Chapter 44 - The Shadow in the Farmhouse
The scream of metal tearing through metal was drowned out by Arthur’s desperate curse.
The heavy iron pulley and its serpentine mass of chain plummeted like an anvil through the beam of the halogen lamp. Arthur threw himself backward onto the concrete just as the iron shattered the lower rungs of the ladder, crushing the work lamp into sparks and glass. Darkness fell again, punctuated only by Thomas’s agonized groans and the frantic, echoing metallic clatter of Arthur scrambling across the floor.
I didn't look down to see if he was breathing.
I kicked the rusted safety latch of the upper maintenance hatch with the heel of my boot. The corroded iron gave way with a screech that set my teeth on edge, and freezing, rain-swept night air rushed into the sweltering heat of the silo.
I hauled myself through the opening onto the narrow catwalk connecting the grain elevator to the roof of the machine shed. Rain hit my face like needles. The November wind was howling across the flat fields of the county, whipping the high grass into waves of black water. Below, the farmyard was a landscape of mud, shadows, and the idling rumble of Thomas's Mercedes parked near the barn.
I sprinted across the corrugated tin roof of the shed, my boots slipping on the wet moss, and dropped eight feet down onto the bed of the flatbed trailer loaded with rotting hay bales. The impact jarred my knees and drove the breath from my chest, but I rolled off the straw into the mud and ran toward the farmhouse.
The house was dark except for a single amber light glowing in the downstairs kitchen window.
If Arthur and Thomas had Clara’s location, they weren't operating in a vacuum. There had to be hard copies—contracts, addresses, surveillance photos—kept somewhere in the house. Arthur never trusted digital records entirely; he was a man of ledgers, receipts, and yellow legal pads. If I ran now without proof, it would be my word against two pillars of the community, and Clara would be hunted across state lines by men I couldn't identify.
I slipped through the back mudroom door, my drenched boots making squelching sounds against the linoleum. The smell inside the house was sickeningly familiar: lemon wax, stale coffee, and Eleanor’s expensive lavender perfume.
I stepped into the kitchen, my hand reaching for an iron cast skillet on the stove as a makeshift weapon.
"Julian?"
A weak, trembling voice came from the darkened corner of the dining room.
I froze, the skillet raised. I stepped past the swinging kitchen door and flipped the wall switch.
Sitting in the high-backed mahogany armchair at the end of the long dining table was Eleanor. She wasn't wearing her pristine pearl necklace or her cashmere cardigan. Her silk blouse was torn at the collar, her makeup was smeared in dark streaks across her swollen cheeks, and her wrists were bound tightly to the arms of the chair with heavy duct tape. Her mouth had been gagged with a cloth napkin, which she had managed to partially spit out.
"Mother?" I whispered, my heart slamming against my ribs. "What is this?"
"Julian... oh God, Julian," she sobbed, her voice a ragged, breathless squeak. "He took the keys... Arthur took the safety deposit keys from my purse... he said if I screamed he’d put me in the cellar with the water shut off..."
I rushed forward, dropping the skillet onto the carpet, and ripped the duct tape from her wrists. The skin beneath was purple and bruised.
"He told me you agreed," Eleanor wept, clutching her raw wrists to her chest, rocking back and forth like a terrified child. "Arthur told me you were going to buy the condo for Beatrice! He told me all we had to do was make enough noise at the wedding, make you look like the cruel brother, and you’d sign the paperwork just to save your reputation!"
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I gripped her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at me. "Eleanor, listen to me! Who is holding Clara? Who is the man in Chicago?"
Eleanor stared at me with wide, terrified eyes, the veneer of the commanding matriarch completely dissolved into pathetic ruin. "There is no man in Chicago, Julian. It’s Marcus. Marcus Lind’s driver... he’s Arthur’s nephew from his first marriage. The boy who was never in the family photos. They’ve been planning to take your firm since the day you passed the licensing exam."
