Chapter 7 - The True Heir
The silenceafterthe RangeRover’sexit wascomplete,brokenonlyby the drippingof the rainfromthe cedarshinglesof the workshop.
DeputyMillersteppedforward,pullingout a heavyringof brasspadlocksfromhis coatpocket.“Daniel,it’sthreethirty.The courtsaidfouro'clockfor yourpersonaldeparture.Everythingyoucan fit into that smallcartrunkyouhavein the backis yours—clothes,toiletries,personalcorrespondence.The truckleavesthe drivewaynow,or I impoundit as propertyunderlien.”
Danielslowlysteppeddownfromthe tailgate.His movementshadlosttheirathleticbounce.Helookedlikea manwhoseboneshadbeenreplacedwithlead.His expensiveoxfordshoeswerecakedwiththe clayof the drivewayhe hadplannedto bulldozefor moderncondos.
He walkedupto me.He didn'ttryto lookpastme towardthe house.For the firsttimesinceI hadknownhim,his eyeswerewide,blank,andemptiedof strategy.
“Maggie,”he whispered,hishandhalf-risingas if to touchmy arm,thenfallingbackas DeputyMiller’sshieldshiftedtowardhim.“Maggie,be reasonable.I havefourmilliondollarsin bridgefundingcallsdueon Tuesday.If I can'tleveragethe manor,the bankwillfreezeHollisDevelopment.Theywilltakemy car.Theywilltakethe apartmenton EastSeventy-Second.I won'thaveanythingleft.”
“You’llhavethe truthofthe matter,”I saidquietly.“You’llhavethat authenticityyouwerethankingGodforat the dinnerplate.”
“Maggie,I amthe fatherof yourchild!”he pleaded,his voiceshiftinginto a high,desperatewhine.“ThinkaboutClara!Whatkindof legacywillshehaveif herfatheris a bankrupt?Whatwillpeoplesayin BedfordwhenI amwalkingthe streetwithouta firm?”
“Peoplesaywhattheywant,Daniel,”I replied,feelingthe coldwindwhipstrandsof my hairacrossthe cheekthat stillachedwithfatigue.“They’vebeensayingforyearsthat youwerea prince.Nowthey’llknowyouwerejusta shadowlivingin Harold’soldcoat.Claraisn'tgoingto inherityourdebts.She’sgoingto growupin thishouse.She’sgoingto learnhowtoplantpotatoesin that garden,howtocleana guttersothat theroof doesn'trot,andhowtolookat a man’shandsinsteadof his shoes.”
“Maggie—”
“Get out of my yard,Daniel,”I said.The voicewasso steadyit soundedlikea chiselstrikinggranite.“Takeyourtruck,takeyourclothes,anddon’tevercomebackthroughthosestonepostswithouta courtsummonsin yourhand.”
He lookedat me forfiveseconds,waitingfor the hesitation,the softness,the maternalhabitof excusinghis failuresthat he hadreliedonfor a decade.He foundnothing.He foundonlythe wallsof Harold’shouse,lookingdownonhimwiththe immovablesilenceof eightyyearsof history.
Withoutanothersyllable,Danielturnedaround,walkedto the driver’sseatof the box-truck,andslammedthe metaldoor.The dieselenginerattledto lifein a cloudof blue,acridexhaust.He reverseddowntheriverof gravel,notlookingat the rearviewmirrors,andpassedthroughthe stonegatesinto the grayduskof Route117.
May you like
DeputyMillerwalkedto the workshopdoor,slidthe heavysteelbaracrossthe hasp,andclickedthe brasspadlockshut.The snapwasdry,final,andclean.He turnedandhandedthe keyto me.
“He won'tbe backwithouta platoonof stateattorneys,Maggie,”the deputysaid,tippinghis cap.“Andaroundhere,the stateattorneysknowHaroldHollis’swork.Gethometo that baby.”
