Chapter 158 - The Ghost on the Line
Emma shielded Maya instinctively, pulling her deeper into the shadows against the wooden wall. The fire in the potbelly stove had died down to glowing embers, casting long, wavering silhouettes across the rough-hewn floorboards.
Outside, the silence returned, thick and suffocating. Then, from the dashboard of the Dodge Power Wagon parked twenty yards away in the snow, a low, rhythmic chime began to pulse.
It wasn't an engine alarm. It was the electronic ping of an emergency transponder beacon.
Julian moved to the window, peering through the grime-streaked glass, his rifle barrel leveled at the clearing. "Stay down," he commanded in a bare whisper.
"Julian, you said the truck had no electronics," Emma whispered urgently.
"The truck doesn't," Julian said, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the tree line. "Arthur's sat-phone. I pulled it from his jacket before we cleared the ditch at Mile Marker 28. It was supposed to be encrypted on a dead frequency."
The phone rang again—a shrill, persistent tone that tore through the freezing stillness of the woods.
Julian didn't hesitate. He slipped out through the shanty door, his boots making almost no sound as he crossed the packed snow to the cab of the Power Wagon. Emma watched through the cracked window, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Julian reached through the shattered passenger window of the truck, retrieved the heavy, black satellite receiver, and clicked the connection open. He held it to his ear, his rifle held ready in the crook of his arm.
Emma saw his shoulders suddenly stiffen. The color drained completely from his weathered face.
For thirty seconds, Julian did not speak a single word. He simply listened, the cold wind whipping his gray hair across his forehead. Then, slowly, he lowered the phone and walked back toward the shanty.
He entered, kicking the door shut and dropping the iron latch into place.
"Who was it?" Emma asked, stepping toward him, her voice trembling. "Was it Eleanor?"
"No," Julian said, his voice sounding hollow, like stone falling into an empty well. "It wasn't Eleanor."
"Then who?"
"Arthur," Julian said.
Emma felt her knees buckle. She caught the edge of the wooden table to steady herself. "Arthur? Julian, I saw him go down! They shot him twice in the torso at the culvert! There was blood across the entire embankment!"
"Arthur was wearing level-four ceramic plates beneath his parka," Julian said, though there was no relief in his voice—only a dark, mounting dread. "He survived the ambush. But he didn't call to tell us he was alive."
"Then why did he call?"
Julian set the sat-phone on the crate. The display light cast a pale green square on the ceiling.
"They didn't kill him, Emma. They took him. Eleanor’s private security team extracted him via chopper from the Canadian side twenty minutes ago. They have him at the Vance Estate in Lake Placid."
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Emma stared at the glowing device. "Lake Placid? That's sixty miles south. Why would she take him there?"
"Because Arthur broke under the chemical cocktail they pumped into his neck," Julian whispered. "He told Eleanor about the convent. He told her about Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu."
