Chapter 3 - The Broken Seal
Marcus clicked off the flashlight. We were crouched in the crawlspace beneath the study floor, surrounded by the smell of ozone, hot iron, and burning mortar dust.
Through the ventilation slats, I could see into the room.
The library was in ruins. Century-old leather-bound volumes lay kicked and scattered across the Aubusson rug. The mahogany wall paneling beside the fireplace had been crowbarred off in massive, jagged chunks, leaving raw lath and plaster exposed like broken ribs.
Rosalind Duncan stood in the center of the devastation. She was still wearing the slate-gray silk mother-of-the-bride dress she had worn at the altar, but the lace sleeves were ripped, and her makeup was smeared with soot and sweat. She held a heavy titanium crowbar in one hand and a gold-plated lighter in the other.
Near the hearth, two men dressed in dark utility coveralls were kneeling before an iron safe embedded deep within the structural chimney wall. One of them was holding an industrial demolition grinder, its spinning disc spewing a stream of white-hot sparks against the steel faceplate of the lock.
"Stop!" the man with the grinder yelled, shutting down the motor. The whine spun down into silence, leaving only the hiss of hot metal. "Mrs. Duncan, this isn't standard grade steel. It’s reinforced manganese-carbide. The friction is heating up the interior plate. If there are paper stock certificates or bond ledgers inside, the internal chamber temperature is going to hit flashpoint. You’ll incinerate whatever is behind this door before the lock bolts drop."
"I don't give a damn about the certificates!" Rosalind hissed, stepping toward him, her face contorted with madness. "Do you think I want those documents intact? If Rowena gets her hands on the physical shares, the company is finished! My son spends the next fifteen years in federal prison! The only thing keeping the board from appointing a receiver is the absence of proof that the trust was never legally dissolved! Burn it! Melt the whole lockbox into slag!"
"She's going to destroy them," Rowena whispered in the dark beside me, her breath shaking. "If she melts the physical ledger, the Cayman trusts default to Jonathan's subsidiary accounts. It's written into the bylaws."
I looked around the crawlspace. To our right, mounted to the foundation wall, was the primary gas shutoff manifold for the manor’s four interior fireplaces. A heavy, yellow-painted iron lever stood upright, feeding pressurized natural gas through copper lines into the brick hearth directly above us.
A wild, dangerous thought crystallized in my mind.
"Marcus," I whispered, leaning close to his ear. "Does Jonathan’s home insurance policy cover intentional corporate arson?"
Marcus’s eyes widened in the dark. "Clara, if you open that line without a flame trap, the chimney will backfire."
"Not the chimney," I said. "The hearth pilot."
I reached out, took the yellow lever with both hands, and slowly—inch by millimeter—rotated it forty-five degrees.
A low, pressurized hiss began to sing through the copper pipes overhead.
Above us, the grinder operator coughed. "You smell that?"
"Smell what?" Rosalind snapped. "Stop stalling and cut the hinge!"
"Gas," the second man said, dropping his pry bar. "I smell raw gas, Mrs. Duncan. The vibration from the hammer drill must have cracked the feeder line behind the bricks."
"I don't smell anything!" Rosalind snarled. "You finish the cut, or—"
I didn't wait. I reached through the ventilation grate with the steel tip of Marcus’s heavy tactical flashlight and struck the metal damper lever inside the chimney flue with a sharp, ringing blow.
The iron flue slammed shut with a concussive *BANG*.
Deprived of an upward draft, the gathering cloud of natural gas spilled forward through the hearth opening, flooding the library floor with an invisible, suffocating wave of mercaptan.
"Gas leak! Drop the tools!" the grinder operator screamed, throwing the hot power tool onto the rug.
"Don't touch that switch!" the second man yelled, scrambling backward toward the French doors that opened to the terrace. "The motor brushes will spark!"
"You cowards! Pick it up!" Rosalind shrieked.
In her fury, she raised her hand—the hand holding the gold-plated lighter—and flicked the wheel.
"Rosalind, no!" Marcus roared, throwing his shoulder against the false panel that separated our tunnel from the study.
The wood gave way with a splintering crash.
The spark from the lighter caught the fringe of the gas cloud. A deafening *WHUMP* rattled the leaded glass windows as a bright blue sheet of flame rippled across the hearth and caught the dry, splintered mahogany paneling on the wall.
The shockwave knocked Rosalind flat onto her back, the lighter flying from her fingers. The two workers didn't look back; they smashed through the French doors, glass shattering outward onto the stone terrace, and fled into the fog.
Smoke, black and choking, instantly began to billow from the dry wood paneling.
Rowena was through the broken panel before the dust settled. She moved with a speed that defied ten years of captivity, ignoring the flames licking up the wallpaper. She lunged straight for the safe.
The safe’s steel outer door was scorched black, the lock mechanism glowing a dull cherry red from the grinder.
"Rowena, it’s too hot!" I yelled, scrambling into the room behind Marcus. The heat was blistering, searing the skin of my face.
Rowena didn't care. She ripped the bottom hem of her wool dress, wrapped the heavy fabric around both hands, and grabbed the three-spoke dial.
"Nineteen," she whispered through the smoke, her teeth bared as the heat burned through the wool. "Seventy-four... Berlin... two... eight... five!"
She spun the dial with frantic, practiced muscle memory.
*Click. Click. Clack.*
A heavy mechanical clunk reverberated from deep within the brickwork. The internal tumblers dropped.
"Pull!" I screamed, grabbing the edge of the iron handle with the sleeve of Marcus’s coat.
Together, using our combined weight, Rowena and I wrenched the heavy safe door outward. It swung open with a screech of tortured steel.
Inside, protected by six inches of fire-rated ceramic lining, sat a single, unvarnished wooden box bound with brass strapping.
Behind us, a raspy, venomous voice cut through the roar of the fire.
"Drop it."
I turned.
Rosalind Duncan was standing three feet away. Her face was blackened by soot, her hair singed into wild curls, her gray dress scorched along the hem.
In her trembling right hand, leveled directly at Rowena’s forehead, was a small, pearl-handled .38 revolver Jonathan had kept in his bedside nightstand.
May you like
"You took my son," Rosalind whispered, her finger tightening against the trigger until the knuckle went white. "You took his wedding. You took his name. You aren't leaving this room with my family’s legacy."
---
