Chapter 44 - Donald's Return in Chains
The sunlight was blinding as Cassidy and Julian emerged from the root cellar into the crisp afternoon air, their clothes coated in chalky stone dust.
They didn't have to look far to see who had guided the drilling crew to the exact coordinates of the drift.
Standing beside Harrison Cross near the shattered gate was Donald Vance.
He looked unrecognizable from the slob who had spent fifteen years drinking beer in their parents’ basement while Cassidy paid the mortgage. He was wearing a brand-new sheepskin coat, designer leather boots that had never touched mountain mud, and oversized gold-rimmed aviator glasses. A sleek, four-wheel-drive sports truck with temporary dealer plates was parked crookedly across Clara’s flowerbeds.
"Hey, little sister!" Donald bellowed, raising a crystal tumbler of amber whiskey toward her as if they were meeting at a resort lounge. "Look at this! Didn't I tell you? Didn't I always say Dad had something set aside for me? You thought you were so damn smart taking the house, taking the deed, putting me out on the street with twenty-five hundred bucks from that county mediator!"
Cassidy walked toward him, not slowing her pace until she was three feet away. Donald took an instinctive half-step backward, the old boyhood fear flaring briefly in his bloodshot eyes before his newfound wealth puffed his chest back out.
"You look filthy, Cassidy," Donald sneered, turning to Harrison Cross. "Didn't I tell you she'd be down there scratching in the dirt like a mole? She can't stand the idea that the old man loved his son more than his little bill-paying machine."
"Mr. Cross," Cassidy said, ignoring her brother completely. "Did you inform your client that the indemnity agreement he executed at your Salem office makes him personally, criminally, and financially responsible for the five thousand gallons of uncontained dielectric fluids currently resting forty inches beneath your rotary rig?"
Donald laughed, a wet, nervous sound. "What is she babbling about? Cross, tell her. The check cleared, baby. Six hundred and fifty grand. I already put two hundred down on a condo in Bend, and Dad’s attorney says the rest is untouchable in an offshore trust."
Cross didn't laugh. He took a slow sip from a stainless-steel thermos, his gaze shifting from Cassidy to Donald with the emotionless detachment of a butcher evaluating a side of beef.
"Donald," Cross said smoothly, "as we explained during your orientation signing, Section 22 of the purchase contract requires the assignor to guarantee that all historical DoD disposal sites within the Boreas parcel comply with Title 42 of the United States Code. If the site is non-compliant, all advance disbursements convert automatically into an interest-bearing personal demand loan at eighteen percent per annum, secured by any and all personal assets acquired with those funds."
Donald’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. "Wait... what? You said that was just standard corporate boilerplate. You said that was just insurance against Cassidy trying to sue."
"It is insurance," Cross said evenly. "For us. Not for you."
Cassidy held up the sealed envelope she had taken from the blast door, holding it so the morning light illuminated her father’s handwriting.
May you like
"Donald," Cassidy said, her voice cutting through the thrum of the diesel engine. "Dad didn't leave you an inheritance. He left you the clean-up bill he ran from his entire life. And you just signed your own name to the warrant."
***
