Chapter 20 - The Cold Threshold
The interior of the lodge smelled of cedarwood, dying embers from the stone fireplace, and the faint, bitter metallic tang of snow melting off our heavy boots.
Marcus shoved Deputy Miller through the heavy double oak doors first, kicking the lawman’s legs out from under him. Miller hit the hand-scraped hickory floor hard, his sidearm having already been tossed into the snow outside.
"Keep your mouth shut and your hands flat on the floor, lawman," Marcus grunted, his gravelly voice muffled behind a black tactical balaclava. He racked his shotgun again and positioned himself near the front entryway, his back to the bay windows that overlooked the blizzard.
Victoria walked in behind them, taking off her fur cap and shaking the wet flakes from her silver-streaked hair. Her gaze moved over the soaring timber beams, the antique iron chandeliers, and the grand stone hearth with an expression of disgust and envy.
"He always had bourgeois taste," Victoria murmured, running a manicured finger over the mantelpiece where a framed photograph of my father and mother sat. With a flick of her wrist, she pushed the frame off the edge. It shattered against the flagstone hearth.
Cole lunged forward, but Marcus immediately brought the barrel of the shotgun up, aiming it squarely at Cole’s face. "Try it, kid."
"Cole, don't," I whispered, stepping between him and the barrel. I looked at Victoria, keeping my voice level, steadying my racing pulse. "If you want the cellar opened, you keep your hands off my family’s things, and you tell your muscle to let Deputy Miller sit up. He's bleeding."
Victoria sneered, but she waved a dismissive hand at Marcus. "Let the deputy sit against the wall. He's harmless without his radio or his pea-shooter. Now, Rebecca. Stop stalling. Where is the access point?"
"It’s not in the pantry," I lied smoothly, guiding their attention toward the rear hallway that led toward the master wing. "My father changed the layout when he renovated five years ago. The original mine entrance was sealed with reinforced concrete. He built the private access shaft through the floor of his private study."
"Don't play games with me," Victoria warned, her green eyes narrowing into slits. "I drafted the initial geological survey with Richard in ninety-eight. The bedrock vein runs directly beneath the central kitchen and the root cellar."
"And if you had stayed around long enough instead of absconding with forty million dollars of company liquidity, you would know the mountain shifted during the earthquake of 2011," I shot back, meeting her stare without flinching. "The foundation cracked. He had to pour thirty tons of concrete under the kitchen to keep the entire south wing from sliding into the ravine. The only viable entrance left is through the study's reinforced floor."
Cole caught my eye from behind Victoria. He knew the house. He knew every square inch of the renovations we had done together over the past two years. There was no entrance in the study. But the study had a heavy fireproof solid-oak security door with an exterior deadbolt lock, designed during the Red Cross certification when the lodge was briefly registered as an emergency mountain shelter.
Victoria stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds, searching my face for any twitch of deceit. Outside, the wind slammed against the heavy log walls, shaking the windowpanes with concussive force.
"Lead the way," Victoria said coldly. "Marcus, stay on her hip. If she touches a light switch that looks suspicious, take off her hand."
"Understood," the heavy man rumbled, jabbing the muzzle of the shotgun against the small of my back.
We moved down the dimly lit hallway. The lodge was dark, illuminated only by the emergency battery lights I had installed after the storm began. The shadows stretched long and monstrous against the wood-paneled walls.
As we passed the kitchen corner, a faint sound drifted through the howling wind outside—the unmistakable whine of a struggling small engine, followed by a frantic pounding on the back porch door.
Marcus froze, pivoting on his heel, his weapon sweeping toward the kitchen. "Someone’s at the back door."
"Who the hell is that?" Victoria demanded, her voice dropping into a harsh hiss. "I thought the road was blocked!"
The glass pane of the back door rattled violently, followed by a high-pitched, hysterical shriek that I recognized instantly.
"Rebecca! Open the damn door! Rebecca, they froze our bank accounts! The state police are looking for us down at the motel! Open up!"
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It was Evelyn. And beside her voice, I could hear Olivia sobbing in terror against the glass.
***
