Artifacts in the Attic

Dust fills my lungs as I pull the string connected to the access point in the hallway ceiling, opening the attic. Apparently, I think to myself, no one has been up here in years. I sigh, remembering the reason for my presence here, and pull the folded ladder down to the floor.
I arrived here a week ago, to empty out my grandfather's home after he passed. It has not been an easy thing, but I was the only one close enough to do it.
I stare at the ladder in front of me, another old family story comes to mind. Not surprising since so many have come to mind as I progressed from room to room throughout this week.
There was a popular museum curator, said to be very distinguished and extremely educated. With multiple degrees under his belt, and having field experience handling artifacts, did his job well and even above and beyond what was expected. It’s said that along with all his other responsibilities, he handled a network of contacts within the black market trade. Working with authorities to secure stolen or missing art and artifacts, I chuckled to myself, he was like a modern day Indiana Jones. Though, to be honest, no one really believed it since he never seemed to get any credit. If anyone even decided to ask him about his involvement, he would deny it. It was only in his retired old age, lying on his deathbed that he finally confessed his involvement. To his disappointment, everyone thought he was making it up.
That museum curator was my grandfather, this was his attic, and I didn’t know if I believed him. He passed away over a month ago from cancer, and I am just now cleaning out his home.
Everything downstairs was easy to handle; some was going to relatives as sentimental keepsakes, some to the trash, and the rest to various donations.
The week long process of getting everything cleaned up and out to their new destinations has been exhausting so far, both physically and emotionally. It takes a special level of sanity to deal with grieving family members as you are also still grieving. Especially since cleaning out the house re-opens the grief as the items taken trigger the memories and emotions.
The attic is the last spot to deal with, because it has been the one place I really wanted to avoid. No one ever really knows what someone keeps in their attic. With my grandfather being a museum curator, history artifact collector, and supposedly an Indiana Jones type, it could be literally anything. I'm torn between wanting it to be mundane things like holiday decorations and the Ark of the Covenant or something. Taking a deep breath, I climb the ladder.
Finally up in the attic, coughing again to relieve my lungs of more dust, I begin looking around.
“Well, not holiday decorations then” I say to myself.
Instead, there are crates, lots and lots of crates. Even stranger was that they were obviously old museum crates, with worn out stamps and ripped stickers. Ones that would have named what was in them and the museum they belonged to.
What did my grandfather do to get all these up here? I thought to myself. Why are they up here?
Was my grandfather actually telling the truth? Was he the curator responsible for all the connections and inside jobs with the authorities?
My wondering continued as I began making my way through the crates, large and small, trying to establish any type of  inventory. Looking around every inch of each box I could get to with relative safety, I couldn’t establish any valuable information. Glancing around one particularly large box, I found a small briefcase sitting on the floor. Covered in dust, I tried to blow some off as I picked it up only to begin coughing again trying to free my lungs of even more unwanted particles.
Able to take a clear breath, I sat the briefcase on top of the nearest crate to open it. After finagling the lock a bit to get it open, I raise the top and freeze in shock. Inside was a small black notebook, sitting on top of cash. Lots of cash. Next to the notebook was a letter, which to my surprise, was addressed to me.
Opening the note, I began to read,

To my dearest Athera,

If you are reading this letter, then I am no longer there to speak of this in person. I am sorry that you are left to deal with the mess I was not able to clean up before my passing. You are the only one I can trust to do what needs to be done.
These crates and small black notebook are all that remains of my involvement in the black market trade on the behalf of the local and federal authorities. If I was able to tell you anything on my deathbed, know that it was all true.

Now, my dear granddaughter, this is what I need you to do as you clean out my now empty home; the small black notebook contains all my contacts and systems for helping the authorities, without them or anyone knowing I was the one conducting it all. Use it to get these crates from here to the closest warehouse and then contact the correct channels to the authorities.

The money underneath is totaled at 20,000 dollars. Some of it you will have to use for bribes and hush money to keep your involvement a secret, but the rest you may use as you wish. I would hope that perhaps you may continue my work, but I understand if you are not interested.

