Chapter 6 - Red Sirens on Clear Lake Road
The storm broke over Blackwood County with violent fury.
Detective Bell drove his unmarked sedan down the winding, unpaved driveway of Clear Lake Road, windshield wipers slapping frantically against the sheets of gray rain. Two county patrol cruisers followed closely behind, their tires kicking up plumes of mud.
Through the dense pine trees, the silhouette of the old timber-frame lake house emerged.
Thick, acrid black smoke was already billowing from the second-story windows. Orange tongues of flame flickered behind the glass of the master bedroom.
"Shit!" Bell slammed the car into park, drew his Glock 19 from his holster, and kicked his door open. "Sheriff! Perimeter on the east tree line! Move, move!"
Two deputies racked their shotguns, moving in a low tactical crouch around the perimeter of the burning house.
The front door was wide open, swinging loose on its hinges in the wind. A red five-gallon gasoline canister lay discarded in the muddy flowerbed, fuel still dripping from the plastic spout.
Bell approached the porch, boots crunching on broken glass. "Police department! Richard Vance, step out with your hands in the air!"
No answer. Only the roar of flames eating through dry pine joists.
Bell swept through the front door, staying low under the thick blanket of rising smoke. The living room was a ransacked warzone. File cabinets were tipped over, drawers emptied onto the floor, and hard drives smashed with a hammer lay scattered across the rug.
Then Bell heard a wet, rattling cough from behind the stone fireplace.
"Hands where I can see them!" Bell shouted, flashlight beam cutting through the gray haze.
Slumped against the hearth was an older man. He had long, greasy gray hair, hollow cheeks, and a faded denim jacket soaked in blood. A severe stab wound leaked crimson from his lower abdomen, pooling around his belt buckle. A heavy crowbar lay a few inches from his limp right hand.
Bell rushed over, kneeling beside him and pressing a sterile gauze pack from his vest against the wound. "Richard Vance?"
The old man coughed, spitting dark blood onto his chin. His pale, rheumy eyes focused on Bell’s badge.
"He... he took the files," Richard wheezed, his voice bubbling with fluid. "Grant... he didn't go to the precinct... he sent his guy..."
"Grant is in custody, Richard," Bell said firmly. "Who stabbed you?"
Richard’s cracked lips curled into a hideous, bloody grin. "Not Grant... the lawyer. Donald Hayes. Grant’s fixer. He was here... five minutes ago. He set the fire... took the original certificates."
"What certificates?" Bell demanded, pressing harder on the wound as sirens wailed in the distance. The fire department was still ten minutes out, and the heat in the room was becoming unbearable. "What was in the box in Blackwood?"
May you like
Richard grabbed Bell’s wrist with surprising strength, his bony fingers digging into the detective's flesh like talons.
"Tell Evelyn..." the dying man gasped, smoke pouring into his lungs. "Tell Evelyn... Sarah wasn't another woman's child. Sarah was hers."
