Chapter 13 - The Reckoning of Raymond Vance
While Vanessa raged inside the county lockup, Sergeant Raymond Vance sat in a secure medical isolation ward at the University Hospital under armed federal guard.
His right arm was encased in a heavy plaster cast, his fractured ribs tightly bound beneath an orthopedic vest.
The timber beams that had crushed his patrol vehicle had also crushed the illusion of his untouchable authority in Oakridge.
At three o'clock that afternoon, the heavy oak door of the hospital room swung open.
Nathan walked in, flanked by Marcus Callahan.
The armed marshal stationed outside nodded respectfully to Marcus and pulled the door shut, giving them ten minutes of private conversation.
Raymond lay propped up on three white pillows, looking like a deflated shell of the towering, booming uncle who had once dominated Sunday family barbecues.
His thick grey hair was greasy and unkempt, his jowls sunken, and his breathing shallow and rattling.
When he saw Nathan step into the room, Raymond averted his eyes, turning his heavy head toward the grey afternoon sky outside the hospital window.
"Uncle Raymond," Nathan said, pulling a metal folding chair to the bedside and sitting down.
Raymond didn't answer for a long time.
The cardiac monitor beside the bed beeped with an elevated, erratic rhythm.
"I suppose you came to spit on me, Nathan," Raymond finally croaked, his voice thick with phlegm and shame.
"Your sister Sarah already called the nurses' station to disown me on behalf of the whole extended family."
"I didn't come to spit on you, Raymond," Nathan said calmly, resting his forearms on his knees.
"I came to ask you one question."
"Why did you let her stay in the house?"
Raymond swallowed hard, his throat clicking in the silence.
"What?"
"You knew Vanessa cut Claire's seatbelt," Nathan said, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper.
"You were the investigating sergeant on Blackwood Ridge."
"You saw the sliced webbing."
"You heard the black box recorder."
"You knew she murdered your nephew's wife in cold blood."
"And then you let that monster move into my house to raise Claire’s infant children."
"How could a man with your blood do that to his own family?"
A heavy, silent tear leaked from Raymond’s bruised eye, tracking slowly down his stubbled cheek.
"I had no choice, Nathan," Raymond whispered, his voice trembling with pathetic self-pity.
"The debts... the men in Las Vegas and the Bahamian syndicates... they weren't business associates."
"They were ruthless loan sharks."
"They told me if the four million wasn't settled by Christmas that year, they wouldn't just take my house."
"They said they would send men to find my grandchildren."
"They had photographs of my daughter’s school in Denver."
"I was drowning, Nathan."
"And Vanessa was the only one who had the cash pipeline through the shell corporations."
"So you traded Claire's life to save your own neck," Marcus Callahan growled from the corner of the room, his eyes blazing with cold disgust.
"You let a twenty-six-year-old mother bleed to death in the woods so your gambling debts wouldn't follow you."
Raymond squeezed his eyes shut, his hands trembling against the white hospital sheets.
"I tried to stop her that night," Raymond sobbed, his chest heaving painfully against his fractured ribs.
"When Claire called me from the road to say she was going to the attorney general, I begged her to turn around."
"I told her we could fix it within the family."
"She hung up on me."
"Then Vanessa called me from her car five minutes later."
"She said, 'It's done, Raymond. The tire is gone. Meet me at mile marker fourteen.'"
"When I got there... the car was already over the embankment."
"The smoke was pouring from the engine."
"Vanessa was standing on the road, holding Claire's red purse."
"She handed me the purse and said, 'If you call an ambulance before she stops moving, I tell the troopers you authorized the transfer from the timber trust.'"
"I froze, Nathan."
"I stood on that road like a coward and let the clock run out."
"You didn't just freeze, Raymond," Nathan said, standing up and towering over the hospital bed.
"You forged the collision report."
"You threatened the wrecker driver."
"You stole my children's inheritance."
"And for six years, you came to Thanksgiving dinner, drank my wine, and prayed over our food."
Raymond reached out his uninjured left hand, trying desperately to grasp the sleeve of Nathan’s jacket.
"Nathan... please... talk to Eleanor."
"Tell her I confessed to everything."
"Tell her to keep me in a medium-security medical facility."
"I won't survive a federal penitentiary."
"Look at me... my heart is failing... I'll die in there."
Nathan pulled his arm back, letting Raymond’s hand fall heavily onto the empty mattress.
He looked down at the broken patriarch with an expression of pure, icy detachment.
"Then you will die in there, Raymond," Nathan said softly.
"Just like Claire died in the cold rain."
"Alone."
Nathan turned on his heel and walked toward the door.
May you like
Marcus followed, not sparing a single backward glance at the weeping old man in the hospital bed.
As the heavy door latched shut, Raymond’s muffled wails were cut off completely, swallowed by the sterile concrete silence of the federal ward.