After completing the warehouse transfer and you do wish to continue my work, all the information you will need about my old accounts, notes and even extra details about certain contacts is all in the notebook. If you do not wish to continue my work, burn the notebook.

Best of luck to you,
Your Grandfather, Sporty.

Looking up from the letter, my face wet with tears of sadness and laughter, I couldn't believe what I had just read. For a moment I think that maybe this is a joke, but Sporty was a nickname only I called him on account that he used to always be on the move, speeding around like a fancy sports car. It even remained appropriate as he went from walking, to using a walker, and then to his wheelchair. Laughing again at the memories, I began wondering what I should do. 

Do I follow his instructions? What else could I even do with these boxes?
They will have to go somewhere, and here is a simple solution to that problem.

Reading through the letter one more time, I pick up the little black notebook and dive into the legacy my grandfather left for me. Holding it in my hands, feeling the worn out leather, and opening the yellowing pages, I take a deep breath. Time to decide if I am to walk in his footsteps. 

Would it be worth it?
Could I do it?

All this time...I think to myself, leaning back on the crate behind me to consider, the strange stories we were told around the dinner table during the holidays, the fairy tale about the museum curator, were all true. It hits me like a ton of bricks, it was ALL true. And not only is it true, but my grandfather, the museum curator, wants me to follow in his footsteps...or at least help him finish one last mission.

I close the notebook, placing it back in the briefcase before heading back down the ladder. A cloud of dust enters my lungs causing a fit of coughing as I try to coordinate my legs down the ladder. I finally manage to get to the floor, take a breath of fresh air to clear my lungs, and head to the kitchen for a glass of water. I set the briefcase on the counter, grab my water bottle, fill it with more water from the sink and take a sip.

What should I do? Following his instructions to get the attic cleared out is one thing, but to continue his legacy. To continue recovering artifacts, that's a huge request that I'm not sure I'm up for being a young student still trying to finish a degree in history. Yet, what better way to immerse myself in real history than to help recover artifacts so they can be shared with others, or returned to their rightful home.

I walk back over to the kitchen counter and open up the briefcase to retrieve the notebook again. As it opens, I stare at the cash. So much money, where did he even get it all? And another question, glancing down the hall at the flimsy ladder still unfolded, how did he get all those boxes up there?

I shake my head, those thoughts don't matter right now. First thing is first, I have to get the crates out of the attic if I am going to finish cleaning out this house.

I sit down at the table and open the notebook, flipping through the pages until I find the instructions needed.

I alone cannot move the crates out of here, but I find the number for a moving company and the address to the nearest warehouse. As I begin to dial the number for the company, I also find a specific script to read so they understand the nature of this particular assignment. Its strangely worded, so I assume there is some sort of code involved. I finish dialing the number and the phone begins ringing.

"Hello, thank you for calling magnetic movers, what can I do for you?", says the young lady who answers the phone.

I look at the script quickly before responding, "Um, yes, hello, I am looking for someone to transfer some old crate boxes into docking storage."

There is a pause, I glance back at the notebook thinking that I said the wrong thing, then she answers.

"Of course ma'am, we can take care of that for you in the next 48 hours."

Before I can answer or give any more details, the line goes dead. I stare at the phone bewildered. She didn't take down any addresses or information. Did that short, simple phrase I said tell her everything she needs to know?

It can’t have been that simple, can it? I suppose that if this has been going on for years, then she obviously knows whatever is needed to get the job done.
And yet…
I shake my head. I’m overthinking this and should just trust my grandfather's instructions. His connections, network, his operation has been going on long enough to be a well oiled machine. So I shouldn't worry about the specifics.
That is, unless I decide to take his place…
Should I take his place? Could I do what he did? The romance of it is so appealing. The possibility of traveling around the world, exploring ancient sites, and making sure pieces of history are available to the people. But the realities of it all…well they would include possibly stealing, negotiating, buying from the black market, and other potentially dangerous tasks.
What am I going to do? 

(Cont. the story in Following his Footsteps?)