Chapter 34 - The Scent of Pine and Cordite
Patrice emerged from the kitchen with a heavy wool blanket and a medical kit, her face set in stone. She threw the blanket over Caleb’s trembling shoulders and immediately began winding a sterile gauze roll around the slash on his forearm.
"The bleeding's controlled," Patrice muttered, pulling the bandage tight. "He’ll need stitches at the clinic, but the tendon isn't severed. You were lucky, Caleb."
"I wasn't lucky," Caleb said, his teeth chattering from the cold and adrenaline as he stared at his cousin-in-law pinned to the terrace. "I was an idiot. For seven years, I was a blind idiot."
Two black-and-white county cruisers finally tore down the long private drive, their red and blue strobes slashing violently through the rainy darkness, painting the white clapboard siding of my home in shades of emergency. Gravel sprayed against the hedges as Detective Kowalski and three uniformed deputies leapt out, guns unholstered, boots splashing through the puddles.
"Hold your fire!" Marcus barked, his badge held high in one hand while his other remained firmly planted on Jason’s neck. "Suspect in custody! Secure the perimeter, Kowalski! There’s an accomplice in the woods or an abandoned vehicle down by the fire road!"
"On it!" Kowalski signaled two deputies toward the tree line, while a third rushed over with zip-ties and an evidence bag for the discarded knife and the shattered mason jar.
As they hauled Jason to his feet and shoved him toward the cruiser, Jason twisted his head back, his eyes wild with malice. "She’s not in the woods, you old bitch! She’s already waiting for the wire transfer! You think this is over? She has your routing numbers! She emptied the escrow accounts before she sliced off the ankle bracelet!"
"Shut your mouth," the deputy growled, pushing his head down as they shoved him into the back of the patrol unit. The heavy door slammed shut.
I turned back toward the house. The cold was beginning to sink deep into my bones, settling into the arthritis in my fingers. Patrice caught my arm, steadying me.
"Myrna, let's get you inside," she urged gently. "The deputies will handle the yard."
"The children," I said, my gaze drifting upward to the dark windows on the second floor.
"They didn't come down," Patrice said. "I locked the attic door and the bedroom corridors from the stairwell landing before I came out. Leo is watching Maya and the twins. He had Arthur's old baseball bat in his hands, Myrna. The boy is eleven years old, and he was ready to guard his sisters."
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My chest tightened with an ache sharper than the bite of the autumn sleet. Arthur’s courage hadn't died with him; it had simply skipped a generation.
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