Chapter 11 - The Uninvited Guest
Henry pushed Clara through the rear terrace doors of the main house, shaking the rainwater from his coat. The grand hall was eerily quiet, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock and the distant rumble of thunder.
The front doors stood wide open. Wind whipped the rain across the entryway, soaking the Persian rugs.
"Stay here," Henry instructed Clara, who stood shivering by the kitchen door, completely numb.
He walked into the main foyer.
Two state troopers stood near the open doorway, their rain slicks glistening. Beside them was a man in a dark trench coat Henry had never seen before—tall, sharp-featured, with graying temples and an obsidian walking stick.
"Henry Whitmore?" the man asked. His voice was smooth, cultured, carrying no trace of local accent.
"I am," Henry said, his hand resting near his pocket where the revolver was hidden. "I was about to call your dispatch. Who called you?"
The man didn't answer immediately. He took off his fedora, revealing a faint, jagged scar running from his left temple down to his cheekbone. He looked toward the ruined wall where the iron safe stood gaping open.
"Your brother James made an emergency call from the cellar phone line twenty minutes ago," the man said. "He told us someone had broken into the family vault."
Henry frowned. "There is no phone line in the wine cellar."
The man smiled faintly, a cold, humorless expression. "There is if you know which wire to splice, Henry. James was always resourceful."
Henry’s heart skipped a beat. "And who are you? You aren't with the state police."
The man reached into his breast pocket. The two troopers behind him didn't flinch; their hands rested casually on their holsters, completely deferential to him. The man pulled out a faded, laminated identification card and held it out.
Federal Bureau of Investigation. Special Investigations Division—Chicago.
"Agent Vance," the man introduced himself. "Though forty years ago, my father was the one assigned to track the shipments leaving your south docks. The ones your brother Julian died trying to report."
Henry stopped breathing.
"Julian didn't die in vain, Mr. Whitmore," Vance continued, taking a step closer, his walking stick tapping against the marble with a hollow, rhythmic beat. "We've known about the concrete in the greenhouse for twelve years. We were just waiting for Eleanor to stop protecting you."
Henry looked at him, stunned. "Eleanor... protected me?"
"You think your wife didn't know you signed the original shipping manifests in 1973, Henry?" Vance’s voice dropped to a terrifying whisper. "You think James was the only one Father used?"
Before Henry could speak, the sound of small, hurried footsteps came from the top of the grand staircase.
"Grandfather!" Ethan's voice echoed through the hall, high and frantic.
Henry spun around.
Ethan was standing on the upper landing, his pajamas disheveled, tears streaming down his face.
Behind Ethan, stepping out from the darkness of the master corridor, was James Whitmore.
May you like
He wasn't locked in the cellar. He was completely dry. And in his hand, resting against the small of Ethan’s back, was an antique silver lighter, its flame dancing dangerously close to the child's linen sleeve.
"Hello, Henry," James called down from the landing, his voice utterly devoid of fear, his eyes burning with a desperate, manic light. "Tell Agent Vance what you did forty years ago. Or Ethan and I are going to burn this entire house to the ground together."
