Chapter 6 - A Shadow Behind the Wheel
The rain had turned into a sleet-heavy squall by the time Vance’s unmarked cruiser turned into my subdivision. The suburban streets, usually bustling with minivans and dog walkers, were deserted under a ceiling of bruised, slate-colored clouds.
Vance pulled the car to the curb three houses down from my property, parking behind an overgrown arborvitae hedge.
Our home, a two-story colonial Michael and I had spent seven years renovating, looked dark and abandoned. The front lawn was littered with wind-blown branches, and the porch light Michael always left burning had burned out.
In the driveway, tucked deep near the garage door where it was hidden from street view, sat a faded red Honda Civic.
Tessa’s car.
"They're inside," Vance muttered, unholstering his Glock 17 and resting it against his thigh. He picked up his radio and requested immediate backup, but the dispatcher’s voice returned with a warning that units were delayed due to a multi-vehicle pileup on the turnpike.
"Backup is seven minutes out," Vance said, his eyes scanning the windows. "We wait."
"They could destroy the documents in seven minutes," I said, my pulse drumming in my throat. "If they find the lockbox, they’ll burn the original notes in the kitchen sink."
"A dead piece of paper isn't worth your life, Claire."
"It's not just a piece of paper! It's Michael's name! They stole his name before they killed him!"
Before Vance could lock the passenger door, a sudden motion caught my eye on the second floor. A shadow moved across the master bedroom window—a bulky silhouette holding what looked like a flashlight. Then, a second figure appeared, smaller and more frantic, carrying armfuls of clothes and throwing them onto the floor.
Suddenly, the front door of the house swung open.
Tessa stepped onto the porch.
She was wearing Michael’s heavy fleece jacket—the gray one he wore on cold mornings when he tuned his truck. She was carrying a plastic storage tub toward the Civic, her head down against the sleet.
Vance didn't hesitate. He kicked open his door, his badge hanging around his neck, weapon drawn and leveled.
"Police! Tessa Morris, keep your hands where I can see them!"
Tessa froze. She dropped the tub; it shattered on the wet asphalt, spilling Michael’s tools, old watch cases, and family photo albums across the driveway.
She looked toward the cruiser, her face twisting into a mask of pure, vicious panic.
"Dad!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, turning toward the open doorway. "Dad, it’s the cops!"
Vance was already moving up the driveway, his boots splashing through the freezing puddles. "Get on the ground! Face down! Now!"
Tessa didn't drop. She lunged back toward the front steps, trying to scramble through the doorway. Vance closed the distance, grabbed her by the collar of Michael’s fleece, and drove her down onto the porch boards, pinning her with his knee while securing her left wrist with a pair of steel cuffs.
"Claire, stay in the car!" Vance roared over his shoulder.
I didn't stay.
I couldn't.
I pushed open the door with my shoulder, the cold air hitting my face like a slap. As I hit the driveway, I heard the sound of heavy boots crashing down the interior hardwood stairs.
Arthur appeared in the doorway.
He wasn't wearing a disguise. He was wearing his stained mechanic’s jacket, his gray hair wild and matted with sweat. In his right hand, he held the same twenty-four-inch steel crowbar he had used to crush my hand forty-eight hours ago. In his left hand, he held a red plastic gas canister.
He had already poured accelerant inside the front hall. The stench of raw gasoline rolled off the porch, heavy and sickening.
"Get back!" Arthur screamed, his voice cracking into a raw, feral screech. "Get back, Vance, or I’ll light this whole damn place to the rafters!"
He had an ordinary yellow Bic lighter in his fist, his thumb resting on the striking wheel.
"Arthur, put the lighter down," Vance said, his voice dropping into a flat, steady command, his weapon trained dead center on my father's chest. "It’s over. We have the notary. We have the K&M registration. You're done."
"The girl signed it!" Arthur shrieked, pointing the crowbar at me as I stopped at the foot of the porch steps. "Claire signed the release! She gave it all to me! It’s my money! Michael owed me! He owed me for every year I broke my back to give her a roof!"
"Michael didn't owe you anything, Dad," I said, my voice cutting through the wind with a clarity that surprised even me.
Arthur’s bloodshot eyes locked onto mine. There was no father in those eyes. There was no memory of teaching me to ride a bike, no memory of walking me down the aisle, no memory of holding Ellie when she was a newborn. There was only the ravenous, terrifying emptiness of an addict whose fix had just been torn away.
"You ungrateful little bitch," he spat, his teeth bared. "Michael was going to put me in a cage. He was going to let his own family rot in prison over numbers on a page! He got what he deserved on Route 9! Jimmy Ray did what he was paid to do!"
The sleet seemed to freeze in mid-air.
Vance’s finger tightened on the trigger. "Did you hear that, Arthur? Because I have a body-worn audio recorder running on my lapel. You just confessed to hiring Jimmy Ray Croft to execute Michael Holloway."
Arthur blinked. For a fraction of a second, the realization of what his mouth had unleashed struck him. His jaw slackened. He looked at Vance, then down at the lighter in his hand, then back to me.
"No," Arthur stammered, the manic rage crumbling into pathetic terror. "No, that's not... that’s not what I meant..."
"Drop the lighter," Vance ordered, taking a step forward. "Drop it or I will fire."
From the porch floor, Tessa suddenly shrieked. She kicked out violently with both legs, striking Vance behind the knee. Vance stumbled, his balance compromised on the slick, gas-soaked boards.
Arthur saw the opening.
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He didn't strike the lighter. He raised the crowbar high over his shoulder with both hands and leaped off the porch steps directly at me, his face twisted in a murderous snarl, aiming the iron point straight for my skull.
***
