Chapter 35 - The Solitary Summons
"Set it on the table. Slowly," Clara commanded, her thumb locked rigidly over the toggle.
I didn't pull out the brass tube.
Instead, I pulled out the antique leather-bound journal of Arthur Blackwood and laid it squarely beside my late wife’s porcelain teacup.
Clara’s eyes flicked to the cracked leather binding, and for the first time, a flicker of genuine shock pierced her aristocratic composure. "Where did you get that?"
"From Julian’s bug-out bag," I said, taking half a step closer to the table, gauging the distance between my boot and the legs of the wooden table. "Along with the certified death certificate from the coroner who ruled Arthur’s blunt force trauma an accident. The coroner whose retirement home in Palm Beach was paid for by a shell corporation registered in your name, Clara."
Her knuckles whitened on the detonator. "A dead man's diary means nothing in a probate court. The law deals in deeds and certificates, David. Not the senile ramblings of a brother who lost his mind thirty years ago."
"It's not just a diary," I said, pointing at the open page facing her. "Look at the ink on the last entry, Clara. Look at the date."
She hesitated, her gaze dropping instinctively for a fraction of a second to read the words.
*November 2: She brought a bottle of port to the office tonight. It smelled of bitter almonds.*
In that split second of distraction, I didn't lunge for the detonator. I knew that against a dead-man switch, a human reflex is too slow.
Instead, I kicked the bottom rung of the heavy oak chair Lily was sitting on, sending the chair sliding backward across the slick hardwood floor into the safety of the recessed pantry alcove behind her. "Lily, down! Eyes shut, ears covered!"
At the exact same instant, the kitchen window shattered in an explosion of frosted glass and splintered pine.
A high-velocity .308 rifle round tore through the window from four hundred yards out in the tree line, striking the porcelain teacup on the table directly in front of Clara. The cup shattered into a million sharp white shards, spraying boiling tea and ceramic shrapnel across Clara’s face and hands.
The sheer kinetic force of the impact knocked the detonator from her grip.
It clattered across the floor.
Clara shrieked, clutching her bleeding face, but her instincts were pure predator. She dropped to her knees, scrambling across the floorboards like an animal, her blood-stained fingers clawing toward the red switch.
I threw my entire weight forward, planting my heavy steel-toed boot directly onto the remote control.
*Crack.*
The plastic casing shattered beneath my sole, the internal circuit board crushed to dust against the oak floorboards.
Clara froze on her knees, looking up at me through a curtain of silver hair matted with blood and tea. Her chest heaved, her aristocratic grace entirely destroyed, leaving only the naked, venomous hatred of a woman who had spent four decades ruling a county through terror and deceit.
"You're too late, David," she spat, blood pooling at the corner of her mouth from a ceramic cut on her lip. "The probate court convenes at noon. Julian’s lawyers have already filed the emergency petition to seal the trust. Without the physical deed from that brass tube, the judge will execute the default clause. The Blackwood estate will be liquidated to a offshore trust in the Cayman Islands. You'll have your life, you'll have your brat, but you will leave this valley with nothing!"
The front door slammed open against the wall.
Vance stepped into the room, his tactical rifle held at the low ready, barrel smoking faintly in the cold draft. Behind him, four state troopers flooded the hallway, their boots thudding heavily against the floor, zip-cuffs and service weapons drawn.
"David Gable," Vance said, his voice echoing off the kitchen walls. "Step back from the suspect."
I didn't step back immediately. I knelt down, picked up the cracked leather journal of Arthur Blackwood, and scooped Lily up into my left arm. She buried her face into the crook of my neck, her small arms wrapping around my throat with a grip so tight it cut off my breath.
May you like
I looked down at Clara Gable, who was now being pinned to the floor by two state troopers, her hands being wrenched behind her back.
"The probate court convenes at noon," I told her, my voice completely devoid of pity. "Make sure your lawyers are on time. Because I’m bringing Vanessa’s purse with me."
