Chapter 5 - The Ashes of Blackwood Falls
At 3:00 AM, a convoy of three unmarked black SUVs navigated the winding, rain-slicked roads leading into Blackwood Falls.
Fog hung thick over the pine trees, obscuring the charred, skeletal remains of the old Hale manor house. Fifteen years ago, a mysterious fire had gutted the historic estate. Publicly, it was ruled an electrical accident. Privately, I knew Vivian had set it to collect the three-million-dollar insurance payout when her first business went bankrupt.
Agent Vance helped me into a heavy, all-terrain motorized wheelchair provided by the FBI tactical unit. Rain pelted my jacket as we rolled toward the rusted iron gates of the carriage house.
"Tactical team is setting a perimeter," Vance whispered, his hand resting on his sidearm. "Structure looks unstable."
"The carriage house didn't burn," I said, steering the control stick with my right thumb. "The walls are double-thick brick."
We pushed open the creaking wooden doors of the carriage house. Inside smelled of wet earth, rot, and old motor oil. Cobwebs hung like gray curtains from the high rafters.
I rolled my chair toward the back wall, stopping in front of an old, rusted iron workbench bolted to the concrete floor.
"Underneath the third floorboard behind the bench," I told Vance.
Vance drew a crowbar from his tactical vest, jammed it under the wood, and pulled. The rotted floorboard snapped open with a sharp crack.
Beneath it lay a heavy brass wheel attached to a steel hatch—the entrance to my father's shelter.
Vance grasped the brass wheel and turned it. Rusted gears shrieked against metal before the hatch finally unsealed with a heavy hiss of released pressure.
"Clear!" two tactical officers shouted, shining high-powered LED flashlights down the steep concrete staircase.
"I'm going down," I said.
"Clara, there are twenty steps," Vance warned. "Your wheelchair can't navigate that."
"Then help me down," I said fiercely. "I didn't come this far to wait in the driveway."
Vance stared at me for a moment, seeing the absolute refusal to back down in my eyes. He nodded to his lead agent. Together, Vance and the officer carefully lifted me from my chair, supporting my weight as we slowly descended the narrow concrete steps into the darkness below.
The air in the subterranean cellar was bone-dry and cold. Flashlight beams cut through the gloom, illuminating rows of metal shelving, old ham radio equipment, and preserved canned goods from thirty years ago.
And sitting in the center of the room was a heavy, green steel fireproof safe.
On top of the safe sat a faded red ribbon—the exact same ribbon Vivian had tied in my hair when I was six years old.
"She kept it," I whispered, my voice trembling as Vance set me down on a wooden crate. "She kept it like a trophy."
Vance stepped up to the safe. "It's a six-digit mechanical lock. We'll have to wait for the safe-cracking unit to bring drill rigs."
"We don't need a drill," I said, staring at the green steel. "Vivian isn't creative. She uses dates that mark her victories."
"What date?" Vance asked.
"October 14th, 1998," I said. "The day my father died and she gained full control of his estate."
Vance leaned over the dial: 10 - 14 - 98.
May you like
CLICK.
The heavy steel handle dropped. The safe door swung open with a slow, heavy groan.
