Chapter 24 - The Subterranean Vault
Victoria did not step back. But Douglas Vance placed a firm, leather-gloved hand on her shoulder and pulled her down two steps.
"There is no need for theatrics, Victoria," the lawyer muttered, glancing nervously at Arthur's white-hot glare. "The hydraulic equipment is on the low-boy trailer behind the ridge. We don't need the house. The access shaft behind the limestone cliff is entirely on trust property."
Victoria paused. Her eyes shifted from Arthur to the dark wall of rock that rose directly behind our home—the towering limestone bluff that sheltered our hollow from the northern gales.
"You think you're safe inside that wood-rot frame, Arthur?" she said, turning on her heel toward the lead truck. "Wait until the drills start. By sunrise, everything your precious Evelyn hid will be in the back of my transports. And you’ll be sitting on an empty shell."
She climbed back into the warm, leather interior of the truck. The heavy door slammed shut with the dull, resonant *thud* of bullet-resistant steel.
The convoy didn't leave. Instead, the three trailing trucks threw their transmissions into reverse, backing up into the logging road that wound around the eastern spur of the cliff. The lead truck remained parked directly in our driveway, its high-intensity floodlights trained straight at our front windows, blinding us, pinning us inside our own home.
"Inside," Arthur ordered, his voice cracking. "Both of you. Inside now."
We backed through the door, and Arthur slammed the heavy oak portal, throwing both iron deadbolts into their strike plates. The living room was washed in harsh white light pouring through the lace curtains, casting jagged, spider-web shadows across Evelyn’s needlepoint chairs and the grandfather clock in the corner.
"Dad," I said, setting my rifle on the dining table. "What was she talking about? What's behind the bluff?"
Arthur didn't answer. He walked past me, his boots leaving wet, gray slush across the rag rug. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the brass key we had retrieved from the safety deposit box in Oakhaven—the one with the odd cross-shaped teeth.
He walked to the corner of the kitchen, pushed aside the heavy cast-iron baker's rack that held forty years of cast-iron skillets and jars of flour, and stopped before the cellar door.
The door was made of tongue-and-groove white oak, bound with black iron strap hinges that Arthur had forged himself. But around the keyhole, the wood was completely unmarked.
"She gave me this house," Arthur whispered, his fingers trembling as he touched the iron ring. "She told me she chose me because I was honest. Because I never looked in another man's pockets."
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He looked at me, his eyes wet with tears that refused to spill.
"Get the crowbar from the porch, son," Arthur said. "We’re going down."
