Chapter 7 - The Gathering at the Manor
The rain began again at noon, turning the raked gravel of the Vance estate into a greasy, gray sludge that clung to the tires of the four black sedans parked in a semi-circle before the portico.
Inside the formal dining room, the crystal had been cleared from the parquet floor, though a faint, dark shadow remained on the oak where the cabernet had soaked into the grain.
Thomas Vance stood at the sideboard, dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit that had been tailored in Chicago thirty years ago, pouring three fingers of bourbon into a clean tumbler. His right hand was wrapped in an elastic bandage—a minor sprain from when he had hurled the decanter at his son’s head the night before.
Across the table sat Judge Calloway, a heavy, red-faced man of sixty-five whose silver hair was slicked back with rosewater pomade. He was dipping a fountain pen into an inkpot, his gold signet ring clicking against the mahogany with every stroke.
“The paperwork is clean, Thomas,” Calloway said, not looking up from the legal parchment. “Abandonment of a minor child, aggravated domestic assault with a deadly weapon against Bethany, and flight from legal process. I’ve cited Section 4 of the Family Code. Once I affix the county seal, Eleanor has temporary physical and legal custody for ninety days. No state agency can intervene without a direct order from the appellate circuit.”
In the corner armchair by the fireplace, Eleanor Vance sat with her ankles crossed, her manicured fingers methodically running through the fringe of a cashmere shawl. She had not slept, but her face had been repaired with heavy powder, hiding the gray lines around her mouth.
“And the timber deed?” Eleanor asked, her voice dry, precise, and completely devoid of grief. “The probate clerk said Sarah’s signature line requires an executor’s seal.”
“I’ve included the administrative waiver,” Calloway replied, blowing gently across the wet ink on the third page. “As legal guardian of the surviving issue, you have the statutory power to liquidate real property to satisfy outstanding estate liabilities. The timber contract with the Green Bay consortium can be executed immediately.”
Bethany stepped into the dining room from the pantry, holding an ice pack against her left cheek. The swelling had turned the skin beneath her eye a deep, plum-colored black, and her upper lip was split where Mark’s knuckles had caught her.
“Gary’s on the radio,” Bethany said, her voice nasal and thick through her broken mouth. “He says the state police spotted Mark’s truck abandoned near the quarry. They think he went down into the limestone cuts on foot. Gary’s taking the dogs in from the north road.”
Thomas let out a short, contemptuous grunt, downing the bourbon in a single swallow. “Fool. Always was. He takes after his mother’s people—all muscle and no ledger. He’ll freeze before the dogs even pick up the scent.”
“He isn't in the cuts, Thomas,” Eleanor said quietly from the chair.
Her husband turned, his eyebrows drawing down into a single, gray line. “What are you talking about? Gary found the truck.”
“Mark knows every hollow on this ridge better than Gary does,” she murmured, staring into the flames of the hearth. “He didn't run to the quarry to hide. If he left the truck there, he wanted Gary to look at the water.”
Before Thomas could answer, the front door of the estate—the heavy, seven-foot slab of quarter-sawn white oak that had stood since 1912—swung inward without a knock.
The cold air swept through the vestibule, smelling of wet leaves, diesel exhaust, and raw iron.
Mark walked into the atrium.
He did not carry a shotgun. He was alone. His denim jacket was torn at the elbow, his work boots caked in red clay, his face pale beneath three days of dark stubble. But his eyes were wide, clear, and completely still.
Behind him, standing on the gravel driveway in the rain, were two black Chevrolet Suburbans with federal government plates, their engines idling with a low, hydraulic rumble that vibrated through the floorboards of the house.
Thomas set his glass down on the sideboard with a sharp clack.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, boy,” Thomas said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, gravelly roar that had cowed county commissioners for thirty years. “Gary! Clint!”
No one answered from the grounds.
May you like
Mark stepped past the grandfather’s portrait, his boots leaving dark, wet smears on the oriental runner. He stopped at the entrance of the dining room, looking from his father’s bruised hand to his sister’s swollen face, and finally to the legal papers resting beneath Judge Calloway’s fountain pen.
“Gary isn't coming, Dad,” Mark said quietly. “Gary’s sitting in an interrogation room at the federal annex in Marquette, explaining why he had four hundred gallons of banned sodium arsenite stored behind his cattle shed.”
