, intricate, Aramaic and Hebrew inscriptions that have been worn almost slick to a rich, oily polish by who knows how many hands and fingers touching it over the centuries. Which is why the wood can't be identified to any certainty. One of its most puzzling features is the dull metallic rattling of something inside it when it's shaken. Parker has always wondered how the things had gotten into the box in the first place, because there are no seams, no joints, no panels or hinges. No way of opening it. If indeed it can be opened without destroying it. Parker is pretty sharp, and adept at solving puzzles, but he gave up long ago trying to coax the box open. He figures it's probably some sort of secretive Rubik's Cube with a precise way of revealing its contents. "So, why is this bureaucrat so rabid to get his hands on the thing?""All I know is he threatened her life over it, and the police won't do anything unless the threat turns violent. That puts him in my hands."