Chapter 35 - Donald's Desperate Gambit
The night, however, had not finished with the Vance bloodline.
At three o'clock in the morning, while the storm finally began to lose its fury and recede into a steady, grey drizzle, the sound of breaking glass echoed from the basement utility door beneath the kitchen.
Cassidy was awake instantly. She had not gone to bed; she had spent the hours sitting by the dying embers of the hearth, reading Clara’s journals while Julian reviewed title deeds at the kitchen table.
Julian was on his feet before the echo had died, his hand instinctively reaching into his aluminum case to withdraw a compact, steel-framed Glock 19. He moved with the quiet, practiced economy of a man who had spent four years in naval intelligence before entering the bar.
"Stay behind me," Julian murmured, gesturing toward the kitchen door.
"No," Cassidy said, picking up the heavy flashlight from the sideboard. "This is my house. I know where every floorboard creaks."
They moved down the narrow, whitewashed stairs leading to the stone foundation cellar. The air down here smelled of damp earth, old cider casks, and the sharp, unmistakable stench of cheap bourbon and wet denim.
Near the broken storm sash of the coal chute, a figure was struggling to stand upright. He had cut his arm on the jagged glass; dark blood smeared the white painted stones, and his breath came in heavy, wheezing gasps.
"Donald," Cassidy said, aiming the high-beam flashlight directly into his face.
Her brother blinked against the sudden glare, throwing his forearm up to shield his bloodshot, wild eyes. He looked feral. His hair was matted with grease, his jacket torn at the shoulder, and his trousers soaked through from crawling through the mud of the rear garden. In his right hand, he clutched a rusted crowbar he had taken from the tool shed.
"You... you put Ma in the hospital," Donald slurred, swaying on his feet as he gripped the crowbar tight. "You put the cops on me! You took my room! That was my room, Cassidy! I had everything set up! My gaming rig, my desk—Arthur said it was mine! Arthur said you were dead to us!"
"Put the bar down, Donald," Cassidy said, her voice completely flat, devoid of fear, devoid of anger, holding only an infinite, bottomless exhaustion. "You broke into a private residence while carrying a deadly weapon. That is a Class A felony in Oregon. There are no family discounts tonight."
"Shut up! Shut your mouth!" Donald lunged forward a step, swinging the crowbar wildly at the air, his face contorted in an ugly, infantile rage. "You think you’re better than me? Because you went to college? Because you paid the bills? You were our servant! You lived to keep that house running! Ma said so! She said you owed us every dime because you were the ugly one! Because nobody was ever going to marry you anyway!"
Julian stepped out from the shadow of the brick pillar, the barrel of the Glock held at low ready, his eyes locked on Donald’s chest.
"Drop the iron," Julian commanded. The tone was not angry; it was the tone of a judge issuing an execution order. "Drop it right now, Donald, or you will leave this cellar in a black bag before your mother can finish filling out Arthur’s intake forms."
Donald’s gaze flicked to the weapon, then to Julian’s face. For the first time, the alcohol-soaked fog in his brain cleared enough for him to recognize the stranger.
"Who... who the hell are you?" Donald stammered, his arm trembling as the weight of the crowbar became too heavy for his shaking wrist.
"I am the cousin you robbed," Julian said. "The one whose credit you ruined before you even learned how to write a resume. Drop the bar."
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The rusted iron clattered against the concrete floor, ringing out in the damp darkness like a broken bell. Donald sank to his knees, burying his face in his bloody, dirt-caked hands, and began to sob—the loud, self-pitying wail of a thirty-five-year-old child whose final tantrum had failed to bend reality to his will.
***
