Chapter 9 - The Trap Springs
Two days later, the house on the ridge was quiet again.
The surveillance cameras were gone. I had spent eight hours systematically pulling four hundred feet of low-voltage wire from the walls, ripping out the smoke detectors, the pinhole lenses, and the hidden microphones, tossing the entire pile into a steel burn barrel in the backyard.
The front porch smelled of cedar shavings and woodsmoke.
A black government sedan pulled up the driveway at 1100 hours. Major Sarah Vance stepped out, carrying a thick manila folder. She walked up the steps and accepted the mug of black coffee Dad offered her.
"Dr. Vance signed the final plea agreement twenty minutes ago," Major Vance said, leaning against the porch railing. "He’s giving full testimony against Sterling on the state racketeering charges and the attempted murder counts. Sterling’s attorney tried to negotiate a bond hearing, but the federal judge in the capital denied it. Julian will spend the next twenty-five years in a federal penitentiary in Indiana."
"And Abigail?" I asked.
Major Vance looked at me with sympathetic, professional eyes. "She’s taking a plea on the wire fraud and elder endangerment charges. Eight to twelve years at the women's correctional facility in Taycheedah. Her attorneys tried to claim she was coerced by Sterling, but the text messages we pulled from her cloud backup told a very different story. She was the one who suggested increasing the phenobarbital dose when you announced your deployment was ending early."
I looked out over the front lawn, toward the line of white pines that marked the boundary of our three hundred acres. The wind was blowing from the north, carrying the sharp, clean scent of approaching snow.
"Thank you, Major," Dad said. "For moving fast."
"Don't thank me, Mr. Miller," Major Vance said, setting her mug down. "Thank your son. In twenty years of law enforcement, I’ve never seen an intelligence package put together that cleanly. If more soldiers brought that kind of tactical discipline home, the predators in these small towns wouldn't last a week."
She shook our hands, walked down the steps, and drove back down the ridge.
Dad and I stood on the porch for a long time, watching the dust settle on the gravel road.
"You need to go back to the base on Monday, Sam?" Dad asked softly.
"No," I replied, pulling my discharge papers from my pocket. "My terminal leave was approved yesterday morning. My service contract is complete, Dad. I'm officially a civilian."
Leonard turned to look at me, a slow, deep smile spreading across his weathered face. "In that case, Captain, you have work to do."
"What kind of work?"
May you like
"The kitchen," Dad said, turning toward the front door. "It’s been four months since that stove saw a proper batch of pastry dough. And if we don't start the lemon curd now, it won't set before sundown."
***
