Chapter 7 - Secrets Beneath the Soil
Z
The master bedroom closet smelled of Olive’s lavender perfume and stored wool blankets, a safe, mundane sanctuary that was now shattered by the horror of reality.
When I burst into the bedroom, Olive was kneeling on the floor behind the heavy mahogany dresser she had dragged across the carpet. She held Theresa’s black revolver with both hands, pointing it squarely at the doorway. Her knuckles were bone-white, her eyes wide with frantic, primitive survival instinct.
"Justin!" she shrieked, lowering the gun as I scrambled over the dresser, sliding onto the floor beside her.
Fanny and Roger were huddled in the corner beneath a pile of winter coats, Roger crying softly into his hands while Fanny held a heavy brass candlestick she had taken from the nightstand, ready to fight whatever came through the door.
"They're in the yard," I panted, setting the muddy pelican case onto the carpet between us. "They have guns. We can't use the truck—they're probably watching the driveway. We have to go through the basement door into the woods behind the back lot."
"Justin, you're bleeding!" Olive reached out, her trembling fingers touching the bloody scratch on my cheek.
"I'm fine! It's just wood splinters," I snapped the heavy steel latches of the pelican case open. The rubber seal popped with a sharp hiss, exposing the preserved contents inside.
Inside the case lay three items:
First, a thick, dark-red leather ledger bound in heavy brass, its pages packed with names, dates, offshore bank account numbers, and political kickback payments dating from 1970 to 1978.
Second, a stack of original bearer bonds valued at twenty-five million dollars, issued by the State Treasury, stamped with the official seal of former DA Marcus Vance.
And third, an old audio cassette tape labeled with a black marker: “CONVERSATION WITH RAYMOND VANCE SR. - OCTOBER 12, 1978.”
"This is it," I whispered, my eyes scanning the ledger pages. "This is the proof. It names everyone. The current Governor, three state supreme court justices, and Raymond Vance Jr. It proves they ordered the hit on my father and staged Harold’s death."
"We don't need to prove anything to them, Justin!" Olive wept, pulling my face toward hers. "We just need to survive tonight! Give them the box! Let them have it!"
"If I give them this box, Olive, they will erase us," I said, looking her directly in the eyes with absolute clarity. "They've killed four people to hide this book. They won't leave a family of four alive in the suburbs to tell the story to a grand jury. The only way we walk out of this is if I use this ledger to crush them before they crush us."
A heavy crash sounded from the floor below—the sound of our front porch screen door being kicked off its hinges, followed by the crunch of heavy boots shattering the glass of the entry door.
"Justin!" a raspy voice boomed from the downstairs hallway, echoing up the stairwell. "I know you're up there, boy! You've got five minutes before I start throwing road flares into the living room! Let's see how long your kids last when the drywall catches fire!"
Roger let out a terrified cry, burying his face deeper into the winter coats.
Olive looked at me, the terrifying reality of our situation washing over her face. The panic in her eyes slowly hardened into a fierce, protective rage. She looked at the gun in her hand, then at the pelican case, and finally at our children.
"What's the plan?" she asked, her voice suddenly steady, cold, and devoid of fear.
"The basement exit leads to the drainage culvert behind the property line," I said, pulling a spare set of truck keys and my cell phone from my pocket. "You take the kids, go down the laundry chute into the basement, run through the culvert to Mrs. Gable's house three streets over. Her husband is a retired state trooper. Use his phone to call the FBI field office in Capital City. Tell them you have Arthur Miller's son and the 1978 Vance Ledger."
"What about you?" she grabbed my arm, her grip tight enough to leave bruises. "Justin, what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to buy you time," I said, grabbing the pelican case and the audio cassette tape. "I'm going to take the fight to the silo."
"No! Justin, no! That's suicide!"
"It's the only way, Olive!" I grabbed her head and kissed her deeply, pulling her tight against me, tasting the saltwater of her tears and the metallic edge of mud on my lips. "They think I'm just a guy who mows lawns. They think I'm weak because I spent eight years drinking tea on a porch. They don't know what I'm capable of doing to protect you."
I turned to Fanny and Roger. "Fanny, you listen to your mother. Protect your brother. I'll see you in an hour."
Fanny nodded slowly, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her pajama top, her jaw set with a courage that tore my heart to shreds. "I love you, Daddy."
"I love you too, sweetie."
I popped open the wooden door of the laundry chute in the hallway. Olive lowered Roger down first into the pile of soft clothes waiting in the basement laundry basket twenty feet below, followed by Fanny.
As Olive slid into the chute, she looked up at me one last time, her eyes filled with an unspoken vow. "Don't you dare die, Justin Miller. Don't you dare leave me to mow that lawn by myself."
"Never," I whispered.
May you like
I slammed the laundry chute door shut, grabbed the dark-red ledger, stuffed the audio cassette into my jacket pocket, and turned toward the bedroom door.
Downstairs, the floorboards groaned as the footsteps began ascending the stairs, heavy, deliberate, and approaching fast.
