Chapter 5 - The Fire and the Bloodline
I crossed the hardwood floor in two strides, peeling back the edge of the Venetian blinds by half an inch.
Across the street, parked directly under the flickering halogen streetlamp, sat Carter’s red sedan.
Standing on the sidewalk beside the driver's door was Carter himself, wearing a dark cashmere coat with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.
Flanking him were two uniformed police officers from the Silver Lake fourth precinct, both leaning against their squad car with arms crossed over their holsters.
One of them was Detective Miller, the man who had personally tightened the handcuffs around my wrists three years ago.
“He sees you, Carter,” Harold said into the receiver, his voice tight with controlled rage.
“You have no jurisdiction here, and you certainly have no warrant to harass my clients.”
Carter chuckled softly over the line, a wet, patronizing sound that made my skin crawl.
“Jurisdiction is a matter of perspective, Harold.”
“You see, about twenty minutes ago, an anonymous emergency call was placed to dispatch.”
“A violent robbery occurred at Phoenix Secure Storage.”
“Two licensed security officers were brutally beaten and tied up by an escaped felon brandishing an unregistered firearm.”
“The victims identified the assailant as Finnley Dennis.”
“Now, as a concerned citizen and the managing director of Dennis Logistics, I felt an obligation to assist Detective Miller in locating this dangerous parole violator.”
Carter paused, dragging on his cigarette as the lighter flared in the street below.
“Finnley, I know you're listening, little brother.”
“You should have taken the bus to Chicago like a smart dog.”
“You should have stayed gone.”
“You come back here sniffing around old graves, asking questions you can't afford the answers to.”
“Do you really think a few grainy video clips on Camden’s thumb drive will save you?”
“By sunrise tomorrow, Harold’s office will suffer an unfortunate electrical fire due to outdated wiring.”
“You will be shot resisting arrest behind the courthouse dumpster.”
“And my mother and I will finally close the escrow on the maritime port sale to our European partners.”
“Two hundred million dollars, Finnley.”
“That’s what your father's stubbornness was holding back.”
“Throw the backpack out the second-story window and walk down with your hands on your head.”
“Maybe Miller will only shoot you in the leg.”
The line went dead with a sharp click.
Outside, Detective Miller unclipped the safety strap on his service weapon and began crossing the asphalt toward the front doors of the building.
“Harold, is there another way out?” I demanded, turning back toward the desk.
Harold was already moving with surprising speed for a seventy-year-old man.
He pulled the encrypted external hard drive from the computer, shoved it into an inner pocket of his coat, and grabbed the double-barrel shotgun from the desk.
“The coal chute in the basement connects to the old brewery tunnel under Market Street,” Harold said, his eyes burning with defiance.
“Camden and I used it during the prohibition reenactments twenty years ago.”
“It empties behind the old municipal waterworks.”
“They don't know about it.”
Suddenly, the sound of breaking glass echoed from the ground floor lobby, followed by the heavy thud of tactical boots on the wooden stairs.
“Miller’s coming up!” Harold whispered.
“Take the files, Finnley!”
A sudden, violent explosion rocked the front of the building.
A fireball of shattered glass and orange flames erupted through Harold’s front office window, showering the mahogany desk in burning kerosene.
A Molotov cocktail.
Carter hadn't even waited for me to surrender.
He was burning the building down with us inside to incinerate the evidence and cover up a double homicide in the heart of downtown.
Thick, toxic black smoke rolled across the ceiling, choking the air from our lungs.
The fire alarm began screeching like a wounded animal.
“Down the back hall! Move!” Harold coughed violently, shoving me toward the heavy oak door leading to the rear utility stairs.
I slung the backpack over both shoulders and grabbed Harold’s arm, hauling the elderly attorney forward through the billowing smoke.
Behind us, the frosted glass door of the office blew inward under a heavy kick.
Detective Miller stepped into the flaming threshold, his pistol raised, coughing through the haze.
“Dennis! Stop right there or I fire!”
I didn't stop.
Harold spun around with the double-barrel shotgun, pointed it at the ceiling above Miller’s head, and pulled both triggers simultaneously.
BOOM!
The concussive roar inside the narrow corridor was deafening.
The blast tore through the lath-and-plaster ceiling, dropping a massive slab of burning wood and drywall directly between us and the dirty detective.
Miller screamed, jumping backward to avoid being crushed by the burning debris.
“Keep moving, Finnley!” Harold yelled, his face blackened with soot.
We tore down the back stairs, bypassing the main floor entirely, and crashed through the rusty door into the freezing, damp darkness of the basement.
The roar of the fire raged above us, floorboards cracking and popping as the blaze spread through the historic timber frame.
Harold dragged a heavy wooden crate away from the wall, revealing the narrow iron door of the old coal chute.
“Go first! Slide down into the tunnel!”
“I'm not leaving you behind, Harold!”
“I’m right behind you, you stubborn mule! Move!”
I threw my bag into the chute and squeezed through the opening, sliding down ten feet of slick rusted metal into the pitch-black cold of the underground tunnel.
A second later, Harold tumbled down beside me, landing hard against the muddy brick floor.
Above us, the iron door slammed shut, cutting off the heat and roar of the flames.
We were beneath the town, covered in soot, bruised, and hunted like wild dogs.
I clicked on my flashlight, illuminating the damp brick walls of the drainage tunnel stretching north toward the river.
Harold leaned against the bricks, clutching his chest, wheezing heavily.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the encrypted hard drive, completely intact.
“We still have the drive,” Harold gasped, a fierce, bloody grin breaking through the soot on his face.
“And Carter Vance just committed arson and attempted murder on a municipal street with three commercial security cameras watching from the bank across the road.”
I pulled Camden’s burner phone from my bag.
The screen glowed in the dark.
A single notification flashed on the display.
A text message from an unregistered number, received three minutes ago:
May you like
“The eagle has flown from Blackwood Falls. They found the cabin. Meet me at the Old Marina, Dock 4. Camden.”
My father was on the move.
